Gilliatt was uncomfortable, nervous, unclear as to exactly what he had seen of the crash, admitted-wiping his forehead repeatedly-that he and his passenger had been having what he called "a rather heated exchange" just beforehand.

"Sufficiently heated to distract you?" Andrews said, and yes, he said, and he was very ashamed that he had allowed it to do so.

"Not a good thing to be distracted on a crowded motorway, I'm afraid. Fortunate you were in the inside lane. You had met your passenger at a business function, I believe?"

"We had met through business, yes."

Cagey answer. Should he press this? Andrews thought. No. It was hardly relevant.

"Now, I believe also that you were on the phone? Which must have added to your distraction."

"I was, yes. Very, very briefly."

"You don't have a hands-free?"

"Not in the car I was driving, no. Well ... that is to say, I do, but it wasn't working properly. The car was brand-new, and there were teething troubles generally with the communication systems. The GPS wasn't working properly either. I knew I shouldn't have answered the phone, but I was pretty sure it was my wife; she'd been trying to get through, and she'd have been worried. And I had to get to my clinic in Harley Street ..."

"I see. But you were obviously driving perhaps unnecessarily slowly, given that you were under pressure. Why was that?"

"Well ... as I said, there'd been the storm; conditions were nasty. I was tired; I think I must have been feeling generally nervous."

"And then ...?"

"Then, as it says in my statement, I realised the lorry was all over the place, that it could be very dangerous. I literally flung the phone into the back and ... next thing I knew, I was on the hard shoulder. With all the ... the carnage about a hundred metres behind me."

"And then you walked back to see what you could do?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Which was very commendable. Well done. Now ... I would like to ask you about the victims, and your undoubtedly splendid work amongst the injured ... and I think that when I have finished, some of the relatives may want to question you. I hope that's all right."

"Of course."

"I would like to call Abigail Scott. Miss Scott, please take the oath. But first we shall hear your statement from Sergeant Freeman ...

Bit of a baggage, this one, Andrews thought. Very attractive, and very, very sexy. Unlikely the relationship with Gilliatt had been purely professional. No doubt he'd considered himself perfectly safe ... and then found himself skewered by fate.

"Miss Scott. You were in the car with Mr. Gilliatt. I wonder if you can add to his evidence in any way, or rather confirm that, as far as you could see, there was no question of anything cutting in front of Mr. Connell's lorry, from any direction, that might have caused him to swerve."

"No. Nothing. I saw the whole thing, obviously, and everyone seemed to be driving very carefully and well."

"Including Dr. Gilliatt?"

"Yes, he was driving very carefully."

"But he admits himself he was distracted, that you and he were having a ... a heated discussion?"

"Yes. We were. But it wasn't making him drive badly. He ... he's a very good and careful driver always."

"You've been driven by Mr. Gilliatt before, I assume from that?"

"Yes. Yes, I had."

"In the course of your mutual professional duties, I presume?"

There was a long silence; the legendary pin dropping would have sounded like thunder.

Then: "Not always, no."

Andrews could feel the entire courtroom tautening.

"Your relationship wasn't entirely professional. Is that what you're telling us? Remember, you are under oath."

"Yes. I mean it wasn't. I ... liked him a lot. For a while."

"I see. So ... I want to keep this conversation relevant to the proceedings, Miss Scott."

"Of course."

"So ... this heated exchange. Was it of a personal nature? I ask only because it seems to me that could have been more distracting for him."

"Well, it was personal. Yes. He had told me that he didn't think we should continue with our ... our friendship."

"And ...?"

"And I was ... disappointed. So I was arguing with him."

"And ... did you win this argument?"

"No. No, I didn't. Any ideas I had of continuing with our ... relationship were futile. He made that very clear."

"Your relationship? I thought you said it was a friendship. Or do you regard the two as the same?"

"Not really," she said, and her eyes meeting his were what Andrews could only describe as bold. "I suppose you could say it was-had been-more than a friendship."

"Well, we need not concern ourselves with the precise nature of it," said Andrews, aware that the entire court longed to concern itself exactly thus. "But you are still quite sure that this conversation didn't distract him in any way from his driving?"

"I'm quite sure."

"Or that you might have failed to notice something untoward or dangerous yourself?"

"I'm sure about that too."

Then: "How did you get home from the crash? Did Mr. Gilliatt drive you?"

"No, of course not. I told you. Our relationship was over. Anyway, I was helping to look after some little boys, the ones from the minibus. I went back to the hospital in the ambulance with one of them, who was having an asthma attack. Shaun, he was called; he was a great little boy. I'd had asthma as a child, so I knew how to help."

"Well ... thank you for your frankness, Miss Scott. It's been most helpful and much appreciated. Thank you. You may step down."

