A Scandalous Man

‘Oh.’

‘Then they published pictures of them together. Tapes. Video tapes. The woman … well, you get the picture.’

‘Oh,’ Harpenden volunteered. ‘Bummer.’

Sylvester said, ‘And you and he …?’

Harry bristled.

‘I really find it difficult to talk about this.’

‘No, no,’ Sylvester apologized. ‘You don’t have to …’

‘I am not used to talking about it,’ Harry said. ‘I tell people my parents are dead, which stops the questions. And they are dead. Both of them. I have not seen nor talked to my father since he walked out. Or was thrown out by my mother.’

‘Didn’t you want to? See him, I mean?’

‘No. He wanted to see me, and tried from time to time.’

‘Recently?’

Harry shrugged.

‘He sent me a card a week or so ago saying we should meet, but I didn’t reply. One of his parables was that when he was fourteen years old he thought his own father was the stupidest man in the world, but by the time he got to twenty-one, he was amazed how much the old boy had picked up in just seven years. He tried to tell me that maybe it would be the same with him and me, but I got to twenty-one and he was nothing to me at all. He died years ago, when he walked out. Too longa sacrifice makes a stone of the heart.’

Sylvester looked at him.

‘William Butler Yeats,’ Harry explained. ‘I’m helping with a new Czech translation of Yeats, and also I’m translating Milan Kundera short stories into English. Very difficult, actually, Kundera.’

Harpenden and Sylvester nodded as if they were interested, then moved away again. Harry followed the detectives as they nosed about the unfamiliar rooms. There were several paintings in the sitting room, Victorian scenes of Venice, the Rialto, the Bridge of Sighs.

‘I never knew my father either,’ Sylvester said suddenly, shuffling through an address book by the telephone. Harry was surprised.

‘You didn’t?’

‘No. He went back to Grenada before I was born. My mother said that she did know him, and that was enough for both of us.’

‘Families, eh?’ Harpenden laughed.

‘Of course, you’ll inherit this place,’ Detective Sergeant Sylvester said, ‘in the event that your father dies.’

‘Presumably, yes,’ Harry shrugged. ‘Me and my sister. Though if you are suggesting I tried to kill him for it, then, well, firstly I didn’t, and secondly I didn’t even know this place existed, but I am happy to keep repeating what I have just told you again and again until we all get very, very bored.’

He glared at Sylvester defiantly.

‘I don’t think that will be – um – necessary,’ Detective Sergeant Sylvester replied. ‘But thank you for your patience.’

Ten minutes later the detectives said they were done.

‘Nothing of interest as far as I can see. If we need to come back, we’ll – um – let you know.’

‘Any objections to me staying here?’

‘None, Mr Burnett. It’s yours to do what you wish as far as we’re concerned. I hope your father pulls through.’

‘Thanks. Before you go, can I ask you something?’

Sylvester grimaced a little but tried to look happy.

‘Of course.’

‘If it really was a suicide attempt, why do you keep asking me all these questions?’

Sylvester shrugged.

‘Nothing personal, sir. Strictly business. But this is political, right? Number Ten’s taking an interest, so is the American embassy. It means I can tell my gaffer we went through all the hoops.’

Harry stared at him. Harpenden broke the silence.

‘Y’know, they were saying on the radio that he could have been prime minister.’

‘Yes, they do say that.’ Harry smiled grimly. ‘Maybe we are all lucky that he wasn’t.’

‘Oh, I dunno,’ Harpenden said again. ‘There are worse things than what your father did. I mean, a lingerie model? What man wouldn’t be tempted? Nobody died, did they? At least he never sent us into Iraq with no hope of getting out.’

‘You could be right,’ Harry agreed awkwardly.

‘Thanks for your time, Mr Burnett.’

‘Thank you.’

‘If you think of anything …’

‘Yes of course.’

‘You have our numbers.’

‘Yes. And you have mine.’

The detectives left. Harry shut the door and leaned against it. There were worse things than what his father had done, he repeated. A lingerie model. What man wouldn’t be tempted? Nobody died. He looked back into the apartment and at the big mirror in the pitch pine frame that he remembered from his childhood home in Pimlico. And as he looked at it, he stepped back into the place he had once called home.

Pimlico, London, 1987 (#u60bab662-c2d4-5ae2-9072-fb5008b43070)

It was the day the scandal broke in 1987. Harry was in the hallway of the family house in Pimlico, chewing the cuffs of his blazer, looking at his reflection in the big mirror with the pitch pine surrounds. He could hear his father and mother arguing in the breakfast room. A newspaper was thrown. A door was slammed. More doors were slammed. There was coming and going. His father switched the radio on so he could listen to the Today programme. His mother switched the radio off so she did not have to listen to the Today programme.

‘Elizabeth, please!’

‘How could you, Robin? How could you?’