was not editing Cherwell he was trying to hawk tales of university life to Fleet Street. That was what he was like.
The phone rang.
‘Will?’
‘Oh, hi, Dad.’
‘I was just calling to see if you enjoyed the concert.’
‘Yes, of course. I loved it,’ Will said, running his fingers through his hair and facing the floor. How could he have been so stupid? ‘I should have called. Amazing choir.’
‘You sound subdued.’
‘No, just tired. It's been a long day. Remember that thing I was called out on after the concert, that killing? I had this idea to take what everyone thinks is a bog-standard murder and see what really happened. “Portrait of a crime statistic”, the life behind the death, that kind of thing.’
Beth's presence behind the slammed door of their bedroom was burning up the apartment. Surely he should be going over there, talking through the door, coaxing her back out. Or at least coaxing his way in.
‘That's good thinking. What did you find out?’ ‘That he was a low-life pimp sleazeball.’ ‘Well, I guess that's no great surprise. Not in that place. Still, I can't wait to read your IMF piece: much more you, I suspect. Listen, Will, Linda's gesturing. It's a dinner for Habitat – “you know who” is here – and we're expected to mingle. Speak soon.’
Even on his nights off, thought Will, his father and his ‘partner’ – a word Will could not bring himself to utter except in quotation marks – were doing something morally worthwhile. Habitat for Humanity was one of his father's favourite charities. ‘I like the idea of a cause that asks you to give your time and your labour, not just your money,’ Monroe Sr had said, more than once. ‘They ask you to open your heart, not just your pocketbook.’ Hanging in the judge's chambers was a photograph of himself and the former president – ‘you know who’ – each midway up a ladder, both clad in lumberjack shirts, the ex-president holding a hammer. They were taking part in one of Habitat's trademark events: building a house for the homeless in a single day. In Alabama or somewhere.
He wondered about all this great do-gooding fervour of his father's. In fact, he was suspicious of it. The most cynical reading was that it was merely a career move, designed to burnish William Monroe Sr's image as a man of fine character, eminently suited to a place on America's highest bench. More specifically, Will wondered if his father was trying to improve his chances with the evangelical Christian constituency that were such key players in the nomination of judges to the Supreme Court. Some of his father's rivals were committed, vocal Christians. A secular liberal like William Monroe Sr could not match that, but if he could smooth out some of his hard, godless edges, it could only help. That, at least, was his son's guess.
Will tiptoed over to the bedroom, creaking the door open just a crack. Beth was fast asleep. He closed the door; recovered what was left of the pasta and ate it from the saucepan. He felt as if a high wall had just appeared in their apartment – and he and his wife were on opposite sides of it.
He reached for the remote and jabbed on his default channel: CNN.
‘International news now, and more trouble in London for Britain's finance minister, Chancellor of the Exchequer Gavin Curtis, today under fire from the Church. The Bishop of Birmingham took to Britain's House of Lords to step up the pressure.’
Will sat up to take a close look. Curtis looked harried and much older than Will had remembered him. He had come to Oxford when Will was a student. Curtis was then in opposition, shadowing the environment department. He had come up to act as lead speaker in an Oxford Union debate: ‘This House believes the end of the world is nigh.’ Will was then the news editor on Cherwell – and he had given himself the plum assignment of interviewing the visiting politician.
He had not thought about it in years, but at the time Curtis had left quite a mark. He had taken Will seriously, treating him as a real journalist when Will could not have been much more than nineteen. The funny thing was Curtis had not seemed like a politician at all, more like a teacher. He had constantly peppered their conversation with references to books and films, wondering if Will had read some obscure Dutch theologian or seen a new and controversial Polish movie. Will had left their conversation feeling inadequate but also convinced Curtis was destined for oblivion: he seemed too intellectual for the blood sport of high politics. As his former interviewee had risen through the Cabinet, Will became embarrassed by his own lack of political foresight.
CNN was now showing a clip of a white-haired cleric in a grey suit with just a slice of purple showing underneath. The bishop's face, flushed with wrath, seemed to be trying to match the colour of his shirt. CNN identified him as the leader of the British equivalent of America's Church of the Reborn Jesus, a fiercely moral wing of Christian evangelism. ‘This is a sinful man!’ he was saying of the Chancellor, to the murmured rhubarb of agreement and disagreement in the chamber. ‘If it is true that he has been embezzling from the public purse, he must be cast out!’
Will turned it off and went to the computer. Beth would sleep till morning now. He thought about waking her up so they could talk some more. They had a rule: never go to bed on a fight. But she was so deeply asleep he would hardly score any points by disturbing her now. He had seen how she looked. She could wear a dozen different expressions in the course of the night: serene, brow furrowed, even ironic amusement. More than once, Will had been woken by the sound of his wife laughing in her sleep at some secret joke. But just now, even with her autumn-brown hair falling over most of her face, he spotted what he feared was a worry line in her forehead, as if she was concentrating hard. He imagined smoothing it away, with just a touch of his hand. Perhaps he should go back in and do just that. No, he thought. What if she woke up and their row reopened? Better to leave it be.
Might as well pull an all-nighter instead, write up the Macrae story and deliver it first thing. At least that would impress Harden. And it would be an excuse not to go into the bedroom.
At the keyboard, his mind kept wandering away from Letitia, Howard and the streets of Brownsville. He knew what Beth wanted and biology, or something, was standing in their way. He had been encouraged by the hospital's attitude: give it time. But Beth was not used to being a patient. She liked to sit in the other chair. And she wanted clarity: a diagnosis, a course of action.
Besides, he knew, getting pregnant was only part of the story. Beth had become irritated by his professional single-mindedness, his determination to make his mark. When they first met, she would say how much she liked his drive; she found it sexy. She admired his refusal to coast along, to trade on his father's prestige. He had made things difficult for himself – he could have gone back to America when he turned eighteen and used the family name to breeze into Yale – and she admired that. Now, though, she wanted the ambition to cool down. There were other priorities.
He finally crashed out just after four am. He dreamed he was on a boating lake, pushing a punt like some cheesy gondolier. Facing him, twirling a parasol, was a woman. It was probably Beth but he could not quite see. He tried squinting, determined to make out the face. But the sun was in his eyes.
Monday, 10.47am, Manhattan The good sinner: the story of a New York life – and death.
Will stared at it, not on B6 or B11 or even B3 but A1: the front page of The New York Times. He had stared at it on the subway into work, looked at it some more as he walked to the office and had spent most of the time at his desk pretending not to look at it.
He had arrived to a bombardment of congratulatory email, from colleagues sitting three feet away and old friends living in different continents, who had learned of his feat via the paper's online edition. He was receiving a plaudit by phone when he felt a surge move through his little desk-pod, a silent movement of energy like the magnetic force that passes through iron filings. It was Townsend McDougal, making a rare