Lorraine had had no visitors then no one had even known she was undergoing surgery so she spent many hours alone in the sunny, comfortable TV lounge, not that she had ever had much interest in television but this was the only room in which patients were allowed to smoke, and she had passed the time by watching the others, playing detective as to their real ages and backgrounds.

Most were women between forty and sixty, and some had already had so much surgery that at first sight they looked much younger, but there was always some incongruity between their faces, uniformly taut, tanned, slightly android-looking, and the way they dressed, moved or, most noticeably, spoke, that betrayed their real age. There were other dead giveaways too: the slight slackening of skin tone on the under surface of the arm that no amount of exercise could firm, plus, of course, the hands and feet. There were a couple of veritable Zsa Zsa Gabor lookalikes, dyed blonde hair piled up, stretched and lifted faces that could have passed for mid-forties, but with the liver-spotted hands, thickened knuckles and prominent tendons of old age. Only a lucky few seemed to escape that tell-tale sign of time's passing. There had been a woman in a wheelchair, wearing dark glasses and still bandaged so that virtually none of her face could be seen. Lorraine had assumed, from the few visible strands of white hair, that she must be in her sixties or seventies, but she had noticed that the woman's large, fine, restless hands were those of someone much younger, conveying an unusual impression of simultaneous flexibility and strength. She remembered noting how short the nails were cut, and had thought at the time that the woman must use her hands perhaps as a musician or, at her age, a music teacher which would explain how they had escaped shrivelling into an old lady's claws. Now she knew that the woman was no musician, no teacher, and no old lady: it had been Sonja Nathan, she would have taken an oath on it.

The woman had kept herself to herself, only coming into the TV lounge once and taking no part in any of the casual conversations that were going on around her. Lorraine had thought, though, that she had seemed to pay attention when she herself had revealed to a chatty lady who worked for a real estate company that she was a private detective they had commented quietly that they seemed to be in a minority here of working women: most of their fellow patients were pampered wives. When Lorraine had said she might be looking to rent a new office shortly, the woman had insisted on knowing Lorraine's full name and the name of her company, Lorraine remembered, and she remembered, too, how she had thought of trying to draw the bandaged woman into their conversation, but some separateness and aloofness in her demeanour had deterred her from doing so. It was that indefinable froideur, as much as anything in Sonja Nathan's physical appearance, that now made Lorraine certain it had been her.

Sonja Nathan had left the clinic knowing exactly who Lorraine was and, weeks later, had been able to recall those details.

Sonja had said that she had not been in Los Angeles at all for the previous year. That was a lie, and Lorraine was positive now that Sonja had also lied when she had said she had not made the call to Lorraine's office on the morning of the murder. Lorraine already had documentary evidence presumably lying in her apartment, she thought, in her briefcase that Sonja and Harry Nathan were in contact after their divorce. Now she had the last piece of the jigsaw: proof that Sonja Nathan had been in LA the day her ex-husband was killed. She was sure now that if she ever got out of this goddamn hospital and was able to get voice experts to analyse the recording Decker had made of the call which had to be somewhere on that tape, they could identify some feature of Sonja's mid-Atlantic, faintly European accent. That would be the final link and would put the woman behind bars.

It was painful to drag up each memory, worse than any headache she had ever known. The pain was excruciating, but Lorraine wouldn't, couldn't stop. Now everything had fallen into place, and Lorraine understood Sonja's odd concern about Cindy, her saying that she wished she had given her more time 'or assistance'. Sonja's lack of interest in the fact that so much money was missing from the estate had also seemed strange but not, Lorraine thought wryly, when one knew that the assets had been taken before the bizarre sequence of events that had left Sonja, ironically, Harry Nathan's legitimate heir.

