nly because he’d fancied a girl。 It flattered him； by making him look less ambitious； and it flattered her； by making her look more influential than she probably was。 Audiences liked it。 Everyone was happy。 But now the question arose： what was I supposed to do？
It’s not an uncommon dilemma in the ghosting business； and the etiquette is simple： you draw the discrepancy to the author’s attention and leave it up to him to decide how to resolve it。 The collaborator’s responsibility is not to insist on the absolute truth。 If it were； our end of the publishing industry would collapse under the dead weight of reality。 Just as the beautician doesn’t tell her client that she has a face like a sack of toads； so the ghost doesn’t confront the autobiographer with the fact that half his treasured reminiscences are false。 Don’t dictate； facilitate： that is our motto。 Obviously； McAra had failed to observe this sacred rule。 He must have had his suspicions about what he was being told； ordered up a parcel of research from the archives； and then removed the ex–prime minister’s most polished anecdote from his memoirs。 What an amateur！ I could imagine how well that must have been received。 No doubt it helped explain why relations had become so strained。
I turned my attention back to the Cambridge material。 There was a strange kind of innocence about these faded jeunesse dorée； stranded in that lost but happy valley that lay somewhere between the twin cultural peaks of hippiedom and punk。 Spiritually； they looked far closer to the sixties than the seventies。 The girls had long lacy dresses in floral prints； with plunging necklines； and big straw hats to keep off the sun。 The men’s hair was as long as the women’s。 In the only color picture； Lang was holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and what looked very much like a joint in the other； a girl seemed to be feeding him strawberries； while in the background a bare…chested man gave a thumbs…up。
The biggest of the cast photographs showed eight young people grouped together under a spotlight； their arms outstretched as if they had just finished some show…stopping song and dance routine in a cabaret。 Lang was on the far right…hand side； wearing his striped blazer； a bow tie； and a straw boater。 There were two girls in leotards； fishnet tights； and high heels： one with short blonde hair； the other dark frizzy curls； possibly a redhead （it was impossible to tell from the monochrome photo）： both pretty。 Two of the men apart from Lang I recognized： one was now a famous comedian； the other an actor。 A third man looked older than the others： a postgraduate researcher； perhaps。 Everyone was wearing gloves。
Glued to the back was a typed slip listing the names of the performers； along with their colleges：
G。 W。 Syme （Caius）； W。 K。 Innes （Pembroke）； A。 Parke （Newnham）； P。 Emmett （St。 John’s）； A。 D。 Martin （King’s）； E。 D。 Vaux （Christ’s）； H。 C。 Martineau （Girton）； A。 P。 Lang （Jesus）。
There was a copyright stamp—Cambridge Evening News—in the bottom left…hand corner； and scrawled diagonally next to it in blue ballpoint was a telephone number； prefixed by the international dialing code。 No doubt McAra； indefatigable fact hound that he was； had hunted down one of the cast； and I wondered which of them it was and if he or she could remember the events depicted in the photographs。 Purely on a whim； I took out my mobile and dialed the number。
Instead of the familiar two…beat British ringing tone； I heard the single sustained note of the American。 I let it ring for a long while。 Just as I was about to give in； a man answered； cautiously。
“Richard Rycart。”
The voice； with its slight colonial twang—“Richard Roicart”—was unmistakably that of the former foreign secretary。 He sounded suspicious。 “Who is this？” he asked。
I hung up at once。 In fact； I was so alarmed that I actually threw the phone onto the bed。 It lay there for about thirty seconds and then started to ring。 I darted over and grabbed it—the incoming number was listed as “withheld”—and quickly switched it off。 For half a minute I was too stunned to move。
I told myself not to rush to any conclusions。 I didn’t know for certain that McAra had written down the number； or even rung it。 I checked the package to see when it had been dispatched。 It had left the United Kingdom on January the third； nine days before McAra died。
