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the Clintons such trouble, and Loretta had been surprised by his sudden interest in American politics. They hadn’t talked for long and Loretta concluded that the assignment had been forced on him by the new regime at his newspaper, the
Sunday Herald.
It had recently been taken over by a French media tycoon, a chic blonde businesswoman in her late 40s who was unaffectionately known in London as
la belle dame sans merci.
Loretta had seen a newspaper picture of Mme Paroux stepping from a plane at the City of London airport in what the caption described as a Lagerfeld suit, en route for the
Herald
office in Docklands where she was said to be drawing up a hit list of employees to sack. Tracey seemed to be hanging on but Loretta was anxious on his behalf.
    â€˜Of course,’ she assured him, not wanting to add to his burdens. ‘You are still coming to New York?’
    â€˜I’m looking forward to it,’ he said, spoiling the effect by adding: ‘There’s some showbiz story they want me to follow up — we’re not allowed to go anywhere without a reason these days. Give me your number and I’ll call you when I get to my hotel’
    Loretta rang off and remained where she was on the floor, kneeling by the phone. After a moment’s thought she tried another number, in San Francisco this time, and her expression darkened when she heard the click of an answering-machine.
    â€˜Hi, this is Dolores del Negro. I can’t take your call right now but –’
    Loretta tutted and cut off the rest of the message. Dolores was her closest friend in San Francisco but it was the long vacation and she could be anywhere — in her office at Berkeley, working in the library, or just out shopping. Loretta got up in search of a telephone directory and, when she couldn’t see one, finally pulled open the door of the cupboard she hadn’t yet investigated. It turned out to be a cross between a walk-in cupboard and a box room, furnished with a small desk and Toni’s clothes hanging from a rail. Loretta located a New York telephone directory in a desk drawer, took it over to the bed and looked up the word ‘Police’. The entry was brief, giving the emergency number and referring Loretta to another part of the directory.
    It took her a while to find the right section, a separate set of blue pages listing official departments, and then she had to decide which precinct was most likely to cover the area Toni lived in. The 20th, based on West 82nd Street, was the nearest geographically but when Loretta tried it she was immediately put on hold. Eventually a woman came on the line, listened to the beginning of Loretta’s story and abruptly transferred her to a harassed male detective who suggested she should ring the telephone company.
    â€˜Say the guy calls back, and most likely he will, they can give you counselling –’
    â€˜Counselling?
’ repeated Loretta.
    â€˜There’s no charge,’ he began, mistaking the cause of her astonishment.
    â€˜I don’t want
counselling,
I want you to trace his number. I’m reporting a
crime
— I assume it is against the law to make obscene phone calls?’
    â€˜Sure, but we just don’t have the manpower –’
    â€˜The least you can do is take my name and number. Or don’t you have the manpower for that either?’
    With obvious reluctance he wrote down the details, mishearing her name the first time, and telling her again it was really amatter for the phone company. Then: ‘Sorry, I have a call coming through on another line,’ and the phone went dead.
    â€˜Great, thanks, I feel
so
much better,’ snapped Loretta, and reached for the directory again. Sure enough, there was a long section on how to deal with obscene, harassing or threatening calls, even though most of the advice was blindingly obvious — of course she would have hung up as quickly as possible, Loretta thought,