Sonja Nathan knew the house, the gardens, and more than likely her ex-husband's routine or she could readily have arranged to meet him in advance. Sonja was clearly capable of premeditation, as she must deliberately have hired a jeep identical to Kendall's to conceal her comings and goings at Nathan's house perhaps she had even hoped to incriminate Kendall, Lorraine thought, and she had managed to take every nickel of the woman's money through the art fraud. Even if Kendall's death really had been accidental, Sonja bore some indirect responsibility, as it had been after realizing that she had lost her stake in the paintings that Kendall had been tempted to try to burn down the gallery for the insurance. That must have given Sonja considerable satisfaction, Lorraine thought, for, as Arthur had said, she was all too human or inhuman under the cool, superior facade, and had clearly hated Kendall as intensely as she had ever loved Nathan.

As for the paintings, Lorraine now knew that Harry Nathan had been to Germany, to make preparations for the sale of the real works of art, and she was sure, too, that once she got out of here and could get to Berlin, she could find out exactly how Sonja and Arthur, the expert copier, had stepped into Nathan's shoes and netted the proceeds of sale.

Lorraine's head throbbed, but she carried on, piecing the jigsaw together. All the dead faces floated in front of her Harry Nathan, Cindy, Kendall, Vallance faded, and then became clearer, but her concentration was wavering like a guttering torch. It was on Vallance's death that she tried to shed the last of its light. Lorraine knew now how Sonja had killed him or made him kill himself by threatening to release the porn videos, the murder weapon Jake Burton had innocently sent her. Sonja could not, of course, be made to bear legal responsibility for that murder, or for Cindy's death, for which she was also morally responsible: Vallance had strangled his former mistress, believing mistakenly that she, not Sonja, had killed the man he had idolized and lusted after all his life. Christ, Lorraine thought, that this should be the woman to whom she had poured out her own most private griefs to turn Sonja's mind from suicide but once she got out of here . . . The faces blurred and parts of the conversations she was trying to recall began to crackle and echo in Lorraine's brain. The pain grew worse and worse: she was losing her grip, unable to think any more. She screamed in agony, as if a red-hot iron were forging up from her spine, blinding her, exhausting her, and she couldn't take it any more.

Rooney went pale. Even though he was outside Intensive Care, on his way to see Lorraine, he knew something had happened. Nurses and doctors, running as if for their own lives, entered the unit, and the curtains were drawn across the viewing window. Lorraine was shielded from his sight, and the last thing he saw as they clustered around her was the heart monitor, bleeping loudly.

A little later, Jake Burton walked up the corridor with fresh flowers, and Rooney turned to him. 'Something's happened, I don't know what, but they shut the curtains and there's got to be eight of them round her. I don't know for sure, but I think it's her heart.'

Sonja had had one white wedding, and she had decided that this time she would get married in deep red, a rich colour more suitable for both a Swiss wedding in winter, she thought, and for a mature bride. The close-fitting crimson suit, with rich brown fur collar and cuffs, accentuated her tall, slim figure, while she had bought a frighteningly expensive hussar's cap in the same fur, which she was now wondering whether or not to wear.

She put it on, took it off, fluffed out her hair, then crossed to the far side of the room across the expanse of pale green carpet: she and Arthur had booked the Grace Kelly Suite in the best hotel in Geneva, with private sitting and dining rooms and a marvellous view of the lake. She walked towards her reflection in the long cheval mirror, studying it intently.

'Too much fur?' she asked, as Arthur appeared. 'I don't know whether or not to wear the hat.'

He was wearing a smart suit, with a rose in the buttonhole, and a matching waistcoat, and was knotting his tie. 'Put it on and let me see,' he said.

Sonja did as he asked and turned to face him: she looked beautiful, he thought, but she was different now, and it wasn't just the unfamiliar new costume. For all these years he had yearned to possess her without Harry Nathan, but now that Nathan's shadow had gone, she was not the same woman, less driven, less intense, as though someone had dropped the end of a rope she had pulled against for years, sometimes seeming younger, sometimes older. Was she free now, he wondered, or adrift?

She had always been able to read his moods, almost his thoughts, and it was as though she sensed his scrutiny. 'You're sure you want to do this?' she said quietly. 'You know you can still back out.'

'I don't want to back out,' he said. You could never tell with love, he thought, whether it would last or fade, stay constant or change. You just had to trust and step in. 'Wear the hat.'

