CLAIRESEEBER

NeverTell

AVON

ForTiggy&BethyAsthesongsays,Weare

Family…

Last year I read‘RiverofTime’–afamilyfavourite–by renownedjournalist JonSwain whoreported sobravely onVietnam andCambodia. I’mimmenselygratefultoJonforallowing me to

use his words inNEVERTELL;theyhelp explainRose’s addictiontochasingastory.

I also owebarrister RupertBowers a greatdebt of gratitude(or maybe abottle of wine or

two) for all thecourt-roomadvice. (‘Thatwould neverhappen’–hesaida lot: whereverfiction takes overfrom fact, I’vechosen to ignorehis tutelage).Thanks to Nicolaand MatthewSweet who really

did make it toOxford,andtoallmy mates whoknew about gunsand bombs. (Bitscary, really.)Thanks as usualtoFlicEverettthe1st for speedingthrough the firstdraft and to Bethfor taking it tothe beach; to the

Goldsmiths 4 forlistening &commenting soconstructively,especially when Iwas blushing inthe more‘shocking’ scenes!ThankstoTimforletting me lockmyselfaway.

Huge thanks asever to all atAvon: especiallyKeshini Naidooand Kate Bradley(and bon voyage,Max!). Sincerethanks toeveryonewhohassupported meduring the pastyear, particularlythe last six

months. Youknow who youare and I’m verygrateful. Last butnever least,thanks to myagent TeresaChris for all thepep talks and thebelief.The desire tocover stories is

sometimesirresistiblypowerful; thisruthlessness forgetting the storyover and aboveall else, includinglove,haswreckedthe personal livesof manycolleagues…There was a

restlessness inmyspirit, added towhich I didn’tknow how to sayno to a challenge… anirreconcilableconflictofinterestinmylife.RiverofTime,Jon

Swain

Contents

CoverTitlePagePrologue

PartOneChapterOneChapterTwoChapterThreeChapterFour

ChapterFiveChapterSixChapterSevenChapterEightChapterNineChapterTenChapterElevenChapterTwelveChapterThirteenChapterFourteen

ChapterFifteenChapterSixteenChapterSeventeenChapterEighteen

PartTwoChapterNineteenChapterTwentyChapterTwenty-OneChapterTwenty-Two

ChapterTwenty-ThreeChapterTwenty-FourChapterTwenty-FiveChapterTwenty-SixChapterTwenty-SevenChapterTwenty-EightChapterTwenty-NineChapterThirty

PartThree

ChapterThirty-OneChapterThirty-TwoChapterThirty-ThreeChapterThirty-FourChapterThirty-FiveChapterThirty-SixChapterThirty-SevenChapterThirty-EightChapterThirty-Nine

AboutTheAuthorCopyrightAboutThePublisher

PROLOGUE

AllthewaytoLondon,thewoman’s words circledround my head likecarrioncrows.She’dhungup before I could ask

more; that silky voiceechoingdowntheyears,avoice I was sure I knewand yet couldn’t quiteplace. One more piecefromthenightmarejigsawthe lastyearhadbecome;one more piece nearlyslottedbackin.Off the motorway, thetraffic snaked back solidto the Blackfriars

interchange. Frantically Iwatched the clock,creeping forwardincrementally, until Icould bear it no longer.Abandoning the car on abroken meter, I sprintedthrough the rush-hourfumes, dodging swearingcyclists and themotorbikes that sneakeddown the middle,stumbling over the kerb

on Ludgate Hill, until Iwas falling in panic,unable to right myself. Adouble-decker bore downon me, horn blaring; abuilder in a yellow hardhat snatched me from itspath in the nick of time,his warm calloused handon mine. I was toostunned todomuchmorethanblinkathimandrunon.

They were closing StPaul’s Cathedral tosightseers as I finallyreached the great stonestairs. For too long nowmy life hadn’t made anysense; I had to know thetruth. Someone,somewhere, had to knowthetruth.Inside, the internalgate

wasshut.

‘Please,’ I gaspedat thecurate closing up. ‘Please,I have to – I’ve come sofar.’That someonemight be

here.‘You look pretty

desperate,’thejollycuraterelented, waving methrough with his walkie-talkie. ‘Last one in. Thisone’sonGod.’

