The light went out. The moon had gone behind heavy clouds. She drank her tea. She should get a cat. If cats were allowed. Dogs were not, she knew that, there were notices up already, little wooden signs in the gra.s.s. A cat could be the best company and no trouble at all.

She sat for some time in the soft silence but then, as she went back to bed, something caught her eye. It was snowing again, great fat flakes like goose feathers spinning slowly down. Elinor stood looking at them and some memory of childhood came back to her, of their father holding them both up at the window to see the snow falling, she with his right arm round her, Muriel with his left, trying to make him put Elinor down, trying to get all his attention.

That's how it always was.

She watched the snow falling until her eyes crossed with following the flakes and trying to see where exactly each one lay on the ground. By the time she had climbed into bed the gra.s.s was already covered in a soft eiderdown.

She went to sleep, snow flakes twirling and turning behind her eyes, warmer.

Happier.

It was after eight when she woke, unusually late. She lay in bed, enjoying the warmth and the sense of rest after a poor night. She might get her tea and bring it back here with the new Woman & Home she had not yet looked at in the flurry of moving. Why not? What else was there to do? Muriel boasted of being up at seven in all seasons and weathers, but when she was up, what did she do? Clean the house that was already so clean it was in danger of being rubbed away. And when did she ever have tea with a friend, read a book, window-shop, go on an outing, take a proper holiday, play cards? It was clean, clean, clean.

Elinor got up and put on her dressing gown. She would fetch tea, toast, the magazine and the new book of needlepoint she'd treated herself to for her birthday, and get back to bed to relax, a word Muriel did not understand.

It had obviously gone on snowing for some hours, though now it had stopped and the sky was blue and cloudless. The lawn and the paths were pillowed in snow.

Beautiful, it seemed to her. Beautiful, and untouched.

But not untouched. Footprints, clear and deeply trodden, came diagonally across from the corner where the paths met, to her bungalow.

Just footprints.

Fifteen.

'CAN YOU DROP me in town?'

'Of course I can't, Sam, what are you thinking? How would that would go down at home? You've been away for a week.'

Sam hunched into his seat and did not reply. He had spent much of the journey from Norfolk sending and receiving text messages. Once, a call had come through but he had said, 'Text, I told you,' and clicked off. Otherwise, he had said little. They had stopped for lunch, and again in mid-afternoon at a service station which doubled as a shopping arcade, and Simon bought some groceries. Sam sat over a c.o.ke and a banana, alternately texting and watching the people coming in and out through the swing doors, as if he were expecting to see someone.

The mobile signal in Norfolk had never been good, so perhaps he was catching up with his friends now. Simon remembered his own adolescence, albeit without the text facility, when he had closed the door before taking a phone call at home, though the call had usually been about nothing much. Cat had monopolised the phone every evening, so much so that their father banned its use except within strict time limits. The age of fourteen had caught up with Sam. His old talkativeness had died to long silences and occasional grunts, though he had been better on their week away than he was at home. They had talked about plenty of things, including police work, music of all kinds, Sam's future, cricket, seabirds, books and films. Chris had not been mentioned. It seemed to be the only no-go area, one of which Simon was keenly aware.

Brown earth showed through the snow in the fields of the Midlands but by the time they headed towards the M5 it had scarcely thawed at all and towards late afternoon a freezing fog descended, slowing them down to a crawl.

'Ring your mum, will you? Tell her we'll be later than I thought.'

'She won't worry.'

'All the same . . .'

Sam sighed and started to text.

'Can't you call her?'

'She picks up texts OK.'

'I know. Just thought she might appreciate a voice.'

'I hate talking on the phone.'

Simon focused on the fog warning signs and the queue of traffic ahead. He knew what Sam meant. He spent a lot of his working day talking on the phone. When he was off duty he liked the silence of his flat, sometimes music, and messages left so that he could reply when he felt like it often by text.

The only person he always wanted to talk to, always wanted to hear, was Rachel.

Rachel. He felt delight that she was no more than fifty miles away and that surely, surely, he would see her, tonight even, certainly tomorrow.

The traffic queue shunted on for a couple of dozen yards, then stopped again. Sam had his iPod on. He listened to a strange mixture of sound and words Just William and Sherlock Holmes audiobooks, cla.s.sical trumpet and oboe music, obscure new rock bands. And bagpipes. He had his head back, eyes closed. Simon glanced at him. His face in repose was still a child's face just overshadowed by that of the young man to come. It was like watching a new creature emerge from a chrysalis, seeing the nephew he had known since he was ten minutes old change as he inched towards adulthood. Would he ever have his own children? He was happy to share his sister's three, engage with them as much as he liked, while always able to leave. He could not imagine being in the thick of what he saw as the general mayhem of family life. If he and Rachel . . .