Sonja looked at herself again in the mirror, then turned. 'Shall we go?' she said, her expression grave.

Arthur tossed something towards her. 'Here this time it's not a fake.' She caught the ring box in both hands, knowing that the price of the jewel didn't matter now: all the money had been transferred to Switzerland, and they would decide later how to move it back to the United States if and when they needed it.

He watched her take the ring from the box, admire it, then hold it out. 'You put it on.'

He took it and held her hand, slipping it onto her wedding finger. Then he bent down to kiss her.

'Well, we did it,' he said softly, then smiled. 'And we got away with it. Was it worth the wait?'

'Yes, yes, it was.' She was not looking at him. 'Believe me, it was worth it.'

She turned away to catch another glimpse of herself as Arthur checked the time. They should go down to Reception, the limo would be waiting. Arthur crossed to the doors: as a small surprise, he had ordered some deep red roses as a bridal bouquet.

'Give me two minutes . . . I'll join you,' she called.

He held the door half open.

'Two minutes. See you down there.'

She waited for him to leave, adjusted her hat, needing a moment alone to look in her room of memories one last time before she turned the key. She remembered crossing the lawn, seeing Harry towelling himself dry after his swim. She had not decided then that that would be the day she killed him a day she had been thinking about for a long time, and neither of them had known then that everything Harry Nathan did that day he was doing for the last time. It was when she had seen the gun on the table, one of Nathan's own guns, and had known that there would be no difficulty in disposing of a weapon, that she had felt she had received the signal to put the plan into action, had known that there would never be a better chance.

Harry had tossed aside his towel, not bothering to cover his nakedness in front of her, vain as ever of his body. Sonja had taken a handkerchief out of her pocket. He had paid no attention when she picked up the gun, turning it in her hand and covering it with the cloth. It felt cold and heavy like her heart. She had raised it first to his chest, then a little higher, and he had smiled, told her to be careful as it was loaded. Then his face had slowly drained of colour as she aimed it at his neck, then tilted the barrel to his face.

'I've wanted to kill you for a long time, Harry, and until now I never thought I could. But you know something, Harry, I can.'

He had backed away, terror visible in his face, as his eyes widened in fear. Then she had pulled the trigger, and he stumbled two steps forward, then toppled into the pool. She had stood there, watching the petals of blood unfold from his head, as he floated face down, arms outstretched, the image that had never left her, and that she had felt driven to replicate, partly as a triumphal shout, a final exorcism and partly as a confession that no one had heard.

She had then picked up her shoes, and walked back across the gardens, returning to the rented Mitsubishi jeep Harry had agreed she should get one as close to Kendall's as possible just in case anyone saw her driving in and out of the house for their meetings and to remove the paintings. Suddenly she knew how fortunate that was. Sonja could not have cared less if the phoney, odious Kendall ended up paying the penalty for Harry Nathan's death.

No one else could possibly be incriminated, she had thought but Cindy had been her one mistake. She had thought Nathan had told her on the phone, when they arranged the meeting, that he and Cindy had had a fight and she had left. It was only when she had heard the girl's scream after the killing that she had realized that she must have misunderstood. He must have said that Cindy had threatened to go, or was about to. Poor Cindy, she had thought. She had had no desire to see the pathetic, abused girl stand trial, and it must have been fate that had ensured she had not only met a local private investigator a few weeks previously but had remembered the woman's name. She had stopped the jeep at once, had got the number from Information, then called Lorraine Page's office from a public phone.

Her plane trip back to New York was, as always, booked in a different name, and she had carried the paintings like posters in rolls of cardboard. She was never stopped or questioned.

By the time she had returned to the Hamptons, the news had broken that Harry Nathan had been murdered and Cindy Nathan arrested. Next day, it had transpired that things were worse than Sonja had thought: the gun she had used had been Cindy's.

After that she had just sat back and watched the aftermath. Now there was no one left to hate, no one left to blame. She had told the world of her guilt, but no one had noticed, and it was over at last, she thought. Quietus est.