‘HowdoIgetuptotheWhispering Gallery?’ Iwheezed gratefully,leaning on the barrier fora moment to catch mybreath.It took me ten minutes

toclimbup,andmyheartwas banging so hard bythe time I’d reached thegallery in the huge domethat I had to sit down as

soon as I got there. I’dpassed a gaggle of Italiantourists coming down thestairs, but otherwise thespace was empty. Ithought he hadn’t come,the anonymous writer –andIheardmynamesaidsoftly, and I turned andsawhim.They say that when

you’re drowning your

whole life flashes beforeyour eyes – though itseems unlikely thatanyone could confirm it.True or not, I felt like Iwas falling backwardsnow, splashing messilythroughmyownlife.Hewalked towardsme,thin and no longerelegant, wiry-limbed andcrop-hairedinstead.

‘Hello, Rose,’ he said,and I tried to find myvoice.‘I thought,’ it came at

last, ‘I thought that youweredead.’

PARTONE

ChapterOne

GLOUCESTERSHIRE,

SPRING2008

Itwasn’tturningouttobe

oneof thegoodmornings.Fred had been up threetimes in the night simplyseeking company, so myeyes now stung withtiredness. Alicia was in afoul mood because Effiehad scribbled all over hernew birthday sketchbookinpurplefelt-tip.Effiehadinsisted sweetly that shewas dying for porridgeuntilfinallyIcavedin,and

spent ten minutes stirringit like an automaton,whereupon she spat thefirstmouthfuldramaticallyall over the floor andrefusedevenonemoretry,citingthe‘yuckybits’.‘Put your other slipper

on, Freddie. The floor’sfreezing.’‘It’s lost,’ he announced

dramatically.

‘It’s not lost. It’s on theradiatorthere.’He turned earnest eyesonme. ‘Superheroes don’twearslippers,Mummy.’‘Well super-heroes aregoingtohavehorriblycoldfeetthen,aren’tthey?’I wondered plaintivelyfor the three hundred andsixty-fourth consecutiveday why James couldn’t

getupjustonceandmakethe struggle with plaits,porridge and a three-year-old’s tantrums at leastpartlyhisown.‘I want my milk warm,

Mummy,’ Effie puffed,abandoning the cornflakesand dragging the milkbottle towards her acrossthetable.‘Just have it cold, Ef,

OK?’‘I want it warm,’ she

pouted and promptlyupended the entire pintover the flowerytablecloth.‘For God’s sake, Effie,’

my restraint deserted me.‘I told you not to do that,yousillychild.’‘Shut up, Mummy,’ she

shouted back. ‘You’re

rubbish.’ Her little redmouthwaswobbling.A Ready Brek-encrustedFred looked inwonderment at the raisedvoices and cross faces;Effie and I glaring at oneanother, me waveringbetween laughter andannoyance until Aliciaturned Radio One uploudly.Mypoundinghead

pounded harder as Aliciapronounced,‘ThisisFred’sfavouritesong,’andjiggledso alarmingly at him thathe fell backwards andpromptly burst into tears.Finishing a complicatedriff about some girl notknowing her name, shewhacked her arm on thechair and burst intodramatic sobs thatequalled her brother’s.

Soggy J-cloth in hand, Igazed at them, weighingup my options: openingtheginorjoiningthem.Into this chaos walked

MrsMcCready,nevermorewelcome, unbuttoning theshinyoldcoatthathidherill-fitting velour tracksuit,a choice baby blue today.(‘I think she sleeps inthem,’ James remarked at

least once a week.) Shetook one look at Fred’sfuriousredfaceandswepthimoffthefloor.‘Come here, my

precious,’ she crooned,clutching his plump littlebodytoherhugechest,hisheadhalfthesizeofoneofherbosoms.‘I’llgoandgethim dressed,’ she said.‘Won’t I, precious? Come

on,Effie.’Iturnedtheradiodown,

tossing the cloth towardsthe sink. It hit the floorwith a soggy thwack,narrowlymissingthecat.Ikissed Alicia’s arm betteruntil her sobs eventuallysubsided, and retied herred ribbons beforedispatching her to pianopractice whilst I made a

desultory attempt to clearup.Waitingforthekettleto

boil again, I gazed out ofthemullioned windows atthecoldMarchmorning.Itwas crisp and clear now,the last tendrils of dawnmist dissipating under aslow-climbing sun. Tworobins tookaquickdip inthestonebirdbath,flicking

eachotherwithsomethinglike affection. Below themablackbirdbouncedalonga lawn glistening withdew,hopefullypeckingforaworm. Itwas chocolate-boxperfect.ThekettlesnappedoffasI caught my reflection intheglass.Iaminastupor,Ithought,Ihavebeeninastupor for months. Not

months, even – years. Imove slowly, I havebecome plumper, my skinis soft and golden, theglow of repleteness is onme. And yet I’m notreplete.I shookmyself frommy