Andrews looked round the court; if this was a play he thought-and inquests so frequently provided wonderful theatre-it would be the obvious point for an interval. He called another break. He desperately wanted to get this over in one day.

He heard evidence then from the young couple whose baby had been induced prematurely by the accident; he found them mildly irritating without being sure why. And then he said he would like to hear from Toby Weston, the bridegroom who had crashed into the back of them following a blowout.

"But first we should hear your statement, Mr. Weston. Sergeant Freeman ..."

Weston stood up: good-looking young chap, Andrews thought, seemed pleasant, very conventionally dressed. He'd had a tough time, almost lost his leg. And missed his wedding. Fate again: relentless, unpredictable fate ...

"Er ... could I say something, please?" Weston said.

"You may, Mr. Weston. As much as you like. Once you have taken the oath. First we should hear your statement. Sergeant ..."

"Yes, but-"

"Sergeant Freeman, please go on."

Freeman cleared his throat and began to read the statement; told of the desperate rush to get to the church, the buildup of delays ... and how Weston had wanted to check the tyre pressures, had been concerned that one of them was soft. "'However, Mr. Fraser, my best man, persuaded me not to, said it was unnecessary and that we should get on our way again.'"

At which point another young man stood up very suddenly in his seat and said, "But ... I ... That's not ..." His face was scarlet and distorted with some kind of emotion; Andrews held up his hand.

"Your turn will come," he said. "And I will decide when. Please sit down, and be good enough not to interrupt proceedings again. I would remind you this is a court of law, and you are required to show it a proper respect. Sergeant Freeman, continue, please."

Sergeant Freeman continued; and then Weston took the stand and the oath. Andrews watched him with interest. Another emotional revelation, perhaps?

"Now, Mr. Weston, perhaps you would like to start by telling us what you wanted to say."

"Ah. Yes. Well, you see ... well, that is, my statement wasn't entirely correct."

"Really?" Andrews's voice was full of innocent disbelief.

"No. No, the thing is ... that bit about the tyres, that's not right. I ... When I gave my statement to the inspector, I wasn't at all well. I was in a lot of pain: I'd been running a temperature; I had an infection in my leg; they ... well, they'd thought they might have to amputate. It had all been very traumatic; I was still very upset. And confused."

"I'm sure. Very understandable. I believe your leg is to a large extent recovered now."

"Yes. Yes, it is, thank you. Anyway, it was not correct to say that Barney-Mr. Fraser-had persuaded me ... not to check the type pressures. It was at my insistence that we left immediately and drove on. I'd had ... well, I'd had a rather ... rather pressing call from my father-in-law-to-be. I just felt that we had to get to the wedding no matter what. Mr. Fraser was very anxious to check them, very unhappy at leaving them. I'm extremely sorry about the ... the confusion. Really very sorry indeed."

"Well, well," said Andrews, "thank you for that, Mr. Weston. Of course, we have heard from Forensics that in their opinion the blowout was caused by the presence of the nail in the tyre, so I don't think you need to worry on that score. But accuracy in statements is, of course, very important, as I'm sure you realise, and mistakes can waste time and indeed change the outcome of an enquiry in certain instances. It's always a pity when it is lacking, and indeed deliberate inaccuracies can be regarded as an offence. Do you have any other corrections?"

"No, no others."

"Good. Then let's go on."

Weston's evidence was without further dramatic input.

Fraser, his best man, he who had clearly been so distressed earlier, was called; he appeared shocked, strained; his answers were often faltering; then suddenly he spoke of his remorse that he had escaped "literally without a scratch, while everyone around us, it seemed, was horribly hurt. To this day, I feel bad. One of the doctors at the hospital was great; she told me how common that was, helped me to come to terms with it, this survivor-guilt thing."

"I'm glad to hear it, Mr. Fraser. May I say, this kind of remorse is very common. It doesn't mean you should feel you bear any of the blame. And we now know," he added, looking directly at Toby, "that you were keen to do the right thing and check your tyres. I think you will find that gradually you will lose your sense of guilt. I hope so."

More evidence followed: from a rather sleazy-looking chap, the white van driver, whose nail-studded planks had slithered out onto the road; Andrews rather enjoyed questioning him very closely as to how this had happened. It was not for him to apportion blame; it was still possible to make plain where blame lay.

And finally, an old lady gave evidence, a very anxious old lady, who said that she felt responsible in a small way, because she'd made Mr. Weston wait while she paid for her own petrol.

"I feel absolutely awful," she said. "I kept thinking how wrong of me it had been; he asked to go first, he said he was in a terrible hurry, and for some reason, I told him he had to take his turn. Who knows, had I not done that, those young men might not have been caught in the accident, but arrived at the church in time, and ... Well, I'd like to apologise to them." She looked across at them both rather nervously.

