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sporadically during the night, and more often than not it included one story which could be the splash, in a pinch. Most nights there was a major fire, a multiple murder, a riot, or a coup somewhere in the world. The Post was a London paper and did not like to lead with foreign news unless it was sensational; but it might be better than “Cabinet Ministers today held an inquest . . .”
    George dumped a sheet of paper several feet long on his desk. Not cutting the sheet into individual stories was his way of showing displeasure. He probably wanted Arthur to complain, so that he could point out how much work there was for him to do with the early Lad off sick. Arthur fumbled in his desk for scissors, and began to read.
    He went through a political story from Washington, a Test Match report, and a Middle East roundup. He was halfway through a minor Hollywood divorce when the phone rang. He picked it up and said: “News desk.”
    “I’ve got an item for your gossip column.” It was a man’s voice, with a broad Cockney accent.
    Cole was instantly skeptical. This was not the voice of a man who would have inside information on the love lives of the aristocracy. He said: “Good. Would you like to tell me your name?”
    “Never mind about that. Do you know who Tim Fitzpeterson is?”
    “Of course.”
    “Well, he’s making a fool of himself with a redhead. She must be twenty years younger than him. Do you want his phone number?”
    “Please.” Cole wrote it down. He was interested now. If a Minister’s marriage had broken up, it would make a good story, not just a gossip item. “Who’s the girl?” he said.
    “Calls herself an actress. Truth is, she’s a brass. Just give him a ring right away, and ask him about Dizi Disney.” The line went dead.
    Cole frowned. This was a little odd: most tipsters wanted money, especially for news of this kind. He shrugged. It was worth checking out. He would give it to a reporter later on.
    Then he changed his mind. Innumerable stories had been lost forever by being put aside for a few minutes. Fitzpeterson might leave for the House or his Whitehall office. And the informant had said: “Give him a ring right away.”
    Cole read the number off his notebook and dialed.

SEVEN A.M.

4
    “Have you ever watched yourself doing it in the mirror?” she had asked; and when Tim admitted he had not, she insisted they try it. They were standing in front of the full-length glass in the bathroom when the phone rang. The noise made Tim jump, and she said: “Ouch! Careful.”
    He wanted to ignore it, but the intrusion of the outside world took away his desire. He left her, and went into the bedroom. The phone was on a chair underneath a pile of her clothes. He found it and lifted the receiver. “Yes?”
    “Mr. Fitzpeterson?” It was the voice of a middle-aged man with a London accent. He sounded slightly asthmatic.
    “Yes. Who is that?”
    “ Evening Post, sir. I’m sorry to call you so early. I have to ask you whether it’s true you’re getting divorced.”
    Tim sat down heavily. For a moment he was unable to speak.
    “Are you there, sir?”
    “Who the devil told you that?”
    “The informant mentioned a woman called Dizi Disney. Do you know her?”
    “I’ve never heard of her.” Tim was regaining his composure. “Don’t wake me up in the morning with idle rumors.” He put the phone down.
    The girl came into the bedroom. “You look quite white,” she said. “Who was it?”
    “What’s your name?” he snapped.
    “Dizi Disney.”
    “Jesus Christ.” His hands were trembling. He clenched his fists and stood up. “The papers have got hold of a whisper that I’m getting divorced!”
    “They must hear that sort of thing about famous people all the time.”
    “They mentioned your name!” He slammed one fist into the palm of his other hand. “How could they find out so quickly? What am I going to do?”
    She turned her back on him and put her panties on.
    He stared out of