The Best Of Times

CHAPTER 14

“Where are you going now?”

Laura tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice, but it was difficult. Jonathan had hardly spoken to her since he had come in, just after nine the night before.

He had walked in, white faced, his eyes dark with exhaustion, dropped his overnight bag on the hall floor, and stood there, as if he didn’t know where he was.

“Hello,” he said rather vaguely. “Sorry to be so late.”

“Don’t apologise, Jonathan. Come in and sit down; tell me all about it. What would you like, tea, scotch, water…?”

“Water’d be great. Thanks, darling. But could you bring it through to the study? I really need to check my e-mails.”

“What, now?” she said, surprise making her stupid.

“Yes, now,” he said. “Sorry, but it’s important. I’ve been out all day and I don’t know what’s going on at the clinic-or the hospital.”

“But I want to know all about it, what happened.”

“Laura, I really don’t want to talk about it. Not yet, anyway. I’m all in.”

His voice shook slightly; she told herself he had had a day of such horror that few people would be able even to imagine it, and that she must be patient.

She took a bottle from the fridge in the kitchen, and when she walked into the study, Jonathan was sitting staring blankly out of the window. The sun was setting, a great red ball etched out of the brilliant turquoise sky.

“Lovely sunset,” she said, setting the water down.

“What? Thanks, darling.”

“I said, lovely sunset.”

“Yes, very lovely. I’ll be finished soon, Laura. I’ll come and find you, all right?”

“All right. I’ll be in the kitchen, waiting to have supper with you.”

“Darling, I don’t want any supper. I still feel sick.”

“But, Jonathan, you haven’t eaten-or have you; did you get something at the hospital?”

“What hospital?”

“The hospital handling the casualties.”

“What on earth makes you think I’d go there?”

“Well… I just thought you might. As you’d been helping the… the crash victims.”

“Christ, no. Plenty of people to do that, once they got there.”

“I see. Well… what have you been doing all this time then?”

“All what time?”

“Jonathan, it’s after nine. You called me at five, five thirty. Said the ambulances were coming. Did you stay on after that, helping there? Or were you talking to the police or something?”

“Laura, what is this, an inquisition? I finally got under way at about seven. They had to check my car-”

“Your car? Why?”

“Oh, to make sure it’s mechanically sound, brakes OK and so on. Apparently it’s standard procedure these days, if you’re involved in a crash.”

“I thought you weren’t involved?”

“Laura, I was there, for Christ’s sake. And then the traffic was still appalling. And I gave some bloke a lift. Young chap, got caught in it all, desperate to get to London, almost in tears, missed some crucial meeting. I dropped him off in the Cromwell Road. There were a lot of people like that, lives just thrown into the air. Thanks for the water. I’ll see you later.”

At ten thirty he was still in the study. She knocked rather nervously; he was sitting staring at his laptop screen.

“Are you nearly through? I’d like to go to bed soon.”

“Well, go to bed. I’ll be up later.”

“I want to be with you. I’d rather wait.”

“Well, I’d rather you didn’t. Laura, you just go ahead. I’ll be a while yet.”

Finally at eleven she had gone up to bed herself, and stayed awake a long time, thinking that any moment he’d appear, saying, “Sorry, darling, sorry, sorry, sorry,” as he so often did when he knew he’d kept her waiting. But at midnight he had still not appeared and she finally fell asleep.

And now here he was, wearing his cycling clothes, for heaven’s sake, at seven in the morning.

“I’m going for a bike ride,” he said in answer to her question. “Try to clear my head. I’ve got my morning round to do at the clinic. I’ll see you after that.”

“Breakfast?”

“I still don’t feel very hungry.”

“Jonathan, you must eat.”

“I’m not one of the children, Laura; I can decide for myself when I need food.”

“Oh, please yourself,” she said, allowing irritation to break through for the first time. “And don’t forget we’re going to lunch with the Edwardses.”

“I really don’t think I could face a barbecue today,” he said. “I feel absolutely shattered, I’ve got a clinic to do, and it’s going to be bloody hot again.”

“Well, I think you’re going to have to face it,” she said. “It’s Serena’s birthday; there are several couples going, and-”

“If there are several couples, would it really matter if I wasn’t there?”

“Yes, it would. She’s my best friend and she’d be very hurt. Oh, just go out on your bloody bike, Jonathan. I’ll see you later.”

“OK,” he said, and he was gone.

“He’s being really weird,” said Charlie. He had come down the stairs and heard most of the conversation.

“Just a bit.” She went into the kitchen with Charlie and started doing the scrambled eggs he loved; she felt confused and upset. She needed to talk to Jonathan, needed him to tell her about it; and while they were about it, she needed to know why he had been on the M4 and not the M40. She tried to crush the notion that he was avoiding her because he didn’t want to tell her.

Russell woke horribly early; he hurt all over. Not just his heart, which felt physically sore, but his head, his stomach, his limbs. It was as if he had been beaten up.

He got up, walked over to the window, and opened the curtains. It was going to be another lovely day; at a little before six, the sun was shearing down through the trees; the sky was the slightly hazy blue that spoke of staying power. Russell sighed heavily and turned away; he would have looked for rain, for greyness, for cold: the weather of disappointment.

What had happened to Mary? How could she have failed him like this? Why hadn’t she somehow got a message to him? He had told her where they would be staying: at the Dorchester, the American home away from home. Even if she hadn’t been able to send a message to him at the airport, she could have surely have rung there.

He had arrived at the desk there breathless, convinced she had been delayed, somehow, and had gone straight there, looking round wildly in reception on his way, half expecting to see her there, small and neat and smiling; only to be told that no, so sorry, there was no message, and no one had arrived asking for him either. And he had gone up to his room and ordered a martini and then another and sat in a chair, staring at the telephone, and after a while he began to weep, as he had not since he had been a young soldier leaving England on his way home at the end of the war, sitting in the lavatory in the troop train, thinking of Mary and wondering how he was going to get through the next eighty years or whatever without her.

And then, slowly but very surely, he started to get cross.

Russell was a very nice person, kind, caring, and for the most part thoughtful. But he was rich and successful; and like all rich and successful people, he was spoilt. All his life, from his earliest childhood, he had had everything he wanted: the toys, the outings, the fun. And, as he grew up, the girls.

Losing Mary had been the worst and greatest shock of his life; but once he had begun to recover from that and was returned to the world he knew, that of money and worldly success, he forgot any lessons he might have learned from her. He worked hard, to be sure, but for considerable rewards. He lived in both style and comfort-first one wife and then another ran his home and did what they were told-his children were brought up in awe of him, and his reputation as one of New York’s most generous philanthropists assured him further admiration. And now, in the senior compartment, as he called it, of a gilded life, he was rarely crossed, never criticised, and had his every demand almost instantly met.

He was finding the present situation extremely difficult. Whatever it was that had happened to Mary, this was the twenty-first century, for heaven’s sake. Even if she was unwell, she could have rung the hotel, or got word to him somehow. Or somebody could. It showed a lack of consideration as well as courtesy. He had gone to enormous trouble to make everything perfect for her; had anticipated her every need, answered her every question in advance. He had given her all the numbers: the hotel, his mobile…

Sorrow turned to self-pity turned to resentment turned to outrage. Mary had, not to put too fine a point on it, stood him up.

And now the damn sun had the nerve to shine…

“Mrs. Connell, are you all right?”

Maeve struggled to sit up; she had been asleep on the sofa in the ITU corridor.

A doctor was looking down at her; he had a lot of dark hair and very kind dark eyes. He looked about forty-five, possibly more; that was reassuring. Maeve felt that doctors should be old.

Certainly well into middle age.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said, “thank you.”

“I’m Dr. Pritchard. I admitted your husband last night. I’m the A and E consultant. Specialist doctors and surgeons have been looking after him, but I wanted to come and see how he was doing, say hello. And to see how you were.”

“Never mind how I am-what about Patrick?”

Dr. Pritchard was silent. That’s it, she thought, he’s died, he’s gone, and they’ve sent this person with his kind eyes to tell me. He was probably specially trained, maybe even chosen for those eyes…

“He’s died, hasn’t he?” she said.

But: “No, he’s holding on. It’s amazing, but he is. He must be very strong, Mrs. Connell.”

“I s’pose he is, yes. I don’t know why; all he ever does is sit in that cab. So-”

“But he is still dangerously ill, I’m afraid. There were abdominal and chest injuries; his spleen is ruptured; we’ve had to remove one of his kidneys and part of his large intestine. None of which is necessarily fatal. And he’d lost a lot of blood, of course, but that’s fairly easily dealt with. He also had some injury to his heart: contusions, we call them-that is, blood collecting in a sac round it-but we put a needle in and drained it.”

“And… is he conscious?”

“Semi. Actually, we decided to keep him asleep last night, to make sure he was stable. Lot of drugs, of course, going round his system. He has a tube in his trachea-his throat-and he’s on a ventilator; it’s doing his breathing for him.”

“It sounds so dreadful,” she said.

“I know. But we would hope to extubate him quite soon now-”

“What does that mean?”

“Turn off the anaesthetic drugs and wean him off the ventilator. Take out the tube. He’ll start to breathe on his own and wake up. And then, of course, he’ll be given plenty of painkillers. He’ll be pretty out of it for a day or two.”

“When can I see him?”

“Oh, fairly soon. But you have to be prepared for a shock, Mrs. Connell. His face and hands are cut, his head is swollen and a bit out of shape, and there are all these tubes coming in and out of him. Not the prettiest sight, I’m afraid. And he’ll be very confused, but he’ll want to talk; people always do.”

“You’re very kind,” said Maeve, and meant it. People said the NHS was falling apart these days, but as far as she could see it was absolutely wonderful. Fancy a busy doctor finding the time to talk to her like this…

Time was actually not a problem for Alex Pritchard that day. He should have been at home-he was not officially on duty-but he had come in partly to check on the condition of the more serious victims of the crash, partly to get out of the house, the lovely big Edwardian house where he and Samantha had lived for fifteen years and raised two children. He felt sad and outraged that it was to be sold, and the proceeds were to buy another more than adequate house, as far as he could see, for Sam and the children and a rather inadequate flat for him. He was to lose the children he loved so much, apart from every other weekend; he was to lose quite a large proportion of his income; he was going to be extremely lonely-and all so that Sam could pursue her own life and her new relationship. OK, he hadn’t been the greatest husband; he’d been bad tempered and difficult, and absent a lot of the time, and yes, Sam had to bear the brunt of running the house, caring for the children, going to parents’ evenings and nativity plays on her own, all that stuff; but did he really deserve this… exile? Yes, he had had an affair, albeit a brief one, born of retaliation rather than desire, and how happy for Sam that he had, for her lawyer had been able to add it to the sins of omission and absenteeism that had lost him his family.

It was doomed to failure from the beginning, his marriage-he could see that now-to the lovely Sam, ten years younger than he, with her social ambition and her need for admiration. She had never understood the whole medical thing, the claims of the job, the loyalty to the patients, and never bothered to try either.

Why was he always late, why did a crisis at the hospital take precedence over a dinner party, why should she give up her time and energy to hospital causes? Why then was she so happy with the lifestyle his large salary brought her?

He had been beguiled by her, had thought he was marrying a princess, when beneath her lovely face and body was a self-seeking ugly sister.

Well, he had learnt his lesson and very painfully; and if he ever had another relationship it would be with someone who understood his career and the life it led him into, someone who was not concerned with her own life and her own ambitions. Only he never would have another relationship; he never would have the stomach for it.

He looked back at Mrs. Connell as he walked away and wondered how on earth she was going to cope with what lay ahead of her. For he had not told her that there was possible damage to her husband’s spinal cord. It was more than possible that he would be paralysed, a helpless cripple, wheelchair-bound, and how would she care for him, in addition to three young children?

Dianne Thompson looked across the breakfast table at her husband.

“This sounds like an awful pileup yesterday, Rick. On the M4. Did you see anything of it at all?”

“No. Why should I have?”

“Because you were on the bloody road, that’s why. Around the time. Four o’clock, it says here.”

“Course I wasn’t. I was delivering the stuff to that snooty cow in Marlowe by four.”

“Oh, OK. What if you’d been a bit later, though? Doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t.”

“Says here a lorry went right through the central median and the driver’s in intensive care, still unconscious, he was, last night. At least three dead, it says, and loads of serious injuries. It’s enough to make you think you’ll never get in a car again.”

“Yeah, well, some of us have to.”

“I know, babe, I know. Part of why your job’s so stressful, isn’t it? Was the traffic very heavy then, when you was driving up?”

“Not specially, no. Oh, I don’t know. Can we stop this, Dianne, talk about something a bit more cheerful?”

“Tamara, are you ready, darling? Daddy’s got the car in the front of the house.”

“Yes, coming, Mummy, just finding my shoes.”

They had to be the right shoes; it seemed important. Wearing the right clothes altogether was important. Toby was probably a bit down in the dumps today, and it would cheer him up to see her looking really great. A lot of girls might not have bothered about it, specially having been robbed of their wedding day, but Tamara was not being beaten by a little something like that. There could be another wedding day, and they would be able to start planning it that very morning. She had her diary with her so that they could choose another date, at least.

She felt extremely proud of herself, being so strong about the whole thing. She could think of at least half a dozen friends who would have been completely destroyed by it. Of course, she had been dreadfully upset yesterday, and there was no way she could have gone to the hospital last night; she’d looked appalling, her eyes all piggy and her skin blotchy with crying, and she’d felt completely and utterly drained by it.

But today… well, today was quite different. She felt really refreshed, and able to cope with it all.

She finally settled on a pair of white patent high-heeled mules, which went with the red shift she had decided to wear-it was one of Toby’s favourites; he said she was his own personal lady in red in it-and ran downstairs barefoot, holding them in her hand.

“It was so awful,” she said later, sobbing in her father’s arms in the car park. “I thought he’d be sitting up in his pyjamas, you know, and I could give him the strawberries and everything, and he was just lying there, looking all pinched and white, and there were lots of drips and things, and one of them was blood, and goodness knows what the others all were, and then he had this cage thing over his leg, with sort of pins going through his skin-it made me feel quite sick, actually-and he turned his head just very slowly and said my name, but he could hardly get that out, and he tried to smile, Daddy, but he couldn’t quite manage it, and then his eyes closed again, and he tried to give me his hand, but it sort of flopped before it reached me. And it was so upsetting I just started to cry. And then some beastly nurse said that if I’d like to wait outside, the doctor was coming to see him, and I said couldn’t I stay, and she said no, she didn’t think that was a very good idea-that’s the NHS for you, treating everyone like idiots-and I had to wait outside for ages, and then when the doctor came out I nabbed him, said how was Toby, and he said not very well, but he’d be back in a couple of hours and he’d have a better idea then. He seemed to think I could just wait. So I went back in to Toby and he just seemed totally out of it. And then the nurse came back and said she was sorry, but that was enough for now, and if I liked I could come back this afternoon. I’m just so… so disappointed and upset, Daddy, and so worried; he’s obviously much worse than anyone was letting on last night.”

“Oh, darling, try not to worry too much.” Gerald Richmond passed her his handkerchief. “Come on, blow your nose. You’ve been so brave up to now; you’ve just got to keep it up a bit longer. Shall we go and have a nice lunch somewhere and then come back this afternoon? Would you like that?”

“Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know. I mean honestly, Daddy, if you’d seen him, you’d have wondered if there was any point in my going. It was quite… scary. He hardly seemed to be there.”

“Well… if the nurse told you to go back and the doctor’s been to see him, I’d have thought it was worth it. I’ll come with you, if you like. Just to hold your hand. As Toby can’t.” He smiled at her. “Come on, poppet, dry your eyes. We’ll go to the Bear, have a really good lunch, and then come back and see how he is. I’m sure he’ll pick up very quickly; he’s young and very fit.”

“Yes. All right. Thanks, Daddy, I expect you’re right. Oh, now look at me!” she said, half laughing as she studied herself in the mirror. “My mascara’s all run, and I don’t have any makeup with me. Maybe we could buy some stuff in Marlborough after we’ve had lunch.”

“Of course we can. You’re being very brave, darling. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Daddy. I don’t feel very brave. Oh, it’s all so sad. Pretty cruel, fate, isn’t it? Why did it have to happen yesterday? And to me?”

CHAPTER 15

Abi was in the gym; she felt absolutely dreadful, sick and exhausted, aching in every limb-and seriously stressed. She’d rung her phone repeatedly, in the hope someone would have it and answer it, but it remained stubbornly switched off.

Clearly she needed to speak to Jonathan; the police had told her they would want a statement from her, as she had been in the forefront of the crash, and she presumed they had said the same thing to him.

The thought most frightening her was an odd, almost shadowy anxiety that she had in some way contributed to it. Jonathan had been on the phone-and she had been shouting at him, swearing at him, even; she’d provided a pretty serious distraction. And she and Jonathan had been right beside the lorry; suppose he’d swerved, made the lorry swerve too? It didn’t bear thinking about. And they’d surely be required to recount very precisely what they had seen. And if all she could tell them was that it was a blur, that she couldn’t really remember, they wouldn’t be very impressed. They might even think she was covering something up.

And then-she presumed-Jonathan would require her to go along with whatever story he planned to tell Laura: the reason for being on the wrong motorway, and her presence in the car. It was extremely unlikely, she felt sure, to be the bald truth; and that shifted the balance of power between them just a little. Yesterday, Laura could have been kept in ignorance of Abi’s existence-unless Abi herself confronted her with it. Today, she almost certainly could not. So if he wanted Abi to go along with any lie he might concoct, she held quite a few more cards than she had done; and that was, actually, rather pleasing.

Abi was not vindictive; in spite of her threat to Jonathan of confronting Laura, she actually had no intention of doing so. Rather perversely, she was on Laura’s side. She didn’t admire her; indeed she viewed her-and other wives like her-with something near contempt: for their dependency, their willingness to do what they were told and be what they were bidden.

Kept women, Abi regarded them as: lacking in courage, personal ambition, and self-worth. She had no wish to join their ranks; she would not consider moving into a large house, wearing expensive clothes, and driving a flashy car if it wasn’t due at least in some large part to her own efforts. She wanted her own stake in life, not one bought by simpering at dinner parties and providing sex on demand.

Just the same, she felt that they did deserve better than being cheated on. She despised Jonathan for what he was doing to Laura: he was the real wrongdoer, in her eyes, the villain of the piece, playing with Laura’s happiness and love, and that of his children. It was he, and not Laura, who deserved to be punished.

But to punish Jonathan would be to punish Laura too, and not to be contemplated in the normal run of things. This run, however, was not normal…

“How’re you feeling, mate?” Barney smiled determinedly at Toby.

Toby opened his eyes with an obvious effort, said, “Cheers, Barney,” and managed a rather feeble smile. He closed his eyes again, grimaced, tried to shift his position. “Christ, this leg hurts.”

“The nurse said you were on morphine; thought that’d fix it.”

“I am. I certainly know when it’s wearing off, but it still doesn’t kill it. I’ve got a sort of pump thing; I can give it to myself, but it knows when you’ve had enough, so you can’t OD, unfortunately.” He tried to smile again.

“I hear you’ve had lots of visitors.”

“Yeah, Mum and Dad. And Tamara, of course. She’s been such a brick, so good about cancelling the wedding. Didn’t complain at all.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She wanted to set another date, but I just wasn’t up to it. She seemed a bit disappointed about that, but… maybe tomorrow.”

“Well, no rush, eh?”

“No, s’pose not. But it would make her feel better, she said.”

The thought of Tamara pestering Toby in his hospital bed about another date for the wedding made Barney feel slightly sick.

“How’s the food?” he said after a pause.

“Don’t know. I’m just getting stuff through these things.” He indicated the various drips and lines.

“Amanda sent some grapes. Here. But if you can’t eat them-”

“Thanks. How is Amanda?”

“She’s fine,” said Barney. “She says she’ll come in with me tomorrow if you like, if you don’t have too many visitors.”

“Yeah, course. Well, let’s see. Give her my love.”

He was clearly exhausted and certainly in no condition to talk about the things Barney was worrying about. More than worrying. He was haunted by them.

He patted Toby on the hand, told him he’d be back later, and went down to the main entrance, where Amanda was waiting for him.

“How is he?”

“Not good. In a lot of pain. Poor old Tobes.”

“Oh, dear,” said Amanda, “it’s just so, so sad. And so unfair.”

Her blue eyes filled with tears; Barney put his arm round her.

“He’ll be all right,” he said. “Promise. Come on, let’s start driving back, maybe have something to eat on the way?”

As they started going down the steps, Emma came running up them; she smiled.

“Hi. Nice to see you. How’s the patient today? I haven’t been up there yet, but I was planning to check.”

“Oh-not too good. Seems in a lot of pain.”

“Try not to worry,” she said. “It’s almost the worst day, this. Lot of trauma: medical trauma, I mean, swelling, bruising coming out.” She smiled at Amanda, held out her hand. “I’m Emma King. One of the A and E doctors. I met your… Mr. Fraser… on Friday night, when he was leaving your friend’s ward.”

“I heard you’d all been wonderful,” said Amanda, taking the hand. “Thank you so much. I’m Amanda, Barney’s fiancée.”

“Well… you know. We do our best.”

And they stood there in the sunlight shaking hands: two pretty girls with blond hair and blue eyes, worlds apart in education, class, lifestyle, and aspiration, slightly wary of each other without having the faintest idea why.

There was a silence; then Emma said, “Well, I mustn’t hold you up. And I will go and see… Toby, was it? As soon as I can. Try not to worry. Bye now.”

“Bye,” said Amanda. “Come on, Barney, we must go too.”

So he did have a girlfriend, Emma thought, looking after them as they walked towards the cars; and what a suitable one. And she had a boyfriend, didn’t she? So… why was she even concerned about Barney? She wasn’t. She so wasn’t. And she was so late. She must go…

Mary sat in her bed in the cardiac ward, feeling physically better, but increasingly agitated about Russell, begging to be allowed to go home.

They kept saying no, that she had to stay another forty-eight hours, that Dr. Phillips was very pleased with her, but he wanted to keep an eye on her.

She’d had what they told her was a cardiac catheterisation the night before. “It measures the pressure actually inside your heart’s chambers,” Dr. Phillips had said. “Nothing to worry about; we just want to make quite sure everything’s OK.”

It had sounded rather alarming, but they had gone into her heart through an artery in her leg, and although she was a bit sore, she felt fine. And it had been established that her heart was still doing a pretty good job.

“So why can’t I go home?” she said, and they said, well, she was in her eighties, it had all been a considerable trauma for her, and she needed to be kept under observation. And indeed to rest.

The last thing Mary felt she could do was rest. She supposed that once Russell had got the message, he would simply wait until she got in touch with him. Just the same, she needed to know that he had got it; and she could do that only by telephoning his hotel. But she didn’t have the number; that was also in her address book in her suitcase. Well, she could find out the number from directory enquiries.

“Can I get up, go down the corridor?” she asked the nurse. “Use the telephone?” But she was told perhaps tomorrow, not today. “But we can bring the phone to you, Mary; that’s no problem.”

“Oh, that’s very kind. Thank you so much.”

And all might yet have been well had not Mary’s daughter, Christine, and her husband, Gerry, arrived at that moment.

“There, now,” the nurse said, “they’ll make your phone call for you, Mary.”

“What phone call is that, Mum?” asked Christine, setting down the cyclamen plant she had brought.

“Oh, to a friend of mine. It’s not important. Don’t worry; I can do it when you’ve gone.”

She still couldn’t face telling Christine about Russell, not if everything was going to go wrong now. She’d look even more foolish.

And she submitted to an inquisition about the crash that was so long and detailed that she became exhausted; and one of the nurses noticed and said that she thought Christine and Gerry should leave her to rest. After which she was finally able to make her phone call; and was told that Mr. Mackenzie had checked out of the Dorchester a couple of hours earlier.

Jonathan had got extremely drunk at the barbecue. He was surprised by how drunk he was; he hadn’t actually consumed that much-a couple of beers, two or three glasses of wine-but by the time everyone was on the tiramisu, he could hardly stand.

It was Charlie who noticed, Charlie who put his arm round his shoulders, asked him if he was OK, Charlie who brought him the bottle of mineral water that he forced into himself before knowing the absolute humiliation of throwing up on the path as he ran desperately for the lavatory.

“Darling! Oh, darling, how awful…” Laura’s face and voice showed nothing but concern. “Serena, I’m so sorry; I think it’s delayed reaction from yesterday. It must have been such a horrible experience for him-and the heat, of course; he really doesn’t do heat very well…”

And, grateful for the excuse, dimly aware that Mark Edwards was hosing down the path even as Laura helped him into the house, terrified he was going to vomit again, he bolted into the Edwardses’ cloakroom and sat there for a long time, holding his head and wondering how on earth he was going to get through the next days and weeks-and possibly even years.

For the dawning of the day had made him realise that he was in a fairly appalling mess. To start with, he was going to have to explain to Laura why he had been on the M4 at all, rather than the M40, and moreover with a woman, a young and attractive woman-although maybe Laura would not have to know that-for whose presence he would have to provide an acceptable explanation.

There was also the uncomfortable fact that at the time of the crash he had been on the phone, and the police might well take the view that that made him at the very least not entirely blameless, and that they should investigate his version of events rather more closely than they might have done. Of course, it had not been dangerous, and the moment he had realised the trouble they were in, he had quite literally dropped the phone-but then again, they might not accept his word for that. And maybe-just maybe-it had meant his reactions were not as sharp as they should have been; maybe he’d swerved in his turn into the lorry…

Forcing himself to relive the whole thing in painstaking detail, over and over again, he had decided that, at least, was not even remotely possible; but the police might well not agree. And there would be a lot of close questioning: and of Abi as well. He was, in fact, in what was known as a terrible bind.

William was having a difficult day. The cowman, returned from his day off, had pointed out a couple of cows looking off-colour: “Could be bluetongue; let’s hope not.”

William agreed they should hope; it was not in the language of farming, with its day-after-day routine of problems, some huge-like foot-and-mouth or TB-some smaller-like mastitis, or the delivery of a sickly calf-to express emotion verbally. But if the cows had blue-tongue, it would be pretty disastrous. They would survive because they had to, and because there was, actually, no alternative. All their money, all their assets, their entire future was invested in these acres of Gloucestershire; they might own the land, two thousand acres of it, they might be rich on paper, but it was of doubtful value if farming as an industry failed.

Right at the moment, though, farming was having one of its rare ups rather than downs; the price of milk had risen, along with everything else; there were reports of a coming food crisis, of a world shortage of wheat and rice, a higher demand for dairy products-which was improving the outrageous, profit-leeching price of milk-and food prices too were higher than they had been for years. But costs were still very high, the price of fuel was eye-watering, and the farm overdraft was still way over the agreed limit.

And they were under siege from the Greens, constantly and rigorously inspected by people who seemed to know almost nothing about the realities of farming, but who would ruthlessly cut subsidies if a new and entirely necessary building entailed cutting down trees or cropping hedges. The government urged them all to diversify, which William was absolutely in favour of, except that diversification inevitably led to more people, more construction, more waste products. Which led to more complaints from the Greens.

And then his parents were very opposed to change. His proposal to jack up the commercial shoot business had fallen on very stony ground; his father loathed seeing what he called the city boys tramping over his land, in charge of guns many of them were scarcely qualified to use. It was a miracle, he said, none had been injured.

And then just before lunch today, hours before he’d been expecting them, his parents had arrived back from their holiday, and his father had been heavily critical about the state of the yard and the fact that the cows had not been moved to the other field, despite his instructions; and his mother was full of complaints about the state of the house.

William explained about the crash and the helicopter in the field, and said he’d move the cows that afternoon, and even managed to apologise to his mother for the mess she had returned to. Which he did have to admit was rather bad; but he’d been out on the farm from six every day, grabbed some increasingly stale bread and cheese at lunchtime, and come in at dusk to feed himself from some tins from the store cupboard.

“I don’t know what you’re going to do when I retire,” his father said, as he had at least fifty-two times a year for the past five years; William longed to tell him that his life would be a great deal easier if he could run the farm on his own, using his methods, streamlining costs as he saw fit, instead of its being one huge, unworkable compromise. But as far as he could see, his father would never retire; he was sixty-two now, and the farm was still his life.

He knew he should have a serious confrontation with his father on the subject of modernisation, but he shrank from pointing out the unpleasant fact that he was growing old and out of touch. Time, he told himself, would solve the problem, along with the related one of his living at the age of thirty-four in his parents’ house, his domestic life entirely in the care of his mother. It had its bright side, obviously: there was always a meal on the table, and his washing was done. But on the other hand, he found still being told to hang up his coat and take his boots off and clean up the bathroom after himself quite trying. He should be married by now, he knew, but somehow he’d never found anyone who both knew about farming and whom he fancied-and who would put up with living in a house where time had stood more or less still since the 1950s.

