I went in search of Amelia. To my surprise, one of the policemen told me she was outside. It must have been after four by now, and getting cold. She was standing in the turning circle in front of the house. In the January gloom, the tip of her cigarette glowed bright red as she inhaled, then faded to nothing.

“I wouldn’t have guessed you were a smoker,” I said.

“I only ever allow myself one. And then only at times of great stress or great contentment.”

“Which is this?” “Very funny.” She had buttoned her jacket against the chilly dusk, and was smoking in that curious noli me tangere way that a certain kind of woman does, with one arm held loosely against her waist and the other – the one with the hand holding the cigarette – slanted across her breast.

The Ghost by Robert Harris

The real Ghost is Robert Harris. And what a jubilantly spiteful ghost he has proved to be, says Rod Liddle

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• Extract: The Ghost by Robert Harris

• A short extract from The Ghost by Robert Harris

• Only the togas have changed

• Summer reading for lawyers

• Harris points pen at a leader very like Blair

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• Pompeii by Robert Harris

• Trapped between wife and mistress

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“I don’t suppose there’s the faintest chance of my sitting down with Adam for another interview today, is there?”

“What do you think?” “In that case, could I have a lift back to my hotel? I’ll do some work there instead.”

She exhaled smoke through her nose and studied me. “You’re not planning to take that manuscript out of here, are you?”

“Of course not!” My voice always rises an octave when I tell a lie. I could never have become a politician: I’d have sounded like Donald Duck. “I just want to write up what we did today, that’s all.”

She paused just long enough to convey her suspicion. “All right,” she said, finishing her cigarette. “I’ll trust you.” She dropped the stub on to the drive and extinguished it delicately with the pointed toe of her shoe, then stooped and retrieved it. I imagined her at school, similarly removing the evidence: the head girl who was never caught smoking. “Collect your stuff. I’ll get one of the boys to take you into Edgartown.” I climbed the stairs to the study, and as I came closer I could hear Ruth and Adam Lang shouting at one another. Their voices were muffled, and the only words I heard distinctly came at the tail-end of her final rant: “Spending the rest of my bloody life here!”

The door was ajar. I hesitated. I didn’t want to interrupt, but on the other hand I didn’t want to hang around and be caught looking as if I were eavesdropping. In the end I knocked lightly, and after a pause I heard Lang say wearily, “Come.”

He was sitting at the desk. His wife was at the other end of the room. They were both breathing heavily, and I sensed that something momentous – some long-pent-up explosion – had just occurred. I could understand now why Amelia had fled outside to smoke.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said, gesturing towards my belongings. “I wanted to . . . ”

“Fine,” said Lang. “I’m going to call the children,” said Ruth bitterly. “Unless of course you’ve already done it.”

Lang didn’t look at her: he looked at me. And, oh, what layers of meaning there were to be read in those glaucous eyes! He invited me, in that long instant, to see what had become of him: stripped of his power, abused by his enemies, hunted, homesick, trapped between his wife and his mistress. You could write a hundred pages about that one brief look, and still not get to the end of it.

“Excuse me,” said Ruth, and pushed past me quite roughly, her small, hard body banging into mine. At the same moment, Amelia appeared in the doorway, holding a telephone.

“Adam,” she said, “it’s the White House. They have the president of the United States on the line for you.” She smiled at me and ushered me towards the door. “Would you mind? We need the room.”

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