once a fortnight at his office, was what she called 'delicate', but Landless didn't mind. Quentin was the only barber he'd ever found who could manage to keep his rope-like hair under control without larding it in hair cream and, besides, the Landless reputation with women was sufficiently beyond dispute to survive contact with an affected queen. In truth the hairdresser was a disgraceful gossip who had a fund of stories about his other fashionable clients, all of whom seemed to regard him as a father-confessor for their sex lives. Landless never ceased to be intrigued by what others would admit to or fantasize about under the influence of nothing more potent than shampoo and an expert scalp massage. He kept his own mouth shut, and listened. He was engrossed in a fascinating report of what other parts of his body the country's leading romantic soap star shaved, and in what designs, when the whine of the telephone dragged him away.
It was his editor-in-chief, seeking guidance, covering his ass as usual. But Landless didn't object, not on this occasion. This was his story, after all.
'How are the others going to play it?' he growled.
'No one's quite sure. This story's so out of the ordinary.' The issue involved King, Prime Minister, Lords and Commons - the Archbishop wasn't in there yet, but doubtless the Sun or Mirror would find some connection. Yet it had been raised by two such nonentities - few had heard of Colthorpe, none of Quillington. It was a sensitive issue, perhaps an item on the parliamentary page?
'Any guidance from Downing Street?'
'They're cautious. Clean hands, so they insist. Serious issues which they understand must be reported and all that, but suggest Quillington's a fool and Colthorpe went over the top. They don't want a repeat of what happened before Christmas.'
'But they didn't request we spike it, either?'
'No.'
'Colthorpe tried to shift the argument away from a divided nation to hard cash. Clever - too clever for him on his own. They're flying kites. Trying it out with Colthorpe to see if it gets a fair wind.'
'So what do we do?'
It was not so much that he had promised Quillington, it was more instinct - the instinct of a man who had been used to street-fighting all his life, used to recognizing the difference between shadows that provided cover and those that hid the enemy. He trusted his instincts, and they told him that amongst these shadows there lurked the figure of Francis Urquhart. If Landless threw a little light around, who knows what he might flush out. Anyway, he had a lot of money invested in the Royal Family and there was no dividend in it unless the Royal Family was news. Good, bad, indifferent news, he didn't mind — so long as it was news.
'Splash it. Page One lead.'
'You think it's that big?'
'We make it that big.'
There was agitated breathing on the end of the phone as the editor tried to catch up and comprehend his proprietor's flow of logic. 'Peers Attack Urquhart?' he suggested, practising a few headlines. 'PM Unelected and Unelectable, Say King's Allies?'
'No, you bloody idiot. Six weeks ago we were telling the world what a fine, noble creature he was. From Roger Rabbit to Rasputin in one bound is more than even our readers will swallow. You make it balanced, fair, authoritative. Just make it big.'
'You want to catch the others standing on this one.' It was an assumption, not a question: this was going to be a front page like none of the competition.
'No, not on this one,' Landless responded thoughtfully. 'Spread word around the news room.'
'But that'll mean it will be all through Fleet Street in under an hour.' They both knew there were journalists in the news room taking backhanders for alerting their rivals to what was going on, just as they paid for whispers in the other direction. 'They'll all follow. Think we're up to something, know something they don't. No one will want to be caught out, it'll be used on every front page . . . ?'
'Precisely. This one is going to be a runner, because we're going to make it run. Freely, fairly, in the national interest. Until the time comes for us to climb down off the fence, by which time the noise we make will give our Mr Urquhart nightmares for months. That's when we make sure he's not only unelected, but unelectable.'
He dropped the phone back into its cradle and turned to Quentin, who