And besides, he really didn’t have the time to find her…

And all through this long, predictably difficult day, he kept returning to the one before, so literally nightmarish in recollection, hardly credible at this point. He kept seeing it all, again and again, almost detachedly now-like something on television or in a film, or even in a radio play, for the noises had been as vivid and horrifying as the sights. He remembered feeling the same way about the events of 9/11: he had sat watching the screen, fascinated as much as appalled, and actually thinking what a fantastic film it was, how brilliant a notion. But it had been real, of course; and yesterday had been real-the deaths and the pain and the grief and the moment-by-moment awareness of seeing lives wrecked and ruined. He had seen so much and yet so little of the actual crash; from his grandstand view he had focussed, in appalled fascination, on the lorry, but that had been all. With a gun to his head he could have told no more details, no possible further causes; the police would be requiring a statement, he knew-he was a key witness, given his viewpoint-but he feared he would be a disappointment to them. He felt increasingly distressed by some memories, all still so vivid: the girl in the Golf lifted tenderly out, as if that was important; the hideous sight inside the minibus, the young father weeping over his dead wife; and he was comforted by others, by his ability to provide a safe landing for the helicopter, by the astonishing gratitude of people when he gave them water, by the easing of the misery of the small boys as they formed an attachment to that girl, that tough, brave girl, so gentle with the little boys…

He was just washing his hands in the kitchen before sitting down to the meal his mother had organised when he saw her mobile lying on the windowsill by the sink; he had left it there the night before, intending to do something about it, but then had gone to sleep in front of the TV and forgotten all about it. Probably the best thing was to trawl through the numbers, see if he could find one he could ring. Most of the names obviously meant nothing to him; he had looked for “Mum” and “Dad” and even “work” and “office” and found nothing. And then he saw “Jonathan” and remembered that was the name of the chap she’d been with; it was a start, anyway.

He walked over to the back door and stood looking at the yard, thinking about Abi as he called the number: her amazing legs and her huge dark eyes with all those eyelashes-bit like the cows’ eyelashes, he thought, that long and curly-and her dark hair hanging down her back. She’d been nice, really nice, and very, very sexy; not the sort of girl who’d find him interesting, though, and hardly likely to fit into his life.

A woman’s voice answered the phone: a pretty, light voice.

“Hello?”

“Oh, good afternoon,” William said. “I’m very sorry to bother you, but I think you might know someone called Abi…”

CHAPTER 16

Luke was waiting for Emma in the Butler ’s Wharf Chop House, just below Tower Bridge; she was late. Unlike her, that-very unlike her. He’d tried her mobile, but it seemed to be dead; he hoped she was OK.

She’d been a bit funny when he’d told her about Milan. He’d been surprised; he’d thought she’d see it as an opportunity. Lots of girls would, having a boyfriend working in Milan, with all-expense-paid trips over there whenever she fancied them. Milan was one of the shopping capitals of the world, for God’s sake.

Of course, she’d miss him; and he’d miss her. But… it was such a brilliant opportunity for him. Anyway, he was planning to make her feel really good later, with what he’d bought her. There was no way she wouldn’t be pleased with that…

He ordered another Americano, went over and got a paper from the rack by the door. The front-page news was a bit boring: Afghanistan. He turned to the inside page and saw a bird’s-eye view picture of a pileup on the motorway. He was about to give that a miss too when he read, “almost all the casualties were taken to St. Marks, the new state-of-the-art hospital in Swindon, where medical staff worked tirelessly all afternoon and through the night.”

“Blimey,” said Luke, and folded the paper, starting to read it intently.

“Hi, Luke.”

It was Emma, smiling, but pale and tired-looking. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and had no makeup on; she usually made more effort. Still…

“Hi, babe.” He kissed her. “Come and sit down.”

“Thanks. I’ll have one of those, please.” She indicated the coffee.

“I’ve just been reading about the crash. So that’s why you didn’t ring me last night. It was obviously a big one. Says here it was the worst this summer. God, Emma…”

He sat looking at her in silence; she smiled.

“You look rather… impressed.”

“I feel it. Definitely. Yeah. My little Emma, involved in a thing like that. Were you actually… you know… doing things? Operating and so on?”

“Of course I was! What did you think I was doing, reading a magazine?”

“No,” he said, “no, of course not. It just sounds… so bad.”

“It was so bad. It was awful. Lots of casualties, loads of injuries, people’s lives wrecked forever. Anyway-sorry not to have rung you.”

“That’s all right, babe; I can see why now. You look tired.”

“Thanks,” she said. “That’s exactly what I need to hear.”

“Well, you do. You can’t help it. I’m sorry for you.”

“Well, good.”

She looked at him, and the great blue eyes filled with tears; she dashed them away, smiled determinedly at him.

“Sorry. Got to me a bit. You know, I might like a drink.”

“Course. What d’you fancy?”

“Oh… glass of white wine. I’ll just… just go to the toilet. See you in a bit.”

Luke looked after her thoughtfully; she seemed in a very odd state.

“Tell you what,” he said when she came back, “why don’t you go back to the flat, have a kip before tonight? I’ve got us a table at Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester; you want to be able to enjoy that, and I’ve got something to do this afternoon-thought we could do it together, but I can manage…”

Emma stared at him. Such thoughtfulness was not quite his style. Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

“Oh, Luke,” she said, “you’re so sweet. And you’re right: I am very tired. That’d be lovely. I’d really appreciate it. Thank you.”

Talking to Abi had become a priority-before the police started taking statements. They had to get their story straight: why they’d been together, and on the M4, what they’d seen, how they thought it might have happened. And Laura was going to have to know; important the story was watertight for her too. He’d been working on it: Abi was just a colleague, from the conference; he’d never met her before, just giving her a lift to… where? Maybe not London, maybe just Reading, somewhere like that.

He’d tried to raise her the night before, had walked down the road away from the house, praying Laura wouldn’t see him. There had been no reply, her phone clearly switched off. He didn’t leave a message: too risky. And again this morning, while he’d been out on his bike; still no reply. It was now six p.m. and he was beginning to feel frantic. Maybe he should e-mail her; she had a laptop in that little flat of hers, supplied by the office, as there was so much weekend work; but her housemate, Sylvie, might see it. He’d met her once, hadn’t liked her at all. He wouldn’t trust her an inch. Just the same, he had to talk to Abi soon…

Patrick always said afterwards that the worst thing, in a way, was not knowing what he could and couldn’t remember. Going through the barrier, certainly; calling on God to keep the trailer from jackknifing-He’d failed him there, all right-and then a long, long confusion, a swirling mass of pain and fear, and a complete inability to move. He seemed to be in some kind of a vice, and every time he struggled to get out of it, the pain got worse. It was unimaginably dreadful, that pain, like a great beast tearing at him; after a while it seemed better to stay in the vice without struggling And then after a long time, there seemed to be people with him, one trying to get at his hand, saying, “This’ll help you, mate; just hold on,” and he wondered how his hand could be of any use when his whole body had been rendered useless. And then he had swum off somewhere, where the pain was removed from him, although he could still feel it in some strange way; and then there was a long blank when nothing seemed to happen at all. He remembered some angel smiling down at him, holding his hand, an angel with long blond hair and huge blue eyes. She’d said he was just going into the theatre, and he’d wondered why on earth anyone should think he was up to watching a play in the state he was in; after that he couldn’t remember anything much at all, and he certainly couldn’t have told you how much time had passed, but he seemed to be surfacing somehow into something very uncomfortable-and then as he opened his eyes to see what it looked like, there was Maeve, smiling at him.

“Sweet Jesus,” she said, and, “No, no, darling,” he said, “not Jesus, no, it’s me, Patrick.”

And then he felt completely exhausted and went back to sleep for quite a long time.

Russell sat in the departure lounge at Heathrow waiting for his flight to be called. He could hardly believe this was happening, instead of his being in London with Mary, as they had planned, revisiting old, half-remembered places, lunching with Mary, then driving out to Bray for dinner at the Waterside Inn with Mary-God, he must cancel the table. He felt wounded as well as angry, and he wanted the reassurance of home. The more he thought about Mary and what might or might not have happened to her, the more he felt convinced that she had just not tried hard enough to contact him-and that hurt.

He stayed at the Dorchester until lunchtime, still hoping she would contact him, had called her home several times, but there had been no reply. He left a couple of messages, giving his mobile number, but his phone remained stubbornly silent.

They had brought him the Times with his breakfast, but after he had read the front and the city pages, he phoned down and demanded the Wall Street Journal. It was the only paper he ever read. The young man who brought it asked him if he would like him to switch the television on, but Russell told him sharply that if he wanted to watch it, he was quite capable of switching it on himself.

Russell was an enthusiastic user of technology: of his laptop and his iPhone. However, he was not a television watcher; he hated its banality, its obsession with trivia. He preferred the radio, and most of all he loved the BBC World Service. He and Mary had discovered that they both listened to it when they couldn’t sleep, and although their nights only partly overlapped, he still liked to think of her lying there, listening to the same voices, the same news reports. It brought her closer…

Well, he had obviously been keener on that closeness than she had…

The car journey, once they were on the M4 extension, had been swift. “Bit different from yesterday, sir,” the driver said. “Traffic held up for hours, it was. I gave up, just went home-there was no way you could get through.”

“Really?” said Russell, getting his iPhone out of his attaché case and rather ostentatiously fitting the earbuds into his ears. He would listen to music. He had no intention of getting involved in a conversation about traffic, for God’s sake…

He checked in, went to duty-free and bought himself a couple more books, and then moved up to the first-class lounge. He walked through the seating area, passing the TV screens on his way. He glanced at them: an earnest girl was saying something about Prince William and Harry and some concert they had just put on and how marvellous it had been. He moved off. As he did so, he half heard something about an accident the day before and that someone or other was still in intensive care. Not guaranteed to take his mind off his troubles; he moved into the computer area and called up his e-mails. There were three: two from his secretary, one from a colleague. He’d tried very hard to persuade Mary to have e-mail, but she’d resisted. “I like getting letters,” she said, “and if it’s urgent you can telephone me.”

It might have helped… he wasn’t sure how, but it might… Dear God, this was painful.

An hour passed while he wrote e-mails and looked at the online edition of the Journal; then he decided to get a whisky. That might ease the pain.

He walked out to the bar; they had only one whisky, and that was a blend.

“I’m not drinking that rubbish,” he said. “I want a single-malt. What is this, economy or something? Just give me a club soda.”

He went and sat down near the screens, so that he could see the latest on his flight. No delays; they should be in the air in thirty minutes. And he could shake the soil of bloody England off his feet. He should never have come back, never.

The flight was called; he walked to the departure bay slowly; there seemed to be a delay.

“For God’s sake, what is the matter with this airline?”

“Sorry, Mr. Mackenzie. If you just wait over there, shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

He sat down, sighed heavily. This was what he hated most about flying: sitting helplessly, life at least temporarily out of his control…

The man sitting next to him was reading a newspaper; he had it fully open, knocked Russell’s arm as he tried to fold it over.

“Sorry, mate.”

The man turned to his companion, a pasty, overweight creature in a tracksuit.

“Shocking thing, that crash yesterday,” he said. “Thank God we wasn’t trying to get a flight last night. Says here seven miles, both directions. Hundreds of people missed their planes. Three people killed…”

Russell stood up. All anyone seemed to be interested in today were car crashes…

“Would rows A to G please commence boarding immediately. First- and club-class passengers may also board at their convenience.”

Better check his phone for the last time; not that there was anyone he wanted to hear from…

There was one message on it. Left that day, half an hour earlier. A number he didn’t recognise…

“Hello, is that Mr. Mackenzie?” It was an English voice. “Mr. Mackenzie, you left a message on my mother’s answering machine. Mrs. Mary Bristow. I’m afraid she’s in the hospital-she was involved in a traffic accident yesterday. We only heard ourselves quite late last night. Anyway, if you want to ring me back, my number is-”

A series of clicks went off in Russell’s brain. Holdups for miles… serious traffic accident… in intensive care… hundreds missed their flights.

So there had been a reason: a perfectly good reason. And he had been too blind, too arrogant, too self-centred to try to find it. And Mary, his little Mary, was lying in a hospital, possibly dangerously ill…

Abi’s flat was in a rather unlovely outpost of Bristol; she’d bought it eighteen months earlier, on the strength of her new job. She loved it; it was in a small purpose-built block, fairly recently built. It had two bedrooms, one of which was let to her best friend, Sylvie, to help pay the mortgage; a very cool galley kitchen, with white cupboards and black work surfaces; a studio living room with floor-to-ceiling windows; and a bathroom that, as Sylvie said, was too small to swing a kitten in, much less hold a bath, but which served its purpose perfectly adequately.

She had furnished it slowly, through the year, refusing to put any old rubbish in it that she didn’t like; the Bristol branch of IKEA had served her well. The room she was most proud of was the living room, with its white blinds, white carpet-no one was allowed in with their shoes on-and two black corner sofas. She’d talked a photographer mate into giving her a very nice set of black-and-white prints of pictures he’d taken in New York, and had them framed by one of the suppliers at work; it all looked seriously classy. Her latest acquisition was a plasma TV, not too huge, but big enough to feel you weren’t missing anything watching a film on DVD rather than in the cinema.

She was actually watching Notting Hill for the umpteenth time, having got back from the gym exhausted but feeling slightly better, and wondering if she could face any lunch, when she decided to ring her phone once more.

“Hello?” said a voice.

“Oh… oh, my God… it’s William, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. And that’s Abi? I was hoping you’d ring.”

“So-you’ve got my phone?”

“Yes, you gave it to me to hold yesterday. I’d put it down and forgotten all about it, only just found it again.”

“Fantastic. I thought I must have dropped it on the road or something. It was such a terrible day, and-”

“Certainly was. How are you feeling?”

“Oh… you know. Bit… out of it. Look, could I come and get it, do you think? I’m really missing it. Tell me where you are, and I’ll drive over.”

“Hello, Linda.”

“Hello, Georgia. How are you?”

“OK. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Well… I could be forgiven for wondering. Don’t you think? First I have to change the time of your audition; then I wait for hours for you to arrive, and you don’t return any of my calls. Then I hear that you’re back at home and you’ve told your mother you didn’t get the part. What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Well… why didn’t you come to the audition?”

A silence: then: “I lost my nerve. I was scared, OK? Really scared. I’m sorry, Linda. Very sorry. I got stage fright.”

“They’re very disappointed. They really thought you’d be ideal.”

“Yeah? Well, they’ll have to get over it.”

“That is an extraordinarily stupid attitude, Georgia. Not the way to get on.”

“Maybe I don’t want to get on.”

“Well, in that case, you won’t be needing me any longer.” Linda struggled to keep her temper. “This kind of thing does me no good at all. I mean that, Georgia. If you’re not worried about your future, I’m certainly worried about mine.”

“Yes.” The voice had changed, become more subdued. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, Linda.”

“Well, look. When you feel ready to talk about it some more, call me.”

“Yes, OK.”

Another silence. It was tempting to just put the phone down, but Linda was fond enough of Georgia and worried enough about her not to.

“There were several articles in the papers today about the crash on the M4,” she said.

Silence: then: “Oh, really?”

“Yes. It certainly sounded very bad. Very bad indeed. Several people killed, and some poor lorry driver in intensive care.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.” Another silence. “But… is he all right? Did it say?” Her voice shook slightly.

“He’s alive. But not very well. Obviously.”

“Did it… did it give his name?”

“No, they never do until they’re sure the close relatives have been informed. Why?”

“Oh… no reason,” Georgia said uncertainly. “Did it… did it say what caused it?”

“No. The police are investigating it apparently. So… you didn’t see anything of it at all, then?”

“No. No, of course I didn’t. Why are you asking me all this? Just leave me alone, Linda, will you? Please!”

It hadn’t been easy to find William’s farm; she was hopeless at reading maps. In the end, Abi found herself driving through the scene of the accident and then turning back on herself, via the next junction. That had been hideous. The crash barrier was still broken, the central median ploughed up; there were areas taped off on both sides of the road, a lane closed, police cars parked on the hard shoulder, and several men, two in uniform, studying photographs. A sense of déjà vu flooded Abi; she went back there, in that moment, to the noise and the chaos, the broken cars, the crumpled minibus, people shouting and groaning, children crying…

When she reached the turnoff, she pulled onto the grass verge at the top of it and sat there, her arms resting on her steering wheel, her head buried in them, wondering how she was going to live with that memory for the rest of her life.

She drove on, missed the turn William had instructed her to take-“It’s got a cattle sign about a hundred yards down it”-found herself in a village, and stopped an old chap who was wandering down the street looking at the paper.

Who was able to direct her, with amazing ease, to the Graingers’ farm-“Just after the church take a left, looks like a track, and go up to the end and there it’ll be straight in front of you.”

And there indeed it was, settled just slightly down from the track, quite a big squarish house, with a yard to the left of it and several cars parked on it, including a totally dilapidated pickup truck, one newish-looking Land Rover, and a couple of tractors. After hesitating for a while, she parked her car next to the Land Rover and knocked on the door.

William was in the milking parlour, his mother said, adding graciously that Abi could wait if she liked, or go up there.

As Abi hadn’t the faintest idea where the milking parlour was, or indeed what it was-it sounded rather like something in a cartoon, with all the cows lounging around on sofas-she decided on the waiting.

She’d dressed quite carefully for the occasion in jeans and a T-shirt and some new red Converse trainers; she didn’t want William to think she was some townie airhead, tottering through his farmyard in three-inch heels. She smiled at Mrs. Grainger, who managed what might have passed for a smile in return; she was not in the least what Abi would have expected William’s mother to be like, not a cosy lady in a cotton pinny, making bread, but a rather smart, upper-crust woman with well-cut hair, wearing dated but clearly expensive trousers, a checked shirt, and a pair of brown leather loafers.

“Come through to the drawing room.” She led Abi through the hall and into a rather dark room lined with books and paintings and gestured towards a sofa. “Do sit down. Can I offer you something, a sherry perhaps…?”

Abi shook her head. “No, I’m fine, thanks. I’ll just wait.”

Abi sat down and folded her hands in her lap in what she hoped was a ladylike manner and smiled apologetically at Mrs. Grainger.

“I’m so sorry if I’m being a nuisance,” she said.

“You’re not, of course. But you must excuse me. We’ve been away and there’s rather a lot to do.”

“Of course.”

When she had gone, Abi stood up and wandered round the room; the walls were covered in extremely faded brocade paper, the carpet was a sort of very large rug, set down on flagstones, and threadbare in places. What looked like the remnants of about a hundred fires, a vast heap of ash and burnt-out logs, lay in the grate, and there were no curtains at the tall windows, just wooden shutters.

The furniture was all clearly very old and rather mismatched: a round polished table in quite a light colour, and then a chest so dark it was almost black. There were two deeply comfortable-looking armchairs, but the sofa was stiff and button backed. Several portraits hung on the walls, mostly of men, clearly going back a century or two, although there were two of women, both rather pretty, one in a low-waisted, narrow ankle-length dress, and one in what looked like a rather elaborate nightie. She wondered if they were William’s ancestors. Somehow the sweet-faced, untidy bloke she had met yesterday didn’t seem to fit in here. But clearly she was wrong.

She looked out of the window now; as far as she could see were fields, fields and hills and trees. She wondered if it all belonged to the Graingers and decided, if it did, they must be very rich.

After about twenty minutes, she got bored and, purely by way of a diversion, decided to go in search of a loo.

As she crossed the hall, looking tentatively at the doors, Mrs. Grainger appeared.

“Can I help you?”

“I was wondering if I could use your toilet?” said Abi apologetically.

A slightly pained expression settled on Mrs. Grainger’s face.

“Of course. Follow me.”

She led the way upstairs and across a landing; then, “The lavatory is there,” she said, pointing down a corridor and emphasizing the word rather pointedly. Silly cow, Abi thought.

As she made her way back downstairs, William appeared. He was filthy, his face grimy and sweat-studded, his hair awry with shoots of grass in it, and, as an extra accessory, an enormous cobweb slung from one of his ears to his shoulder. Abi smiled and then, as she studied him, giggled slightly.

“Hello,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you’d arrived.” And then, as she continued to smile at him, added, “What’s so funny?”

“Oh-nothing. Sorry. You’ve got… Here, let me…” She stepped forward, reached up, and pulled the cobweb from his ear.

“Well, it’s very nice to see you,” William said, smiling his amazing, life-changing smile.

Abi smiled back and thought how wonderful it was to see him and then-driven by some compulsion entirely outside her control-reached forward and kissed him on the cheek just as his mother came into the hall.

“I’m not sure my mother knew what to make of that,” he said, grinning, handing her the large gin and tonic she had asked for in the pub, “you kissing me then.”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t quite know what came over me. It’s been such a sh-horrible day, two days, and then suddenly there you were and everything seemed so much better and I just wanted to let you know that. Sorry.”

“No, no, don’t apologise,” he said. “It’s fine; doesn’t matter if she liked it or not, and I certainly did.” He smiled again, indicated the drink. “That all right for you? Got enough ice?”

“Oh-yes, thank you. Plenty. It’s very nice.”

“Good.” He took several large gulps of beer and then set the glass down again. “That’s better. Bad day for me too. Lost a calf this afternoon-”

“Oh, no,” said Abi. “Where-should we go and look for it?”

And then felt stupid when he said, half laughing, “Not lost like that; she was born dead, breech; got the cord round her neck. Dad and I were tugging for over an hour, but she came out limp as you like; we couldn’t get more than two breaths out of her. Heifer calf too, much more of a loss. Then we couldn’t get the old tractor started-that’s how I got so filthy, rummaging in the barn for a jump lead-and Dad, he tends to take it out on me, that sort of thing. So it was really good to see you there and to have something take my mind off all that stuff. How were my directions?”

“Rubbish,” she said, grinning, and then, rummaging for her cigarettes, said, “Could we go outside? I really need one of these.”

“Course… Want another drink?”

“Oh-no, thank you. I have to drive back, and I felt really, really bad on the road again down there. I-”

“I know what you mean. Bit heavy, wasn’t it? Come on, let’s go outside. Want some orange juice or something?”

He came out with the orange juice, and another pint for himself; she smoked a cigarette and then another

“Sure you won’t have one?”

“No,” he said, “I never got the hang of them. I did try to like them once, when I was at college, but they just made me feel sick.”

“And where was college?”

“Oh, Cirencester,” he said, clearly expecting her to know what Cirencester was. “I went there straight from school.”

“And… where was school?”

“ Eton,” he said, with much the same intonation. Abi decided it was time to go.

As she dropped him off at the bottom of the track he said: “Thanks for coming. I should have come to meet you halfway. It’s terrible when you lose your phone, isn’t it? I’m always doing it, and I don’t suppose mine’s nearly as important as yours. I did ring a number on yours, by the way, but whoever answered it wasn’t very helpful.”

“And who was that?” said Abi.

“Oh-that chap you were at the crash with. Jonathan. I scrolled through looking for a name I might recognise, and saw his.”

The evening seemed to have got even hotter.

“And…?”

“I got a woman. His wife, maybe? I tried to explain, said I’d been at the crash, and that you’d given it to me while you saw to some kids. I asked her if her husband was a doctor, just to satisfy myself I’d got the right bloke. Anyway, she just rang off, very abrupt she was.”

“Oh, really?” said Abi. “I wonder why…”

CHAPTER 17

Jonathan was drifting in and out of a painful, dehydrated sleep when Laura came in and sat down on the bed.

“How are you, darling?”

“Oh… bit better. Yes. I’m so sorry, Laura. Embarrassing you like that.”

“It’s all right. You’ve had such a terrible time. I just felt very sorry for you.”

“Oh, darling…” He reached out, took her hand. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so,” she said. She drew her hand away after a moment, pushed her hair back. “Would you like anything? Some more water, chamomile tea, something like that?”

“Water, yes, please. With ice in it.”

She came back with a big jug, set it down, smiled at him again.

“Kids all right? Not too ashamed of their father?”

“Don’t think so. You mustn’t worry about it.”

“Well, it was pretty… unattractive.”

She was silent, then shrugged. It was distant, cool, unlike her. A tiny spiral of something-not fear, more unease, ice-cold unease-began to work its way into Jonathan’s stomach.

“Jonathan,” she said, “can you tell me just one thing? I still don’t understand why you were on the M4. Not the M40.”

“Oh,” he said, and was astonished at the ease with which it came out, “cutting down there can actually be quite a good idea on a Friday afternoon. Rather than sticking on the M40, which is a horrible road. Always get a buildup of traffic towards the M25. So it didn’t seem as silly as it sounds. But it was a big mistake. As it turned out.”

“Yes. It certainly was. But… all’s well that ends well, I suppose. For you, anyway. I’ll leave you in peace, darling. See you later.”

She left the room, closed the door behind her. Jonathan suddenly felt very frightened indeed. He absolutely must speak to Abi-and as soon as possible.

“Jonathan? Jonathan, we need to talk-”

“It’s good to hear from you. But I’m a bit tied up at the moment. I’ll call you back later. Everything OK with you?”

Obviously she was there-there or near.

“Yes, fine,” she said. “But-”

“Fine. I’ll speak to you first thing in the morning, or later this evening, maybe? We can discuss the prognosis then. Well, thanks for ringing. Bye, now…”

It was clearly not the occasion to tell him that William had spoken to Laura. Pity. For all sorts of reasons. Not least that she really was rather looking forward to it.

“Mrs. Connell, hello. Your husband is doing very well, you know. Very well indeed, holding his own magnificently.” It was Dr. Pritchard again. Maeve managed somehow to smile at him. “Now, the staff nurse says she thinks you should go home for twenty-four hours, and I agree with her; you look completely exhausted. He’s in very good hands, you know.”

“Yes, of course,” said Maeve. “I do know that. But-”

“Got a car here?”

“Well, no. My friend brought me in yesterday, and she’s gone home now, obviously. My mother’s coming tomorrow, so I could maybe go home with her.”

“How about the train?”

“Well…” She hesitated, and then started to cry. She hadn’t cried before, not once, but somehow these minor problems of getting home, not being able to afford the train, seemed to be defeating her. “The thing is, I haven’t got… got much money-on me, that is…”

He looked at her in silence for a moment, and then said, “Mrs. Connell-Maeve; do you mind if I call you Maeve?”

She shook her head helplessly.

“Maeve, I’ve got to pop out for half an hour, go into town. I’ll take you to the station if you like. And if you’re short on cash, I can lend you twenty quid, if that would help-”

“I couldn’t possibly-”

“Now, why ever not? You can pay me back whenever you next see me. Come on, now, dry your eyes, and I’ll be back for you in about ten minutes. Don’t argue; I insist. And don’t worry about your husband; he’s not very well, of course, but he’s more or less off the danger list; he’s a walking miracle…”

Jack Bryant settled into a wonderfully comfortable, battered old chair in what Hugh Mackintosh called his study, but which would have contained most of his Fulham flat. It was a glorious evening; the view of the moors was ravishing, the colours just turning autumnal. He was clearly in for a very good few days.

“Another gin, Jack?” Mackintosh picked up the bottle, waved it at him.

He was one of Jacks oldest friends; they’d had a hell of a time together in the sixties: Annabel’s and a different dolly bird every night, and he’d taught Jack to shoot as well. Good chap.

Jack grinned, held out his glass. “Yes, thanks.”

“You must be tired. Hell of a drive. Even in that car of yours.”

“It was fine. Enjoyed it. Lovely to give the old girl a bit of a run. And, of course, I stopped in York last night.”

“You didn’t get caught up in that crash yesterday then, on the M4? We thought it might have delayed you.”

“No, bloody lucky. Must have missed it by inches. I read it was at four p.m. I can’t have been clear of that spot by more than five minutes. If that.”

“Christ. You must have a guardian angel of some sort.”

“Doubt it. Anything angelic gave up on me years ago, as you know, but it sounds ghastly.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to get settled in. Expect you’d like a bath before dinner. No rush, down here for drinks at seven thirty. Moira’s dying to see you.”

Luke grinned at Emma.

“You look great, babe. I really like the dress.”

She’d known he would; it was black, low-cut, very short. What she thought of as a bloke’s dress.

They were in a cab now, on their way to the restaurant. Her sleep had done Emma good; she felt relaxed and happy. And… pretty sexy, actually.

A uniformed doorman was standing outside the Dorchester; he whisked open the taxi door, stood respectfully aside while they got out.

Now, this was what posh places should be like, Emma thought.

Those cool bars were all very well, but if you were going to spend loads of money, you surely wanted a bit of service. She smiled happily at Luke, allowed the doorman to usher them through the revolving door, stood looking round the lobby. It was wonderfully luxurious, huge urns of flowers, deep sofas, smiling staff everywhere.

“The restaurant, please,” Luke was saying. “Alain Ducasse.”

“Certainly, sir. This way, please.”

“Luke,” hissed Emma, “I just want to go to the loo. You go on. I’ll follow in a minute.”

“Oh… OK. Yes. Good idea.”

