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accompanied Maynard on trips to Paris, Vienna, Jamaica and Morocco. Maynard’s bank statements recorded payments to Chalmers; large sums over several years. William wondered if he had been blackmailing Maynard. What else could account for the thousands of pounds Maynard had spent on him? What else could account for the lists of fictional companies, whose names he had used to redirect campaign funds to a bank account in France? The recipient was always J. Chalmers. Was Justin Chalmers the person Maynard ‘longed for’? Had Chalmers broken his heart?
    It was lunchtime before William moved through to his office and checked the answerphone. There were twenty-four messages, but he felt disinclined to play them. It was imperative that he found Justin Chalmers. Of all the names in Maynard’s diary, this one had leaped out as the most dangerous. Slowly William punched in the number and waited. The phone rang threetimes, then an answerphone clicked on and a soft, drawling voice announced, ‘Hi, I’m afraid I am unable to come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and the time and date you called and . . .’ there was a pause, followed by a laugh ‘. . . if you’re lucky I’ll get back to you.’

    At two fifteen, William let in his damage-control expert, Myers Summers. ‘Well, this is a fucking mess all round, isn’t it? You know the world and its mother are trying to contact you, old boy?’ Summers shrugged off his coat.
    ‘I guessed as much, but I’m not speaking to anyone until we’ve sorted something out. Come and have a drink.’
    ‘Not for me, thanks, if we’re to concentrate on making sure you escape the flak.’ Summers sat down. ‘Right, let’s have it from the top, shall we?’
    It was just after midnight when Summers left, by which time William was flushed with brandy – not drunk, but he had consumed more than usual.
    Summers’s parting shot was that it was imperative to get the boyfriend, or whoever he was, tucked away and out of public grasp no matter the cost. Especially as, according to the diary, he would have been the last person to have been seen with Maynard. He might even have had an argument with him that had resulted in Maynard slashing his wrists.
    ‘I suppose he did slash them himself?’ Summers asked, as if it was just an afterthought.
    ‘How the hell would I know?’ snapped William.
    ‘Well, let’s hope he did. It’s murky enough as it is. If murder was mentioned, it would really whip up a frenzy. Is this Justin fella around at all?’
    William shrugged. He obviously had been, and with Maynard on the night he died. But where was he now?

    As the police did not have access to Maynard’s private diaries, William was confident that he could deal with Justin Chalmers.Money, he had learned over years of having it, always had the desired effect on a certain type of person. He had no doubt that Chalmers could be bribed. He was about to turn off the lights in his study when he checked the time. It was two thirty. He hesitated, then picked up the phone and dialled, leaning back against the desk, staring at his brown brogues. There was no immediate reply, and he was about to hang up when a sleepy voice answered, ‘Yes?’
    ‘I called and left a message earlier today,’ William said, then had to clear his throat as he was so nervous. ‘Is that Justin Chalmers?’
    ‘I believe so . . .’ came the reply, followed by a yawn.
    ‘I need to see you.’
    ‘Really? You want to come over now?’
    ‘No, in the morning, early. This is a most urgent matter, which concerns a mutual acquaintance. I cannot discuss it over the telephone.’
    ‘Mmm, well, come whenever you want, and . . .’ there was a pause, then what sounded like a giggle ‘. . . I can’t wait.’ The phone went dead. At no time had Chalmers even asked who was calling.
    Exhausted, William went to bed and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He slept, untroubled by dreams, but his serenity was not to last