‘Your husband died, yes, and I’m very sorry about that. But the cause of death is yet to be established. And it won’t benefit anyone, least of all yourself, if rumours start to circulate.’
‘They’re already circulating!’
Dodie Gimball hadn’t meant to shout, but it seemed she had as little control of her volume as she did of her tear ducts.
‘Here!’
She showed her phone to this woman, this Taverner woman. A Twitter feed, a trending hashtag. An orchestra of outraged lament, screaming blue murder.
‘See?’
‘I know.’ Diana Taverner leaned back in the seat, but kept her eyes on Dodie. She said, ‘I’d as soon seek information from a wasps’ nest. What happened could have been an accident. It could have been natural causes. Nobody can be sure yet. All we know for certain is that it’s now open season on your husband’s life and career, and if you want to honour his memory, and your own career to prosper, you’ve got to be very careful about which donkey you start pinning tails on.’
‘My Dennis was a great man! His life will be
‘And accompanied by photos which will be less than flattering, Dodie. You know the kind I mean.’
Beside them, on the road into London, traffic hissed its displeasure.
‘So here we are,’ said Dodie. ‘My husband dead a few hours, and already you’re back with your nasty threats. Do you know how many people share the same … tastes as Dennis? Do you really think it matters?’
‘I don’t, as it happens. Not one bit. But the people who read your column do, Dodie. Even those who read it wearing their wives’ underwear. You’ll have heard all this from Claude Whelan already. It doesn’t matter how innocent it is, it doesn’t matter that nobody gets hurt, or that it’s nobody else’s business. There’s only one slant a newspaper like yours is going to take on it, and that’s to splash it as a sordid little secret. You know the difference between a dead pervert and a live one? A dead one can’t sue.’
‘My husband was
‘So here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to publish the story you were planning on Zafar Jaffrey. You can even let it be known that Dennis was intending to reveal that same story in his speech tonight. What you will omit from that narrative is any mention of Secret Service involvement. Are you clear on that?’
She wasn’t.
The blue lights were still looping, ahead and behind. Their wash turned her visitor’s face different colours: indigo, then purple, then sudden, ghostly white. It occurred to Dodie that, ten minutes ago, she’d thought the police cars there to protect her. Now, it seemed, their purpose had always been to deliver her to another tormentor, whose own mission it was to confuse. She was already nostalgic for simple grief; for the time spent alone in the car.
She said, ‘But the whole point of Whelan’s visit was to warn us off Zafar Jaffrey,’ and even to her own ears, her voice sounded lifeless.
‘Things change,’ Taverner told her. ‘Alliances shift. And you’d be advised to bear that in mind, Dodie. For some reason, you seem to think we’re the enemy. That couldn’t be further from the truth. We’re not perfect, sure. Sometimes, things get past us. But the rest of the time – all the rest of the times – we’re there, doing our job.’
She turned and observed the passing traffic for a while, as if conscious that this too was under her protection. Then turned back to Dodie.
‘Nothing can bring your husband back, Mrs Gimball. But if you want him to be remembered as a hero, we can help that happen. In due course. And his little embarrassments don’t ever have to see the light of day.’
She opened the car door.
‘I’m going now. Again, I’m sorry for your loss. But if you want your husband’s legacy to be one he’d have been proud of, you’ll remember what I said and omit any mention of Service involvement. I’m sure we understand each other.’
She left. Alone again, Dodie focused once more on the string of red tail lights on the road ahead, breezing into the city. She barely noticed when the driver got back in, and the little procession recommenced its journey.