The ladies’ was extremely luxurious. A woman was waiting by the basin when she came out, holding a towel. She stood patiently while Emma washed her hands, then handed it to her, and then took it and threw it into a basket. Emma half expected her to come and help her comb her hair and put her lip gloss on for her.

She walked back into the lobby, looked around for someone to tell her where the restaurant was, and then heard the words, “St. Marks Hospital, Swindon,” spoken in an American accent. “Yes. On… let me see, yes, Agatha Ward. Can you confirm they’ll arrive first thing in the morning? I’ll wait.”

He stood there, tapping his fingers on the concierge’s desk: a tall, white-haired man, with Paul Newman blue eyes and a neat white moustache, quite elderly, but standing ramrod straight, wearing a suit that looked as if it had only just left the tailor’s.

The girl at the desk looked up at him from her phone.

“Yes, that’s all fine, Mr. Mackenzie.”

“Good, good. And I’ll want a car to take me there, to visit my friend, first thing. I’d like to be there by… let me see, nine…”

This was too much for Emma; she walked over to the desk.

“Do forgive me for interfering,” she said, “but I’m a doctor at St. Marks. I’m really sorry, but you won’t be allowed in at nine. Ten thirty is the earliest.”

The man looked at her; at first she thought he was going to be cross. Then he smiled, a slow, sweet smile.

“That is so extremely good of you,” he said, “and I will indeed forgive you for interfering. Thank you so much. Make that an hour and a half later then,” he said to the desk, and then, turning away, taking Emma’s arm, he said, “I wonder if you’d be kind enough to give me news of a patient there. A Mrs. Bristow, Mrs. Mary Bristow. She was involved in the crash on the freeway yesterday…”

Clearly he moved in a world where hospitals were small and exclusive, Emma thought, and where any doctor would recognise any patient’s name.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but there are around fifteen hundred patients there at any given time. I was on duty in A and E yesterday when people were arriving. I’m afraid I don’t remember a Mrs. Bristow. Was she… was she an elderly lady?”

“A little elderly,” he said with another sweet smile. “May I say, incidentally, you don’t look old enough to be a doctor.”

Emma smiled back. “Well, trust me, I am. Anyway, I assume, since you’re going to see her tomorrow, that Mrs. Bristow isn’t too seriously ill.”

“Well, you know, I don’t believe so. They didn’t tell me much when I phoned. Except that she was comfortable…”

“And that you could go and see her?”

“Oh, yes. And her daughter-I spoke to her-she said she didn’t seem too bad. But… I don’t suppose you could get any more details for me? Now, I mean, I really am most concerned.”

“Well, I… I’ll see what I can do. Only… well, I’m supposed to be having dinner with my boyfriend.”

“Oh, my dear young lady, the last thing I would want to do is stand in the path of true love… Forget it; I’m sure she’s absolutely fine.”

“No, no, it’s perfectly all right. I’ll just go and tell him, and then I’ll call them, OK? Could you possibly show me the way to the restaurant?” she said to the girl behind the desk. “Oh-no, it’s all right; here’s my boyfriend now.”

Luke was irritable, and more so when she said she’d be five more minutes. Even when she explained.

“I didn’t realise you were on call,” he said.

“Luke-”

The old gentleman stepped forward, held out his hand to Luke.

“Russell Mackenzie. I am so very sorry to intrude on your evening. But I am extremely worried about a friend in the hospital, and this enchanting young lady of yours has offered to help.”

“Oh, fine,” said Luke, slightly grudgingly. “I’ll be at the table, Emma.”

“Oh, dear,” said Russell Mackenzie, “I’m afraid he’s a little annoyed.”

“He’ll get over it,” said Emma. “He’s very good natured. Now, then, let’s see what we can do-I can’t promise anything, but…”

Five minutes later she smiled at Russell.

“She’s much, much better. She has angina, apparently, and had an attack at the scene of the crash, and they did an exploratory investigation under anaesthetic. They thought she’d probably had a minor heart attack. But she’s doing well. And yes, you can see her tomorrow.”

“I cannot thank you enough,” said Russell, “and now you’d better get along to that young man of yours. That fortunate young man.”

“OK,” said Jonathan, “this is what we say. Our relationship is purely professional; you’re a colleague-”

“A colleague? How could I be a colleague? I’m not a doctor.”

“Of course you’re not a doctor. You take photographs at conferences. Or rather, your boss does. So you were there at the conference in Birmingham. You came up by train from Bristol that morning.”

“Jonathan, they can check that.”

“Why the fuck should they want to check it? There’s no reason for them not to believe us; it’s got nothing to do with the accident. All they’ll want to know is what we saw, and not why we were there together. It’s irrelevant. I was giving you a lift to London, or maybe not London, possibly Reading, what do you think?”

“Whatever,” said Abi. She felt close to tears, without being sure why.

“OK, Reading then. Don’t forget.”

“What was I going to Reading for?”

“To visit friends. For the weekend.”

“Jonathan, this is getting so complicated. You don’t think it might be better to tell the truth?”

“Abi, no. For Christ’s sake. Do you want to-” He stopped.

“Do I want to what, Jonathan? Oh, I get it. This is about your marriage, isn’t it? About being caught with your pants down-literally.”

“I… To a degree, yes. Of course. I don’t want Laura hurt-”

“Maybe you should have thought of that earlier.”

“Oh, Christ.” She could almost hear him struggling to keep calm. “Abi, please-look, we’re far more likely to get into trouble over this if there is any indication that we were having an affair.”

“I don’t see why we should get into trouble at all. We weren’t doing anything wrong. Oh-except that you were on the phone, of course.” She couldn’t resist that.

“Yes, well, hopefully that won’t come to light.” His voice was very cold. “I would say there’s no need to actually mention it. Unless they ask, of course. Is that… I mean, would you agree with me?”

“Why should I lie to the police on your behalf?”

“I’m not asking you to lie, simply not to mention it.”

She didn’t answer. She could almost hear him sweating. It was very, very pleasant.

“Abi?” he said. “Can I have your agreement to that?”

“Well… let’s see what happens, shall we?”

“No, Abi, I need to know that you agree.”

“I don’t see why. If they ask, they ask. Look, you were in no way responsible for that crash, Jonathan. The lorry went into a skid; it couldn’t stop, went through the barrier… We just happened to be there. We didn’t hit anything. Or cause anyone to hit anything. And then you did your Dr. Wonderful act. What’s for them to be suspicious about?”

“Nothing. Of course. It’s just that… well, it is a bit of a blur, and I can’t help feeling anxious about it. I’m not sure why. I’m glad you don’t.”

“No,” she said, aware that she was not being strictly truthful, “I don’t. And I really, really don’t like the idea of lying to the police.”

There was a very long silence; then he said, “I need you to do this, Abi.”

“So you said. I, on the other hand, don’t need to do it. Funny, that.”

Another shorter silence. She’d got him now, got him shitting himself.

Then: “Abi, I think you do need to do it. Actually.”

“Oh, why?”

“Because I don’t think you’d want the police to know about your little habit, do you?”

She felt the floor literally heave under her. He couldn’t have said that; he couldn’t. She had a friend who’d got caught with drugs in her flat; she’d got a suspended sentence and a big fine. She’d lose her job, she might even go to prison…

“I can’t believe you’re saying this,” she said, amazed that her voice sounded so steady, “or thinking it. Anyway, I seem to remember you enjoying the odd snort.”

“You might have trouble proving that. You provided it. Rather visibly, I seem to remember, on one or two occasions. And who do you think they’d believe, you or me?”

She threw her head back, stared at the ceiling, tears stinging her eyes, as much from shock as fear. This was a man who’d told her he cared about her, who’d sought her out, told her she was one of the best things in his life…

“Don’t worry, Abi. Of course I won’t say anything to the police.

Or to your boss. As long as you do what I ask. All right? Just stick to the story; it won’t be difficult. Clever girl like you.”

“Screw you, Jonathan Gilliatt. Screw you to hell!”

“So… does that mean I have your agreement?”

Even if the police didn’t believe him, they would check her out, her friends, work, Sylvie, everyone.

“Yes, you do,” she said. “Fuck you.”

“Right. Good. Well, that’s that. I think. The less we communicate the better. at the moment. Don’t ring me.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

“Good. And don’t forget: keep it simple.”

She cut him off.

Bastard. Absolute bastard. How could she have been taken in by him?

But… God. If he did… Not that she kept any, ever. She simply bought it when she wanted it. Which wasn’t very often. Even so…

Abi suddenly felt very sick; she made the bathroom only just in time. Afterwards she stood in the shower for what felt like hours, then came out and lay down on the bed.

Later, trying to calm her whirling, heaving fear, she thought that there was no way she was going to tell Jonathan that William had called and spoken to Laura. Let him dig his own grave on that one. Funny that Laura hadn’t mentioned it yet. She was obviously cooler than Abi had realised. Waiting for Jonathan to trip himself up. Clever, really. Very clever. Perhaps she had misjudged her.

“Emma. There’s something really important I want to say…”

“Yes, Luke?”

“The thing is, I haven’t said it before, because I wasn’t sure. I’ve never said it to anyone, matter of fact…”

She put her fork down. This was… well, very… well…

“I… I love you, babe. I really do.”

“Oh, Luke…” She felt tears in her eyes: joyful, wonderful tears.

“Hey,” he said, “hey, the idea was to make you happy.”

“Sorry. I am. Terribly.” She hoped her mascara wasn’t running.

“Thing is, it’s taken me a while to realise, but I was talking to Mum the other night, and…”

He was worryingly devoted to his mum; any girlfriend was in danger of taking second place.

“Yes?”

“And she said it was obvious to her-she’d never heard me talk like that before-and she said I should tell you…”

Good old mum; if she’d walked in then, Emma would have hugged her. She must stop thinking harsh things about her.

“Oh, Luke…”

“Yeah. So… well, that’s about it, really.”

She was silent, realised he was looking slightly embarrassed, less his usual confident self.

“That’s wonderful,” she said, “absolutely wonderful.”

“Good. Now, there is something else…” He raised his fingers, signalled to the waiter.

“Could you bring that package over, please? The one I asked you to keep at the desk?”

“Certainly, sir.”

She sat in an agony of suspense. Package? What would be in a package? A… a… No, Emma, not that. Surely not that. Not yet, not-

The waiter put the package down in front of Luke; it was blue, that glorious, soft turquoise blue, with that wonderful, wonderful white ribbon-Tiffany! A package from Tiffany. What came from Tiffany? Well, lots of things, but-

Luke handed it to her. “Go on,” he said. “Open it.”

Her hands shaking, she untied the bow; inside the bag was a box. A quite small box. With another white ribbon.

She undid the second bow, took the lid off the box, pulled out the small blue pouch. What was it; what could it be, if not-

“Oh, Luke, that’s so lovely! Wonderful. Oh, Luke. Oh, my God!”

She was fighting to keep her voice enthusiastic, not to betray the sliver of disappointment that… well, that was undeniably there. Emma, Emma, he loves you; that’s enough-anything else would be too much now; don’t be ridiculous. And how could any girl be disappointed, getting a gold Paloma Picasso heart on a chain-and not just plain gold, but the one with a diamond set in it. God, it must have cost a fortune; he must really, really care about her. Never mind it wasn’t a ring; it was absolutely gorgeous…

“I love it,” she said, smiling, leaning over to kiss him. “I really love it; thank you so much, Luke. Here, help me put it on…”

“Good. I thought you’d like it. Now you have to wear that all the time, Emma, OK, so you think of me all the time. Even when I’m away.”

“Of course I will,” she said, and she was crying now. “I promise, Luke, I really do. I couldn’t bear to take it off anyway, not ever… Oh, dear, I must go to the loo again; my makeup’ll be all smudgy and…”

It wasn’t until she had repaired her makeup, put on some more perfume, combed her hair, and admired the necklace that she realised she hadn’t told Luke that she loved him too. Well, plenty of time for that later. Maybe when they were in bed…

CHAPTER 18

Mary had begun to despair by Saturday evening of ever hearing from Russell again, as the hours went by with no word, no message of any sort… She found it extremely painful that he had apparently made no effort to find her; it seemed to display a lack of true devotion. The crash had been in all the papers, and you had only to turn on the news on that first morning to see graphic pictures of the pileup, the lorry straddling the motorway, the ambulances and police cars and the helicopter. How could Russell have missed all that?

And then the nurse had come over to her bed, with the message, at six o’clock.

“From a gentleman, Mary; he sounded like an American. He said to give you his… his special love. He was called Mr. Mackenzie. That mean anything to you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mary, “oh, my goodness, it does.”

“And he’s coming to see you in the morning.”

And Mary had flown up into some unreachable, untouchable place of happiness and felt she would never, ever come down again.

And then on Sunday morning the flowers arrived: a vast bouquet of red roses.

“My word,” the nurse said, “St. Valentine’s Day’s come late this year. I don’t know what I’m going to put them in, Mary; I haven’t got a vase big enough for half of them.”

“You don’t have to,” said Mary. “Look, they’re in water already. Can I… can I have the card, please?”

“For my beloved Little Sparrow,” it said. “Get very well, very soon. Russell.”

Mary burst into tears.

And then there he was, walking across the ward, smiling, his brilliant blue eyes fixed on her, and he really didn’t look so very different, still so handsome and so slim and tall, and the years rolled away, and they were young again, standing together in Parliament Square, and she had known she was falling in love; and it was all she could do not to leap out of bed and run into his arms.

Only it wasn’t necessary, for he half ran to her instead, and when he reached her he took her hand and kissed it, and she simply felt warm and safe and absolutely happy. This was love, then, as they had known it all those years ago; and they had much to do, in whatever time was left to them, to see to it and nurture it and allow it to come into its own.

The police, or rather the CIU, called Jonathan on Sunday to discuss when they might talk to him.

“Just a quick call, Mr. Gilliatt, to arrange a time; the sooner the better, while it’s all still fresh in your mind.”

“Yes, of course. Although I should tell you a lot of it is rather a blur.”

“That’s all right, sir. Just tell us what you can and we’ll worry about the rest.”

They’d settled finally on Tuesday evening, at six thirty.

He’d slept horribly badly again, and he was sitting in the conservatory just before supper, trying to read the Sunday papers, when Laura walked in with a bottle of white wine and a bowl of olives.

Her voice was at its sweetest; the coolness of the past twenty-four hours or so seemed to have passed.

“I thought we’d earned this,” she said, smiling at him. “Well, I certainly have. Bit of a day, with the children and so on.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, darling; been no use to you at all. I’m feeling much better now; I’ll be back on course tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“Um…” This was it; he had to do it-had to broach the subject of the police interview… “Just one thing, darling. The police are coming here on Tuesday evening. To talk to me about the accident. About six thirty. Will you be around?”

“Of course. In fact, I’d like to sit in on it, if you don’t mind.”

A thud of fear hit him.

“Well, darling, I don’t mind, of course. But they might feel differently. Protocol and all that.”

“I can’t see why. Anyway, if they don’t want me there, they can tell me and I’ll go away. When you say talk to you, what exactly does that mean?”

“Well, I presume they’re gathering evidence about how it happened exactly, what I saw-”

“Yes, I see. And how do you think it happened?”

The coolness had returned.

“Well… it’s so hard to say. Everyone was driving in a very orderly way; no one was speeding. And then suddenly, out of the blue, this lorry swerved and I suppose skidded, and went through the barrier. It had just rained, of course, and-”

“I see. So where were you in all this? In front of him, at his side?”

“Laura, what is this, a rehearsal for Tuesday?”

“Don’t be ridiculous; I could have lost you! Of course I want to know everything.”

“Sorry, yes, of course you do. Well, I was more or less beside the lorry. On the inside lane. There was an old car immediately in front of me, which presumably just drove on, and in front of the lorry a sports car of some kind, an E-Type, I think, that disappeared too. There really was no apparent reason for the lorry to do what it did. I thought he might have had a blowout, but I looked and his tyres were all intact. Anyway, I found myself-and that was what it was like, finding myself; I certainly don’t remember getting there-stopped at an angle on the hard shoulder. About a hundred yards ahead of him, I suppose. It was all bloody scary.”

“Of course. Terrifying. And then you involved yourself, helping all those people. That was so good of you, Jonathan; they were lucky you were there.”

“Well, one does one’s bit. I think I helped, yes. Hope so. Er… Laura… there is one thing I hadn’t told you before-silly, really, so unimportant, but it might come out in this interview thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“Well, I… wasn’t alone in the car.”

He was sweating.

“Had you given someone a lift?”

“Well, sort of. Someone I met at the conference. A woman. Very nice, needed a lift to Reading, had a problem with her car…” He must remember to tell Abi that; God, it was getting so complicated.

“Well, that was kind of you. Maybe another reason to cut down to the M4. If she had to get to Reading…”

“No, no, I mentioned it, that I’d decided to go that way, at the end of the morning session, and she asked me if I could give her a lift.”

“I see. She was a doctor, was she?”

“No, no, she worked for the PR company. Who were covering the conference. She… worked with a photographer, got everyone’s names and details, that sort of thing. Anyway, it’s just that she was in the car, and of course when the police were taking names and addresses, they took hers, so… yes, she’s bound to be mentioned. I just thought I should tell you, so you wouldn’t be… be… well… surprised, that’s all. Especially if you’re going to be sitting in on the interview. Which I would love, actually. Not the nicest thing to have to recall in great detail.”

“No. Well, that’s very considerate of you, darling. Thank you for telling me.” She leaned back in her chair, took a sip of wine, smiled at him very sweetly. He allowed himself to relax just slightly.

“Tell me, Jonathan. Would that have been… Abi? By any chance? Was that this woman’s name?”

It would have helped, of course, if he hadn’t spilt his wine. He was very aware of Laura watching him while he mopped rather ineffectually at the tray with his handkerchief and the paper napkins she had brought out, and that she had that new, cool, slightly distant expression on her face. Finally he sat back in his chair and managed to smile at her.

“Sorry, darling. What a mess.”

“You could say that,” she said, and there was an edge to her voice that was unmissable.

“Anyway… yes, Abi, that was her name. Abi Scott. How… how did you know that?”

“A very nice young man rang up, said he’d been there on Friday, and that this… Abi… had given him her phone to look after. I’m not sure why. She went off without it, and yours was one of the names on it, so he rang. He said none of the other names meant anything to him, but he did recognise yours because she’d been with you, had mentioned you. He was very charming, and very diffident about bothering me and so on.”

“Yes, I see. Well, that was nice of him. Er… when did he call?”

“Yesterday afternoon. While you were asleep.”

“You should have told me.”

“Oh, darling, I didn’t want to wake you up. And then I forgot. Till now.”

She smiled again, the smile sickly sweet now.

“So… the only thing I wondered was, Jonathan, why was your name in her phone? Since you’d only just met her.”

“Oh” he said, thinking fast, “oh, I was moving around from car to car, she was doing other things, we didn’t want to lose contact with each other, so I put my number in her phone. I did the same for several people, a girl who’d gone into premature labour-that reminds me, I must call the hospital, see if the baby’s all right-and a nice young chap, best man to the bridegroom, the one whose leg was crushed…”

“I see,” she said, and then with a half sigh, “Oh, Jonathan! This had better be true. Otherwise, I can’t quite think what I might do. Except that I’d want to be sure you wouldn’t like it.”

And she got up and stalked out of the conservatory; when he followed her a few minutes later she was nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTER 19

Linda’s initial reaction was to say no; she didn’t want to risk her reputation again, and Georgia simply didn’t deserve it.

But after two double espressos, she decided that Georgia was still her client and that she owed it to her-professionally-to put the proposal to her. She called Georgia ’s mobile; it was switched off. Not even taking messages. She tried the landline. Bea Linley answered.

“Oh-Linda. Hello. Nice to hear from you. Georgia ’s… well, she’s gone out.”

“OK.” Linda could hear the controlled exasperation in her own voice. “Ask her to call me, would you, Bea? As soon as she gets in. It’s important.”

“Yes, of course. Is it about that part? Are they reconsidering her?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh, Linda, that’s wonderful. She’s been so upset ever since she got back. Won’t eat, keeps crying. I’ll get her to call you the minute she gets in. Thank you, Linda. She’s a very lucky girl.”

“She certainly is,” said Linda, “very lucky indeed. Bye, Bea.”

“Mum! I can’t! I told you to say I was out.”

“I did,” said Bea, “and I really don’t think she believed me for a moment. Anyway, you’re to ring her immediately.”

“I’m not going to.”

Bea didn’t easily lose her temper, but she lost it now.

“ Georgia, I think it’s time you took a hard look at yourself. You’re not a child; you’re twenty-two years old. Your father and I have been very patient; we’ve supported you in every sense of the word all your life, never put any sort of time limit on it. You’ve taken that completely for granted-our faith in you as well as the practical help. And now, with what sounds like a real chance of actually getting a part, you just turn your back on it without a word of explanation to me, or to Linda. It’s absolutely dreadful and I feel quite ashamed of you. Now, I’m going out to work-it’s clearly escaped your notice that most of us have to do that-and when I get back, I either want to know you’ve arranged to go for this audition, or you can forget the whole wretched acting nonsense and go and find yourself a proper job. Your time’s up, Georgia. It’s your decision.”

Barney was sitting at his desk, trying to pretend it was any old Monday, when the police phoned. They would like to interview him about the crash; when would he be available?

“Oh-whenever it suits you,” Barney said, fighting down the fear that seemed quite literally to slither up from his stomach and take possession of his head several times each day. “Yes, course.”

“We could call round to your home, sir. If that suited you. More pleasant perhaps than a police station, but it’s up to you…”

“No, home sounds good. Around seven? Er… can you give me an idea of the sort of things you’ll be asking? So that I can be prepared, brush up on my memory a bit.”

“Oh-we’re just looking to get all the information we can, sir. Everything you can remember of the crash. You are, of course, a prime witness. Now, there will be two of us-I’m Sergeant Freeman and I shall be accompanied by Constable Rowe.”

“Very good, Sergeant. Thank you.”

Barney was feeling very odd altogether. He was terribly worried about Toby, of course, but he hadn’t yet got over the shock of his behaviour: that he had been capable of such a thing with that girl. And then there was the business of the tyre: OK, they hadn’t caused the accident, but they had had a blowout. And driven into the car in front and caused the girl to go into labour. It seemed very possible to Barney that the soft tyre could have contributed-or even caused that. He should have insisted on checking it, made Toby wait somehow… And was he supposed to mention the tyre to the police? He really needed to discuss it with Toby-who was in no state to discuss anything with anybody.

He was having trouble sleeping, having feverish dreams, and waking, sweating, several times each night, with a terrible sense of fear.

God, he felt a mess…

She had no idea how she was going to get through it. But anything was better than being alone in her room just… thinking about it. Being alone with the memory. And the terror. She must stop hiding, running away. And nobody knew what she had done, after all. She hadn’t thought of that in her initial blind panic. Except Patrick, of course. Patrick, who had been so kind to her.

And it looked like he was getting better, according to the papers.

Just take it a day at a time, Georgia. One day and then the next. And then, one day, possibly quite soon even, she would go and see Patrick in the hospital. She would. She really would. But… not today. It was going to be quite hard enough just getting up to London and doing the audition. After that she’d see. One day at a time. That was what she had to do. One day at a time.

Mary suddenly felt very restless; she had been stuck in this ward for too long. She longed to go for a little walk, just round the hospital, and wondered if they’d let her. Probably not. Best not to ask, perhaps, just slip out while no one was looking.

Feeling rather as if she’d escaped from prison, Mary made for the lift. She had no idea where she was going; just to be out of the ward was pleasure enough.

The lift was full of people. They all seemed to be going to the ground floor; Mary thought she might as well go there too. She wandered round the foyer for a bit, looking at all the fortunate people who could go out into the street at will without getting permission or signing forms, and then saw a Costa café outlet; it looked rather cheerful and normal, and she was tempted to go in, but there really wasn’t anything she wanted. She decided to go back to the lift, and on her way, she passed a sign to ICU; she knew what that meant: intensive care. Presumably that was where the lorry driver lay, poor man. As she stood there, looking down the corridor, a young woman, clearly absolutely exhausted, walked towards her, her eyes blank and unseeing, and then passed on and into the café, where she sat down at one of the tables, slumped over her handbag.

Without stopping to think, Mary followed her and sat down opposite her.

“Hello,” she said, and smiled at her encouragingly. “You can tell me to go away if you want, but you look to me as if you could do with some company.”

The woman stared at her, then shook her head.

“Can I get you a cup of tea then?”

“No… that is… well, yes. Thank you. Good and strong. With sugar.”

She was obviously far too exhausted and distressed to wonder why a strange old lady in a dressing gown might be bothering with her; Mary went over to the counter, paid for the cup of water and tea bag, and carried it over to the table, together with several minicartons of milk and packs of sugar.

“There you are. I should leave the bag in for a bit longer.”

“Thank you for that. I will.” She looked at Mary, then managed a very faint smile. “Are you a patient here, then?”

“I am indeed. Only until the end of the week, thank God. Then I’m going home.”

“Well, you’re a lucky woman.” She had an Irish accent and was young and rather pretty, Mary thought, in spite of the exhaustion… She dunked the tea bag up and down in the cup, then fished it out and added the milk. “That’s great. Thank you.”

“That’s all right. You look terribly tired.”

“I am. I feel I’ve been here forever. My… my husband’s in intensive care.”

“Oh, how terribly worrying for you. Has he had surgery?”

“He has indeed. A great deal. But that’s only the beginning.” And she started to cry then looked back at Mary and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Mary, rummaging in her dressing gown pocket for a tissue. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Mr. Fraser? Sergeant Freeman, CIU. And this is Constable Rowe.”

“How do you do?” said Barney. “Come into the sitting room. This is my fiancée, Amanda Baring.”

“How do you do, Sergeant,” said Amanda. “I was wondering… is there any reason why I shouldn’t sit in on the interview? I wasn’t there, of course. But I thought it would be nicer for Barney if I was with him while you talk to him. I promise not to interrupt or anything, but…”

She smiled at Sergeant Freeman, who smiled slightly foolishly back.

“That’s perfectly all right,” he said, “if that’s what you want.”

“It is. Thank you. Now, can I get you a cup of tea?”

“That would be very welcome,” said Sergeant Freeman.

“Certainly would,” said Constable Rowe.

They were an odd pair, Barney thought; Freeman was thin, almost gaunt, while Rowe was plump and rosy, and looked like an Enid Bly-ton policeman. They settled side by side on the sofa, and Freeman took out a large pad of paper and a pencil. Barney half expected him to lick it…

“Before we start, sir, how is Mr. Weston?” Freeman asked.

“Not very well, I’m afraid. A bit better in himself today, but his leg was very badly mashed up.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir. Now, I realise he was driving, but it’s your recollection, interpretation of events that’s important…”

They began with the basics: name, address, profession, when and why he had been on the M4 that afternoon.

“The wedding was at four thirty, which would mean that by leaving when you did, you were cutting things a bit fine.”

“Yes, it was rather… late,” said Barney.

“Any particular reason?”

“Er… yes. Mr. Weston was… was unwell. He had a stomach upset.”

“Would that be a euphemism for a hangover, sir? Forgive the assumption, but-”

“No,” said Barney firmly. “He did have a few drinks the night before, but I do assure you, as we didn’t leave until around lunchtime the following day, he would have been absolutely fine. No, he was extremely sick several times during the morning.”

“And could you tell us exactly how much he drank, sir? Very important, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”

Barney fought down his irritation; he really hadn’t expected this. “I suppose… maybe half a bottle of wine with dinner, certainly no more-and a couple of glasses of whisky afterwards.”

“Were you also drinking, sir?”

“Well, yes.”

“So what else did you do in the evening? After dinner?”

“Oh… we swam in the pool. Talked. Played some music.”

“Now, let’s get on to the journey. Why did you choose the M4 route?”

“The other way involves endless back roads and narrow lanes, and we needed to get some petrol. We thought it would be easier to go to the service station, fill up there. The tank was practically dry.”

“Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I’d have thought that would be part of the best man’s duties to get that sort of thing done in good time.”

“Well, I assumed Toby would have done it. He’d been at the house all the day before,” said Barney. He felt edgy suddenly and under threat. “But I should have checked; you’re right. Er… is that really relevant?”

“Probably not, sir, no. Now… his parents, as I understand it, were at the house? When did they leave?”

“Oh… about ten thirty. They were having lunch with friends in Marlborough.”

“Weren’t they worried about their son’s condition?”

“We… managed to keep it from them. They would have been very worried.”

“I see. And when you left the house, who was driving the car?”

“I was.”

“So… you stopped at the service station and filled up the tank. Did anything of note happen on your way there?”

“Yes, we were stopped by the police.”

“For speeding?”

“Yes. And, of course, that made us later. Much later.”

“Presumably you were Breathalyzed then, sir?”

“Yes, of course.” He was beginning to feel beleaguered. “And it was absolutely fine.”