Rosie was out of breath as she joined Burton and Rooney she'd rushed to the hospital as soon as she had heard.

'What happened? Is she all right?'

Rooney sat her down. 'There've been complications. Her breathing has deteriorated, and her temperature's started rising. She's holding her own, but now they're worrying that her heart's been under too much strain.'

Jake took Rosie's hand. 'Mike's on his way in, and the girls. It's just a matter of time now.'

'No, no, I don't believe it she was getting better. They said her breathing wouldn't stabilize well, it did. She'll get over this relapse it's just a kind of a relapse, right? Look, I know her, I know her, and . . .' Rosie's face crumpled but she kept on talking about how she and Lorraine had first met how ill Lorraine had been, how she was so thin and weak that no one would have ever believed she could recover, quit her alcohol addiction . . .

'It's part of the problem, Rosie, sweetheart. Her body took so much punishment for so long, it's just tired out.' Rosie started to sob and Rooney gripped her hand tightly. 'Now you listen to me, her daughters are coming in, and we don't want them upset and scared. Just pull yourself together there's been enough tears, and you don't want Lorraine to see you crying.'

'She can't see me, she's in a coma,' Rosie said, wiping her nose.

'I know, but nobody knows if that means she can't hear. So dry your eyes, and go freshen up.'

Rosie went to the powder room, and Rooney felt exhausted. He had no tears left to cry, and he looked at the quiet, composed Jake. 'You okay?'

Jake was far from okay, but he nodded, and Rooney sighed heavily. 'You know, maybe it's for the best. I mean, it's likely she's got brain damage, and I wouldn't want to see her all crumpled up, unable to do anything for herself. I know she wouldn't want that either.'

Both men stood up as Dr Hudson came out of the unit and gestured to them to sit down. He asked if Lorraine's daughters were coming in to see her, and Jake said they were on their way.

'You want it straight?' he said, pulling at the collar of his white coat. They both nodded. 'I've always been level with you, and I've got to admit I didn't think we'd be able to hold her for this long, but this recent development . . . Her organs are just giving way, and I am afraid there's nothing more we can do. It really is a matter of hours. She's in no pain, but her heart is now in trouble, and what with that and the cumulative malfunction of her kidneys and lungs . . .'

'How long?' Jake said quietly.

'I doubt if she'll last the night. I'm very, very sorry.'

Jake stood up and looked at Rooney. 'I'd like some time alone with her, before her daughters arrive.' He turned his gaze to the doctor. 'Can I go in?'

The doctor nodded: the staff were already making Lorraine look more presentable by removing some of the drips and machines from the room, which was already screened off from the rest of the unit to give more privacy. 'The nurse will come out in a minute, but I'll be here if you need me. Just tell the duty nurse, or Reception to buzz me.' The doctor hovered for a moment, then walked away from the tiny overheated anteroom with a grave nod.

Five minutes later, when Rosie had returned, a nurse came out. She smiled cheerfully and held the door ajar. 'You can see her now. Thank you for all the gifts.'

'They were from Lorraine,' Rosie said firmly. The nurse moved away, and Rosie saw as she went in that the little Christmas tree had been taken down.

Sonja and Arthur exchanged their vows in a quiet ceremony, with only one other person as a witness, a clerk from the mayor's office, a small, balding man who had obviously performed this function on innumerable occasions. He gave them an encouraging smile, signed the register with a flourish, and wished them every happiness in their future life. They walked out arm in arm, Sonja's bouquet of roses matching Arthur's buttonhole.

'Holy shit, they gone an' put my nightdress on back to front,' Lorraine said, then angrily told Burton that one of the nurses should be fired as she had a rough bedside manner. He drew up a chair and sat close to the bed.

'I have to say you must have shares in a florist!' Lorraine joked. 'I mean, this is getting to be ridiculous. When I get out of here, I'm taking that bunch with me, the lilies I always liked lilies, it's the smell. I've been meaning to ask you, though it's a bit embarrassing, do I smell? I know they clean me up, but that fucking nurse, the one with the frizzy hair, I don't think she's a pro. She almost had me out of the bed earlier you know, whipping out the fucking tubes as if she was playing an organ.' He touched her hand, and let one finger trace the dark bruises where the needles and drips had been attached. 'I know they think they're digging for gold trying to find a vein.' She laughed, then frowned.