self-indulgence.Thingsaregood, I thought, trying toconvince myself onceagain, and poured boiling

waterallovermyhandasJamesappearednoiselesslybehindme.‘Ouch!’ I yanked my

hand back quickly.Quickly,buttoolate.‘Careful,’Jamesyawned,

stretching, displaying ahairystomachabovestripypyjama-bottoms. I ran myhand under the cold tap,the freezing water a new

kindofpainonmyscaldedskin.‘Any coffee going?’ J

scratched his belly. ‘Haveyouseenmyphone?’He rooted through the

piles of paperwork I’dstacked neatly last night,through the oldnewspapers full of articlesIkeptmeaningtoreadandnever got round to, forms

forAlicia’sschooltripsandEffie and Fred’s dinnermoney, bank statementsthat needed to go to theaccountants, my notebookfullofscribblingsforideasthat I needed to write upproperly. Scribblings thatwere decreasing innumber.‘IneedtocallLiam.I’ve

had a fucking blinding

idea for Revolver. We’vegottogoalloutontheVIProom. Marble, gold, theworks.Seventieskitsch.’Iwatchedonepile slide

dangerously to the rightandbitmytongue.‘Where the hell’s my

phone? Did you move itagain? I do keep sayingjustleaveit.’‘Oh, J, don’tmess it all

up again,’ I muttered, butmy beautiful symmetrywas already descendingtowardsthefloor.‘Don’t fuss, Rose.’ He

found the phone in thepocket of his fleece.‘McCreadycantidyit.Shelovesit.’Ruined.‘Who’s she?’ Mrs

McCready stomped back

into the room, a beamingFredbeneathher arm likea small parcel. ‘The cat’smother?’‘Oh, McCready, youangel.’ James kissed herresoundingly on onethread-veined cheek.‘You’reheretosaveusall,aren’tyou,petal?’I couldn’t help smiling.‘I thought I was your

petal?’‘That’s right, Rosie Lee,’myhusbandwinkedatme,‘youare.Myoneandonlypetal. Bring the coffee tothestudio,wouldyou?I’vegottogeton.’IcaughtMcCready’seyeover his dark head.Obviously it was a goodday.‘Liam, that you? All

right,sir?’Jwinkedatmeagain. ‘Listen, my head’sbuzzing.I’vehadafuckingblinder of a plan. ThinkJoanCollinsonaswinginThe Stud, and forget allyourtroubles.’McCready pursed

colourlesslipsandreleasedFredfromhergrasp.‘So,sir,getyourarse…’

With a flurry of paper

falling to the floor and adoor slamming in hiswake, J was gone.Troubles, I thought. ThefirstI’dheard.‘I’llfetchhimhiscoffee,’

McCready said, as I’dknown she would. For allher disapproval, sheadored James. As she leftthe room, Fred in herwake,thephonestartedto

ring.‘Thank you,’ I calledafter her, adding milk tomyteaandlookingforthehandset.Before I found it,the answer-phone kickedin.‘Pickup,Rosie,darling.’My heart jolted at thefamiliar drawl. ‘We bothknowyou’rethere.’I finally spotted the

receiver, tangled in a pairof small carrot-staineddungarees in the washingbasket.A deep sigh into themachine. ‘There’s only solong you can avoid me. Ineed you. And,’ the voicedroppedintoacaress,‘youknow you need me,darling.’My hand hovered

indecisively above thephone as I watched animage on the small TV inthecorner–animagethatI couldn’t quite compute.Thebreakfastnews:amanI hadn’t seen for years,since university. Hestepped down from aprivate jet, smiling for thecameras. Those paleglacial eyes. Escorted toNumber10,shakinghands

with the Prime Minister.Easytoseehe’doncebeenthemost powerfulman inBritain.I forgot all about thephone and turned up thevolumequickly,butitwastoo late to catch the fullstory.A man I’d hopeddesperately I’d never seeagain.Dalziel’sfather.

IdroppedAliciaatschool,Effie and Fred at nurseryand then wanderedabsently round thesupermarket. Amidst jarsof apple purée andmountains of bright andshiny baby stuff, mymobile rang for the thirdtime.Finally,Irelented.‘What?’Imuttered.‘Charming.’

‘I’m really very busy,youknow.’‘Very busy doing what?

Comparingnappybrands?’I looked at a stack of

shinygreenPampers.‘No.’ I turned my back

on the nappies. ‘I’m justgoing into a veryimportant meeting,actually.’Joyfully the Tannoy

announcedalargespillageinAisle4.‘Really?’ Xavier

sniggered. ‘About what?Whichtea-shoptoholdthelocalmothers’meetingin?’Ismileddespitemyself.‘No, Xavier. About…’ I

caught sight of HelenKelseystudyingnailpolishin the beauty section. Shereally did look like a fox.