“Right. Well, we can check on that, of course. May I ask what speed you were travelling when you were stopped?”

“Er… ninety-eight,” said Barney with an apologetic look at Amanda.

“A little over the speed limit, sir. Well, we don’t need to waste time on that now.” He made a separate note. “And then you proceeded on your way? To the service station?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And… you filled up with fuel. Anything else?”

This was it. No need to mention it, though. Completely irrelevant. Red herring.

“No, nothing else.”

“You didn’t need oil, or windscreen wash?”

“No, we didn’t. And then we went on our way.”

“And were you still driving?”

“Well… no,” said Barney. “Toby took over.”

“Why was that?”

“He just wanted to. I think he felt less stressed if he was behind the wheel.”

“I see. And presumably you were going more slowly by then.”

“Yes, of course. No more than seventy-five, eighty, max.”

“Right. So… were you aware of any other cars at this point, or indeed earlier, driving erratically ahead, overtaking you…?”

“Yes, there was one,” said Barney slowly. “It was a white van, and he was going like the clappers-tailgating, flashing, weaving in and out of the traffic, behaving extremely dangerously. He certainly deserved to be stopped. As much as, if not more than, we did.”

“I see. I don’t suppose you were aware of any markings on the van, any name of the firm…?”

“No. Sorry.”

“That’s all right. Someone else might have seen it. Now, tell me what happened next. Take your time.”

“We were just driving along in the outside lane. The traffic was quite heavy, and everyone was driving very steadily. Actually rather slowly. There’d just been a storm, and the road was still wet. Anyway, quite suddenly, it seemed, the lorry just lost control.”

“You were beside it? Behind it?”

“Behind it. But in the outside lane. There was a Volvo Estate in front of us, more or less even with it. Anyway, he veered over to the right, towards the central median, and just… well, went through it. Stopped finally on the westbound side, jackknifed, total chaos. Toby slammed on the brakes, obviously, but we had a blowout. I’ve never known anything like it; it was absolutely terrifying. The car was all over the place; it was as if the steering just didn’t work. Or the brakes. We seemed to be swinging about on the road, and then somehow, Toby got it back under control, and it-well, it went into the Volvo. Which had managed to stop. It was so odd; it seemed to happen so slowly, as if we had all the time in the world. I know people always say that. So weird.”

“Indeed. Now, were you aware of hitting anything, however small, that may have caused the blowout?”

“No,” said Barney, “we weren’t. But there could very easily have been something.”

“Well, again, Forensics are doing a full report on your car; they may come up with something. Of the tyre being cut in some way.”

“But surely… the tyre was in bits. How could they see anything at all?”

“You’d be surprised what they can see, sir. Anyway, you impacted with the Volvo. Then what happened?”

“We just went on and on into the Volvo’s rear. We hit it on Toby’s… on the off side; it crushed the bonnet and drove the steering column down into his leg. He was bloody lucky it wasn’t worse, I suppose.”

“Indeed, sir. Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, thanks.”

But he wasn’t; he could feel his eyes filling with tears. Amanda came over to him and took his hand. He looked at Freeman.

“Sorry. All a bit vivid.”

“I’m sure. Anyway, I’m going to go over this with you now, and then prepare a statement, and you can sign it if you’re happy with it. Shouldn’t take too long.”

Going over it meant a gruelling trawl through the whole thing again. It seemed, quite literally, endless.

“God,” said Amanda when they’d gone, “they’re very thorough, aren’t they? All those questions about how much you’d drunk, who was driving. You don’t think Toby was over the limit, do you?”

“Absolutely not,” said Barney impatiently. He felt absolutely exhausted, drained of emotion, and the last thing he wanted was further questioning. “He’d had the same as me, I swear to you-really not much at all-and it was fifteen, sixteen hours later, for God’s sake, and when I was Breathalyzed, when they stopped us, I was fine.”

“Yes, of course. But… there is one thing I still don’t understand. Haven’t from the beginning. I mean, why did you leave so late? It does seem awfully stupid.”

“I told you. Tobes was in a bad way.”

“Oh, yes I see,” said Amanda.

But she didn’t sound altogether convinced.

“Nice young chap,” said Constable Rowe as they drove through the crowded streets of Clapham, “and what bad luck. And for the bridegroom, imagine missing your own wedding like that…”

Sergeant Freeman said he knew several people who might have wished to miss their own weddings, and said that they should examine the CCTV footage at the service stations as soon as possible.

“With what in mind, exactly?”

“To make sure everything happened exactly as he said…”

CHAPTER 20

“Shit,” said Jonathan aloud, and his eyes filled unaccountably with tears. He was sitting at his desk in his tiny room at St. Andrews, ostensibly going through his notes for the next patient; the day had seemed interminable, everything everyone said to him meaningless.

He must speak to Abi before the police interview, absolutely must. And he really needed to know what Laura was going to do or say during the interview; even the mildest indication that she was suspicious of the relationship might lead to further questioning. And then there was the small matter of the phone call…

He went out into the hospital grounds, armed with his mobile, and dialled Abi’s number. “Abi, it’s Jonathan. Please call me. There are various things we need to discuss most urgently. Anytime in the next three or four hours.”

He realised he didn’t even know if the police had been on to her yet. Christ, it was getting worse by the minute…

It was only when the police rang and said they would like to interview her about the crash that Abi decided, in her own interest, she had better let Jonathan off the hook. She was eating a sandwich at her desk when the call came through; the call did rather destroy her appetite.

His voice was terse, impatient.

“I wish you’d got back to me sooner. You must have got my messages.”

“You’re not the only busy person in the world, Jonathan. I have a life too, you know. I can’t just take phone calls in the middle of jobs. I realise they’re not as important, my jobs, as chatting up mothers-to-be, but…”

“Oh, just stop it,” he said. “Look, have the police been on to you?”

“Yes. They’re coming to see me on Thursday.”

“Right. Well there’s one new thing for you to remember. You had a problem with your car; that’s why you didn’t have it with you at the conference. Can you remember that?”

“I’ll try.”

“Abi, please, this isn’t some silly game; it’s very important.”

“What, so Laura doesn’t find out about me, do you mean?”

“Well, so that she doesn’t know the truth about you. She’s insisting on sitting in on the interview; it’s essential we get the details right.

Look, you’ve got it all, haven’t you? The lift to Reading, the car, all that stuff. And… probably best not to mention the phone call. Which wasn’t a phone call, in the strict sense of the word. I answered it and then threw the bloody thing on the floor.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Is there anything else you’d like me to say? Like you weren’t there at all, I just happened to be driving your car? Lying to the police is a crime, you know, Jonathan. I looked it up on the Internet. You’re inciting me to commit a crime. And actually committing one yourself. That’s called blackmail.”

There was a silence; then he said, “I think you’re in danger of making a very big mistake, Abi. I could, if required, get witnesses, you know. Employees at hotels, for a start. I seem to remember you rather enjoyed impressing them with your little demos…”

She felt sick again. Very sick.

“All right, Jonathan,” she said. “I’ve got it.” And then, because she couldn’t resist it, she added, “I think.”

Two could play at this game…

How was she doing this? Georgia wondered. When she’d spent the past three days crying and quite literally wishing she was dead. She’d been in bits only half an hour earlier, holding Linda’s hand, shaking with nerves, and feeling terribly sick.

And now, suddenly, she felt fine, cool, self-confident, and upbeat.

It was always like that; all actors knew about Dr. Stage. Dr. Stage could mend a sprained ankle so its owner could dance, could heal laryngitis so a voice could fill a theatre; he could cure migraine, gastric flu and asthma, stanch tears and heal grief, summon strength and banish pain. Not forever, not even for very long, but long enough for the show to go on. And he was working very hard on Georgia ’s behalf at that moment.

She walked into the casting director’s room, smiling radiantly at the people watching her from behind their table. She was surprised-and pleased-that there were three of them; she’d been expecting just the casting director. Every moment was important now, she knew; the camcorder was running already, filming the way she looked, moved, talked, smiled.

“Hi, Georgia. I’m Tony; I’m the casting director. This is Bryn, the director, and you know Sue, my assistant.”

“Yes, I do. Hi. Thank you so much for letting me come today. I’m really sorry about last week.”

“That’s OK. So, what are you doing at the moment, what have you been up to?”

“Oh… lots of things. Episode of The Bill, episode of Casualty, two episodes of Holly oaks, bit of modelling to make ends meet.” She grinned at them.

“Who was the modelling for? TV?”

“Yes, one for a car commercial, one for a new chocolate, and a fashion shoot for Glamour.”

It didn’t add up to a row of beans, and they would know it; the scenes for The Bill and Casualty had been tiny, Hollyoaks only a bit bigger; she’d been in a crowd scene in the car commercial, maybe slightly more of a presence selling the chocolates, one of three girls eating as suggestively as the client felt they could get away with. And fashion shoots-well, she might just as well have not mentioned it. Except that it did mean she looked all right. But they could see that for themselves…

Then the standard questions they always asked: would she shave her head if she was asked, did she have any tattoos anywhere on her body, would she take all her clothes off, do a nude scene. Georgia told them she’d shave her head and take her clothes off all in one scene if they asked; no tattoos, though, so if they were looking for them… They laughed; then there was a silence. They were going to tell her to go away, not bother, she thought, panic rising, but: “Well, from those scenes we sent you, Georgia, would you like to do scene ten? With a bit of a Brummie accent, maybe. Sue will read the dad.”

“Sure.”

That was lucky: scene ten was her favourite. She walked towards Sue, stood with her legs slightly apart, her hands on her hips.

“Dad,” she said, “can I have a word…?”

By the time she finished the scene she felt quite emotional; and she could tell they’d liked it. They sat looking at her in silence, the casting director smiling.

“OK, Georgia,” he said. “Now could you do it again, please, without the accent. Just in your normal voice.”

It wasn’t quite as good, and she was more nervous, but they still smiled at her when she’d finished.

“ Thank you, Georgia. That was great. Thank you very much. We’ll be in touch. Shouldn’t be too long. Few days, probably.”

“Fine. Thank you.”

She allowed herself to tell Linda she thought it had gone well; she felt she owed her that.

And she’d been really great, not reproached her at all, not asked her any more questions about the crash. Not that she would have answered her if she had. Indeed she didn’t think she would be able to. The only way she could cope now was pretending it had never happened. Or rather that she hadn’t been there. That seemed to be working quite well.

Jonathan sat down facing them, fighting a rising panic and a fear that he might actually vomit.

“Right, Mr. Gilliatt. Perhaps first we could establish exactly what you were doing on the M4 that afternoon, sir? Just so we’re fully in the picture, you understand?”

Right in the deep end, then. He smiled at them carefully. He didn’t look at Laura; that would seem anxious. She mustn’t think he was anxious. About any of it.

“I was driving back from a pharmaceutical conference: I’d been speaking at a dinner the night before. At the Birmingham International Hotel.”

“So why the M4, sir; why not the M40?”

A sudden and very vivid image came to him of where he had gone on the way and what had happened there. It was disturbing; he crushed it.

“It was Friday afternoon; the M5-to-M4 route may be longer, but it’s often less congested.”

“And you left Birmingham when, exactly, sir?”

“Oh… late morning.”

“Right. So you cut down onto the M4 and reached it at what time?”

“Well, it must have taken a couple of hours. I’m not absolutely sure.”

“That’s perfectly all right. Not important. And then you drove straight on towards London?”

“Yes.”

“Did you stop at all?”

“Yes, for some petrol. At Leigh Delamere.”

“Fine. So that would have been about what time?”

“Well, I suppose about two thirty.”

“And you were alone, were you? In the car?”

He felt Laura stiffen, from right across the room. “I had a young lady with me. Abi Scott. She was at the conference in a business capacity, but she’d been having trouble with her car; she’d come up by train, and I offered her a lift to Reading. She was spending the weekend there.”

“I see. Ah, yes, Abi Scott. We’ll be interviewing her as well.”

“Anyway it was a purely professional relationship. I’d never met her before.”

He was aware of Freeman glancing up for a moment, seeming about to ask something, then returning to his task.

“Right, sir. So… were you in a hurry to get to London?”

“A little. Yes. I had a clinic at four thirty at St. Anne’s.”

“Which is where, sir?”

“Just off Harley Street.”

“I see,” said Freeman. “Well, sounds quite a tight time frame to me. I imagine you were driving fairly fast? In the outside lane, perhaps?”

“Well, not at all, no. The traffic was very heavy; there were a couple of minor holdups…”

“So your hunch was a wrong one?”

“I’m sorry?”

“About it being quicker on the M4.”

“Yes, it was a mistake. A bigger one than I knew.” He smiled at them and then at Laura. Her face was expressionless; she didn’t smile back.

“So… just before the crash, you were driving along… in which lane, sir?”

“Oh-the inside lane.”

“Why would that have been, sir? If you were short of time?”

“Well, I had a bad headache. The traffic was very heavy in all three lanes; then there’d been a thunderstorm, of course, which was very disconcerting. It was hard to see for a bit, and then a lot of water on the road. Very dangerous.”

“And what time was that, would you have said?”

“About three forty-five, I suppose.”

“Yes. Well, we can check that. So would you say that it was the storm that decided you to move over?”

“No, it was a number of factors. Maybe it was the deciding one. Anyway, then the storm was over as fast as it had begun.”

“Right. So, at what point were you first aware of the lorry?”

“Oh… I don’t know. Around the same time.”

“And were you driving along level with it? Behind it?”

“More or less level. Yes.”

“Any other traffic that you can recall, sir? In your immediate vicinity, that is, just prior to the accident? No bad driving that comes to mind, nothing that could have cut across the lorry’s path, perhaps?”

What did that mean? Was he suggesting it might have been him? His own fears came back, reinforced by the questioning. Had it been him, confused by the row with Abi, the phone ringing; had he lost concentration, veered in front of the lorry in some way? No! Surely, surely he’d remember if he had. God, it was frightening.

“No,” he said firmly, “nothing like that. Everyone was driving rather well, as a matter of fact. I do remember a rather fine old E-Type in front of the lorry, but he was driving perfectly safely. Pulling ahead steadily, but certainly not speeding.”

“And the vehicle ahead of you?”

“Oh… it was a large station wagon of some kind. Again, driving very steadily.”

It went on and on: could he pinpoint where he had first noticed the lorry, had he been driving erratically, cutting in and out of lanes? Then, suddenly:

“Did you have the radio on, sir?”

“Yes. Briefly, although not just prior to the crash. Miss Scott had switched it on, but I found it distracting, asked her to turn it off again.”

“I see. So you were just… talking?”

“Yes. Chatting, you know.”

Just chatting. While he tried to end the relationship, while she threatened to go and see Laura…

“And I presume you weren’t using a phone?”

Shit. Here it came. He managed to prevaricate.

“The in-car system in my car wasn’t working properly, and I had my ordinary mobile with me. I called my secretary at the clinic from the service station. To say I might be late.”

“And did anyone call you?”

“I did,” said Laura suddenly.

“At what time would that have been, Mrs. Gilliatt?”

They weren’t going to like this.

“Oh, I don’t know. Two or three times. He just didn’t answer. I was frantic with worry. Then finally I got through.”

“And what time was that?”

A long silence. Very long. Her eyes met his very steadily. He remembered an expression about your entrails withering or something. His were doing exactly that.

“It was around four, I think,” she said finally. Reluctantly.

“And what happened?”

“Well, it was answered. He said… well, he said, ‘Hello.’”

“And? Was that all?”

“Absolutely Then there was an awful noise and then it was switched off. Well, it went silent, at least.”

“Did you switch it off, Mr. Gilliatt?”

“Well, no. Not consciously. I just flung it down; the lorry was already skidding-”

“Skidding?”

“Well, swerving. Whatever. I was scared by then by what was happening. Switching the bloody phone off was the last thing on my mind. Maybe Miss Scott did it. I honestly don’t know. I keep telling you, it’s all a bit confused.”

“Of course.” Sergeant Freeman’s voice was soothing. “It’s entirely to be expected. Right, sir. Could we perhaps now concentrate on the actual crash? What was the first thing you were aware of, the first sign that something untoward was clearly happening?”

“I’d say the first thing I was aware of was the lorry swerving violently away from us, and I couldn’t see why. It seemed to be out of control. I… well, I just put my brakes on and made for the hard shoulder. Managed to stop there. Incredibly lucky. I was the very last car to get through, so to speak, before the road was blocked off.”

“So you stopped?”

“Yes. I… well, I just sat there for a moment or two, wondering what the hell had happened. And then I got out, and all the fridges and freezers and so on were spilling all over the place; it was almost surreal. And I looked back and saw this dreadful sight: the lorry, ploughed across the other side of the road, all this, this stuff everywhere, and cars just skidding, swerving, driving endlessly into one another…” He paused, smiled feebly across at Laura, then said, “It was all extremely… traumatic.”

“Of course, sir. It must have been dreadful.”

He waited respectfully for a moment. Then: “Now… if we can carry on from there, sir. What did you do next?”

Jonathan suddenly felt an odd release of tension; now that the memories were clear, unconfused, he found he could give a straightforward account; it was acutely painful reliving his genuine emotion at the death of the girl in the Golf, the young mother, the carnage of the minibus, the horror in the lorry driver’s cab… but it was easier.

Freeman paused in his note taking, looked at him, and smiled.

“You acted very courageously, sir, by all accounts. Climbing up into the cab to switch the engine off. Most commendable.”

“Well, I’m sure anyone would have done the same.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong there, sir. Now, could we ask you about a girl by the lorry?”

“A girl-what girl?” He stared at him stupidly. Then, “Good God. I really had forgotten about her. Yes, of course. You know, because she just disappeared… I assumed… well, I imagined someone was looking after her, or… How stupid…”

He was genuinely embarrassed, discomfited; he could see Laura was staring at him. Another mysterious girl. Did this put him in an even worse light?

“That’s perfectly all right, sir. You had a great deal on your mind.”

“You could say that. Yes, I was standing with another chap; he wasn’t badly hurt, just a broken arm, I think.”

“Mr. Blake. It was him who told us how you climbed up into the lorry. And he said this young lady just appeared out of the van.”

“Yes. Yes, she did. Well, she was actually standing on the step; I can’t think she’d have climbed in to have a look. She was obviously very shocked; she vomited, didn’t say anything, and then just went over to the hard shoulder and sat down on the ground, but she clearly wasn’t hurt. I was too concerned about the lorry bursting into flames to pay her much attention, but when I got down on the ground again, she seemed to have disappeared. I intended to have a look for her later, but there really were more serious things to worry about. She might have turned up at the hospital; I really have no idea.”

“Could you describe her?”

“Yes. She was very young, pretty, black, or certainly dark skinned; I think she was wearing a dress of some sort, and then a pair of boots. Suede boots with a sort of fur or sheepskin lining. I did notice the boots because it seemed so extraordinary on such a hot day…”

“UGG boots,” said Laura. “They all wear them, the girls. However hot it is. Our daughters are pestering me for some.”

“Right, well, thank you, Mr. Gilliatt.” And then: “Now, the young lady, sir. Miss Scott. What happened to her? She wasn’t hurt, I take it?”

“Well, she did cut her head. On the dashboard, as we stopped. It wasn’t serious, bit of a gash. She was fine.”

“And you drove on to London, I believe? After the injured had all been taken to the hospital?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And Miss Scott?”

“Well, she was looking after some small boys. And she went back to the hospital in the ambulance with one of them, apparently. He had an asthma attack.”

“And have you heard from her since?”

“Just that she’s OK. She called to let me know-as I said, our relationship was entirely professional.”

“Indeed. Fine. Well, I think that’s all for now, sir. We may have to ask some more questions later.”

“I really don’t think I can possibly tell you anything else. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, sir. It’s just that if any other evidence came up, we might want to check it with you. Given that you were at the very front of the crash, one of our prime witnesses, so to speak. But you’ve been most helpful. Thank you very much.”

When they’d gone, he looked at Laura.

“God. Bit of an ordeal. Think I might like a drink. How about you?”

“No. No, thank you. Sorry if I dropped you in it with the phone business, but I just think it’s best to be completely honest.”

“Of course it is. Sure you don’t want a drink?”

“Quite sure.” A pause; then: “I hope you’re being completely honest with me, Jonathan.”

“What do you mean?” It was all he could think of to say.

“You know what I mean. About Abi Scott.”

“What about her?”

“Oh, Jonathan, please! I’m not a complete cretin. You’re somehow on the wrong motorway, with a strange woman whom you didn’t even mention when we spoke earlier, for whom you were going to make a large detour when you were already late for your clinic. It doesn’t quite add up. To me.”

“Well, it should,” he said. Lightly. Determined not to sound self-righteous. Or even ruffled.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What does she do, this girl? Tell me again.”

“She works for a commercial photographer. Who was at the dinner, taking photographs. She helps him, gets people’s names and so on. To send the photos to. She’s very nice,” he added. “She’d be very amused if she could hear this conversation.”

“I don’t see why. Is she married? Living with anyone?”

“Laura, I haven’t the faintest idea!”

“Oh, really? All those hours in the car together. She must have told you something about herself.”

“Well, she did say she had a boyfriend. Darling, this isn’t like you. Please! Let’s go and see the kids; I need a bit of distraction after all that. It wasn’t the best hour of my life.”

There was a long silence; then: “Yes, all right,” she said. “They’re watching TV.”

He followed her through to the den; he felt sick and shaky. Not just because of the police interrogation, or even hers. But because there was a new darkness between them, created not just by Laura’s discovery of Abi’s existence, but by her clear unwillingness to accept his explanation. Lovely, lovely, trusting Laura. That was the really disturbing thing.

CHAPTER 21

It was much scarier, the second recall. All actors knew that. Far more hung on it. You had more to lose; you were higher up; you had farther to fall. The pressure was really on…

“I don’t know if I can face it,” Georgia said. “I’ve been feeling so terrible all the way up on the train. I thought I was going to be sick twice. I spent most of the journey in the loo.”

Linda struggled to keep her voice level.

“Well, I’m sorry,” she said. Georgia couldn’t be pregnant, could she? That would explain a great deal. “I know how tough it is at this stage. Just the same, you’re clearly in with a very fighting chance. Try to be positive, Georgia.”

“I am trying,” said Georgia. “It’s just that I’m so tired. I can’t sleep for stressing about it, and what if I don’t get it, then what? I’m terrified, Linda, absolutely terrified…”

Linda felt a strong desire to slap her.

“Well, you don’t have to go,” she said. “There are three other girls, all still in the race. Just give up now, why don’t you?”

Georgia stared at her. “Of course I’m not going to give up,” she said, her voice throbbing with outrage. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say.” And then she suddenly sat down in the chair opposite Linda’s desk and started to cry.

Linda pushed a contract to the back of her desk. There had to be more than this part. There had to be.

“You can’t go on like this, Georgia; you’ll have a nervous breakdown. What is wrong?”

Georgia looked at her, and there was something like terror in her great brown eyes. She took a deep breath and then said, “Well, it’s… That is…”

“Yes?”

“Well, you see, I…”

And then she drew back, as if from some deep physical danger-literally shifted her body in the chair. “No, I’m sorry, Linda, really sorry. I’m being silly. I’ve just got my period; I feel like shit.”

She wasn’t pregnant then. That was something.

“OK. You going to be all right on your own?”

“Of course I am. Promise. I’ll see you later.”

She seemed OK. Just going a bit over-the-top emotionally. Nothing new there, then.

“That looks like a lot of paperwork.” Constable Rowe smiled at Sergeant Freeman; he didn’t smile back.

“It is. It’s Forensics’ report on the crash.”

“Oh, yes. I thought you’d read it.”

“I have read it,” said Freeman coldly. “I like to keep referring back to it. As our investigations go on. Certain things fall into place. Or don’t. And the loose wheel nut they found on the road. Where the hell does that fit in?”

“Surely it came off one of the other cars in the collision?”

“No, Rowe, it didn’t. We would know that from the examination of those cars.”

“Obviously, yes. And… not off the lorry?”

“Not off the lorry.”

“Well… perhaps it isn’t very important. Maybe it had been in the road a long time.”

“I doubt that very much,” said Freeman, “and so does Forensics. The devil’s in the details in this game, Rowe; I’ve told you before. This is a detail. We just have to find out how important it is.”

“Or how much of the devil is in it, I suppose,” said Rowe.

“Yes, Rowe. Precisely.”

At last, Mary was allowed to go home. The next day, anyway. A whole week after the accident. And even now, not exactly home-they said it was too soon for her to be on her own, but to stay with Christine. Which wasn’t ideal, of course, but it was a lot better than still being in the hospital. And she got on pretty well with Christine, always had… although she sometimes felt, absurdly, rather nervous of her. She had inherited her father’s build, rather than her mother’s, and his rather heavy features, rather than her mother’s sparkly prettiness.

She was wonderfully capable, ran her home along almost military lines, but she was also judgmental, very strict with her family, easily made impatient. And she was deeply conventional. So how would she react to her mother’s news?

It seemed to Mary quite likely that she would be shocked, and if not shocked, disapproving. It was quite a difficult situation for any daughter: to discover that her mother had been corresponding with a man-of whose existence neither she nor her father had any knowledge-for sixty years. And that they had been-finally-reunited.

Russell came in to see her every single day, and every day, each meeting had been happier and more wonderful than the last. Any doubts that she might have had had fled, leaving her at once excited and at peace about him and his part in the rest of her life. The only thing that was unthinkable now was not being together. After sixty years of separation she and Russell were going to be married. They had been given this priceless treasure, this second life; they must nurture it and honour it and savour the happiness it so clearly contained.

Russell had continued to stay at the Dorchester; Mary had suggested he move to a hotel nearer Swindon, but he was absurdly nervous, it seemed, of anywhere other than the West End of London, had had this deep conviction that the only proper place to be was an expensive, upper-class one. She had teased him about it a lot; she could see she probably would again.

“So when I’m home in Bristol, will you still insist on staying there?” she had said, and, “No,” he had said; he was investigating a hotel between Bristol and Bath that sounded pretty decent…

“Only pretty decent, Russell? You sure that’s good enough?”

He had been fretting over the hospital too, saying he would rather she was in a private one, but she had told him that was ridiculous; this really was a very good place.

They’d had to arrange the times of his visits quite carefully, so that they didn’t coincide with Christine’s. He said he couldn’t see the problem with that; he couldn’t wait to meet Mary’s children, both of them; but Mary told him she thought it might be a bit of a shock for them, particularly for Christine, who had adored her father, and she wanted her to be well prepared before being confronted by a totally strange man who would, after all, become her stepfather. It would be a hard thing for a woman of almost sixty to understand.

But now they would be alone together all day and every day, for a while, and she could tell Christine all about it. And hopefully Christine would be really happy about it. Hopefully…

“Abi?” It was William’s calm, deep voice. “Abi, it’s William here. I’ve just had the police on the phone-got to give them an interview, wondered if they’d approached you as well.”

“Oh, William,” said Abi, thinking it would be worth going through any number of police interviews to have William discussing them with her. “William, it’s great to hear from you. Yes, they have. In fact, it’s tonight; I am so not looking forward to it.”

“Oh, it’ll be all right,” he said easily. “You were just a witness, that’s all; nothing to worry about. All you’ve got to do is give them a straightforward account of it.”

She wondered, What on earth would William say if he knew about the real her…? “When are they seeing you, then?”

“Tomorrow morning. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it either; my father’ll be getting involved, probably, telling them the field’s been ruined with their helicopter.”

There was a long silence, then he said: “Look. I was wondering. How would you like to have a drink tomorrow night? We can have a chat, compare notes.”

“William, that’d be great. Really.” Was this for real? Was he actually asking her out? God…

“OK. It’s a date. Where should we meet, Bristol, I s’pose?”

“Well, that’d be nice. Long drive for you, though. And then you won’t be able to drink much.”

“Oh, I’m not a big drinker anyway. Tell me where we can meet. You can show me a few of the bright lights over there; how would that be?”

“Great,” said Abi. “Really great.”

“Good.” He sounded slightly surprised himself. “And meanwhile, don’t worry about the interview. All you’ve got to do is tell the truth.” If only it was as simple as that; if only she hadn’t got to lie and lie, and remember so many crucial things… “It’s no big deal. What about your friend the doctor; I expect they’re seeing him as well?”

“Yes, I believe so,” said Abi, and then: “He’s not a friend, William, just a business connection. I thought I’d told you, I’d never met him before Friday. He gave me a lift from the conference…” This was quite good; she could rehearse her lines.