They had never let themselves touch on the subject, because of her situation, because of Kenneth, because they did not dare venture into such dangerous territory.

The traffic began to crawl again. Outside, freezing fog, darkness, snow on the fields and piled high along the verges where the ploughs had been through.

He glanced at Sam again. His face was innocent and expressionless in sleep. He did not stir when Simon's phone rang.

'Hi. We're jammed on the motorway. Should have been back an hour ago but the traffic's solid.'

'OK. I'm still at Imogen House, and there's been another snowfall today. The main roads are fine but it's bad around us. How's Sam?'

'Asleep.'

'I've missed him. I didn't think I'd miss him so much.'

'He's missed you but he'd die rather than say so. We've had a great week. Any news?'

'Sort of. Hannah is in the last three for this film part . . . It's ridiculous, I shouldn't want something so shallow and frivolous for my twelve-year-old daughter and I want it so much I can't focus on anything else.'

'She'll get it. And you'll focus.'

'Bit worried about Dad and Judith. Storm clouds banking up there.'

'Oh G.o.d . . . he just can't help it, can he?'

'I know. I'm treading on eggsh.e.l.ls though. Can't say anything.'

'Listen, we're moving again.'

'There's plenty of food in. Stay the night?'

'Let's see. G.o.d, I forgot what about Molly?'

'Discharged home with her parents and recovered physically at least.'

'That says it all. We're moving properly now. See you in a bit.'

Cat put the phone down and finished her tea. The staff-room was empty and she was glad of it, as they all sometimes were when a break was badly needed. She had done some slow breathing, looking out at the darkening sky and the snow. Now that her son and brother were on their way home and Molly was safely off with her family, she could relax at least one part of herself, the part that was always tense when this or that person was away or travelling. There remained the semi-anxiety, semi-excitement about Hannah but Cat had a feeling that she would get the film part, even though she tried to keep it out of her mind. When it came to Richard and Judith she veered between hope and despair and that was harder to forget, it flowed deep down and even through her dreams, like underground water, it clouded her waking and troubled her at random moments.

'Cat . . .?'

She got up, knowing at once where she was needed.

'I think you should try her daughter again.'

'Would you mind doing it? Not sure I've the patience.'

'Not sure I have,' Cathy said. 'But let me practise.'

Whatever response Cathy got from Penny, Cat saw as she went into Jocelyn Forbes's room, was now irrelevant. Jocelyn lay, her right hand on the cover, palm upwards, as if waiting for someone to put theirs into it, eyes closed, face already changing as death took over. Cat took hold of the hand, utterly unresponsive as it was, and pressed it.

The silence in the room was absolute and like a balm, a healing silence. She had known it so often, this strange sense of being 'at the still point of the turning world', and never ceased to be overcome by it. Death, she thought. Death, how little we know. How often and how surely you come at the perfect moment and make things right and how little we trust to that. Even Chris, she realised now. Everything that had been wrong was put right, even though her world had split open from end to end and forever.

She sat beside Jocelyn Forbes, hand still on hers, remembering, understanding. Saying goodbye.

The door opened quietly. Cat looked at Cathy, who shook her head.

But half an hour later, Penny Forbes burst through the doors, dishevelled and out of control, upsetting a woman and two teenage children who were waiting to see Cat after the death of a beloved husband and father. They were quiet, stunned, pale, anxious, needing tenderness and gentle answers to unanswerable questions. Penny gave no sign of being aware of them as she stood wailing, demanding to see her mother, demanding to know why she had not been told that Jocelyn was about to die so that she could have been with her, demanding to make a complaint, demanding, demanding . . . The family huddled together, looking at her out of shocked and tear-stained faces, the mother trying to distract her son and daughter from the scene being played out a yard or so away, looking desperately at Lois, the receptionist, willing her to make Penny disappear.

It was the ever-capable Cathy who fielded her, led her to the family room, listened to her rage, brought her coffee and tissues, sat beside her.

'I want to see Dr Deerbon, she's the one who's answerable for this, she's the one who has to explain.'

'Dr Deerbon will be with you as soon as she can. She's seeing a bereaved family.'

'I'm bereaved, and I've had a lot to go through these last months, she knows that. And I've been unwell, I've had to take a lot of time off work as a result of the strain of it all. I think Dr Deerbon owes it to me to see me before other people. I could have seen my mother before she died, I could have talked to her, and we had a lot of unfinished business. I had her and now I've no one.'

