"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 fiancee.

"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 fiancee; 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 cafe, 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 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. 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 really good news. They want you." 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 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."