“Oh, OK. Well, it’ll be interesting to see what they do want to know. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

She sat thinking about him for a bit after ringing off: sitting there on the tractor, looking tanned and so bloody fit, with those lovely kind, sort of hazelish eyes…

Oh, God. What was she doing fancying a farmer, of all things? And a posh farmer at that. What was she doing seeing him? Where was the sense in that? She should be distancing herself from everyone and everything to do with the crash, not going out with them. She was bound to give the game away, slip up…

She had been genuinely hurt as well as angered by Jonathan’s rejection of her; she had not, of course, ever imagined their affair had any real future, but somehow he had beguiled her-with his generosity, his enjoyment of her company as well as her body, his apparently genuine interest in her-into thinking he did actually care about her as a person. And how stupid had that been? Of course he hadn’t. He was like all the rest of them. He had wanted what he could get out of her, and beyond that-nothing.

Abi took a very dim view of men-not unnaturally, considering what she had endured at their hands. She was aware of being something of a walking cliché: knocked about by her mother’s first boyfriend, after her own father had walked out, seduced by the second, and then forced to listen to his lies that she had seduced him. Which had resulted in her being thrown out of the house at the age of fifteen. There had been a long parade of boyfriends, a few of them permanent. By the time she was twenty-one, Abi had turned into the sort of person she really didn’t like-without being able to see what she could have done about it.

She couldn’t suddenly become marriage material now; she couldn’t wipe out her rather desperate past. No one was going to look after her; she had to do it herself, and part of that seemed to be taking her sexual pleasure where she could, rather as men did. Only it was all right for men. Even married ones like Jonathan. It was all very unfair.

The reports in the Sunday papers had been awful: the lorry driver, who she now knew was called Patrick Connell, “very seriously injured and still in intensive care;” Toby Weston, the bridegroom (the media had latched on to that story in a big way), still “heavily sedated,” his leg with its multiple fractures a “grave cause for concern;” and there were several photographs of the families of people who had died, and of the blond girl in the Golf, taken on some beach the previous year, laughing, holding the hand of her boyfriend. And there were a lot of annoying stories about Jonathan, his courage, and how hard he had worked, how calm he was and how skilful. Although-annoying as they were-they were true. It was one of the reasons she didn’t actually want to drop him in the shit.

What was he getting into? William wondered. It was insane, absolutely ridiculous. But… so what? Who said relationships had to be sensible? Wasn’t that the whole point, that relationships couldn’t necessarily be called to order, that an attraction was uncontrollable and could, if followed, lead to some very pleasant chaos? William would have welcomed a bit of chaos into his life just now. He was too young to be settled into total predictability, too old to have to conform to his parents’ lifestyle. He wanted an adventure-and if not an adventure, at least an excursion to adventure’s perimeter. And Abi had seemed to be leading him towards one, beckoning him with her long, magenta fingernails, luring him with her dark, knowing eyes. OK, she could clearly be troublesome, but God, she was a living, breathing master class in sexiness.

So… what was wrong with that? Absolutely nothing at all. In fact, it looked rather the reverse.

William put the tractor into gear and sent it up the hill feeling suddenly pretty bloody good.

Maeve had been sitting with Patrick for some time, and was beginning to think rather longingly of the coffee shop for what had become her supper, a latte and a cookie, and thinking also that on her way back she’d pop up and see her new friend Mary.

She was absolutely dreading Mary’s going home. She was so wonderfully comforting and cheering, and filled with common sense. Maeve had told her about the dreadful possibility of Patrick’s being paralysed: “It will be so unbearable for him; he’s so active, so strong; he loves haring about; he can carry two of the boys and run at the same time. How will he cope with sitting in a chair for the rest of his life?”

“He will because he’ll have to,” Mary said. “You love him so much, and he loves you so much, and you know, Maeve, it’s a wonderful thing, love. They say faith can move mountains, but to my mind so can love. But you don’t know; he may recover completely-they can do such wonderful things these days…”

Maeve had thought Patrick was getting more with it, as she put it, day by day. It might be a long time before he came home, and the very least he had to face was major abdominal surgery, but he was still alive, which a week ago had seemed far too much to hope for. She was saying all this to Patrick when he reached out for her hand and squeezed it very tightly, and said, “Maeve-I’m beginning to remember.”

“Remember… what?” she said, and there was a band round her chest as tight as his hand round hers.

“The accident. What happened. How it happened. It was hot. Terribly hot. The sun was so bright. And I was so tired, Maeve. So tired…”

“Oh, Patrick…” She’d been terrified of this ever since she’d heard about it, certainly since she’d known he was going to live. She wanted to stop him, to shut him up, to keep him-and her-safe from the memories. But…

“I was eating jelly babies, you know, and they weren’t working. I can remember eating them, lots of them, handfuls, I could feel my head going, you know? The fuzzing, I’ve told you about the fuzzing.”

“Yes, Patrick, you have.”

He had: the feeling his brain was getting confused, not working for him.

“I went to the doctor about it, you know, but he couldn’t help. That’s all I can remember. The fuzzing-and then blankness.”

“Yes, but Patrick, darling, that was when you blacked out. Lost consciousness. Not went to sleep. Went unconscious. Of course you can’t remember.”

“I think… well, I think I can. And Maeve… I think there was someone else in the cab.”

“Someone else? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I just seem to remember… remember… there was someone else there.”

“But, Patrick, how could there have been? There was no one with you when they found you, and where could they have gone…”

“I know. But I still think… Oh, I’m so afraid, Maeve. So afraid I must have… must have… gone… gone to…”

And then he stopped talking and tears squeezed slowly and painfully from his eyes, rolled down his cheeks, large, childlike tears. And Maeve, still clutching his hand, stroking it, trying to comfort him, thought that if he had gone to sleep, if he had caused that awful, dreadful crash, for which he had been punished, and was still being punished so horribly, then she was to blame as well: for hassling him, hurrying him home, when perhaps another hour or two of rest would have made all the difference. All the difference in the world-and for some people, indeed, the difference between life and death.

“Dr. King? Emma?”

Emma turned to see who had called her and saw Barney Fraser, Toby Weston’s friend.

“I thought it was you. How are you?”

He was looking different. She couldn’t think why, then realised he was in his city togs: sharp suit (although the jacket was slung over his shoulder), formal shirt (pink check, really suited him), tie even (although hanging loose round his neck).

“Good.”

“I’m on my way to the café, get a shot of caffeine before I go back to town. You?”

“I’m in search of caffeine, too.”

“OK… we could go together.”

He smiled at her. God, he had a wonderful smile. God, he was so gorgeous… Stop it, Emma. He’s taken. And so are you… now.

“OK. Mustn’t be long, though.”

They went into the café; she grabbed a Diet Coke, and then joined him at the coffee counter, ordered an Americano.

“Snap. Same as me. I actually wanted a double espresso, but they’re not great at coffee-speak here. Can you sit down for five minutes? Or do you have to rush back?”

“Well, five minutes.”

“Cool.”

“So, have you been visiting Toby?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Driven all the way down from London?”

“No, I came on the train. I’m about to call a cab; there’s a notice about them in the main reception. How’s the service this time of night?”

“Not bad. Not great. How… how is Toby?”

She knew he wasn’t very well; she’d talked to Mark Collins about him the day before. He had been running recurrent fevers from Sunday night, and complaining of feeling generally unwell. Today he even seemed confused.

“It points to infection, I’m afraid,” Mark had said. “We’ve upped the antibiotics and we’re going to take him to the theatre tomorrow and do a washout. And the end of this road-the bad end, anyway-well, you know what it is as well as I do.”

Amputation, Emma thought, wincing: what a terrifying prospect for a bloke of thirty. She hoped Barney didn’t realise that, at least.

“How is he?” she said again. As if she didn’t know.

“Not great. They did some washout thing today.”

“Well,” she said carefully, “that should do some good…”

“And if it doesn’t, he’ll lose the leg, right?”

She was shocked.

“Nobody here told you that, did they?”

“No, no, I rang a mate who’s a medic.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. Well, without knowing Toby’s case-”

“Emma, it’s OK. I’ve taken it on board. It’s hideous, but-”

“But it really would be a last resort. And I’m sure-well, I hope-he’s miles from that. I… I hope you haven’t told his parents this.”

“No, of course I haven’t. I’m not a total retard.”

“Sorry. It’s just… well, we have to be so careful about that sort of thing.”

“I’m sure. No, it’s fine; I haven’t told anyone. Except Amanda, that is.”

Amanda. The preppy, perfect girlfriend. Correction, the preppy, perfect fiancée.

“How did Toby seem in himself?”

“Oh, bit out of it, actually. When… when will they know if it’s worked?”

“Oh, not for several more days. Um… what about his fiancée; has she been down much?”

“I’m not sure. She’s still at home with her parents, getting over her cancelled wedding.”

His voice sounded bitter; Emma looked at him sharply. He interpreted the look, said, “Sorry, shouldn’t have said that.”

“You can say what you like to me, Barney. But… well, it must be pretty awful for her, worrying about Toby, and she wouldn’t be human if she wasn’t upset about the wedding…”

“Of course.”

“What do you all do?” she said with a glance at her watch.

“Oh, Tobes and I are those wicked banker people. You know, earn as much as the budget of a small country. If you believe the press, that is.”

“And Amanda, what does she do?”

“She’s in HR. In the same bank as Tobes. And Tamara, she’s on the French desk at my firm. Yeah, so it’s all a bit incestuous, really. Tamara is seriously cool. You should see their apartment-talk about retro.”

“I probably wouldn’t appreciate it,” said Emma, laughing. “I’m still at the furnished-flat stage myself.”

“Yeah? How long will you be here, do you think? Moving on, up to London or whatever?”

“I have no idea where I’ll be. But I want, eventually, to go into obstetrics. At the moment I’m just a general surgeon. Doing my four months’ stint down here, in A and E, which I do love.”

“You’re a surgeon? You mean you actually… well-”

“Cut people up? Yes, I do.” She laughed. “Don’t look so horrified.”

“Not horrified. Just seriously impressed. I mean, you don’t look old enough-well, hardly-to be a doctor at all, and-”

“Oh, don’t,” she said. “If I had a pound for every time I’m told that… I think I’ll put it on my tombstone: ‘She didn’t look old enough…’ Barney, I really must go. It’s been lovely talking to you, but God knows what’s happening down there.” She nodded in the direction of A &E. “Look, I’ll pop up and see Toby tomorrow. If you think he’d like that.”

“Emma, anyone out of short trousers would like being visited by you. Actually, even if they were in short trousers. Thank you so much. And for your time. Really cheered me up.”

“It was a pleasure. Honestly.”

She held out her hand; he took it, then rather hesitantly bent down and kissed her cheek.

“Pleasure for me too. Honestly. Thank you again. For all your help, not just this evening.”

And then he was gone, hurrying out of the café, pulling on his jacket.

Emma walked rather slowly back to A &E, then sat down at the doctor’s station and said, “Shit.”

And Barney, settling into the corner of a cab, on his way to the station, said, “Fuck.”

For much the same reason.

CHAPTER 22

It had gone pretty well, Abi thought. They’d questioned her closely, but she hadn’t let them rattle her.

She’d been pretty stressed by a panicky phone call from Jonathan very early that morning, telling her more things that she must and must not say. Like the time they left the conference in Birmingham-that she must be vague, say between eleven thirty and twelve, that they’d been held up at the service station, and-change of information-he had now told them Laura had called his mobile at four. “Well, she told them, actually. But she said she only heard me saying hello and then it all went blank. Just say it rang and I answered it and hurled it on the floor when the lorry started to swerve. It might not even come up. Did you switch the phone off, incidentally? I didn’t, and-”

“Yes, I did.”

“Fine. Well, I think that’s everything. Bye, then.”

She didn’t answer. She felt very bleak suddenly, bleak and alone. He hadn’t even said “good luck.” Bastard. God, how she hated him.

Anyway, she’d said what he’d told her: about their relationship, about her car not starting so she’d gone by train to the conference, and then all the stuff about the accident-a relief to be able to relax and just speak the truth for a bit-and then she’d told them how marvellous Jonathan had been afterwards. Which had been true as well.

She said they’d hardly spoken since then, just that she’d reassured him that she was safely home…

She was actually quite pleased with herself, felt high with relief. And at least it was over. The very worst was over…

And now she had her evening with William to look forward to…

“Well, what did you think of that, then?” Freeman closed his notebook, filed Abi’s statement carefully, and turned to Constable Rowe.

“Oh, she seemed rather nice,” said Rowe. “Very, very sexy.”

“Indeed. Any man would be tempted by her. Even a man with a beautiful wife… You didn’t think her story was in any way suspicious?”

“No. It tallied exactly with Dr. Gilliatt’s.”

“Too exactly, I’d say. Almost word for word. Like ‘it was a purely professional relationship.’ Why did they both have to tell us that, do you think? It’s not relevant. And about her car not starting-she just volunteered that; we didn’t ask her. It was all a bit… pat. Something’s starting to smell a bit here; something’s not quite right…”

“Yes, but why should they be lying?”

“Well, in his case, his whole marriage hangs on it. For her… well, maybe she thinks if she goes along with him he’ll carry on with the relationship. She probably gets some pretty good perks out of it; these girls do, you know: expensive little trips abroad, for instance, staying in the best hotels, jewellery-”

“What’s it got to do with the crash? Doesn’t mean they’re guilty of anything else.”

“No, of course not. He might have been-almost certainly was, I’d say-screwing her into the ground. That doesn’t mean he’s guilty of dangerous driving, or of causing that crash. But maybe he was partly to blame. Maybe she was. Maybe he was driving dangerously; maybe she was distracting him. I wouldn’t be totally surprised if he slewed out into the road, in front of the lorry. In the absence of any other explanation for it suddenly swerving-”

“The driver could have gone to sleep.”

“He could. He could also have had to swerve. Anyway, we’ve got Gilliatt’s measure now. We can take other things he says with a pinch of salt. We’ll tuck this into our back teeth and keep it there. All right?”

“Yes, all right,” said Constable Rowe.

Freeman smiled for the first time that day. “That’s why this game is such fun, in its own peculiar way. I think we have to go back in, ask a few more questions. And we must take a very close look at the CCTV footage at the service station, see what we can pick up there… Also her firm-what’s it called? Oh, yes, Conferphoto-check whether they did actually cover this conference.”

“Should I check with her firm or the conference organisers?”

“The organisers. We don’t want her rattled, thinking we’re on to her. We don’t want to rattle either of them in any way. You know what they say, Rowe: give them enough rope and they’ll hang themselves.”

“Poor Mr. Connell.” Jo Wales walked into the nurses’ room on HDU. The police had become very pressing about questioning Patrick, and reluctantly his doctors had agreed. Jo had sat in on the interview, and her conviction that it was too soon had strengthened with every moment.

“Did they upset him?” Her colleague, Stephanie Hitchens, who had also nursed Patrick, had been equally against the interview.

“Yes, they did. I nearly stopped it twice-sorry, Maria,” she said to the Spanish cleaner whose path she was obstructing. “Anyway, he recovered himself each time. So I let them have their fifteen minutes.”

“Are we any the wiser?”

“Oh, not really. Still going on about going to sleep, remembering getting drowsy, eating his jelly babies-in tears once. That’s when I asked them to go, but he said he was all right, wanted to finish. And he said he thought there might have been someone in the cab with him.”

“Really? Seems very unlikely. I mean, where could such a person have gone?”

“Well, exactly. But of course the police got very interested in it, started questioning him more closely-he got very upset.”

“Poor Patrick. There he is, the sweetest man, having to cope with all this horror. I’ll pop along and chat with him for a bit.”

Maria, whose English was much better than most people in the hospital realised, finished her desultory floor wiping and set off for the lift. That would give her something to tell the journalist who had been pestering her for information for the past few days. And she should get that fifty pounds he had promised her…

Jack Bryant had had a good week. He’d bagged over a hundred brace of grouse, eaten some excellent meals, and furthered his acquaintance with Margo Farthringoe most satisfactorily. She was fifty-one, modestly good-looking, extremely sexy, and a very good shot. She was also newly separated from Gordon Farthringoe, who was disporting himself around town with a fine example of twenty-two-year-old arm candy. Margo and Jack had enjoyed a great deal together that week, and arranged to meet in London in the near future.

Jack was loading up the boot of the E-Type with as much grouse as he could decently take away with him when he thought he should give the car the once-over. She wasn’t as young as she had been, and she needed a lot of TLC. Everything seemed fine: except that she seemed to have lost a wheel nut. Bit of a bugger.

He had no idea where he might have lost it, decided it would be foolhardy to try to drive back down the Mi without it, and embarked on a quest for a new one. It took most of the day; the border country was not rich in specialist garages. His irritation was considerably eased, however, by the offer of a further night at the Mackintoshes’, and a further foray into the arms of Mrs. Farthringoe.

Linda went over to her fridge and took out one of the minibottles of champagne she kept there for such moments. She poured herself a glass, savoured it for a moment, then lifted the phone, dialled Georgia ’s mobile number.

“Darling, it’s good news. I mean really good news. They want you.”

“Oh… God. Oh, God, Linda, that is so… so cool!”

God, thought Linda, that word. That inadequate, all-purpose word.

“I know. It’s lovely. Many, many congratulations. I’m totally thrilled. What are you doing now?”

“I’m in Topshop. Oxford Circus. With a friend. I’m staying with her.”

“Well, want to come over, have a glass of bubbly? You can bring the friend.”

“Can I? Linda, we’d really love that; thanks so much. Can we come over right now? We’ll be about thirty minutes.”

“Great. I’ll get the glasses out.”

“Cool!”

“So… how was it?” William said.

He had driven to Bristol to meet Abi in a state of considerable emotional turmoil; he felt anxious and excited in just about equal measure, alternately wishing he had obeyed his innate instinct that he shouldn’t see her again and wondering why on earth he hadn’t invited her out sooner. She was so bloody sexy, and seemed really nice too, much nicer than you’d have thought a girl like her would be, and seemed (only seemed, he was sure) to like him too.

Of course, a relationship between them was a pretty futile idea; she obviously lived life very much in the fast lane (an unfortunate choice of words, he thought, smiling to himself), and his was… well, from her point of view, anyway, pretty much in the very slow one.

And as for what his mother would have to say… the whole thing was pointless, and this must be a one-off evening, dedicated-as he had said when he called her-to discussing their respective interviews with the police.

But then… he’d walked into the bar she’d suggested, and she had waved at him, walked over to meet him, kissed him hello-her perfume was incredibly powerful, musky and sweet-taken his hand, and led him back to her table. He had said he mustn’t drink, that he had to drive; three beers later, his head was swimming a bit and he was wondering rather anxiously how he was going to get home. Maybe if they had a meal-a large meal-and he drank only water he’d sober up sufficiently.

He would not have drunk so much had he not found himself so relaxed; he might have expected to find someone like her hard to talk to, but she was easily chatty and funny, and she had a talent for listening too, asking him endless questions about the farm, about his life, about his parents, even, and displaying what seemed a genuine interest in the answers.

And he had slowly become aware that one of her long legs was pressing against his, that she was leaning closer to him, that she was studying his mouth as he talked; the combination of all these things, together with the three beers and the heady cloud of her perfume, was making him feel physically dizzy… surely, surely she couldn’t fancy him…?

“Oh, it was OK. I think,” she said now. “I’m glad it’s over. But they were very nice. You?”

“Oh, I think it was OK. Wonder if we had the same ones? I had Sergeant Freeman and Constable Rowe, his sidekick.”

“Yes, the same.”

God, he was so… so gorgeous. She would never have believed she would find herself fancying someone like him: so public-school, so straight-down-the-line, so old-style polite. He actually came round to push in her chair, for God’s sake, stood up when she went to the toilet and again when she came back.

She felt like… well, she felt like someone completely different. The sort of person who’d grown up used to that sort of thing herself. It was like being stroked, or eating chocolates, or lying in the sun; it was soothing, warming, totally pleasing.

And he was so incredibly good-looking. He could have been a model, if he’d wanted. OK, his haircut was a bit dated, but it suited him. It was great hair. That wonderful rich, conker brown and then sort of blond streaks.

He had no idea how attractive he was. He was a bit like a child, completely unself-conscious; she looked at him now, sitting in the bar, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbows, showing his brown arms-so brown, they were, covered in thick blond hair-grinning at her, talking about the farm, about how much he loved it in spite of everything, loved being out-of-doors all the time, about the satisfaction of it, of harvesting the wheat, of rearing healthy animals.

“My brother’s an accountant, one of those city types. Now, that’s an awful existence, pushing money around, helping rich people stay as rich as they can. It’s a mean, selfish little life.”

She was surprised by how articulate he was; somehow she’d always imagined farmers would be the strong, silent type. When he moved on to the supermarkets and how they screwed the farmers into the ground, ruined the small ones, she began to care about them too, enjoying listening to his deep, rich voice-and yes, it was a bit posh, and she didn’t usually like posh, but it was his. So she liked it.

“Sorry, Abi; you mustn’t let me bore you. You probably want to talk about our respective interviews with the police.”

“You’re not boring me,” she said, “and I don’t want to. Plenty of time for that.”

“Fine. Look, I’ve had far too much to drink. Can we find somewhere to eat and let me buy you dinner? I need to consume about five thousand calories even to start to mop it all up. We could talk about the interviews then. Or… maybe you’ve got other plans?”

Abi said no-no, she hadn’t, and dinner would be great.

He suggested Browns; he would know Browns, she thought; it was made for people like him. She didn’t often go there; it was… well, full of people like him. Which tonight seemed pretty good.

“So, come on,” he said when they had ordered-a large steak for him, a crab salad for her. “What about you? Tell me about your job, tell me about your family, tell me what you like doing.”

She had an almost irresistible urge to tell him what she really liked doing and how much she’d like to do it with him, but suppressed it and gave him as sanitised a version as she could of her life, her friends, her job. She cut out the lingerie modelling, the drugs, and-obviously-most of her boyfriends. Especially the last one.

“So… no one serious at the moment?”

“No.”

“I can’t think why not.”

He looked so genuinely baffled she wanted to kiss him. She did kiss him. Only on the cheek, but…

“What was that for?” he said, grinning at her.

“For wondering why I hadn’t got a serious boyfriend. I wish…”

“But why not? I really can’t imagine.”

“Because they’re mostly rubbish, that’s why. The men I meet. Spoilt. Up on themselves. Waste of space.”

“Well, that’s pretty damning,” he said, laughing. “You must have met a particularly bad lot. I feel I should make an apology for my sex. No, seriously. You’ve obviously been very hurt by… by someone.”

“Yes, lots,” she said, and then the person who had hurt her the most and the most recently swam before her eyes, and the magic was gone, albeit briefly, and she felt suddenly and dreadfully sad.

“Well, I’m sorry,” he said. He was clearly much too much of a gentleman to ask her about it; and she could hardly tell him. So they sat in silence for a moment or two, and then he said, “Look, I should be getting back quite soon and we’ve still not talked about our interviews. So… how was yours? Really? Was it as awful as you expected?”

“No. No, it was fine. They were very nice. Much less scary than I expected. Yours?”

“Also very nice. Very thorough. They went into absolutely everything. Who I talked to, all that sort of thing. They even asked about you.”

“Me! What did they ask about me, for heaven’s sake?”

“Oh, well, I told them how great you were, helping the little boys. How you went to the hospital with one of them. And then they asked me if I knew anything about your relationship with the doctor bloke.”

“My relationship with… But I don’t… That is, why should they ask you that?”

“No idea. Well, first they asked what happened to your car, why it wasn’t still on the motorway, and I said you’d been with the doctor in his. And then they asked me if I knew anything about your relationship with him. I said absolutely nothing, except that it was a professional one, that you’d been at a conference together.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Oh, and I said he seemed pretty tense, was shouting at you at one point.”

“Well, he was. Quite true.”

Did it matter, their knowing that? Not really. And William had said all the right things: that her relationship with Jonathan was only professional. But… why were they interested? It was a bit worrying.

“Anyway, that was about it, really. Ah, here’s the bill. No, no, I insist”-as she fumbled for her cards-“don’t be silly. Look, can I drop you anywhere?”

God, he was such a fucking gentleman; most men, after buying you three cocktails and dinner, would expect to be well into your knickers.

“No, it’s OK; I’ll get a cab.”

“Oh, now, that’s ridiculous. I’ll just drive you home.”

Maybe he did want to. It seemed crazy not to find out.

They went out to the street, and as they walked to his car, she put her arm through his, and he looked down at her and smiled in that… God, that sort of… sort of charming way, and then he said, “Come in, hop in.”

Abi hopped.

It was a ten-minute drive; as they parked outside the block on her bleak, narrow street, she said, hoping she sounded like the nice girl he seemed to imagine she was, “Would you like to come in for a coffee?”

“I’d love to, but I really mustn’t. My ghastly brother’s coming down tomorrow-”

“What, the accountant?”

“That’s the one. God, I must be boring. Banging on about my family.”

“William,” said Abi, reaching up to kiss his cheek, “you couldn’t ever be boring. I could listen to you all”-she had been going to say “all night” but amended it hastily to-“all day. Even talking about your cows. Your girls, as you call them.”

He did; she had found that unbelievably sweet.

“Really?” She was sure if it had been light, she would have seen him blushing. He did blush; became discomfited quite easily. He wasn’t exactly shy, but he was quite… bashful. The other thing he did was giggle. He had a wonderful laugh, a booming, roaring laugh, but he also, when suddenly amused, giggled uncontrollably and infectiously.

“So why is he coming? Your brother? Family party?”

“No, no. It’s business. Potentially difficult, actually. Which is why I want to have a clear head.”

“Why? In what way?”

“Oh, Abi, I’ve bored you enough.”

“No, you haven’t. Come on in and tell me about it.”

She knew Sylvie was out-for the night. They’d be quite… undisturbed.

He said nothing, just got out of the car, came round, and opened the door for her. This was just… ridiculous She felt she was in a fifties movie or something. She got out, smiling, trying to be graceful and ladylike, and promptly tripped on a jutting paving stone and fell forwards.

His arms went out to catch her and, having caught her, somehow went round her; and she stood there, held by him, looking up at him, and he was looking down at her, and then slowly, rather tentatively, he bent his head and started to kiss her. And having started, continued, and it was the most fantastic kiss, hard and probing and quite slow at the same time; and she felt herself responding in the most unladylike way, meeting his tongue with hers, feeling the kiss working, moving downwards, the sensation warm and invasive, rippling out in a series of ever bigger sensations, and she pushed her hips against him, felt him responding; and then suddenly he drew back, stopped kissing her, just looked down at her, half smiling, half-embarrassed, and she said, “Why?”

And he said, “Abi, I’m sorry, I-”

“Sorry?” she said, and then, “Fuck sorry, William; just do it again, or come in, or-”

But, “No,” he said, “I mustn’t. Honestly, Abi, I’d love to, I really would, but we hardly know each other.”

And that made her laugh, rather weakly, leaning against him and pulling his head down and kissing him, quite differently now, on the cheek, on his nose.

“You really are special,” she said, “so, so special. Promise me one thing: let’s do it again, very soon.”

“What, drinks, dinner-”

“Yes, if you want. Drinks, dinner, kiss, and then see what happens next. OK?”

He was silent, looking down at her very seriously, and… God, she thought, I’ve gone too far, acted like a tart; and then he smiled, almost embarrassed, and said, “Yeah, well, that’d be great. Absolutely great. I’ll ring you, OK?”

“You’d better,” she said, releasing herself from him, grinning at him, walking towards the front door of her block. “And if you don’t, I’ll ring you. I haven’t been very well brought up, you see. That’s what I do, ring blokes I fancy. Night, William-thanks for a great evening.”

“No,” he said, “no, thank you. It’s been terrific. You’re very special too, Abi. I hope you know that.”

And he drove off slowly, and she stood there looking after him, and then went inside and got into bed, and lay there wide-awake, still excited, still hardly touching reality, wondering how soon she might see him again and whether that time she would be able to persuade him into bed with her. Even though… what was it he’d said? Oh, yes, even though they hardly knew each other. Incredible that people still thought like that. Absolutely incredible…

And William drove home rather slowly, playing his favourite Bruce Springsteen CD, and wondering if it was even remotely possible that a girl as sexy and funny and fun as Abi could possibly enjoy being with him, and whether she’d meant it when she’d said she’d like to go out with him again.

CHAPTER 23

Laura wanted to believe Jonathan more than anything on earth. About Abi Scott. Her whole life and happiness hung on it. Because if it wasn’t true, if he’d been having an affair with her-with anyone-then there was no way she could stay with him. She had always felt that trust was absolutely synonymous with love. However wonderful Jonathan was, however good their marriage was, however perfect their life, if he’d betrayed her, she couldn’t possibly go on with it. How could you go to sleep beside a man, wake up with him, live in his house, bring up his children, if he had lied to you, if all those “I love you”s, all those “I couldn’t live without you”s, had been said to someone else?

If he had made love to someone else, known her body intimately, caressed her, entered her, made her come, then how could you possibly stay with him, accept those lies, forgive them-and him? How would you ever believe him again if he said he was working late, on a business trip, dining with colleagues? Suspicion would poison every smile, every kiss, every caress; would distort pleasure, wreck contentment, ruin memory. That was the worst thing, perhaps: that you would remember all the most precious times-the commitment to stay together forever, the arrival of the babies, the sweetly charged intimacies of marriage-and know it had all been a sham, see it as distorted, ugly cruelly changed.

