Robert drifted aimlessly along Cheapside. He didn’t want to go back to the office and he didn’t want to go home. There was no escaping it: leaving aside the tragedy of Harry Brandwell, he’d failed. The big story about the abusing priest hidden by a monastery and a celebrity monk had collapsed. The idea that Robert had been used to attract the attention of the press to help expose a larger scandal was pure imagination. Father Anselm had been approached simply because no one else would have cooperated with Littlemore’s silence, which had been no stratagem, just a means of keeping his promise to Harry Brandwell. The two of them had been waiting for Justin Brandwell to declare himself. Robert’s only role had been to maximise the pressure. There’d been no conspiracy. Crofty was right. Robert had made a fool of himself. Not that anyone on the Guardian would blame him. But secretly, his judgement and instinct would be questioned. The story that had brought him onto the paper had been no story at all.
In fact – and the irony was bitter – it had been Andrew Taylor who misunderstood the connection between the fax and the letter; it had been Andrew Taylor who first misread the data, finding a scheme to ensure Littlemore’s conviction. Robert had been knocked off course by a trainee who’d cuckolded his father.
Was this the sort of thing you just had to accept? You had to sit back while a gigolo tried to worm his way into your life?
No, it wasn’t. But Robert had. He’d kept quiet, contenting himself with infantile protestations, snide remarks here, a knowing glance there: the whole sorry package of a coward’s hesitation; not having the guts to push open a door and say what you really think. Robert thought of Harry, compelled to follow a parallel road: he’d finally been taken from home to the Old Bailey, and there, before the eyes of a judge and jury – people charged to find the truth – Harry had shown Robert what happens when you settle for half-measures and hesitation. You get walled up while everyone else walks free.
In a blush of resentment Robert thought of his mother. The remaining links between them had almost lost their meaning. He hadn’t even seen her for months, not since he burned her fingers and made her sing, ‘My object all sublime’. Not since he gave his boat away and wept for his dad. They’d only spoken on the phone, never referring to the conversation in the corridor, when she’d asked to grieve in her own way. The most recent call had been a week ago to say the sale of the house had fallen through …
Coming to Threadneedle Street, Robert slowed, frowning.
She’d also asked about his workload and what it was like on the Guardian and then, as if it hardly mattered, she wondered if he’d be covering the Littlemore trial, whether he’d be in court to watch the monk go back to the Bar? Whether he’d be forced to work at night? It was a conversation that stumbled between their injured feelings. Polite and anguished … but planned.
Robert began striding, turning into Lombard Street.
Had she been covering her back all these months? Almost every conversation had run along similar lines: enquiries about his whereabouts and intended movements … when he’d be here and when he’d be there.
He started running along King William Street, dodging between the suited bankers and tight-skirted secretaries, disbelief growing as he moved faster and faster. His mother had certainly been grieving over the breach between them, and she might well have been interested in what he was doing on the day to day, but above all she’d been securing her life from outside interference … making sure he couldn’t suddenly turn up at the door, even to be reconciled.
She’d been blocking out her diary.
Reaching Monument, Robert took the Tube to Embankment and the overground to Raynes Park. This time he wouldn’t hide behind a van. He wouldn’t even knock on the door.