Free A Dark Dividing by Sarah Rayne

elected Member of Parliament, celebrating his by - election victory with his family… ’ This was not in the least fanciful: it was practically a settled thing that he would be adopted as candidate for the next by-election, wherever it might be.
    Later on, if things went well, there would be even grander items. ‘ Joseph Anderson seen escorting his daughters to a private reception at No. 10… ’ ‘ Together with his twin girls, hosting a reception at his constituency for the Prince of Wales… ’
    A larger house would be needed, but once he had been elected they would most likely have to move anyway. To something gracious and mellow—eighteenth-century, perhaps. Large gardens and velvety lawns for the twins and their friends. Even a small tennis court, and a paddock for a pony. Two ponies. ‘ Joe Anderson, who is tipped for a place in the next Cabinet reshuffle, caught in a happy, off - duty moment with his twins at the local point - to - point… ’
    And now these delightful visions were meaningless and false. Really, it was too bad of life to play such a trick.
    Or was it? How would it be if one took this thing on board? Even turned it to advantage? He considered the possibilities carefully. Once the twins had had the operation to separate them all news value and sympathy value would go, of course, but while they were still joined he might get quite a lot of mileage out of it. He could talk worriedly about the ethics of separation and his own religious convictions and he could disclose his own agony at having to put the babies at risk. That was all the kind of thing that voters would go for.
    He might even start to work for one or two children’s charities as a result of the twins’ condition—‘ Mr Joseph Anderson, whose life holds a deep sadness, but who works tirelessly for children’s charities… ’ Ah, now that was a good idea. He could talk modestly about the twins’ tragedy guiding him into those areas, and people would speak of him as a caring man. ‘ Joseph Anderson pictured outside Buckingham Palace, after receiving his OBE for services to children …’ He would ask around at the Council offices to find out about suitable charities. If you were going to do good, you wanted to be sure that everyone knew about it.
    Joe was so pleased with all of this that he went off to order two dozen carnations for Mel. He asked the florist to deliver them in a pink and gilt basket, since it would not do for anyone at St Luke’s to think that Councillor Anderson (almost certain to be the Right Honourable Joseph Anderson very soon) was a penny-pincher.

    In the tradition of all good newspapermen Harry was starting his research into Simone Marriot’s family by checking archived newspapers. You did not neglect your own terrain, and providing you took a balanced view newspapers were a primary source for research, although you had to read and analyse both ends of the spectrum. You had to get at the facts. This last sounded like a nineteen-fifties American police series. I’m here to get the facts, just gimme the facts, Mack. Hero lights up a Sobranie, tips hat to rakish angle, turns up raincoat collar, and adopts a macho pose under a handily positioned street light. Harry Lime in The Third Man , or Bogart’s Philip Marlowe, sneeringly cynical. Great role models, both.
    Giving Harry this commission, Markovitch, wily old wordsmith, had used an unexpectedly picturesque phrase—pathways into the past. It conjured up the dusty purlieus of ancient files and curling-edged letters and mediums’ trances, and Harry suspected Markovitch had employed it calculatedly to snare his interest. He ate a makeshift meal in the small kitchen of his flat, dumped the dishes in the sink, and in the absence of the Sobranie and the hat poured himself a large whisky and sat down at the computer. The portals of the internet might not be as romantic as