Staff Nurse Cathy Loughran knew all there was to know about Penny Forbes in relation to her mother, but said nothing, nodded sympathetically, sat patiently. She was used to every sort of family reaction, even to people coming to blows used to genuine grief, mock grief, grief which ran deep and did not show, showy grief which ran shallow. Penny had hidden away, frightened of a final encounter with her mother, self-absorbed, not wanting to face the truth. Now she had retreated into her own world and erected a ring of defences around herself. The inevitable had happened Jocelyn had died without her daughter saying goodbye and resolving any tensions and differences they might have had. Guilt would run riot.

Cat stayed longer with the bereaved family than she might have done, letting each one of them have time to speak about what they felt, knowing how irreplaceable these moments were and how they would value them for the rest of their lives. They left the building in a sad, close group, clinging to one another for comfort, looking back several times to where they had left the one person they wanted to be able to take with them and to the place which had meant everything and could no longer do so. People had strong feelings towards the hospice in which those they loved had died, wanting to stay, to come back and help out, to continue being a part of what they could not bear to abandon.

Cat had watched from the doorway until their car turned out into the road, after which she took a deep breath, sent up a prayer for strength and patience with a woman who was, in truth, one more of the bereaved in need of compa.s.sion.

Penny Forbes was angry with herself and directed that anger onto Cat, who could take it but who still had to bite her tongue when accused of keeping the woman away from her mother. She let her rant for some time, saying nothing herself and then suggested that she might go to see Jocelyn now. She had been moved into the hospice chapel of rest, which some staff preferred to call 'the viewing room'. Cat led Penny in. It was a place of comfort, a place where suffering was at an end and the dead person was safe from fear and at rest, whatever beliefs or unbeliefs were held. Cat never failed to gain consolation and strength from being in the chapel with the dead, always felt herself to be in the immediate presence of G.o.d. Few, if any, left unmoved.

Penny grabbed Cat's arm and dug her nails into it, pulling her back. 'I can't. I can't face it.'

'It's entirely up to you. But you should see her. You need to make your peace with her, Penny.'

'What? What do you mean by that?'

'And you need to say goodbye. If you don't you'll regret it for the rest of your life.'

Penny had turned away and buried her face in a handkerchief. Cat felt her patience fraying to breaking point.

'I'll come with you.'

'I don't want to see her like that.'

'But not long ago you were going to watch her kill herself in a Swiss clinic. This is going to be easier.'

'I must have been mad.'

'No, you were being loving and supportive.'

'I've never seen a dead body. A human one.'

'This is your mother, Penny not "a dead body". She looks peaceful and she looks younger.'

It was several more minutes before Penny shuffled reluctantly in behind Cat. The door swung slowly to and closed with barely a sound.

Jocelyn did indeed look peaceful and younger, her face less lined now and her features relaxed and gentle. Cat went over and put her hand on the dead one. Cool. Very different from the last time. But Jocelyn's hand, nonetheless.

One second and there was a blessed silence. The next, there was a sound that made Cat step back as if in self-defence. Penny had put her head back and let out a terrible noise from the back of her throat, a noise between a roar and a wail that echoed round the small room. It seemed that Jocelyn lay as still as she did out of a sort of defiance, eyes closed against it.

The door opened and Cat made a small gesture to the member of staff who had been pa.s.sing, to indicate that she was all right, but then she took Penny by the arm and led her out of the chapel.

Sixteen.

IT WAS LOVELY. You got out of bed just after midnight. Had a pot of tea. Made a big fat doorstep sandwich of cheese and pickle and sardines. Bag of crisps. Bar of KitKat.

Then into your coat, your hat and your boots. Big boots. Then you went out.

And there was no one. The snow had covered the towpath and the banks of the ca.n.a.l. Over the bridge it was piled three inches. Down the steps. Hold onto the rail, mind.

Then you were down on the other side and up the street and there was no one. A car on the main road then not another for ages.

n.o.bby smiled, crunching the snow. Sweet as a nut. Lovely. He pushed his boot down into it. Stood still. Pushed the other boot down. Stood looking round. The sky was clear, the stars like the bright heads of pins in a velvet pincushion.

They had names, and he knew some of them but not which name belonged to which.

He walked slowly. No one about. Empty world. Half a mile. A mile. Into the town. Along the road past the hill which was like one of the Alps in a picture.

Untouched snow. He laughed as he sent it flying, kicking it in all directions. Then he fell over and rolled in it. Got up before his clothes were too wet and walked on and laughed now and again because the snow made him happy. Snow and night. Night and snow.