"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 The Bill, episode of Casualty Casualty, two episodes of Holly oaks 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." Glamour."

It didn't add up to a row of beans, and they would know it; the scenes for The Bill The Bill and and Casualty Casualty had been tiny, had been tiny, Hollyoaks 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 ... 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?" 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." 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?" 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."