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the past, but not at all minor in quality, no: thick, throbbing flakes of spit, each a wet, glistening proof of his pain and disarray. His breathing became laboured and desperate, like a dog’s half strangled by its lead and collar.
    In a while he recovered and asked: ‘Does Maud realize you have no respect for—?’
    â€˜As I say, sir, Maud would have spoken direct to you, but met unavailability,’ Harpur replied. ‘Daisy, her PA, tried repeatedly. Maud felt deep disappointment, but made do with talking to me. Very made-do. Possibly you were at another of these civic bean-feasts. Understandably you get so many invites. You confer on their little occasions what I think is known as cachet - brilliant distinction. They adore having someone of rank present in full but tasteful gear to bring undeniable class, don’t they?’
    â€˜Well,
was
I at a function?’ Iles said. ‘When did she speak to you? This is easily checkable against my diary. Couldn’t she have emailed, voicemailed?’
    â€˜Not regarded as secure. Think of the
News of the World
hacking scandal. Think of detectives trawling emails for evidence of corruption at
The Sun.
’
    â€˜So she goes to dearest Col whose ears and zip are always open. If he’s not debauching my wife, he has this undergrad piece from the university up the road. Denise? That’s her, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Maud particularly wanted
us
to carry out any further digging at Larkspur, not have the matter handed over to some other combo,’ Harpur replied. ‘We already understand so much about the situation, the murder venue, the supposed hunt, the ambush, the blood spillage. And she was very insistent that I should let you know of this development soonest.’
    â€˜Should “let me know”?’
    â€˜Soonest.’
    â€˜Allow me into the loop finally?’
    â€˜Soonest.’
    â€˜Kindly,’ Iles said.
    â€˜I think she has you very much in mind, sir.’
    â€˜Nice.’

TWO
    M aud did get the operation ‘reactivated’ and Harpur and Iles went back to re-snoop and re-interview and re-dredge at Larkspur. Maud must have managed to convince her chiefs that sending the gunman to jail should be only the first move in a full Larkspur clean-up. He’d been very tidily scapegoated: loaded with all the blame for Carnation man’s death. But who’d done the loading? Who’d given the executioner his orders? Who controlled him? Who, ultimately, hung him out to dry? Who could scare him so much he wouldn’t talk, even for a reduced sentence trade? Who was money-doling and generally protecting his family as long as he stayed shtum? Who’d be making sure he got good stuff in jail, also as long as he stayed shtum? What dug-in crooked power group lay behind him? Did it still flourish?
    This last she regarded as the crux question, touching now and the future. The murder and trial and conviction were the past. Or
merely
the past, Maud would probably say, in that brusque, now-get-your-ear-around-this style of hers. Maud thought big. Maud thought practical. Maud thought the present, but Maud also thought days and maybe years beyond the present. Maud thought the Home Office could often do with a kick up the arse from somebody who worked there and who despised non-interventionism - such as Maud Logan Clatworthy. She’d be late twenties, not more, maybe less. Daisy Fenton, her personal assistant, was at least twice Maud’s age.
    According to Iles, Maud would have a first-class Oxford or Cambridge degree in a very non-vocational subject, such as Philosophy or the Classics or both, and this should indicate true brain-bright scope. Also according to Iles, though, most of her superiors in the Home Office would similarly have first-class Oxbridge degrees in a very non-vocational subject. This ought to mean, didn’t it, that they likewise should have true brain-bright scope? Just the same,