She was trying-so hard-to get it back, the happiness and the trust. But until she knew for sure, she was failing. And becoming obsessed with the need to know…

“Now, this is interesting,” said Freeman. They were examining CCTV footage. “Here we have our best man standing in the queue for the tyre gauge.”

“What’s wrong with that?” said Rowe.

“Nothing. It’s the responsible thing to do-especially if you’re thinking of driving rather fast. But the point is, Mr. Fraser told us he hadn’t done anything at the service station except get fuel.”

“Well, I expect he just didn’t mention it. Forgot.”

“Rowe, you don’t forget things like that. Especially when x minutes later your tyre bursts and contributes to a major accident. No, I think we should perhaps talk to Mr. Fraser again. Ask him about it. Or-which might be cleverer-talk to the bridegroom. Get a separate account.”

“You can’t do that yet,” said Rowe. “He’s very unwell. I thought they said he might be having major surgery on Monday.”

“Mr. Connell is also very unwell. We learnt quite a lot from him.”

“That’s true. Although it was pretty muddled. All that stuff about feeling sleepy and eating jelly babies. And the second person in the van.”

“I’ve told you before, Rowe, the devil’s in the details in this game.” If he said that once more, Rowe thought, he’d thump him. “The very fact that he was talking about jelly babies, not just chocolate, could be important. If he can be precise about his sweets, then we can take more notice of the rest of his testimony.

“Now, it could be his confusion, this second person in the van. But put together with-what-three reports now about this mysterious girl at the scene of the crash, I think it bears a very close look indeed.” He paused. “You know, Rowe, I’m wondering if we can get the media interested in this one. We’d get more eyewitnesses to what actually happened. And in particular, who else might have seen this girl, and a second person in the lorry-who, of course, are not necessarily one and the same. I think I’ll talk to the PR department first thing Monday. See if they can get it on the news.”

“So how would we go about it?”

“Oh, we-or the PR people-contact one of their researchers, give them the story, make it sound as interesting as we can; after that it’s up to them. Bit of a beauty contest, really-”

“I wonder if they ever found that missing dog,” said Rowe suddenly, “the golden retriever. That would be the sort of thing they’d like…”

There was a silence; then Freeman said, slightly grudgingly, “It could be, yes. Why don’t you check it out, Rowe?”

Georgia was beginning to feel she had two heads. Or two selves. It was very odd. There was the Georgia who had just got a part in a prestigious TV series, who was feeling pretty pleased with herself; and there was the other Georgia, who was scared and miserable and ashamed of herself, who didn’t remotely know what to do to make things better. Or rather who did know, but seemed to entirely lack the courage to do it.

She could be walking through Cardiff, going to meet a friend, listening to her iPod, and looking in the windows of Topshop, and without warning the terror would be there, the terror and the awful despair. She would stand still, shaking, feeling she would never move again, trying to set aside the memories and the guilt, and then she would have to call the friend, plead illness, and go home again, creeping under her duvet, crying, sometimes for hours at time.

And then, equally without reason, it would go again, and she would find herself able to say, Well, was it really so bad, what she had done? And no one need ever know, and one day, yes, one day she would go and see Patrick-who was, after all, still alive-and say she was sorry…

Only… she knew she couldn’t. She really, really couldn’t.

“Wednesday’s the big day now,” said Toby. He had rung Barney at work; his voice was painfully cheerful.

“Yeah? For… what?”

As if he didn’t know.

“Oh-this final washout thing. If they don’t think it’s working then-”

“Well, then, they’ll try again,” said Barney.

“Mate, they won’t,” said Toby.

“Course they will. They’re not going to give up on you.”

“No. Just take the leg off. Or some of it.”

“Oh, Tobes. Of… of course they’re not. Whatever makes you think that?”

“Because the fucking doctor told me so. He was very nice, very positive, said he was fairly confident that it would be OK, but we had to face the fact it might not be. I’ll have to sign a consent thing, apparently, before I go down. Shit, Barney, I’m scared.”

There was a silence; then Barney said, “So… have you told Tamara?”

“Oh, no, no. I thought it would upset her too much.”

“Well, that’s very brave of you,” Barney said carefully. “What about your parents?”

“No, I haven’t told them either. Poor old Mum, she’s upset enough as it is.”

“Well…” Barney sought wildly round for something to say that might help. “Well… tell you what, Tobes: would you like me to come down on Wednesday? Be there when it’s done? Not in the operating theatre, of course-don’t think I could cope with that-but I’ll spend the time beforehand with you, be there when you come back. With two good legs, obviously.”

“Shit, Barney, you are the best. Would you really? Yeah, that’d be great. They said it’d be the afternoon probably. I was thinking what a ghastly long day it would be. But… you’ll be-”

“I’ll be there…”

Sometime, when Toby felt better, Barney thought, they should discuss the little matter of the tyre. Just so that they were saying the same thing. If anyone asked Toby. Which they probably wouldn’t…

CHAPTER 24

Patrick was in the grip of a horror and fear that had a physical presence, that were invading him as surely as the pain had done on the day of the accident. Somehow talking to the police had made it worse, had made him more certain that he had gone to sleep; just hearing his own voice, describing it, made it seem impossible that there had been another explanation. He had killed all those people, ruined all those lives; it was his fault; he had blood on his hands as surely as if he had taken a gun and shot them all.

And not being able to remember anything made it worse, rendered him completely out of control. They’d told him it would come back, his memory, but the more he tried to remember, the more difficult it got; it was like trying to see through a fog that was thickening by the day. Even the other person in the van seemed to be disappearing into that fog. And even if someone had been there, he had still been at the wheel…

The horror never left him; he lay for hours just wrestling with it, woke to it, slept his drugged sleep with it, dreamed of it. There was no room for anything else: for hope, for calm-just the horror rendering it ugly and even obscene. It was all going to go on until he died; there was no escape anywhere. He reflected on all the skill and care that were going into his recovery, or his possible recovery, and there seemed no point, absolutely no point at all in any of it. He wished it would stop altogether; he wished he could stop.

And then in a moment of revelation, it came to him that actually, if he really wanted that, he could.

“You look tired, Mum; why don’t you go through and watch TV. Gerry’ll help me clear away, won’t you, Gerry?”

“Oh… no,” said Mary. Her heart thumped uncomfortably. “Look… I’d like to talk to you both about something. The thing is… well, look, dears, this may come as… well, as a bit of a surprise to you, but you know I was on my way to London last week? The day of the crash? I wasn’t entirely honest about the reason. I was going to meet someone.”

“Yes, you said… A friend.”

“Indeed. But he was a little more than a friend.”

“He? Mum, what have you been up to?”

Christine’s eyes were dancing.

“Well, the person I went to meet was an American gentleman. Called Russell Mackenzie.”

“Good heavens! And-”

“Well, and we met a very long time ago. During the war. He was a GI and we… well, we became very fond of each other.”

“What, you had an affair, you mean?”

“Certainly not,” said Mary. “Not in the way you mean. We didn’t do that sort of thing in those days. Well, I didn’t, anyway.”

“But… you were in love with him?”

“Yes,” said Mary. “Very much.”

“Gosh, how romantic. Weren’t you tempted to marry him, go out there after the war, be a GI bride or whatever?”

“No. I wasn’t. I had promised to marry your father; we were unofficially engaged. He was in a prisoner-of-war camp. As you know.”

“But… you still had an affair-all right, a relationship-with this chap?”

“Yes, I did. But he knew there was no future in it, that I was going to marry your father.”

“But he carried on… chasing you? And you let him?”

“Well… yes. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but it was wartime; things were very different.”

“Of course. Anyway, he went back to the States?”

“Yes, and married someone else in due course, and I married your father. But… we kept in touch. We wrote… regularly. All through the years. We remained very… close. In an odd way.”

“How regularly? A few times a year?”

It was best to be truthful. This was too important not to be. “No, we wrote at least once a month.”

“Once a month! Did Dad know?”

“No, he had no idea. I knew it would… upset him. That he wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do either.” Christine’s face was suddenly flushed.

“You’re telling me you were so involved with this man you wrote to him every month, for years and years and years, right through your marriage, but it didn’t affect your feelings for Dad?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“But, Mum, it must have done. I couldn’t deceive Gerry like that.”

“It wasn’t exactly deceit, dear.”

“Mum, it was. Did he tell his wife? This Russell person?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Well, it sounds pretty unbelievable. I mean that all you did was write. Did he ever come over; did you meet him without Dad knowing?”

“No, Christine, I didn’t. I wouldn’t have done that.”

“Well, go on.” She was looking almost hostile now. “What happened next in this romantic story?”

“Chris!” Gerry was looking very uncomfortable. “Don’t get upset.”

“Well, I am upset. I suddenly discover there’s been another man in my mother’s life that my father didn’t know about-if Dad had found out, Mum, don’t you think he’d have been upset?”

“Yes, I do. Which was why I never told him.”

“Well, then. It was wrong. Anyway, go on.”

Mary felt like crying; this was exactly what she had feared.

“Well, now, you see, Russell’s wife has died, and… he’s come over to see me, and we… well, we still feel very fond of each other.”

“Has he been to the hospital?”

“Yes, he has.”

“But you didn’t tell me?”

“No, dear.”

“You were obviously feeling guilty about it. That proves it, as far as I’m concerned. He was there, in your marriage to Dad, even if Dad didn’t know. I think it’s really, really bad.”

“Chris. Easy! Your mum’s done nothing wrong.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but that’s a matter of opinion. Anyway, what happens next? I hope he’s not coming here.”

“Not if you don’t want him to.”

“I don’t.”

“But I would like you to meet him.”

“I don’t want to meet him.”

“But, Christine, we are planning to spend a lot of time together. A lot. I know you’d like him if you only met him.”

“I don’t want to like him. And what does ‘a lot’ mean? I hope you’re not planning to set up house with him or something?”

“Chris!” said Gerry.

Mary met her daughter’s eyes steadily. She had hoped to take it gently, to let Chris meet Russell, get to know him, but-

“Actually” she said, “we are hoping to… well, to get married. We feel very strongly that we’ve spent enough time apart.”

“Oh, please spare me. You’ve been reading too many Mills and Boon books, Mum. You’ve not been apart from this man; you’ve been married to Dad. Whom you were supposed to love. Poor old Dad! He must be turning in his grave.”

“Chris,” said Gerry, “I think we’ve had enough of this conversation. You’re really upsetting your mother.”

“Good. She’s upset me. And I don’t know what Timothy’s going to say. Oh, I’m going to go and do the clearing up. I’ll see you both in the morning.”

Mary felt dreadful. Russell had been wrong: he’d said Christine would understand, would be happy for her. Now what could she do? Everything was spoilt suddenly; she felt guilty and ashamed, instead of happy and excited.

She went to bed and lay thinking about Donald, and that he would actually have minded very much if he had known, and feeling, for the very first time, that she had betrayed him.

“I know it’s awful of me,” said Tamara, slipping her arm through Barney’s as they walked towards the lift, “but I’m beginning to feel just the tiniest bit selfish about all this. I mean, I haven’t said one word to Tobes, obviously, and he can’t help what’s happened, but…”

Her voice trailed away; Barney felt a wave of rage so violent he actually wanted to hit her, instead of taking her for a drink, as she had persuaded him to do. She had come back to work at the beginning of the week-“Well, I was so bored, and fed up, working suddenly looked like quite fun by comparison”-and had appeared by his desk after lunch, suggesting that they should go for a drink after work.

And so here he was, up on the forty-second floor of Vertigo with her, and faced by at least an hour of her phony distress-well, he supposed the distress was genuine; it was just over the wrong cause…

“Yes,” she said, sipping thoughtfully at her champagne, “like I was saying, Barney, I just can’t help it; I feel really, really bad.”

“About Toby, you mean?”

“Well, yes, obviously, poor angel.”

“How do you think he’s doing?” said Barney, desperate to postpone the moment when she would clearly expect sympathy. “With his leg, I mean?”

“Oh, darling, I don’t know. The doctors don’t seem to know what to think about it-between you and me I wonder if they know what they’re doing half the time-but Toby seems to think they’re marvellous, and his parents do too. I mean, I’d have insisted he went private, but it’s not up to me, of course. Apparently they’ve made inquiries and been told he couldn’t be anywhere better…”

“Yes, that’s what he told me on Sunday, how good it was-Amanda and I went down-”

“Barney, you’re so sweet and good to go and see him so often. I can’t tell you how much he appreciates it.”

“Well, he is my best friend, after all.”

“I know, but it’s such a long way-”

“It is, yes. I’m surprised you came back up here, actually, Tamara, when you could visit him so easily from your parents’ house-”

“Well, as I say, I was getting very depressed. Being there kept me thinking about the wedding, you know? It wouldn’t be so bad if we’d been able to settle on another date, but we can’t even do that.”

He was silent.

“Anyway, he so understands, bless him, that I need to get back to work. And of course I’ll be there every weekend.”

“Right.”

“But like I was saying, it’s all beginning to hit me now. And I wouldn’t point the tiniest finger of blame in your direction. Not the tiniest.” There was a silence; then she said suddenly, “Except… why were you so late, Barney? I’d quite like to know. Seeing it cost me my wedding.”

Barney felt his stomach lurch.

“Tamara, it was the crash that cost you your wedding.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was because you left so late. If you’d left in time, you’d have been there hours before the crash. I mean, you were going to have lunch with the ushers, weren’t you?”

“Yes. Well… the thing is, Tamara… I… He… that is… Toby wasn’t very well. He kept throwing up. All morning. We really couldn’t set out before. It was impossible.”

“Oh. Oh, I see… Poor old Tobes. Something he ate, I s’pose. Or a bug. I mean, you wouldn’t have let him get drunk, obviously, it wouldn’t have been a hangover.”

“No, of course not,” said Barney.

“He didn’t actually mention any of that… Well, thank you for telling me. I feel better now.”

“Good,” said Barney. He found he was sweating. The champagne was wonderfully cold; he drank down half the glass gratefully.

“Anyway, obviously I’m not going to raise it with Toby, or anything like that. He’s feeling guilty enough, poor darling.”

“Guilty?” said Barney. He was genuinely shocked.

“Yes, course. Barney, of course he’s feeling guilty. I mean, of course he shouldn’t, and I did tell him that, but… well, he does; he can’t help it. I mean, wouldn’t you? If it had been yours and Amanda’s wedding?”

“I don’t think so,” said Barney, “no.” He couldn’t take any more of this. “Anyway, Tamara, I must go. I-” His phone rang. “Excuse me. It’s Amanda. Hi, darling. You all right?”

“I’m fine, Barney. But… Carol Weston’s been on the phone, wants to talk to you. Some bad-ish news about Toby’s leg, I’m afraid. I think she’d like you to ring her. And are you going to be late? Because if you are-”

“No,” said Barney. “No, I’m leaving right now.”

CHAPTER 25

Georgia was sitting in the kitchen in Cardiff, grazing through the newspaper, and wondering if she should get a job in a bar for the next two or three weeks until Moving Away went into production. (It was one of the good days.)

“Oh, my God!” She thought she might be about to throw up.

She stood up, staring at the paper, open at a page of minor news items, the largest of which read, “Mystery on the Motorway” and continued with a story of a “so far unconfirmed report” that the lorry driver who had crashed through a barrier on the M4 the previous week, causing a seven-mile tailback in both directions and killing several people, had spoken of a second and unidentified person in his cab who had subsequently vanished.

“This is the first indication that there might have been a passenger in the cab. The police refuse to confirm or deny it, and there have been no further reports. If such a person does exist, then he or she could clearly have valuable information that would go a long way towards establishing the original cause of the crash, something police are very eager to settle.

“Although many of the injured are recovering in the hospital and some have returned home, there is still anxiety over the fate of Toby Weston, the young bridegroom who sustained serious injuries in the pileup, and never reached his wedding. The bride, Tamara Lloyd, told our reporter she was ‘absolutely distraught with worry’

“The crash, which is still being investigated by the police, was one of the worst in years.

“There have been several calls recently for lorry drivers’ hours to be more strictly regulated. While British drivers adhere strictly, for the most part, to the rules, drivers from the continent often drive twice as many miles in a week, and break the speed limit for heavy vehicles. This can lead to acute tiredness and dangerous driving. The lorry driver in question was British…”

“Very carefully written,” said Freeman to Rowe, when it was brought to his attention. “Plenty of suggestion that the crash was caused by dangerous driving on the part of the driver, without actually saying so. Nothing we could actually object to.”

“It’s disgraceful,” said Rowe, “hardly going to make the poor sod feel better, is it?”

“No,” said Freeman, “but it’ll probably make the TV people more interested in our case.”

“The PR people were more interested in the dog,” said Rowe.

Toby was very low: two days to go. He’d rung Barney in the office; Barney had decided to go down that evening. He found him sitting in bed, pale and morose.

“I’m shit scared,” Toby said.

Tears formed in his eyes, rolled slowly down his face; Barney reached out and gripped his hand.

“Oh, Tobes. You’ll be all right. I know you will.”

“I don’t. Oh, God. Barney, what am I going to do; how am I going to face it? It’s so fucking unfair. Just five more minutes and we’d have been OK. We should have left earlier, shouldn’t we? Tamara keeps saying that.”

“Oh, really?” Cow. Bitch. How helpful. How totally helpful…

“Still, you did your best, I know.”

“Yeah, I did. And, Toby, we couldn’t have left much earlier.”

“We couldn’t?”

“No. Course not.”

“Why?”

“Toby, you had to go and see that girl-”

Toby suddenly looked different: wary, almost suspicious.

“Barney, that so didn’t happen. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, its OK, Toby; don’t worry, mate. “He drew his finger across his throat, grinned at him determinedly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“It’s not funny,” said Toby. “Not a joke. OK?”

“Yes, OK.”

“Just… didn’t happen.”

“No, all right.” Barney began to feel mildly resentful. What did Toby think he was going to do, tell Tamara, his parents?

“But, Tobes, there is something else. The tyre. You remember?”

“What tyre?”

“The one that blew.”

“Oh… yes.”

“I didn’t… well, I didn’t say-to the police, that is-about its being soft.”

“Was it?”

“You know it was. And we didn’t put any air in; you didn’t want to wait-”

“Oh… Christ, no. We don’t want to tell them that. Start looking for trouble-”

“No. Good. Well, I just thought… they’re bound to interview you when you’re out of here. Important we’re singing from the same song sheet.”

“Yeah, OK. Pretty obvious, I’d have thought.”

“Right.” He felt irritated suddenly, almost angry. He’d been making himself sick with worry over this whole business, and Toby was treating him with something close to arrogance.

Suddenly he couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Look, Toby, I must go. Got to get back. But I will be here on Wednesday. Promise.”

“Yeah, I know. Oh, Barney… you’re… well, you’re all right, you know that?”

He reached across the bed and shook Barney’s hand; the sheer stiff-upper-lipness of the gesture made them both grin, slightly embarrassed.

“Right. See you then. You won’t be here much longer. We’ll have a party, Tobes, biggest fucking party ever, when you get out of here. We’ll have you dancing on the tables…”

Barney felt very upset as he left the hospital, almost physically dizzy at the horror of what might lie ahead, and-he had to be honest with himself-Toby’s behaviour. Of course, he was ill and scared shitless, but he didn’t have to treat him like some kind of wanker who was going to sell him down the river. He sat down suddenly on the steps, trying to pull himself together, fumbling in his pockets for his cigarettes.

And then: “Barney?”

She was standing above him, her huge eyes concerned; she had no makeup on, and she looked absurdly younger than ever. And absurdly lovely…

“Oh-hello, Emma.”

“You OK?”

“Yes. No. Well-just left Toby. He’s… he’s… well, got to have this final washout thing on Wednesday. And they’ve told him he might… might lose his leg. Or part of it.”

“Oh, Barney. Oh, I’m so sorry.”

She sat down beside him abruptly, her blue eyes full of sympathy.

“But… it’s not certain, is it? They’re still hopeful?”

“Toby doesn’t seem very hopeful. Anyway, I’m going to come down again on Wednesday. Be with him. Before and so on. And… and after.”

“That’ll help him a lot.”

“Really?”

“Well, yes. Positive support is really important on these occasions. What about his fiancée?”

“Oh, she doesn’t know.” He was unable to disguise the contempt in his voice. “Toby says it would upset her.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I feel like shit,” he said suddenly.

“I’m sure you do. You’re so fond of Toby, and-”

“No, no. More than that. I feel awful a lot of the time. About the accident. About us having that blowout, hitting the other car, that girl and her baby, all those people killed, Toby’s leg-and look at me, not a scratch. Doesn’t seem right.”

“Lots of people feel like that,” she said. “It’s the whole thing about people dying, you getting off without a scratch. It’s very common.”

“Really?”

“Really. It wasn’t your fault, Barney, any of it. You can’t start thinking that.”

“I have started thinking it, though,” he said, “I think it all the time. It’s… well, it’s horrible.”

“Maybe you should talk to someone about it. Someone who could help.”

She looked at him, her eyes so full of sympathy and concern he felt suddenly better.

“Oh… no, thanks. I’m sorry, Emma. I hate that sort of stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Oh, you know, what I call Guardian stuff. Counselling, all that crap. I’m fine, honestly. I’ll just have a fag; that’ll cure me.”

She laughed.

“Look, I’ve got to go now. But I’m here on Wednesday. On duty. Come and find me in A and E while he’s… well, in the theatre. If I’m not too busy, we could have a coffee or something, pass the time. If that’d be a help at all.”

Barney looked at her; her expression was sweetly earnest. Seemingly unable to help himself, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

“That is so, so kind of you, Emma,” he said, “and of course it would be a help. Thank you.”

“Good, it’s a date then. Look, I’ve got to go. I’m late already.” She smiled at him, jumped up, half ran across the car park. Of course. She was off to meet the boyfriend, no doubt. Lucky bastard. Lucky, lucky bastard.

CHAPTER 26

“There’s a letter for you, Mum.”

Christine smiled at her briefly, but it was a polite, rather cool smile, the one she had been using ever since Mary had told her about Russell.

Mary had phoned Russell the day after their conversation, when Christine was out, to explain; he had been surprisingly agreeable about it, had said he was sure she’d come round in a day or two. As the two became three and then four, he was growing impatient. And it was so hard to talk to him at all; she had to wait for the phone until Christine was out. Well, only another week, and then she’d be in her own home; and she had booked a cab to take her over to the hotel on Saturday, when Christine would be out for the day and wouldn’t know. But the long-term prognosis was not good.

She took the letter from Christine-it was written in that unmistakable American handwriting-and went upstairs with it. “My darling Little Sparrow,” the letter began. “How hard this new separation is…”

That afternoon, Maeve walked quietly into Patrick’s room; he was sitting staring straight ahead of him; he had become very pale and thin in his two weeks’ incarceration.

“Hello, Patrick.”

He scarcely looked at her, just sighed and said, “Hello, Maeve.”

“How are you today?”

“I’m how you’d think,” he said, and his voice was heavy. “I am sick of being here in this bed. I’m in pain, I can’t sleep, I’m going to be here for the rest of my life, and no doubt people would say I deserve all of that, and I would say it of myself. I’m a murderer; I killed all those people-”

“Patrick, hush.” She went over to the bed, put her arms round him, kissed his cheek. “Patrick, you don’t know that. You have to try to keep faith with yourself; something else might have happened… You can’t remember-”

“I remember enough,” he said, “enough to know I was desperate for sleep, biting my own fists, counting backwards from a thousand-”

“You don’t… you don’t remember this other person being there with you? It’s not… not clearing at all?”

“No,” he said, his voice bitter. “If anything it’s going farther away. I’m beginning to think it was some kind of hallucination, wishful thinking…” He reached for a tissue, blew his nose, wiped his eyes. “How are the boys?”

“They’re fine. They want to come and see you so much. Callum has done you a fine picture, look, and Liam says I have to give you fifty kisses-shall I bring them in tomorrow, Patrick? Mum says she’ll drive us all down.”

“I don’t want to see them,” he said. “I want them to forget about me.”

“Forget about you? And what sort of a child will forget his own father? As fine a one as you? And why should he?”

“If the father is a killer, if he’s been responsible for the deaths of many people, he’s better forgotten, Maeve. I wish only one thing now: that I had been killed myself, that I had died in that cab-”

“Patrick Connell, will you just shut up now?”

The seemingly endless strain and exhaustion finally defeated Maeve; she felt angry with him, angry not for what he had done-or not done-but for his willingness to give in, to turn his back on the children.

“How dare you talk like that, how dare you, when the finest doctors in this hospital have worked so hard to save you, when your own children cry every night, they want to see you so much, when I feel so tired I could just lie down on that floor and sleep for all eternity myself. But I can’t, Patrick, because someone has to keep going. Someone has to see after the children, and visit you every day, and work so hard to cheer you, and-”

He turned his head to look at her, and his expression was quite blank, his eyes dull and disinterested.

“You don’t have to come,” he said. “It would be much better if you didn’t.”

Maeve straightened up, looked at him very briefly, and then picked up her bag and walked out of the room.

Russell’s letter had been to tell Mary that she wasn’t to worry about him; they had the rest of their lives together, after all, but to concentrate her efforts on making her peace with her daughter.

“That really is the most important thing right now. How extraordinary this all is! I’ve started to worry about my children’s reactions as well. Maybe we should run away together to Gretna Green and get married with just a couple of witnesses. But it’s not what I want, of course: I want all our friends and family there; I want everyone to watch us being married, you becoming Mary Mackenzie. After all these years.”

But Mary could see that both their families might find this a little difficult. And she was sure Russell’s rather grand family would look down on her. What had seemed incredibly romantic and exciting suddenly was turning into a depressing mess.

When Toby went down to the theatre, Barney headed in the direction of Cirencester. He parked in the centre of the town, sat down on a seat, and smoked a couple of cigarettes, and suddenly found himself consumed with anxiety, a fear that was so physical he actually shook, over what might be happening to Toby right this minute. How would he manage with only half a leg? What would he do when he couldn’t swim or run or play tennis or ski? How would he be able to cope with the social life of work, the rowdy drinking, the late-night dining, the clubbing, when he had to be helped in and out of places, relying on friends, on kindness, permanently grateful, always different from the rest. Of course, they would give him prostheses-people managed wonderfully well with such things, and Toby would try with all the courage he had to do the same. But at the end of the day, he would no longer be the Toby he had been, impatiently fit and fast; he would be a different, less independent creature, robbed of being physically confident, and-Barney knew-slightly ashamed, literally, of himself. And what of Tamara; what would she make of him, no longer her perfect, wonderfully handsome fiancé, but someone she would certainly see as second-rate, second choice? Give her six months, present her with a different and perfect young man, and it was horrible to contemplate how quickly she would back off, making ugly, feeble excuses…

Barney wrenched his mind off Tamara and looked at his watch, which had advanced terrifyingly far, and drove very fast back to the hospital.

He was in such a state of terror as he parked his car that he misjudged the size of the space available to him and hit the wing mirror of a horribly new-looking Audi TT in the next bay. Barney knew about those Audis; fixing it would cost several hundred pounds. Well, it hardly compared with a shattered leg. He scribbled a note and left it on the windscreen.

He looked at his watch: one fifteen. Shit. Toby would probably be out of the theatre now. Conscious and needing him. Fine friend he’d turned out. He ran across the car park, and then, unable to contemplate hearing the bad news on his own, made for A &E and Emma. It was deserted, apart from a woman with a wailing baby and an elderly man with an arm in a sling. He looked over at the reception desk; there was only one woman on duty, and she was chatting to a nurse about some event in the department that had taken place earlier in the day. He walked over and waited politely for what felt like ten minutes; then, driven beyond endurance, said, “Excuse me…”

“Yes?” said the woman coldly.

“I wondered if I could see Dr. King. Dr. Emma King?”

“What would it be concerning?”

“A patient,” he said. “Toby Weston.”

“Well, there’s no one of that name here.”

“No,” said Barney, slightly desperately, “no, he’s on Men’s Surgical. He’s in-been to-the theatre this morning.”

“Well, that’s nothing to do with Dr. King. Who told you to ask for her?”

“She did,” said Barney firmly. “When I saw her earlier today.” As Toby was being taken down to the theatre…

“Well, I can’t think why.”

“I could explain,” said Barney, “but…” He looked at the clock. Shit. One twenty-five. “Look,” he said, “couldn’t you just page Dr. King or something, tell her I’m here? She is expecting me. Please. It really is very important.”

The woman sighed and started tapping at her computer keys.

“Barney! Hi!” It was Emma. Barney had never seen her without a lift of his heart; at that moment he felt he could have taken off through the hospital roof. “I wondered where you were. Come with me. It’s fine, Pat; he’s a friend.”

Emma led him through the doors at the back of the waiting area, and then along a corridor into a small office.