'I worry about wearing this ring I don't know if you can trust these nurses. I remember when my dad was in hospital, you couldn't leave fifty bucks. Mind you, he wasn't in a private ward like this. Thank Christ I blew so much on a private medical plan.'

He gently traced her fingers, touching each nail. 'I love you, will never forget you, and with this ring I thee wed. You are the wife I always wanted and never believed I'd find, but we did find each other, didn't we? If just for a short while.'

'Yeah, we sure did, and you know I've never been the romantic kind, but . . . remember the beach? The first time you came walking with me and Tiger I knew I was in love with you then. Actually I knew when you knocked on the door. Did I tell you that? You have a way of holding your head, on one side, and when you're going to say something romantic, you get these two red dots in your cheeks. You've got them now . . .'

'Remember the first time we walked on the beach?'

'Yes, I just said that. But it was even better later with all that takeaway food my God, we ordered every single thing off the menu. You know I truthfully never thought I'd have someone love me.'

'I love you.'

'I love you, too, with all my heart, and . . . Hey, where you going? Don't go yet, I want to kiss you. Don't go, let me kiss you.'

Jake got to the door, stopped, turned back. He found it almost unbearable to see Lorraine propped up, but with her eyes closed, just as if she was sleeping. He returned to the bed and gently kissed her lips, then rested his head against hers and touched her cheeks. For the first time her flesh felt cold.

'I don't call that a kiss, and listen, we have to talk before you go. Listen to me, it's very important. I cracked the Nathan case. Sonja Nathan killed him, I'm sure of it. I know I've got nothing but circumstantial evidence, but you've got to get my briefcase and get some phone company records out of it, and contact the clinic where I had my scar fixed. I'm sure she was there. You've got to get the tape recording Decker made of that call that was made to my office too the one Cindy never made. He couldn't find it, but it's just got to be there somewhere. It was Sonja. Why don't you listen to me? Where are you going?'

Jake leaned out into the corridor. 'Bill, you want to come in? I'll just take five minutes, go to the John.'

Rooney came in, sweating as usual, wanting to take off his jacket, but not sure that he should.

'Sit down, Billy, before he gets back. We got to talk he doesn't seem to take me seriously, but I think I cracked the Nathan case. I'll need help, and there could be big bucks in it if we can recover the stolen art work. It's worth millions and I have a damned good idea where it is. Germany. I also know Sonja Nathan killed her husband.'

'Rosie's with me, she won't be a minute.'

'Okay. Let me get this sorted out before she comes in. First you have to check out Nathan's fake passports, there's a letter in my purse he sent to his mother from Germany. I think in fact, I'm sure Sonja Nathan was working with her ex-husband on this art fraud scam. It's big money, Bill, not a few hundred thousand dollars, but millions.'

He looked at her, lying so still, eyes closed as if she was sleeping.

'You look beautiful, darlin',' he said softly.

'Oh, quit with the flattery. Listen to what I'm saying. We trace those paintings, we'll all be in for a few bucks to retire on, Billy. I'm out after this case, and all I want to do is crack it you know the way I am. Now, I need you first to contact Feinstein, then get my briefcase out of the apartment, Bill. Then you and Rosie do another trip to Europe. I want this case cleared before I quit, know what I mean? I get married to Jake and . . . You like him, don't you? He's an okay guy, isn't he? And I'm going to tell you something. I was so scared, Bill you know, I didn't think I had any right to love or be loved. He loves me, Billy.'

'We're taking care of Tiger,' Rooney said, trying to think of something to say, then told her how the dog had already destroyed their new sofa.

Lorraine laughed, that big, bellowing laugh of hers. 'Hey, Bill, did you ever tell Rosie about that guy, remember him? With the lottery ticket? God, that was funny.'