"I really don't think, Mrs. Mackenzie, you should feel too bad," said Michael Andrews gently. "It would have made so little difference to the time and-"

"Yes, yes, but that little difference might have been crucial, don't you think? I'm sure you know the old parable about the horseshoe nail?"

"I'm ... not sure," said Andrews.

"Oh, yes ..." And as he waited, clearly expectant, she went on. "Well, it goes like this. 'For the want of a nail a horseshoe was lost; for the want of a shoe the horse was lost; for the want of a horse the rider was lost; for the want of a rider the battle was lost; for the want of a battle, the kingdom was lost. And all for the lack of a horseshoe nail. Who knows? I might have been that nail. If you follow me."

"I ... think so, yes. But I think even the rather more tangible nail would not alone have kept them from the wedding, you know. Still it's a very interesting thought. Thank you, Mrs. Mackenzie. You may step down now."

It was five o'clock when Andrews rose to do his summing up. He was surprised by how positive an experience this inquest had been. Long, gruelling, and very sad at times-but uplifting in its own way: the courage displayed by the victims' families, and indeed by some of the witnesses, the general clarity of the evidence. It had also been very satisfying to conduct; there had been no serious confusion, no conflicting evidence, no self-justification ... except for that ghastly van driver chap.

It had been one of those rare things, this: an accident, pure and simple; nevertheless, for the families of the victims this was little comfort.

He began by speaking to them, saying how sad it was when lives were cut short ... "any lives, not only young lives; one cannot compare or quantify losses or tragedies. Mr. Barnes had much to look forward to in his retirement; Sarah Tomkins had her whole life ahead of her; and for the Marks family a wife and a mother have both been lost. I am sure I speak for the whole court today when I say our hearts go out to you. Accidents are terrible things: one moment everything is under our control; the next we lose that control, fate takes over, and the world changes. No one can anticipate accidents, and they are in many cases virtually unavoidable. We have heard how the road on the afternoon in question was dangerous because of the recent spell of hot, dry weather and the heavy hailstorm; we have heard that no one was driving in any way dangerously. We have heard that the nut came off the wheel of Mr. Bryant's E-Type not through lack of care, but if anything too much. We have heard that Mr. Connell was driving meticulously and that nothing could have prevented his lorry jack-knifing and his load spilling on the road. We have heard of much courageous and unselfish behaviour, and I would like to pay tribute in particular to Mr. Gilliatt, and of course to the emergency services and the staff at St. Marks Hospital, Swindon. And I would like to thank certain witnesses for their courage in coming forward when they were clearly nervous as to the outcome.

"There is much talk these days of the perfect storm-a confluence of weather patterns that separately would not be fatal or even dangerous, but which combine to be both; I would make an analogy between those perfect storms and this accident-everything conspiring to make it happen as and when it did. Rather as in the old nursery rhyme, as Mrs. Mackenzie reminded us. It is so easy to say if; and yes, if Mr. Weston had left the petrol station a few minutes earlier, if there had not been the queue for petrol, if the thunderstorm had not taken place ... One can go on ad infinitum: the fact remains that it was not because these things happened in isolation; it was because they happened in a sequence that was tragically fatal. I therefore return the only verdict I can, that of misadventure."

CHAPTER 52

Abi stalked out of the building. She felt absurdly near to tears. She looked behind her; there was no sign of William. Shit Shit. She'd really upset him; he must have felt utterly betrayed. Dragging it all up again, more or less spelling out that she'd been chasing Jonathan Gilliatt, when she'd always sworn he'd done the chasing.

But ... she knew that she had done the right thing. Her evidence had been, in a strange, subliminal way, a public apology to Laura. Not for having the affair with Jonathan, although she was pretty fucking sorry about that on her own account, but for what she'd done that night, at the party. Testifying had been hard, and it had certainly taken her by surprise; she'd never meant to say any of it, but she'd done it. Without telling a word of a lie either. Not technically, anyway, and certainly not in a way that would pervert the course of justice.

As she had returned to her seat, she'd been aware of two things. One was that William turned his back on her, as far as he was able. And then Laura turned round, and her eyes, meeting Abi's, were very steady, no longer hostile. She didn't smile at her, but there was no hostility in that look. It was almost gratitude. She knew what that meant. She'd got the message. An affirmation that at least Jonathan had had finished the affair that day, the day of the crash. She need feel humiliated no longer.

Abi had made her amends to Laura at last. She could close the book.

"Abi!" It was William. His face was dark with anger. She hadn't seen him look like that before. He was always so even tempered, so level altogether.

"Yes, William."

"What the fuck was that about?"

He never swore usually either. Not real swearing.

"I can't talk about it here."

"You're going to bloody well have to talk about it somewhere."