all languages, isn’t it?’ Harpenden said.
‘Yes, but an interpreter lives for the moment, switching between languages. A translator works with books or documents. That’s my line. They are different skills.’
‘You speak lots of languages?’
‘Some better than others. French and German. Also Czech, which is what pays the bills right now. And I’m learning Arabic in evening classes.’
‘Very handy, sir. Could – um – come in useful. Given the way the world is going we might all be speaking Arabic before long.’
Harry shook his head.
‘Nobody cares about French and German any more. It’s Chinese, Arabic and Farsi – Persian – that’s what people need.’
The detectives began to move from room to room, businesslike, picking up things, opening drawers. Harry followed.
‘You are welcome to do this – but what exactly are you looking for?’
‘We’ll know it when we see it,’ Sylvester explained lamely. ‘Maybe something, maybe nothing. Anything – um – out of the ordinary.’
Like a picture of my father with an American TV newsreader, stolen by a woman in the night? Harry thought. He played a couple of chords on the piano.
‘What would be “out of the ordinary” in this kind of situation?’
Detective Sergeant Sylvester ignored the question.
‘Please don’t touch things for now. Make me happy.’
Harry stepped back from the piano.
‘Of course. Except I stayed here overnight so I must have touched a lot of things already. Sorry.’
‘He – um – live here mostly, then, your father? Or down in the West country?’
‘Tetbury,’ Harry responded. ‘Not here. It doesn’t look much like anyone lives here, does it? Too clean. But there’s no point in asking me. Like I said, I never saw him. And I didn’t even know this place existed until yesterday. I haven’t really seen him since … not since it happened. You know, the scandal.’
The detectives looked at him. Sylvester nodded.
‘Yes,’ he sympathized. ‘The scandal. I saw the TV last night. And your mother?’
‘She … died a few years ago. She killed herself, though in her case it was with help from Mr Smirnoff. A bottle of vodka a day by the end. Cirrhosis.’
Sylvester said, ‘I’m very sorry.’
The apartment suddenly felt oppressive.
‘Did you blame your … um … father for what happened to your mother?’
‘Of course. It was his fault.’
‘And for what happened to you?’
‘Yes,’ Harry replied coolly. ‘He behaved like a complete shit. Although in front of the children he would say that as “S-H-one-T”, as if we couldn’t spell.’
‘Did you hate your father?’ Sylvester said suddenly.
‘I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you mean.’
‘He’s not dead yet. Did you hate him?’
‘I didn’t try to kill him. And I didn’t hate him either. Not any more. He was irrelevant to me. A stranger. He was not in my thoughts and not in my life.’
Harpenden suddenly said, ‘Where were you two nights ago between the hours of six p.m. and midnight?’
Harry thought for a moment.
‘I was at my Arabic class in west Acton until approximately ten o’clock and then I went to the pub with two other students. And then I came home, around midnight.’
‘Alone?’
‘Sadly, yes.’
‘But you have witnesses in this Arabic class?’
‘Of course. I haven’t been out of London in weeks, and I have never been to my father’s cottage in Tetbury. I couldn’t even find it.’
The atmosphere suddenly changed. The two detectives started to move around again, picking things up and looking at them.
‘Still, it’s a nice gaff all right,’ Harpenden said brightly, looking at the bookshelves. ‘Good taste, your father.’
Beyond the political biographies in the study, the bookshelves in the main room were full of expensive picture books, Ansel Adams and Andrew Wyeth, celebrations of Rembrandt, Goya and Matisse, books on Islamic art, Persian culture, and several on the Moors in Spain.
‘In most things, yes,’ Harry replied.
‘Most things?’ Sylvester wondered.
‘Not in women,’ Harry responded.
‘Ah,’ Harpenden responded, perking up. ‘I believe there is a technical term for having bad taste in women, Mr Burnett. It is called “being a man”. What was it exactly with your father that went so wrong, sir?’
Harry took a deep breath. He recited the history of the scandal as if ordering a list of vegetables from the greengrocer.
‘When I was eight years old, a woman sold her story to the News of the World saying that she and my father were lovers. She was half his age and a lingerie model, so there were plenty of pictures of her in her knickers for the papers to print. It ruined my father’s reputation. And his marriage. Oh, yes, and his political career. And – what else? His family. And his life. And probably a few other things too, but I can’t remember it all. He became a pariah. Went off to Gloucestershire and spent most of the last twenty years growing organic vegetables and fruit which made him a small income, or so I believe …’
Harry’s voice trailed off.
‘Not a great – um – move then, sir, all in all,’ Sylvester said with a wan smile. ‘The lingerie model.’
‘No, not really,’ Harry agreed.
‘He should have just denied it,’ Harpenden suggested cheerfully.
‘He did.’
‘Oh.’
‘Then they published pictures of them together. Tapes. Video tapes. The woman … well, you get the picture.’
‘Oh,’ Harpenden volunteered. ‘Bummer.’
Sylvester said, ‘And you and he …?’
Harry bristled.
‘I really
