Walking in Darkness

He laughed. ‘Because politicians are human beings. There’s gold in them thar hills, sweetheart, and where there’s gold there is corruption.’

She shivered. ‘I hate politics,’ she said vehemently. ‘And politicians.’

Steve picked up his glass of after-dinner brandy again. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ He tilted the glass towards her then drank the rest of the brandy.

She frowned. ‘You hate politicians, too? But then . . . why are you a political reporter?’

‘Because I don’t trust the bastards,’ he coolly said. ‘Somebody has to keep an eye on what they’re up to. I wasn’t going to leave that job to people who didn’t hate them the way I do. If politicians had their way all reporters would be wide-eyed little optimists who take a naive view of Washington and the people who run to it. I like to keep them on their toes, make sure they know I’m watching them.’

‘Can you actually tell the truth on TV, though?’ she said shrewdly, and he laughed.

‘Honey, you hit the button. No, not often; but now and then I can slide the truth in sideways while my bosses aren’t watching.’

‘You’re a cynic,’ she said, not accusing him but thinking aloud and shivering slightly. She was no wide-eyed optimist, herself, but cynicism was the reaction of despair, of people who had no hope, no belief, no dreams. Sophie couldn’t live that way. She had to hope, to believe, to dream – why else was she here, flying to England, to look for a sister she had been told for years was dead?

‘Aren’t we all cynics? Reporters, I mean? We see the underbelly of society, not the glossy surface – how can we fail to be cynics? In any case, as I told you, my father was involved in politics all my life and I learnt young not to believe a word politicians said in public. They’re as dishonest as salesmen trying to make a pitch. All they care about is selling the product. The truth means fuck-all to them.’

Sophie laughed abruptly at the cheerfully aggressive tone of his voice. ‘I’m beginning to love America,’ she said, and he looked taken aback, then grinned.

‘Oh, yeah? Why, exactly?’

‘I like the way you say what you really think, out loud, and don’t care who’s listening! You aren’t afraid someone may overhear you, or that you may end up in a cell getting beaten up.’

‘Well, there are parts of America where that could happen,’ he drily said. ‘But

it’s pretty safe to speak your mind in most states.’

‘Even Washington?’

‘Oh, in Washington they love you to speak your mind, it gives them a buzz – but not on TV, or in the press. At a dinner party you can throw caution to the wind. No voters to hear the dangerous truth in the houses of the rich and powerful.’

‘If you hadn’t become a TV reporter, what else might you have done?’ she asked, deeply curious about him.

‘Oh, when I was at university I used to act, I had brief spell of wanting to be an actor, but I wasn’t able to lose myself in a part, I was too self-aware.’ He leaned back and turned his head to watch her. ‘My mother was relieved. She hated the idea.’

‘You cared what she thought?’

He considered the question. ‘I guess I must have done. I certainly listened to what my parents thought. They’re not people you can ignore.’

‘Your family is a close one?’

‘I guess so.’ His offhand tone didn’t fool her. She could see he loved his parents and cared very much what they thought; she envied him. All her life she had missed that warmth and closeness.

A few minutes later she closed her eyes and felt herself slipping into a half-sleep. She had not slept well last night; she had been intensely nervous and kept waking with a start. On her return from dinner with Theo and Lilli she had had the strangest feeling that someone had been in her room. As soon as she walked into the room her instincts had quivered with warning, but nothing seemed out of place. In fact the room was neater than when she left it, so she had realized that a maid had been in there, re-making her bed, tidying the room. But what about the photographs Steve had given her? The photo of Anya as a baby had been on top of the pile. That could be sheer coincidence, of course. Maybe the maid had simply shuffled the photographs and Anya’s picture had just happened to land on top.

Well, it could have happened that way. But Sophie didn’t believe in coincidences that massive. She was rapidly learning not to trust anyone, or anything; even her own senses.

Don Gowrie was in conference with his people all the way across the Atlantic. First class was entirely occupied by members of his staff; the curtains had been closed off and security was stationed there throughout the flight to make sure nobody tried to eavesdrop or intrude.

‘And keep an eye out for Bross,’ they were told. His presence on the plane had been noticed at once.

‘We must be getting to them if they’ve sent him to tag along with us,’ Gowrie joked.

‘They’re worried,’ his campaign manager, Jim Allgood, had agreed. ‘Mr Ramsey still pulls in the party old guard, and that’s a lot of money going on you.’ But his face was set in a frown and he added, ‘But what bothers me is this – Bross stands out like a sore thumb, we all know the guy, and they know we do. They’re too smart for such an open play. So who have they got on our tail we don’t know about?’

They had all looked at each other, their faces guarded, the air full of paranoia.

‘Could be one of the press,’ Jeff Hardy, one of the speechwriters, suggested. ‘I don’t trust any of the bastards further than I could throw them.’