“I’ll ring up to the theatre now.”

Emma dialled a number; waited. And waited. Hours seemed to pass. Barney felt he was about to throw up.

“They’re obviously frantic,” she said, “just not answering. Look-let’s go up there. Come on.”

She led the way on what seemed to Barney an endless journey: into lifts, along corridors, through doors, through more doors. Looking at his watch as she stopped in front of a door marked, Medical Personnel Only, he was amazed to see it was only five minutes since she’d appeared in A &E.

“Wait there,” she said, and knocked on the door. A nurse dressed in scrubs appeared; she looked rather coldly at Emma.

“Yes?” she said.

“Sorry,” said Emma, “Dr. King, from A and E. I’m… well, I wondered if you had any news of a patient. Toby Weston.”

“Oh, him. Not yet, no,” said the nurse. “He’s only just out of the theatre. Still under. Shouldn’t be long. Wait out there.” She glared at Barney. “I’ll give you a shout.”

That was it, then: nearly three hours in surgery. Emma had said that if the news was good he’d be back in an hour or so. It must have gone horribly wrong. There could be no other explanation. Toby had lost his leg. And his old life with it. And if Barney’d got him onto that road just a bit earlier, none of it would have happened; they’d never have got into that bloody accident; it was his fault. Tamara had been right in that, at least…

He looked at Emma; she had blurred, and he realised he was crying. Stop it, Fraser, not for you to blub. Get a grip.

He turned away; he felt a hand slide into his. A cool, small hand.

“Barney. Don’t give up yet. They’ve been terribly busy; they might have had to delay it. Or-”

“Or they didn’t. Or his leg’s gone. How could it take this long, Emma, how could it possibly…?”

“I… don’t know. But… well, this isn’t an exact science; they’re not building a car.”

They were both silent; he realised he was still holding her hand. He looked down at it, and then at her, smiled slightly awkwardly.

“Thank you for doing all this, Emma. It’s very good of you.”

“It’s my pleasure. Honestly. Well…” She smiled suddenly, that brilliant, light-the-day-up smile. “Well, I hope it is. I mean, I hope it will be.”

“If… that is… if they do… you know-”

“Amputate?” she said gently. It was somehow good hearing it spoken, confronted like that.

“Yeah. If they do, who’ll tell him? The doctor, the nurses-”

“They will tell him very carefully. They’re quite… gentle these days. The surgeon in charge is a friend of mine. He’s-”

“What, you know the guy who’s doing this?”

“Well, yes.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” For some reason this had made him angry. “Why the fuck won’t he tell you, at least? That is so arrogant. What sort of rules do you people live by?”

She stared at him; she flushed.

“Barney, you don’t quite understand. It’s-”

“You’re too damn right I don’t. Here we are sweating our guts out, no one having the decency to come out of that door and tell us what’s happening, and you say the person doing this to Toby is a friend of yours. Rum sort of friend, that’s all I can say.”

She shrugged, turned away; he had clearly upset her. Well, that was fine. She-The door opened suddenly, and the nurse came out.

“Dr. King,” she said, “can you come in a minute?”

Well, that was definitely it. He knew now. It was the worst. He felt sick, then as if he might cry again; he turned away from the door, stared down the corridor, wondering how… what-

“Barney.”

He turned. Emma was standing looking at him; she was flushed, looked close to tears herself.

“Yeah?” he said, aware he sounded hostile still.

And then he realised she was smiling and, yes, almost crying at the same time, and then she said, in a voice that was clearly struggling not to shake, “Barney, Toby’s fine. The leg’s good; it’s beginning to heal. He’s… well, he’s only just coming round properly now. Mark-that’s the surgeon-says you can see him, just for a moment. Want to come in?”

“Oh, shit,” said Barney, “oh, for fuck’s sake. Oh, Emma. Emma, I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean anything I just said. Here…”

And suddenly, he was hugging her, and she was smiling up at him and hugging him back, and then she took his hand again and led him through the door and into a small room where Toby lay on a high, hard bed, struggling to smile through the confusion of his anaesthetic.

“Hello, you old fucker,” said Barney. “You really put us through it this morning, didn’t you?” And then he couldn’t say any more, because he really did start to cry, tears running down his face; and he realised both Emma and the nurse were smiling at him, and he pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose very hard and said, “Well done, mate. Bloody well done.”

CHAPTER 27

Freeman and Rowe had been to interview Mary Bristow that day; expecting a dotty old lady they had found themselves confronted by a razor-clear mind, and an extremely lucid account of what she had seen of the accident and, indeed, the road that day.

“Some terrible driving. Two or three lorries cutting in and out of the slow lane, moving in front of people. I have to say they were all foreign number plates. I found that reassuring, in a way. At least our drivers seem to know how to behave.”

“Any more particular cases of bad driving that you recall?”

“Well, I did notice several white vans; they’re supposed to be the worst, aren’t they? Anyway, one did particularly strike me; he’d been sitting very close behind us, and then shot past, and I noticed that he didn’t even have his back doors properly fastened. They were just held together with a bit of rope; it seemed very unwise.”

“Indeed. Did you notice any writing or anything like that on his van?”

“There were three letters on one of the back doors, obviously part of a name, but not in sequence. If you see what I mean. That is to say, not a complete word or name. The rest had come off. It wasn’t at all a well-looked-after vehicle.”

“And can you remember what the letters were?”

“I can, as a matter of fact.”

These old parties: amazing, thought Freeman. He supposed it was surviving the blitz or something…

“Yes,” she said, “they were W-D-T. In that order. I remember because we used to play a game with the children, making up words from car number plates. I’m sure you know the sort of thing. I mean B and T and W would obviously be Bristow. Although proper names were not allowed, of course.”

“Of course,” said Freeman. He was beginning to feel rather confused himself.

“So, yes, I still do it rather automatically. Ah, WDT, I thought-War Department. We used to get countless letters from them, or rather my husband did; they figured rather large in our lives at the time. I don’t suppose it’s much help, but-”

“It could be a help, Mrs. Bristow. I don’t suppose you were playing the same game with the number plate?”

“Oh-no. I’m so sorry. Not his. Some of the others, but-”

“Well, never mind. And at what point in the journey did you see this van? Shortly before the crash, or-”

“It was a good fifteen minutes before. And he was going very fast. He would have been well ahead-unless he stopped, of course, but it was after the service station; I do know that.”

“So you stopped at the service station-that would have been what time?”

“Oh, about three fifteen. We moved off in less than ten minutes. My driver-and I would like to stress that he drove quite beautifully, in the inside lane at my request, all the way-needed some chewing gum and I offered to buy it for him, as I needed to… well, to go to the ladies’. I…” She hesitated. “I feel a little guilty now. About something I did.”

“Oh, yes? I’m sure it wasn’t too bad.”

“Well, I hope not. A young man-who I now know was the poor bridegroom, and of course he was wearing the striped trousers and so on, although not his tailcoat-he was in a terrible hurry, and he asked if he could go ahead of everyone in the queue. I’m afraid I… well, I wouldn’t let him. I said he should wait his turn, that we were all in a hurry for various reasons. I do hope that didn’t affect the course of events at all. It must have delayed him, perhaps made him drive too fast. One is so aware of how tiny things can lead to greater ones. What is that called, something about butterflies…”

“The butterfly effect,” said Rowe. “Apparently a butterfly can flap its wings in the jungle somewhere and cause a hurricane three days later…”

“Perhaps we should move on,” said Sergeant Freeman. “Can you give us your account of what you saw of the collision?”

“Well, this is where I really am going to disappoint you. I fell asleep, you see, and woke up as we stopped and the car behind drove into us. It was very shocking, and of course if we hadn’t been in the inside lane, it could have been very much more serious…”

She was silent for a moment; her eyes filled with tears.

“Take your time,” Freeman said gently. “Just tell us what you remember.”

She proceeded to describe with great lucidity the position of her car related to all the others near her, and to the lorry, and what she had observed.

“Pity all our witnesses aren’t that clear in their accounts,” said Rowe, as they drove away.

“Indeed. Those letters might be a help. I’m certainly beginning to want to talk to that van driver. Maybe we could get him mentioned on the TV programme as well.”

Oh, my God. Oh, my God…

Just as well God hadn’t answered that particular prayer, then. The one about the read-through being cancelled. They still hadn’t finally cast the grandmother’s friend and wanted her to do a read-through with the two they were down to, and she’d tried to tell Linda she couldn’t do it. But Linda had told her to get a grip, and thank goodness she had or she’d never have set eyes on… on Him. Not God, but still worthy of a capital letter. The most unbelievably gorgeous bloke she’d seen for… well, she’d ever seen…

Who was he; what was he doing here…?

And he was actually-God-actually walking towards her, smiling at her, saying, “ Georgia?”

“Yes,” she said, and her voice sounded odd, slightly squeaky.

“Thought so. I’m Merlin. I’m the second assistant director on Moving Away. So we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other, once shooting starts.”

“Great!” Not the cleverest answer. But what could you say that was cool, but still friendly, in response to such a discovery? A discovery that you’d be working with someone who looked like a dollop of Orlando Bloom, a smidgeon of Johnny Depp, maybe even a sliver of Pete Doherty at his most savoury? Tall, he was, and very thin, with almost black spiky hair and dark, dark brown eyes and a rather narrow face, and really great clothes: tight black jeans and combat boots and a white collarless shirt…

“Great,” she said again, rather feebly.

“Yeah, it looks like it’ll be fun. Casting director’s been raving about you.”

Hmm. Bit of a luvvie. But then… what was wrong with that? They were in the luvvie profession, weren’t they? Her included. In which case…

“Thank you,” she said, and smiled. He smiled back. He had absolutely perfect teeth. “I’m pretty excited about it, I can tell you. Still pinching myself about getting it.”

“Have you worked with Bryn before?”

“No.”

“I have. He’s a great director. And he makes it fun too. Anyway, come on over, Georgia; everyone’s here.”

He steered her towards a group chatting together like lifelong friends. She recognised some of them-Tony, the casting director; Bryn Merrick, the director, of course; but not a rather scarily efficient-looking person called Trish, who was the producer-and smiled politely, moving round the group shaking hands, smiling nervously, saying how thrilled she was to be part of the production. She felt very shaky, partly because of being with all these brilliant people, partly because Merlin was… touching her. Even if it was only on her shoulder. Well, you had to start somewhere…

“Right, Georgia. A word…” Tony, the casting director, drew her aside. “Now, we’ve got two actresses reading for Marje. Both very talented, both very suitable-it would be very helpful in our decision to see how you relate to each of them. I expect Linda’s explained.”

“Yes, she has.”

“So we want you to read the same scene, first with Barbara, who’s already here, and then do a bit of improvisation with her-and then Anna is coming in later. Same thing with her. Oh, and by the way, Davina-you know she’s playing your mum-is coming in around lunchtime; she’s got a meeting with the executive producer, and she specially wanted to meet you. So if you can hang around for a while-”

“Yes, of course,” said Georgia. “No problem at all.”

The first read-through was fine; she liked Barbara very much-she was funny and fun, and put her at her ease. But somehow when they did the improvisation it became more difficult. Barbara made Georgia feel rather insipid and too low-key for her own part. She did her best, but it was a struggle.

“Marvellous,” said Tony as they finished, “thank you both. God, this is going to be difficult. Barbara, thank you so much for coming in. You like our Rose, then?”

“Very much,” said Barbara. “We’ll have fun, won’t we, Rose?”

Georgia said she thought they would and Barbara left.

“Right,” said Sue, “coffee, I think. Anna’s coming in at twelve-Merlin, could you get that organised, darling?”

How wonderful, Georgia thought, to be old enough and sophisticated enough to be able to call everyone darling. Especially Merlin…

Anna didn’t look so right, Georgia thought; she was rather beautiful in a hippie sort of way, with silvery blond wavy hair and intensely blue eyes, and was surely much too young for the part; but she was a marvellous actor. Georgia was amazed at the way she simply put on ten years with the first line she spoke. And she was surprised to find how she could relate to her in the improvisation, far better than with the overjolly Barbara.

Tony said all the same things again: a lot of marvellouses and thank-yous and how difficult it was going to be making a choice. Anna left. The four of them went into another room and Merlin grinned at Georgia.

“Well done. You were awfully good. Honestly.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“No, you were. Tough decision now, I’d say.”

“Yes, I should think so.”

Why couldn’t she say something witty and incisive, for God’s sake?

They all emerged smiling; she was terrified they might ask her which of the two she had felt more comfortable with, but they just told her how well she’d done and thanked her again.

“Now, Davina’s been held up for a couple of hours, Georgia. It’s up to you, of course, but if you’d like to meet her, she’ll be here about three. Can you find something to do till then?”

Georgia said she’d go shopping and headed for Topshop.

She got back on the dot of three, to be told Davina now wouldn’t be there till four.

“Drink?” said Merlin.

“Oh-yes, thank you. Diet Coke if you’ve got one.”

“There’s white wine.”

“No, honestly, I’d prefer the Coke.”

“OK,” he said with his amazing smile. “I’ll follow your example.” Now he’d think she was a killjoy as well as boring.

“Sorry about the wait,” Merlin said suddenly. “I’m sure if you wanted to go, it’d be fine.”

“Well… do you think I should?”

“No, no, I’m sure she meant it about wanting to meet you. But if you’ve got something important going on, I know she’d understand. She really is great.”

“Honestly, it’s fine. I don’t have anything to do this evening.”

She shouldn’t have said that; what kind of loser had nothing to do on a Friday night?

“Wish I didn’t.”

No doubt he had to go out clubbing with some glamorous actress.

“My parents’ silver wedding party.”

“Oh, really? Where is it?”

“Elena’s L’Etoile. They’ve got the private room upstairs.”

“Oh… great,” she said, hoping she’d sound as if she knew all about the private room at Elena’s L’Etoile.

Davina turned up at five, when almost everyone had gone except Merlin. He was clearly an important ingredient in all this, Georgia thought. Well… good. Davina was an absolutely dazzling black woman, with a wonderful wide grin showing big perfect teeth, her fountain of black hair braided.

She kissed Georgia, said how much she was looking forward to being her mum for a bit. “Bryn says you’re a real find,” she added.

“Now, do we know who’s doing Marje yet, Merlin?”

Merlin said he didn’t.

“Go and find out, darling. I’ve got my fingers crossed for Anna; she’s such fun, and such wonderful stories.”

Merlin went off obediently; Georgia smiled at her.

“I love your hair,” she said tentatively into the slightly long silence, and then felt silly; but Davina smiled and said, “Well, I’m hoping everyone will; it’s taken me four days.”

“Do you do it yourself?” asked Georgia.

“Of course. I enjoy it; it’s therapy. Hard on the arms, but-”

Bryn came into the room.

“Davina, my darling, how totally gorgeous you look. Come on into my office; meet Mariella. Georgia, you were great today. And I hope Davina’ll be pleased to hear Anna’s cast as Marje. She related very well to Georgia here.”

“That’s marvellous. Georgia, I’d have loved to chat a bit longer, but I’ve got to go after this. Got a train to catch to Paris.”

Georgia thought how glamorous that sounded, and indeed how wonderful all the rest of the day had been, and then of her own train going to Cardiff, and suddenly felt the nightmare closing in again. She didn’t want the day to end; she really didn’t… She wondered what Linda was doing and if she’d have left the office yet. She might be able to go and see her-she was pretty near-and she could tell her about her day. It would keep the glamour going a bit longer…

Linda was delighted to hear from her; she told her to hurry round to the office and they could have a glass of wine to celebrate what had obviously been a successful day.

Mary was up in her room at six o’clock; she had just had a bath and was lying on her bed, in her dressing gown and slippers, before getting dressed again for supper. She liked to do that; it gave Christine the run of the kitchen, and helped ease the general tension. Which was still not easing much. She had spent much of the day reading another letter from Russell, over and over again. It was the most wonderful letter, four pages of it, telling her how much he loved her and was missing her and how he had been wondering where they should live.

“It will be difficult deciding; we will both want to be in our own countries. Right now I’m thinking we might split the year and do six months in each-buy two houses. Or maybe three months and then a change. You have a rival, I’m afraid-I have fallen in love with Bath and the surrounding countryside-and I know you will love many places in the States. That way we can each see as much or as little of our respective families as we and they wish.”

The thought of having two homes made Mary feel quite dizzy.

She was just getting the letter out of her bag to read it yet again when Christine called up the stairs.

“Quick, Mum, they’ve just trailed an item about the crash. Come on, hurry up or you’ll miss it. And do be careful on the stairs in those slippers.”

She sounded more her old self, seeing Mary as some sort of elderly child. Well, it was better than being an adulteress…

Linda decided to watch the news while she waited for Georgia. She felt she needed a glass of wine; she was just pouring it when a familiar, a horribly familiar scene presented itself…

The children were all in bed when Maeve arrived home, still deeply upset at Patrick’s behaviour. Her mother told her to go and sit down in the front room while she made some tea. She brought it in on a tray, together with some biscuits and the remains of a box of chocolates, and then joined Maeve and suggested they watch TV for a bit.

“Put your feet up, darlin’; it’ll do you good. This’ll soon be over, the news, and then we can watch-Oh, my God. Maeve, do you see what they’re doing…”

For there on the screen was some old footage from the crash: the horrible, horrible footage of Patrick’s lorry, the trailer lying on its side, and the cars scattered about it like toys, and then there was a quick rundown about it, when it had been, how many people had been involved…

“But two weeks later, there is some good news. The lorry driver is recovering well and is expected to be out of intensive care in a few more days; the baby boy born prematurely is thriving and is going home this weekend; and the famous golden retriever who was lost in the chaos turned up at a farm and has been reunited with her owner. In fact, you can see Bella for yourselves in a couple of minutes; we have her in the studio with one very happy owner. But before we do that, there is one rather more serious matter. The police are still gathering evidence on events leading up to the crash and would be interested in hearing from anyone who may have seen something they feel is relevant that afternoon: a car or van possibly driving erratically-or perhaps some debris on the road…

“All calls would be treated as confidential. They are particularly interested in a young girl who-”

“Oh, my God,” said Maeve. “Oh, my dear Lord.”

“Laura, put the telly on quickly. Channel Eight, the news. Don’t ask; just do it…”

“… a young girl who was seen by several people at the scene and is thought to have been possibly travelling in the lorry, and who has not yet come forward…”

“Hi, Linda, I brought you a bottle of-Oh, my God, what’s that about…? Oh, my God…”

“So if you know anything of this girl, or you think you know where she might be, please do get in touch with the police-in confidence. They do stress that there is no suggestion of anything suspicious, merely that in a crash as big as this one, there must be no stone left unturned in the subsequent investigation. And now, as promised, we have Bella and her owner, Jenny Smith, from Northamptonshire…”

“Oh, Mother Mary and all the saints,” said Maeve.

“Oh, I do hope Maeve is watching,” said Mary.

“How extraordinary,” said Laura.

Georgia made an odd sound; Linda looked at her. She was absolutely ashen, her hand clasped over her mouth. She suddenly sat down, as if her legs wouldn’t hold her any longer, her eyes still fixed on the screen.

“ Georgia,” said Linda very gently. “ Georgia, was that… you?”

CHAPTER 28

The story had come out haltingly, punctuated with much weeping and sheer blind terror at what she had done-and concealed-through two long, dreadful weeks.

She had quite simply panicked: Linda had tried to tell her that it was not so unusual, not so terrible a thing to do. But Georgia would have none of it: “It was horrible, awful. He’d been so kind to me, and there he was unconscious, with God knows what injuries, and did I try to help? No, I just ran. It was disgusting of me, Linda; I’m so, so ashamed. But somehow the longer I left it, the worse it seemed. And do you know what my very first thought was? After we’d crashed? That I’d miss the audition. Can you imagine anything as awful as that?”

“You were in shock; it brings about some very strange behaviour.”

She had felt dazed at first, she said, not sure what she was doing, and, “I felt very sick and dizzy. Two men by the lorry asked me if I was all right and I couldn’t speak to them; I threw up right there in front of them; it was horrible. And then I had to sit down for a bit. Everyone was much too busy looking after people who were really hurt to bother about me. After that I climbed over the barrier, by the hard shoulder, and slithered down the bank and started running. All I could think of was getting away; does that sound crazy?”

Linda shook her head. “Not at all.”

“There were all these cars crashed into one another, and huge white things everywhere. I didn’t know what they were then, but of course they were Patrick’s load, fridges and freezers and stuff. I just turned my back on it all and ran-towards Cardiff. That was all I wanted: to get home. I found a sort of track thing and followed that, and when I couldn’t run anymore I walked, on and on. Every yard I went, I felt less frightened; I was farther away from it all; I felt… safer. How weird was that? I cut up into that bloke’s land, that farmer guy who was just on the TV, and then on to a village, and then I hitched a lift in a car going to Bristol.

“The driver said he’d been avoiding the M4, that there’d been a terrible crash, miles and miles of tailback, and I had to pretend to be surprised. Oh, God…”

In Bristol she had eventually managed to get a lift in a lorry going to Cardiff. “I was scared of being in another one; I thought he might crash too-”

“And… tell me, do you think Patrick went to sleep?”

“No! Of course he didn’t go to sleep. It wasn’t his fault in any way at all. In fact…” She paused, gathered her breath, then said in a desperate shaky tone, “In fact, if it was anyone’s fault it was probably mine.”

Shaking, clinging to Linda’s hand, she rang the programme help line, who said they’d get the police to call her.

“Pretty soon, they said… Linda, I feel sick. I feel so awful. What will they think of me; what will they do to me? I’m disgusting; I deserve to be… to be put away somewhere. Oh, dear. Can I have another cigarette?”

It was a measure of her distress and of Linda’s intense sympathy with that distress that Linda had actually agreed to let her smoke. She loathed not just smoking, but smokers. To allow Georgia to smoke in her flat was akin to handing round glasses of wine at an AA meeting.

It was she who took the call; she passed the phone to Georgia.

“It’s a Sergeant Freeman.”

“Thanks. Hello. Yes, this is Georgia Linley Yes, I did. Of course. Yes, I think I can help. I’ll… I’ll ask… Um, Linda, they want us to meet them at some police station in the morning. They’re going to ring back with the exact address. Is that OK?… Yes? Hello. Yes, that’s fine. Thank you. What? No, it’s not my mum; it’s my agent. No, I’m fine, thank you. I’ll be there in the morning.”

She put the phone down and looked at Linda, her face somehow gaunt, her dark eyes red with weeping, her small, pretty nose running; she wiped it on the back of her hand. She looked about six.

“You will come with me, won’t you?” she said with a tremor in her voice.

Linda held out her arms and said, “Of course I will. Come here, you.”

And Georgia went to sit next to her on the sofa, resting her head on Linda’s shoulder, and said, “I couldn’t do all this without you, you know.”

“Well, I’m glad to have helped.”

“You have. So, so much.” Another sniff, then: “You’d be a great mum, you know. You really should, before it’s too late…”

“Well… thanks,” said Linda.

The police were very kind, very gentle with her.

She sat, her teeth chattering with fright at first, but still telling her story perfectly lucidly, up to the point of the actual crash.

“We were just going along very steadily, chatting. Patrick was absolutely fine, not going fast at all, driving really carefully in the middle lane. We’d been through a storm-that was quite scary; it got very dark, and he slowed down a bit, said the water on the road was dangerous after the heat. But the sun was out again; it had stopped raining. And then-suddenly-there was this great crack of noise and we couldn’t see. Not at all. It wasn’t dark, just everything blurred. It was like being blind. It was so, so frightening, because the windscreen was just… well, you know, impossible to see through. And Patrick just… well, slammed on the brakes and then swerved, quite sharply, and he was hooting and shouting-”

“Shouting? What was he shouting?”

“Oh, things like, ‘For the love of God,’ and, ‘Jesus’-well, he is Irish,” she said with the ghost of a smile. “And then the lorry just wouldn’t stop; it went on and on-it seemed for hours I couldn’t see anything, except out of the side window, and I could see we were going completely across the middle of the road, with the traffic on the other side coming towards us. It was weird; it all happened so slowly. And then… then we stopped. And I felt a sort of violent lurch as the trailer went, and there was this horrible noise and… Oh, dear, sorry.” She started to cry.

“Now, now,” said Sergeant Freeman, “no need for tears; you’ve been most helpful-your account is quite invaluable. With the lorry driver unable to remember anything much, this is the first really lucid account we’ve had. So, what did you think had happened? To cause it?”

“Well, the windscreen shattered. There wasn’t a hole in it; the glass just had all these weird patterns all over it, making it impossible to see.”

“Something hit it, perhaps? Maybe that was the crack you heard.”

“Yes, but what could it have been?”

“That’s for us to find out. You can stop worrying about it now.”

“You’re being so kind,” she said. “You must be so… so shocked at me, by what I did.”

“Miss Linley” Freeman said, “if you saw one percent of what we do, you’d understand that we’re not very easily shocked. Isn’t that right, Constable?”

“Absolutely right,” said Constable Rowe.

“You might be shocked at this, though,” she said, in a voice so low it was almost inaudible. “I think… well, I think some of it… could… could have been my fault. You see, I… well, I dropped a can of drink. As we swerved. On the floor. It was rolling around. I think… it might have interfered with Patrick’s-Mr. Connell’s-brakes. And if I hadn’t done that, maybe he could have stopped. I mean… oh, God-”

“Miss Linley,” said Sergeant Freeman, “we will of course put this into our report. But I really don’t think you should worry about it too much. The brakes in those things are huge, very powerful, and power-assisted. One small can of drink rolling around would not have had the slightest effect. What would you say, Constable?”

Constable Rowe smiled at Georgia and said yes, indeed, he would say the same thing.

He found himself very moved by Georgia ’s distress. She hardly looked old enough to be out in the world at all, let alone hitching lifts in lorries.

“Really?”

“Really. I hope that makes you feel better.”

“It does. A bit.” But she was still looking very uncertain.

“So… you would say the whole accident was caused by this shattering of the windscreen? By Mr. Connell being unable to see? Not because of any other cars? Please think very carefully, Miss Linley; it’s very important. Very important indeed.”

“Oh-definitely, yes. Suddenly, he had to drive without being able to see. It was like he was blindfolded. That was the only reason, I’m sure.”

“Well, that’s pretty clear. Now, let’s just talk about the other cars, Miss Linley. Did you notice any in particular?”

“Oh… a few. You notice everything from up there. I was talking to Patrick, describing things to him; he asked me to, said it helped ward off what he called the monster.”

Sergeant Freeman looked up sharply.

“What monster would that be?”

“Well… being sleepy. He said it was like a sticky monster in his head. But”-she looked at them-“but he was not, I swear to you, not remotely near going to sleep; you really do have to believe me-”

“It’s all right,” said Freeman, and despite the soothing words, Linda thought that she could detect a slight change in his expression. “That’s absolutely fine. Now, go on; tell us about the other cars.”

“Well, there was a lovely car in front. A sports car, maybe an old one, bright red, amazing. By the time of the actual crash, he’d gone. But he was driving very nicely, not speeding.”

“Right. How far ahead was he, would you say? When the windscreen went?”

“I’m not sure. Impossible to say. I mean, I could still see him quite clearly-”

“Could you read the registration number? I mean, was it near enough for you to read it?”

“I… don’t think so. He was pulling ahead quite fast. I s’pose about fifty metres, something like that?”

“Right. What about a dark blue Saab? Did you notice that?”

“Oh-yes. They were beside us. Just before it happened. Well, a bit behind-you can’t see anything when the car’s right beside you. I noticed it in the mirror, and I was interested because it was such a nice car, and there was a man and a woman in it, and they seemed to be quarrelling-she was waving her arms about and stuff. And then-” She stopped. “Look, I don’t want to get anyone into trouble-”

“Don’t worry about that. Tell us what you saw.”

“Well… he did seem to be on a mobile. But then… I heard the crack and Patrick hooting and shouting and… well, I’ve told you the rest.”

“You have indeed. So, there was no question of their driving in any way dangerously? Pulling out in front of the lorry, for instance?”

“No, no, not at all.”

“Right. Well, you’ve been very helpful, Miss Linley very helpful indeed. And try not to worry about that drink can. I really think you can put your mind at rest, although we will put it into the report, of course. One last thing-did you notice a white van at all, with the back doors just tied shut? On the road that afternoon? At any stage?”

“I certainly did. He was driving like a maniac. But he couldn’t have had anything to do with it; he passed us doing about ninety ages before the crash.”

“You didn’t notice any writing on it? Any logos of any kind?”

“No, I’m sorry. Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Was he alone in the van?”

“No. Well, he had a big dog sitting beside him.”

“Well, I really cannot tell you how helpful you’ve been, Miss Linley. You’ve given us an invaluable account, and the information on the other cars is most helpful as well.”

Soon after that, having read her statement and signed it, she was told she was free to go.

“Poor Mr. Connell will be pleased, won’t he?” said Constable Rowe. “S’pose you’ll be letting him know.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Today?”

