Is
it
any
more
credible
to
believe
there
is
some
form
of high-level
plot
involving
senior
party
figures,
the
publisher of
our
newspaper
and
God
knows
who
else
to
kill
off
the Prime
Minister?
Surely
the
easiest
explanation
is
the simple
one
-
that
Charles
Collingridge
is
a
drunk
who
is not
responsible
for
his
actions
and
who
has
done
something
so
overwhelmingly
stupid
that
his
brother's
had
to resign.'
'There's
only
one
person
who
can
tell
us,
I
suppose. Charles
Collingridge.'
'But
he's
locked
away
in
some
clinic
or
other,
isn't
he?
I thought
his
whereabouts
were
a
closely
guarded
family secret.'
True,
but
he's
the
only
one
who
could
help
us
get
to
the bottom
of
this.'
'And
how
does
our
Reporter
of
the
Year
propose
to
do that?'
he
teased.
She
was
concentrating
too
intently
to
rise
to
the
bait. Instead,
she
sat
on
the
hearth
rug
wrapped
deep
in
thought and
an
enormous
yellow
blanket
while
he
refreshed
their drinks.
As
he
returned
with
two
glasses,
she
spun
round
to face
him.
'When
was
the
last
time
anyone
saw
Charles
Collingridge?'
she
demanded.
'Why,
er
...
When
he
was
driven
away
from
his
home over
a
week
ago.'
'Who
was
he
with?'
'Sarah
Collingridge.'
'And...?'
'A
driver.'
'Who
was
the
driver,
Johnnie?'
'Damned
if
I
know.
Never
seen
him
before.
Hang
on, being
a
dutiful
deputy
editor
I
keep
all
the
nightly
news
on tape
for
a
fortnight,
so
I
should
have
it
here
somewhere.'
He
rummaged
around
by
his
video
player
for
a
few moments
before
slotting
a
tape
into
the
chamber
and winding
it
forward.
In
a
few
seconds,
through
the
blizzard produced
by
the
fast
replay
button,
appeared
the
scenes
of Charles
Collingridge
huddled
in
the
back
of
the
fleeing car.
'Go
back!'
she
ordered.
'To
the
start.'
And
there,
for
less
than
a
second
at
the
front
of
the
report, as
the
car
swept
from
behind
the
building
into
the
main road,
they
could
clearly
see
the
face
of
the
driver
through the
windscreen.
Krajewski
punched
the
freeze
frame
button.
They
both sat
there
entranced,
staring
at
the
balding
and
bespectacled face.
'And
who
the
hell
is
he?'
muttered
Krajewski.
'Let's
figure
out
who
he's
not
’
said
Mattie.
‘H
e's
not
a
Government
driver
-
it's
not
a
Government
car
and
the drivers
pool
is
very
gossipy,
so
we
would
have
heard something.
He's
not
a
political
figure
or
we
would
have recognised
him...'
She
clapped
her
hands
in
inspiration.
'Johnnie,
where were
they
going?'
'Not
to
Downing
Street,
not
to
some
hotel
or
other public
place.'
He
pondered
the
options.
To
the
clinic,
I suppose.'
‘P
recisely!
That
man
is
from
the
clinic.
If
we
can
find
out who
he
is,
we
shall
know
where
Charles
is!'
'OK,
Clark
Kent.
Seems
fair
enough.
Look,
I
can
get
a hard
copy
of
the
face
off
the
video
tape
and
show
it
around. We
could
try
old
Freddie,
one
of
our
staff
photographers. Not
only
does
he
have
an
excellent
memory
for
faces,
he
is also
an
alcoholic
who
dried
out
a
couple
of
years
ago.
He still
goes
religiously
every
week
to
Alcoholics
Anonymous,
and
he
might
well
be
able
to
put
us
on
the
right track.
There
aren't
that
many
treatment
centres,
we
should be
able
to
make
some
progress
-
but
I
still
don't
accept
your conspiracy
theory,
Mattie.
It's
still
all
much
more
likely
to be
circumstance
and
coincidence.'
You
cynical
bastard,
what
do
I
have
to
do
to
convince you?'
'Come
here
and
show
me
a
little
more
of
that
feminine intuition
of
yours,'
he
growled.
At
almost
exactly
the
same
time
in
the
private
booth
of
a fashionable
and
overpriced
restaurant
in
the
West
End
of London,
Landless
and
Urquhart
were
also
locked
together, in
an
embrace
of
an
entirely
mercenary
kind.
Interesting
times,
Frankie,
interesting
times,'
mused Landless.
In
China,
I
believe,
it
is
a
curse
to
live
in
interesting times.'
I'm
sure
Collingridge
agrees!'
said
Landless,
bursting into
gruff
laughter.
He
tapped
the
ash
off
his
thick
Havana
cigar
and savoured
the
large
cognac
before
returning
to
his
guest.