Rosie came in, smiled at Bill, and drew up a chair.

'Hey, Rosie, did Billy ever tell you about Chester Brackenshaw? When we were working together. Well, this guy Chester was a real pain in the butt, always going on about what he would or wouldn't do when he won the lottery, and he was a real practical joker, wasn't he, Bill? Anyways . . .'

'She looks beautiful,' Rosie said.

'Thank you, but my nightdress is on back to front. Anyway, Chester goes every Friday to this club, an' me and the guys work this scam out like I said, he was a real practical joker and we get his lottery ticket numbers. It was you, wasn't it, Bill? You got 'em out of his wallet. Anyway, hasn't Bill told you this, Rosie?'

'She's got her nightdress on back to front,' Rosie said, fussing.

'I know, I know . . . but listen, he goes to the club, right? And we get the DJ in on the joke and tell him to announce the winning lottery numbers. So he stops playing records and he announces all Chester's numbers, and we all expected him to start buying drinks for the house. After we'd got him to spend his wages, we were going to let him in on the joke, but . . . he did nothing. Like, we saw him check his card, but he puts it back in his wallet, right, Bill?'

'Shall I comb her hair?' Rosie said to Bill.

'Leave it, just leave it, and listen . . . we all think he knows he's been had, and we're all waiting for him to get back at us some way, but he doesn't, but then as we're all leaving the place, he suddenly throws his car keys at his wife, Sandra her name was Sandra, wasn't it, Bill? Yeah, "Sandra," he says, "take the car, it's yours, and you can have the house. I hate your guts and I've been screwing your sister for two years, but I've won the lottery, so fuck you!"' She roared with laughter, seeing all the guys lined up behind Chester trying to make him shut up.

Lorraine fell silent then as Sissy, Mike's wife, appeared in the doorway. 'Mike's coming, he's in court,' Sissy said, ushering in the girls. Just hearing her daughters made Lorraine feel so emotional she couldn't joke any more. The two girls took Rooney and Rosie's chairs, side by side, and she was so proud of them.

'Come on in, Sissy, don't be embarrassed, I'm not. In fact, I'd like to say something to you. It's . . . well, it's thank you. You've taken such care of my girls, and I want you to know I don't resent you. I did, but I don't now. In fact, I'd like to kiss you.'

Sissy leaned over the bed and kissed Lorraine's cheek. 'I'll be outside if you need me,' she said to the girls, then left them alone with Lorraine.

Julia was the first to reach out to the still, cold hand. 'I'm wearing the bracelet you got for me.' She hesitated and then said softly, 'Thank you, Mom.'

'Oh, now, don't you cry I don't want to see you crying,' Lorraine said, but then was so close to tears herself she couldn't continue.

Julia turned to Sally: 'Say thank you to Mommy, Sally, go on.'

Sally gently touched Lorraine's fingers. 'Thank you, Mommy.'

Lorraine burst into tears: she had never believed she would hear them call her that again. She told them how proud she was, that she knew Julia was a great tennis player and Sally was a gold medallist at her college for swimming. 'One day, maybe you'll understand I wasn't really me for such a long time, but all the times I wasn't with you, all the times I should have been there, I never stopped loving you both with all my heart. I want you to have a good and happy future, and I know you've got a good father . . . because I loved him too. Hey, Mike, I was just talkin' about you.'

Mike came and stood between his daughters, then took Lorraine's hand and kissed it.

'Say goodbye to your mom.'

Both girls whispered goodbye, and Lorraine was upset that they were crying she didn't want them to cry. She watched them leaving the room, and called after them, called each daughter by name, and they turned and looked at her.

'I love you, babies. I love you.'

She wanted Jake again, needed him, in fact wanted him to be there more than Mike or the girls. She felt so light, as if she were floating, and she wanted him to hold on to her. She had the eerie feeling she was going somewhere, and she called out his name.

He stood in the doorway, and she sighed with relief. For a few moments she had thought he had gone, but he came to her side. 'I'm here, darling, I'm here,' he said softly, and she began to relax, knowing he was holding her hand.