Sleek, but a fox none theless. ‘About – about thelocal fox hunt.’ I slunkback round the corner ofthe Pampers before shespottedme.‘I thought chasing foxeshad been banned?’ Xavierdrawled. ‘Don’t tell meyou’re riding with thosehounds.’‘It’s still a point of

serious debate in thecountryside, actually.’ Itried to sound convinced.‘There’s a lot of tensionstill between hunt andsaboteurs.’Xavier yawned loudly.‘Oh, don’t be so dreary,dearie. Come back to me.You’rethebestnewshoundI know,’ he persisted. ‘It’ssuchawaste.’

‘Flattery will get youeverywhere,’ Isighed. ‘ButI can’t. The children, Xav.I’m not doing that wholenannything.Andtheteamreally need me here. Ican’tjustupand—’‘Oh, please,’ Xavier

yawned again. ‘It’s hardlythe Wall Street bloodyJournal.’‘Stop yawning.’ I

chucked some baby-wipesinthetrolley.‘It’ssorude.The Burford Chronicle is aqualitypaper,I’llhaveyouknow.’Therewasa longpause.

We both dissolved intogiggles.‘You silly cow,’ he said

fondly. ‘Stop poppingbabies out and writingaboutgiantmarrows—’

‘Er, I’m not sure I likethatanalogy,thanks,Xav.’‘- and cover this al-

Qaedastoryforme.’Istoppedlaughing.‘Whatstory?’‘New neighbour of

yours.’‘Really?Who?’‘HadiKattan.’‘The art dealer?’ Hadi

Kattan was a regular faceintheinternationalmedia,from the Financial TimesandtheWallStreetJournalto Hello! magazine;patriarch of a beautifulglamorous family;contemporaryofAl-Fayed,but shadowy andenigmatic where his peerpreferredthespotlight.‘That’s the one. Moved

into a mansion in yourneckofthewoods.’‘Kattanisal-Qaeda?Pullthe other one. It’s MiddleEngland, Xav, notHelmandProvince.’‘So cynical. He wasVEVAK for a while tooapparently.’‘VEVAK as in IranianSecret Service? They’renothing to do with al-

Qaeda,surely?’‘Whatever. He’spurportedly been involvedwith a smallerorganisation, a branch ofthe tree. Al-Muhen, Ithink.SomeSaudiArabianmullah runs it from amadrasah somewhereoutsidePeshawar.’‘Everyone north of theequator’s apparently got a

link these days. Who’syoursource?’‘Guy in the Yard’s anti-terrorismunit.’‘Sowell-connected,dearXav.’‘Let’sjustsayweshareasauna,darling.’‘Oh, I see.’ I debatedsome sugar-freegingerbread men. ‘Thatkind of source. And he’s

straightup,ishe?’‘Well, I wouldn’t saystraight,necessarily.’‘Hilarious! You knowwhatImean.’‘Checkitoutandsee.’‘I can’t.’ Resolute, Ipicked up some over-priced organic crisps. Thekids would prefer a luridWotsit any day. ‘I’veretired.Fornow.’

‘It’s timetocomeoutofretirement. Christ, Rose,most people would bebitingmyhandoff.’‘I appreciate it. I’mtempted. But it’s not fairon the kids. You knowthat.’‘Rose, you had somebabies, you didn’t becomeMotherfuckingTeresa.’‘She only had spiritual

babies, I thinkyou’ll find.’Iwheeledmyself round tothe Wotsits. ‘Look, I’llconsiderit,OK?’‘Which means youwon’t,’hesighed.‘I will. I’m flattered,Xav. Thank you.’ For amomentIcaughtaglimpseof the old me. It wasstrangely reassuring thatsomeone else occasionally

didtoo.‘It’sabloodywaste,you

rotting out there in thecow-shit. You were thebest,Rose.’‘Thank you. Actually,

talkingaboutretirement,’Isaid carefully, ‘I’m sure Ijust saw Lord Higham onthenews.’‘So?’‘I thought he’d gone

somewhere likeVenezuela.’‘Hemaywellhavedone,darling. I’m not his travelagent.’Xavierwassnappy.‘Word is he’s back on thepolitical warpath.Officially he’s come insome advisor role to thePM.’My stomach clencheduncomfortably.