“No, Monday morning will do perfectly well.”

“Yes, of course,” said Constable Rowe hastily, and then added, “I was wondering: might the windscreen have been shattered by that wheel nut?”

“Very unlikely,” said Freeman, “very unlikely indeed.”

“Hi, William. It’s Abi.”

“Abi! Oh, my God. Yes. Hello.”

“Hello, William. What kind of a reception is that?”

“I… Oh, sorry. Yes. It’s wonderful to hear from you.”

“Hope so.” She laughed. That laugh. That-almost-dirty laugh. “I did warn you I’d ring if you didn’t. Anyway… I thought it might be good if we went out tomorrow night. What do you think?”

“Well… well… yes. Of course. It’d be great. Fantastic. Yeah. Er… tonight’d be better. Well, sooner.”

She laughed again. “I’ve got to go out with some mates tonight, William. A friend’s going to Australia for a year. I’d ask you along, but I don’t think you’d enjoy it too much.”

“OK, then. Tomorrow it is.”

“Good. I thought I’d come over to you, save you the trek. We could meet in the pub you took me to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course I’m sure. Eightish?”

“Eightish,” he said. “Yes. Great. Well… thanks for calling.”

He rang off and punched the air.

Patrick felt very tired; it had been a long, wakeful night without his sleeping pills, and a painful one too. The temptation at one point to raid his horde, to take at least one of them, was intense; then he thought he would simply be prolonging the agony-literally. He had calculated that by tonight he would have enough; he would take them after he had been settled for the night. And then-oblivion. No more remorse, no more pain, no more of being a burden on everyone. He was actually looking forward to it; he knew it was a mortal sin, knew he should have absolution, was afraid in his very darkest moments of going to hell. He had thought of asking for the priest, but it seemed dangerous; he might be tempted to confess, or even to talk of his absolute wretchedness, his sense of being abandoned by God, as well as everyone else, and the hospital priest was a clever, sensitive soul; he might well become aware of Patrick’s despair and the danger of it. So he must do it alone, must say his own prayers, ask for God’s forgiveness himself, and then… leave. He could manage; he was afraid, but not as afraid as he was of continuing to live with this awful, terrifying misery and guilt.

Georgia hadn’t realised at first that there was anything in the papers about her. It was only when she and Linda were having lunch that Linda passed her the Mail, looking rather grim.

“Sorry, darling. But you ought to see this.”

It was only a small item, on an inside page, mostly conjecture: illustrated by yet another picture of the crash and headed, “Mystery Girl of the M4.” But it was enough to upset her considerably: to see her behaviour described for the millions of people who bought the Daily Mail to read about. And no doubt there would be millions of other people reading it in other papers.

“Try not to worry too much. It’s not that interesting.”

“I can think of lots of people who would think so. If they knew it was me. Like everyone in the new series, for a start. What on earth will they make of me, Linda? They’ll be so shocked to find I’m not the nice little girl they thought, just a rotten, cowardly wimp. And they’ll realise it was all lies about the audition as well, that I wasn’t ill at all, oh, God…”

She started to cry again. And Linda, looking at her, felt very much afraid that she might be right.

As for what the press might make of it, if they knew the mystery girl was an about-to-be-high-profile young actress… well, Linda was rather familiar with the press; she felt this was a story that might run and run.

“ Georgia, darling, don’t cry. You’ve been so brave today.”

“Yeah, and so cowardly for all those other days. Linda, I’ve been wondering-do you think I ought to go and see Patrick? Or at least get in touch with his wife? I mean, she might have seen the programme. She must be so worried; she must be wondering who or where the… the girl-well, me-where she is.”

“Well… it would be the right thing to do.”

A silence, then: “Maybe I will. I’m absolutely shit scared, and he’d be within his rights to spit in my face, but I feel he ought to know what I’ve told the police. He might be feeling terrible, with all these stories in the papers about him going to sleep, don’t you think?”

“Pretty terrible, yes. Well, it would be very brave.”

She really thought so; in a way that would take more courage even than going to the police.

“Maybe… maybe tomorrow. I’ll go to the hospital. Linda-would you come with me?”

“Of course I will…”

“You all right, then, Patrick?” Jo Wales smiled at him. She was just going off duty.

“Yes, I’m fine.” His voice was flat.

“I heard the family came to see you today.”

“They did, yes.”

“And were they pleased to see you?”

She knew he hadn’t seen them, but she felt a chat might help.

“No. No, I sent them away.”

“Patrick, why did you do that? Your wife said they were so excited.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t feel up to it.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, well, maybe tomorrow.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. His face was oddly expressionless, his eyes blank.

“Are you feeling OK, Patrick?”

“I’m feeling how you’d think I might be feeling,” he said. It was an aggressive statement, delivered in an aggressive tone. It was unlike him.

“Well… I’m sorry. Is the pain very bad?”

“It’s not great.”

“Next week’s surgery should help quite a lot. With your tummy. Is that the worst?”

“It hurts everywhere. Except my legs, and what wouldn’t I give to have some pain there as well.”

Jo smiled at him gently, put her hand on his shoulder.

“You will. You must have faith.”

“Faith I’ve lost, along with everything else.”

“Well, let’s see. In time, I promise you, things will be better.”

He shrugged.

“Is… is there anything you’d like to watch on TV tonight? There’s quite a lot on, a good film-”

“No, I don’t want to watch anything,” he said. “I’m very tired. I just want to be quiet, be left alone.”

“All right. Well, I hope you have a good night, Patrick, at least.”

She walked out of his room, stood in the corridor for a moment, then went to find Sister Green, on duty that night on the ward. An extra sleeping pill would probably not be a bad idea. Just for tonight.

Alex really didn’t want to go home. That made him feel miserable. And angry. Not only had Sam ended their marriage; she had virtually rendered him homeless. Well, deprived him of a place he wanted to be, where he was welcome.

Their bedroom had long since ceased to be in any way his, and the small spare room was unwelcoming. Sam and the children occupied the kitchen and the family room in the evening, and if he walked into it, even the children looked awkward, forced to confront his discomfort. He still had his study, of course, but it was very much a study, occupied by his desk and computer and files and books, not somewhere he could sit back and relax.

Anyway, he had no stomach for staking any claims over personal space tonight; he would rather stay at the hospital. He’d brought in his pyjamas and wash things. He had a room there, with a bed; he could get some food at the café and then go to bed, read himself into a stupor and hope no major accidents or traumas might disturb him. He wasn’t on call; if they did want him, he could tell them to get stuffed. In fact, that was precisely what he would do. He could even drink a glass of wine. He would drink a glass of wine. Or two. Or even three…

Patrick had asked to be settled for the night early. Sue Brown, the young nurse who was looking after him, brought him his hot drink and his drugs, and said if he wanted anything to ring for her.

“But hopefully you’ll have a lovely sleep, Patrick, and feel much better in the morning.”

When she had gone, he made his preparations very carefully. He felt calm, not frightened at all. He wrote a letter to Maeve, telling her how much he loved her and how this way would be much better for both her and the boys. He thanked her for being a wonderful wife and told her that the boys had the best mother in the whole wide world. He signed it, “All my love, my darling Maeve, Patrick.”

He wrote a separate letter to the boys, telling them how much he loved them and how sorry he was to have sent them away that day. “Be good for your mummy; Liam, you will be the man in the family now, so you must look after her. And remember me always as I used to be, not as I am now. Your very loving Daddy.”

Then he wrote another note for “whom it may concern,” asking not to be resuscitated if there was any question of it.

And then he wrote a note to Alex Pritchard, thanking him for all his kindness both to him and to Maeve, and telling him how much he had helped both of them in the first awful, early days. “All doctors should be like you, Dr. Pritchard,” he finished, signing it off, “yours with gratitude, Patrick Connell.”

He propped all the letters up on his bedside unit, and then he lay back on his pillows to rest.

The sun was setting by then; he could see the sky from his window. It was ravishing, a stormy red streaked with black, with great slanting shafts of light pushing through the clouds: a child’s-Bible sky. He lay there quietly, watching it blaze and fade, and then he reached into his bedside cupboard for his rosary and said his prayers. He asked God for his forgiveness for what he was about to do, committing a mortal sin, and he asked Him, too, to forgive him for the dreadful carnage he had wrought on the motorway. He felt that if God was a good and loving God, He would understand his anguish and find it in His heart to forgive him.

He asked Him to comfort and care for Maeve and the boys, and then he recited the twenty-third psalm. He would indeed be walking through the valley of the shadow of death; he would need God’s rod and staff to comfort him. He prayed again that he would not be denied it. And then finally he said a Hail Mary and the Lord’s Prayer and made the sign of the cross.

As he did so he discovered that he was weeping, and discovered, too, that he was not really surprised. The life that had seemed so promising, so happy, so filled with delight and family pleasure and a wife he loved and who loved him, was gone forever, destroyed by his own carelessness and arrogance. He would not see that life again; it was lost to him, and he did not deserve it. He had caused immense misery to many, many people; he had robbed a child of his mother, a mother of her child. He had read the papers, read the interviews, in spite of the efforts of the hospital staff to keep them from him. He had read about the sense of utter loss and desolation and anger felt by the people whose lives he had destroyed; it seemed absolutely wrong, a reversal of the proper order of things, that he should be still alive. He would die, and it would be a reparation of sorts, would perhaps show some of those poor, unhappy people how sorry he was for what he had done to them. He hoped someone would tell them.

And then he sat for a while longer, his head bowed, holding his rosary, reflecting on what he was about to do, and preparing himself for the moment when it became reality.

CHAPTER 29

He knew he’d never be able to forgive himself. Never. It was so true what they said: Everyone made mistakes, but doctors buried theirs.

He could never remember feeling so remorseful. How could it have happened? How could a man, a desperately ill man, confined to his hospital bed and, moreover, under intensive medical scrutiny, have managed to store up enough drugs to kill himself? And, more important, how could he, Alex Pritchard, have failed so totally to recognise the depths of that man’s despair? He felt shocked at the failure of the hospital and its systems and, perhaps worst of all, ashamed of himself, that he could have been so bloody obsessed with his own problems that he hadn’t noticed what was going on under his own nose.

He’d met Maeve in reception at three a.m.; she was white and wild eyed.

“Hello, Maeve.”

“Dr. Pritchard! It’s good to see you. How is he?”

“He’s… he’s doing OK, we think. There was concern about his kidney, his one remaining one, you know, but it seems to be coping, with the help of the drugs. He’s not completely out of the woods yet, but we’re hopeful.”

“Oh… Dr. Pritchard, thank you. Thank you so much.”

“No thanks due to me,” he said, and meant it.

Nurse Sue Brown, checking on her patients just after ten, had found them all peacefully asleep. Even poor Patrick Connell.

The other nurse was not at the desk; Sue had settled down to do the reports-and then remembered she’d been instructed by the sister to give Mr. Connell an extra sleeping pill that night. Which she had, of course; she’d counted them out very carefully, and had then fetched him some extra water, as he’d asked, and when she got back, he’d taken them all. But she wasn’t sure what that brought his total dosage to. She’d need his notes to do that, and they were in his room. Just for a moment she was tempted to leave it and fill it in in the morning. But no, it was too important.

She opened the door very cautiously. Thunderous snores greeted her. He seemed very firmly asleep. Good. She fished the notes out of the pocket at the bottom of his bed, and was just leaving the room again when she realised he was lying rather oddly, slumped onto his right side. She moved over to the bed, to see if she could ease him into a more comfortable position without disturbing him too much, and saw the neat pile of notes on his bedside unit.

The top one was addressed to “my boys.” That was good. He’d sent them away today, she’d heard; he was probably telling them how sorry he was and how much he’d like to see them soon. As she leaned over him, starting to ease his pillows into a more supportive position, she knocked the pile of letters onto the floor. She bent down to pick them up and saw that there was one addressed to Dr. Pritchard. That was… well, it was odd. Why write to one of the doctors? And then she saw another-“To whom it may concern”-and her heart began to beat uncomfortably hard.

She looked at Patrick again, and then reached out for his hand to take his pulse. It was cold, and the pulse was very slow. Very slow indeed…

Sue Brown half ran from the room and set off the alarm. It was the early hours before it could be pronounced with any certainty that Patrick was going, probably, to be all right.

Alex, in ICU, had realised for the first time perhaps how wretched and impotent it felt to be on the sidelines there. But at least he was able to comfort Maeve; he had sat with her in the relatives’ room, fetching her tea, which she didn’t drink, talking in platitudes, even holding her hand while she wept and berated herself for not being more understanding and sensitive to Patrick’s depression.

“How could I have got cross with him, Dr. Pritchard?” she said, wiping her eyes, “yesterday and on Friday, telling him to pull himself together, not to be so selfish. How could I have done that?”

“You’ve been under a dreadful strain, Maeve,” he said, “and been so brave and loyal. How many people would have done that awful journey every day, uncomplaining?”

What he would have given for a wife like Maeve. Even a bit like Maeve…

The journalist from the Daily Sketch was woken by his mobile ringing at seven a.m. It was Maria, the hospital cleaner. She was talking very quietly and very fast. He had to ask her to repeat herself twice before he worked out what she was saying.

“Mr. Connell, he try to kill self. Last night. He all right now. You meet me dinnertime. And for last time. And bring my money, OK?”

Maureen Hall, the receptionist at the main entrance of St. Marks, took an immediate dislike to Linda. She was so bloody sure of herself, standing there as if she owned the place, in the middle of a busy Sunday afternoon, not an auburn hair out of place, demanding to see Mr. Patrick Connell…

“I’m sorry,” she said to Linda, “you can’t see him. He’s in ICU-the high dependency unit-and can’t have any visitors.”

“In that case, I wonder if I could see the doctor in charge of his case, please.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Maureen Hall disdainfully. “Our doctors are all very busy, not available for consultation in that way.”

“I see. Well, it is very important that I-this young lady and I-see someone who is caring for him.”

Maureen Hall looked at the young lady; she was very young indeed, and looked terrified, standing behind the woman, chewing her nails.

“Well, the only thing I can suggest is that you talk to Patient Liaison. They may be able to help you. What name shall I say?”

“Di-Marcello, Linda Di-Marcello.”

“Right.” Maureen tapped on her computer keyboard with her long nails; a silence ensued; then she said, “I’ve got a Miss de Marshall here; she wants to see someone about Mr. Patrick Connell. Yes. No, I know that, but she’s very insistent. Can she come up; maybe you can explain? Thanks, Chris.”

She turned to Linda.

“You can go and see the patient liaison people if you like. Second floor. The lift’s over there. It’s signposted when you get up there. Sorry, madam,” she said with exaggerated politeness to the woman standing behind Linda and Georgia in the queue. “Sorry to have kept you so long.”

“Cow,” hissed Linda to Georgia. Even that didn’t make poor Georgia smile.

“I can’t tell you how important it is that we see the doctor or doctors responsible for Mr. Connell,” Linda said. They were now in Patient Liaison. “This young lady was with him on the day of the crash-you do know about the crash, don’t you. Miss…?”

“Mrs. Patel. Yes, of course I do. But Mr. Connell is extremely ill. As I explained to you. It would be quite impossible for you to see him.”

“Yes, but-” Linda stopped. She felt so exasperated, words temporarily deserted her. She looked at Georgia. Who had suddenly stopped looking frightened. And was leaning on the desk, half shouting at Mrs. Patel.

“If he’s extremely ill, he needs to know what I can tell him. It’s really, really important. It could make him feel much better. Now, we’re not going to go away. We’re going to stay here as long as it takes, making a nuisance of ourselves. So you really might just as well be helpful, instead of obstructive. I mean, what about his wife? Is she here? Could we see her? Or could you tell us where she lives, so that we could talk to her…? Just do something, for God’s sake.”

Linda felt like clapping.

“Just a moment, please-I will go and make some enquiries.” Mrs. Patel got up and walked out of the room.

Alex had showered and changed his shirt and was on his way back to Maeve. Patrick was increasingly alert and increasingly angry, apparently, demanding to know why his instructions had been ignored, refusing to see anyone, even Maeve. She would need his support.

He picked up his beeper, informing the staff on reception that he would be back shortly, and made his way to the lifts. There were two people waiting there: a rather glamorous red-haired woman, exactly the type he most disliked, and a very pretty black girl who looked as if she might be about to run away. As they got in, the woman took the girl’s hand and held it. The girl half smiled at her, then resumed her petrified expression, staring at her feet. Presumably someone up there they were worried about. He managed to smile at them. The woman smiled rather briefly back.

There was one other person in the lift with them: a tall young man with curly brown hair dressed in jeans and a denim shirt. He wore a very anxious expression and didn’t look at any of them.

As the lift stopped, Alex stood back and allowed the two women off first; the redhead gave him a slightly cool nod. The young man followed, then stood studying a file he was holding, scribbling notes on various pieces of paper and peering out of the window that faced the lift. Obviously something to do with the planning department, Alex thought. Bloody nuisance, all of them.

The two women stood there, clearly puzzled as to where they should go; slightly to Alex’s surprise, Maeve Connell appeared, hurried towards them.

“Hello,” she said to them, “I’m Mrs. Connell. It’s so good of you to come. Oh, Dr. Pritchard, hello. Have you come to see Patrick?”

“No, I’ve come to see you. I hear good news now-to a degree-of Patrick…”

“You could call it that, I suppose. But he… Oh, dear… I don’t know what do. Anyway, these two ladies may be able to help.”

She looked anxiously first at Alex, then at them; Linda smiled encouragingly at her.

“Do please go ahead; talk to the doctor. We’ll wait.”

She had a nice voice, Alex thought; the only thing he could find to like about her. It was very low and husky.

“No, no, Maeve, you talk to the ladies. If you want me, you can get any of the nurses to page me.”

“All right, Dr. Pritchard. Thank you so much. He is the kindest man on God’s earth,” she said, ushering Linda and Georgia along the corridor. “I don’t know what I’d have done without him these past two weeks.”

“Is he in charge of your husband?” said Linda.

“No, he’s the A and E consultant. But he did admit Patrick, and kept a very close eye for a few days, until… well…”

“So… Mrs. Connell…” Georgia’s voice was tentative as they sat down in the relatives’ room. “How actually is Patrick?”

“Maeve, please. Well… he was getting better. But of course he has a very long way to go. He’s paralysed from the waist down-”

“Paralysed!” Georgia’s great dark eyes filled with horror. “Oh, no, no-”

“I’m afraid so. The neurosurgeon is hopeful that it’s temporary, but of course it’s hard for Patrick to believe that. He’s had to have a lot of surgery and will have more. And he’s very depressed, of course. He… well, he took an overdose last night, but they found him in time.”

“Oh, Mrs. Connell. Maeve. If only… I mean, if… if I’d known! I was in the cab with him when it happened,” Georgia said, and her voice was very strong suddenly, no longer frightened or tentative at all. “He gave me a lift; he was terribly kind to me. And I was there when… when he crashed.”

“So… did… did you see what happened?” said Maeve, so quietly Georgia could hardly hear her.

“Yes, I did. Everything.”

“Because, you see… he thinks… that is, he is convinced… that it was his fault. That he went to sleep. That is what is so terrible. That’s all he can remember-being sleepy. Even though most of the reports talk of another car going out of control in front of him.”

“Oh, dear God. Maeve, I can tell you, with absolute certainty, that he did not go to sleep. No way. We were chatting; he was fine. Right up to the very last moment. I don’t know how far all the enquiries have got, or what Patrick or you think, but I can tell you, absolutely for certain, that it wasn’t Patrick’s fault. Not in the very least.”

“Patrick… it’s me, Maeve. How are you feeling now?”

“How you’d expect. Dreadful.” And he did look it, back on all the machines and drips, propped up on high on the ICU bed, grey-white, his skin somehow transparent, his eyes sunken in his thin face. “Maeve, I keep telling you, stop coming here, for the love of God. Just leave me in peace.”

“I know, Patrick, but… but I have some news for you. Some very important news. You… you know you said you thought you could remember someone in the van with you? Just before the crash? Well… she’s here. She’s come to see you. A young girl, name of Georgia.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to see anyone. There’s no point-”

“Patrick, there is. It’s going to make all the difference, because she says she saw what happened.”

“She saw me going to sleep? Is that what she saw?”

“No, no, Patrick that’s exactly what she didn’t see. She says-Will you see her Patrick, please? Just for a moment.”

“Maeve, I’m too tired for girls with fairy stories. Why should I believe what she says? She’d have come before if it was true. I just wanted an end to it; they’ve robbed me of that. Now leave me be, will you?”

He closed his eyes; Maeve left the room and made her way along to Linda and Georgia.

“He… oh, God, he says he doesn’t want to see you. He says how can he believe you were there; why… Oh, it was good of you to come, both of you, but I’m afraid there was no point. Not with Patrick, anyway. Maybe if you talked to the police again…” She looked utterly defeated, her eyes swimming with tears. She tried to smile and failed totally; her mouth trembled and she bit her lip.

“Oh, dear. Oh, this is dreadful. Um… Maeve…” Georgia started rummaging in her bag. “Maeve, do you think this might make a difference? Here…”

She put a small box into Maeve’s hand.

“It’s a watch. It was a birthday present for your mother. Patrick showed it to me, and then he gave it to me to look after. I’ve had it all this time.”

Maeve took the box, opened it; a small watch lay inside. It was very pretty indeed, set in a diamanté bracelet. She sat staring at it for a moment, then said, “I’ll take it in to him. Thank you, Georgia. Thank you so much.”

Five minutes later she came out again, smiling, her small, tearstained face radiant.

“He remembered it! Could you come in with me? Would that be all right?”

“Of course it would,” said Georgia. “It’d be absolutely all right.”

Alex Pritchard decided to go home. A tedious day with nothing to do in A &E was beginning to look even worse than trying to find a corner he could call his own at home. He’d just go up and make sure Maeve was all right and then leave.

He went into the relatives’ room and found the red-haired woman sitting alone, talking into her mobile. She looked up at him, half smiled, and went on talking.

“Just tell them tomorrow that you haven’t had any formal voice training, but you can sing well enough for the chorus. Yes, I’m pretty sure. You can put them on to me, if you like. Yes, of course. I’ll be in the office. Now if you want me again this afternoon, just ring my mobile. Sure. Ciao.”

She rang off and was clearly ready to make another call; it annoyed Alex. There were several notices in the room asking people not to use mobile phones.

“Sorry,” he said, making a conscious effort to sound polite, “but you really are asked not to use your mobile on hospital premises.”

“Oh, I know,” she said. “I also know that it’s a load of nonsense. It can’t really interfere with equipment; it’s just so you don’t have patients rabbiting on all day in the wards. Which I completely sympathise with.”

“Oh, you do?”

“Yes.” She smiled at him. It was a very nice smile. Didn’t make up for a considerable arrogance, though. He didn’t smile back.

“I’m afraid you’re wrong,” he said. “If everyone used their mobiles on hospital premises, especially an area like this, where we have extremely sensitive equipment, it would be very bad, so please stop using it. Or go outside.”

“I…” She stared at him, then stood up, switching off her mobile. “Then I shall go outside. This is a very important call, actually, to Georgia’s mother. She wants to know where she is.”

“And Georgia is…?”

“The girl who’s with me. I’m her agent. Look, we’re wasting time. Or rather you’re wasting my time. Good afternoon.”

She stalked off down the corridor. He looked after her. She had rather good legs. And an arrogant walk. She was a very arrogant woman altogether. He hoped this would be his last encounter with her.

As he stood there, Maeve and the girl came out of ICU; Maeve’s face was literally shining. Georgia was swollen eyed and tearstained.

“Oh, Dr. Pritchard,” said Maeve, clasping his hand. “I’m so glad you’re here. Patrick’s so much better, so much happier. Georgia here really has turned things round. Bless her heart!”

She smiled radiantly at Georgia, who managed a very watery, wobbly smile back.

“Yes, Georgia saw everything that happened, Dr. Pritchard. She was up in the cab of the lorry; Patrick was giving her a lift to London. And it wasn’t Patrick’s fault at all; something hit the windscreen and shattered it, so he couldn’t see. Georgia has told him again and again that he was as good as blinded; there was nothing he could do. Now, isn’t that the most wonderful news? And he’s sitting in there, just… just happy.”

“Maeve, I’m so pleased for you. And good for you, Georgia, for coming forward.”

“Not… not really,” said Georgia. “I mean, I… well, I should have done it earlier.”

“What matters is that you did it at all,” said Maeve. “When I think of the state Patrick was in…”

“Exactly,” said Georgia. “I’ve just been a total wimp right from the beginning. I feel so ashamed of myself. But I have told the police everything now, so maybe…”

“Well done,” he said. “That doesn’t sound too wimpy to me. No doubt they’ll be along to talk to Patrick again. I’d better warn the patient liaison people, Maeve. They may well have been on to them already.”

“Um… do you know where Linda, my… my agent, went?” said Georgia, looking around. “I thought she was going to wait here.”

“Ah…” Alex Pritchard looked rather uncomfortable. “She’s… she’s gone outside. My fault, I’m afraid. She wanted to make some calls and I… I suggested she did it outside the hospital. Look, why don’t I take you down to the café, and you can wait there for… for Miss… Miss…”

“Di-Marcello,” said Georgia. “But she won’t know we’re there-”

“I’ll tell the people up here to redirect her when she gets back.”

“Oh, OK. That’d be very kind. Sorry, we’re taking up a lot of your time.”

Alex was disproportionately touched by this. Here was this girl, not much older than his own daughter from the look of her, actually aware that people other than her had pressures on their time. Extraordinary.

“That’s perfectly all right,” he said, and guided them towards the lift. “And Maeve, I’ll wager Patrick wants to see those boys of yours now. Am I right?”

“You are indeed, Dr. Pritchard. He said to bring them tomorrow, to take them out of school.”

“Excellent.”

He smiled at her; he was obviously very fond of her, Georgia thought. What an amazingly nice man.

Linda was walking up the broad hospital steps, finishing a call when she saw him walking towards her. She scowled at him, rather exaggeratedly switching her phone off.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ve finished. I’ll just go up and collect Georgia; then we’ll be out of your hospital for good.”

“Well, she’s in the café. That’s what I was coming to tell you. I didn’t want you to go on a wild-goose chase.”

“Oh.” She stared at him, clearly surprised. “Well, that’s very… kind of you.”

“No, no. The hospital is vast; you can lose someone very easily.”

“I could always have called her, you know,” said Linda, “on my mobile. Had you not been around, of course.” She looked at him, and then smiled. “Sorry. That was a cheap shot. I shouldn’t have been using the phone. I do know that. I apologise if I was rude. It’s been a bit of a weekend. No excuse, but…”

“I can imagine. And I apologise in turn. It’s been a bit of a one here too. Complete nightmare.”

“Really?”

He looked different suddenly: shaken and less sure of himself. He was actually rather… rather attractive, she thought. In a wild sort of way.

“Yes. I can’t go into details, but… well, suffice it to say I haven’t had much sleep.”

“Isn’t that the norm, in your profession?”

“In my discipline, certainly.”

“Your discipline?”

“Yes, I’m the A and E consultant. Pretty unpredictable lot of patients.”

He smiled at her. He had an extraordinary smile; it had a fierce quality and Linda felt slightly disoriented by it.

“Anyway let me escort you to the café, make sure you and Georgia are safely reunited.”

“I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

“Right now, I don’t think I have,” he said, “as a matter of fact.”

Georgia was drinking her coffee when a young man in a denim shirt sat down at her table.

“I… wonder if you’d mind if I joined you.”

“What…? Oh, no, course not, go ahead.”

She’d thought he meant just to sit and read or something; but he smiled rather determinedly at her.

“I… that is, was it you in the lift an hour or so ago? Going up to ICU?”

“Might have been. I mean, I have been up there, yes.”

God. She hoped he wasn’t trying to chat her up. She looked at him. No, he was probably worried about someone.

“Do you have a relative up there?” she said.

“No, no. Not up there. You?”

“Oh… no. Just a friend.”

“Not Mr. Connell?”

“How do you know about Mr. Connell?”

“Oh… most people do. In the hospital.”

“Really? Well I… I don’t.”

“Is that right? I thought I saw you with Mrs. Connell.”

“You must have imagined it. Look… who are you? Are you something to do with the hospital? Or…”

“I suppose I’d better come clean,” he said. “I’m a reporter. Daily Sketch.” He held out his hand. “And you are…?”

Georgia stood up. She wasn’t prepared at all for what she did next; it was as if she was watching someone else.

“You can just fuck off,” she said, and her voice was very loud. “Fuck right off, away from me, away from the hospital, away from Patrick Connell. You are totally disgusting, writing lies about people, implying things you don’t know are even remotely true.”

She half ran out of the café.

All the other customers sat transfixed, staring first after her and then at Osborne, who stood up, trying to look as if he was in control of the situation, and then hurried out after her and into the car park, where both his car and his laptop were waiting.