It suddenly seemed vitally important for me to get every remaining trace of my predecessor out of that room。 Hurriedly； I stripped the last of his clothes from the closet； upending the drawers of socks and underpants into his suitcase （I remember he wore thick knee…length socks and baggy white Y…fronts： this boy was old…fashioned all the way through）。 There were no personal papers that I could find—no diary or address book； letters； or even books—and I presumed they must have been taken away by the police immediately after his death。 From the bathroom I removed his blue plastic disposable razor； toothbrush； comb； and the rest of it； and then the job was done： all tangible effects of Michael McAra； former aide to the Right Honourable Adam Lang； were crammed into a suitcase and ready to be dumped。 I dragged it out into the corridor and around to the solarium。 It could stay there until the summer； for all I cared； just as long as I didn’t have to see it again。 It took me a moment to recover my breath。
And yet； even as I headed back toward his—my—our—room； I could sense his presence； loping along clumsily at my heels。 “Fuck off； McAra；” I muttered to myself。 “Just fuck off and leave me alone to finish this book and get out of here。” I stuffed the photographs and photocopies back into their original envelope and looked around for somewhere to hide it； then I stopped and asked myself why I should want to conceal it。 It wasn’t exactly top secret。 It had nothing to do with war crimes。 It was just a young man； a student actor； more than thirty years earlier； on a sunlit riverbank； drinking champagne and sharing a spliff with his friends。 There could be any number of reasons why Rycart’s number was on the back of that photo。 But still； somehow； it demanded to be hidden； and in the absence of any other bright idea； I’m ashamed to say I resorted to the cliché of lifting the mattress and stuffing it underneath。
“Lunch； sir；” called Dep softly from the corridor。 I wheeled round。 I wasn’t sure if she’d seen me； but then I wasn’t sure it mattered。 Compared to what else she must have witnessed in the house over the past few weeks； my own strange behavior would surely have seemed small beer。
I followed her into the kitchen。 “Is Mrs。 Lang around？” I said。
“No； sir。 She go Vineyard Haven。 Shopping。”
She had fixed me a club sandwich。 I sat on a tall stool at the breakfast bar and compelled myself to eat it； while she wrapped things in tinfoil and put them back in one of Rhinehart’s array of six stainless steel fridges。 I considered what I should do。 Normally I would have forced myself back to my desk and continued writing all afternoon。 But for just about the first time in my career as a ghost； I was blocked。 I’d wasted half the morning composing a charmingly intimate reminiscence of an event that hadn’t happened—couldn’thave happened； because Ruth Lang hadn’t arrived to start her career in London until 1976； by which time her future husband had already been a party member for a year。
Even the thought of tackling the Cambridge section； which once I’d regarded as words in the bank； now led me to confront a blank wall。 Who was he； this happy…go…lucky； girl…chasing； politically allergic； would…be actor？ What suddenly turned him into a party activist； trailing around council estates； if it wasn’t meeting Ruth？ It made no sense to me。 That was when I realized I had a fundamental problem with our former prime minister。 He was not a psychologically credible character。 In the flesh； or on the screen； playing the part of a statesman； he seemed to have a strong personality。 But somehow； when one sat down to think about him； he vanished。 This made it almost impossible for me to do my job。 Unlike any number of show business and sporting weirdos I had worked with in the past； when it came to Lang； I simply couldn’t make him up。
I took out my cell phone and considered calling Rycart。 But the more I reflected on how the conversation might go； the more reluctant I became to initiate it。 What exactly was I supposed to say？ “Oh； hello； you don’t know me； but I’ve replaced Mike McAra as Adam Lang’s ghost。 I believe he may have spoken to you a day or two before he was washed up dead on a beach。” I put the phone back in my pocket； and suddenly I couldn’t rid my mind of the image of McAra’s heavy body rolling back and forth in the surf。 Did he hit rocks； or was he run straight up onto soft sand？ What was the name of the
place where he’d been found？ Rick had mentioned it when we had lunch at his club in London。 Lambert something…or…other。
“Excuse me； Dep；” I said to the housekeeper。
She straightened from the fridge。 She had such a sweetly sympathetic face。 “Sir？”
“Do