‘Whytheinterest?Gotascoop?’‘I just–he’ssomeone—’Iwasgettingtongue-tied.Itook a deep breath.‘Someone from thepast,’ Ifinishedlamely.‘My dear! I’ve alwayslikedanoldermanmyself,’Xavierpurred.‘Notlikethat.Iknewhisson,Dalziel.’

‘The one who killedhimself?’The years rolled back

likethetide.‘Rose?’‘Yes,’ I mumbled. ‘Yes,

thatone.’‘You have depths, my

dear Rose, I’ve not yetplumbed.’Ijumpedhalfafootasa

voicespokeinmyear.‘Rose!’HelenKelsey. I forced asmile. ‘I’ll call you back,Xav.’‘Before it’s too late,’ hedrawled,andrangoff.Toolate.I summoned a smile forHelen; I wished my heartwouldstopbeatingsovery

fast.

ChapterTwo

I arrived at the paper ateleven, which meantthey’d all be on a fag-break out the back. Ineeded to busy myself: tostayinthepresent.Makingmyselfacupofstrongtea,

Icheckedtheboardsinthefaint hope there might bea half-decent story foronce.‘Edna Brown’s prize-winning vegetablessabotaged.’ Next to thissomeone had scrawled‘Watchoutforhermelons’ingreenmarker.‘High School MusicalcomestoCheltenham.’

‘FivesheepsavagednearOstley Woods – return oftheBurfordBeast?’The only story that

looked remotely excitingwas apparent policeinterest in a localMPandan allegation of bribery. Ivaguely remembered himfromAlicia’sschoolfête,asweaty, corpulent manmore interested in the

refreshment stall than thechildren.Tinabangedthroughthedoors. Ex-Fleet Streetherself, but sick of thehorrendous hours and thein-fighting, shewashappyand efficient running thislittlepaper.‘Hello, stranger.’ Sheslammed a pile of filesdown on her immaculate

desk.‘How’stricks?’‘Tricks are OK, thanks,

Tina.’‘How’s the gorgeous

husband?’Everyone always loved

James. The life and soul.‘Good, thanks.Prettybusywith the relaunch of theclub.’ I pointed to theboard. ‘What’s Johnsonbeinginvestigatedfor?’

‘Not sure exactly,’ sheshrugged. ‘Something todo with taking some kindofbung,Ithink.’‘Really?’Iperkedup.‘The by-election’s

coming up. All sorts arestirring.’‘Shall I take a look?’ I

said carefully. I didn’twant to admit to myselfhowmuch I needed some

kindofspur.‘I think Richard’s on it,thanks, love.’ She bootedher old computer up. Itmade a sound like it wasdying inside. ‘Why don’tyou take a look at EdnaBrown’s lovelyvegetables?’‘Oh, right.’ I suppressedthesuddenurgetoscream.‘Yes,ofcourse.’

Richard Sawton rushedthrough the door andscooped his car keys offthedesk.‘Hey Rosie,’ he winked,

his long face almostexcited, ‘fancy a spot ofdoorstepping?’‘I was going to talk to

EdnaBrownabouther—’‘FuckEdnaBrown.’‘I’d really rather not,’ I

grinned.‘Come on. The word is

Johnson’s going to getpickedupagaintoday.’Hewasalmostoutthedoorbynow. ‘I could do with asecondopinion.’I glanced at Tina; she

waved us onwards withher trusty green Pentel.Grabbing my bag Ifollowed Richard, feeling

something Ihadn’t for thelongesttime.Adrenalin.

The Johnson story turnedout to be a damp squib.Richard and I spent achilly hour supposedlyhiding outside his house,drinking stewed tea inpolystyrene cups from theCopperKettle,onlyforthewife to arrive at our

window and bang on itwith a cross be-ringedhand.‘Thisisprivateproperty,

I’ll thank you.’ Her fronttooth was tipped withfuchsialipstick.‘It’snotyouknow,love,

it’s a public highway,actually,’ Richard pointedout affably. ‘Haveyougotany comment on your

husband’srecentarrest?’‘He was not arrested.’

Her soft chin quivered asshe drew her camel coattighter around her. ‘Hewas merely ‘elping thepolice with enquiries.’She’d got very grand,apparently, since herhusbandwonhis seat fouryearsago.Astonesquirrelgazedatusfromthepillar

behind her, concrete nutheld forever between hispaws.‘Rightio. And why wasthat,then?’She drew herself up toher inconsiderable height.‘I wouldn’t know. You’dhave to ask him. But, Imight add,’ she fixed uswith steely little eyes, ‘hewon’ttellyou.’

‘Rightio,’ Richardrepeated. ‘Well, thanks foryourhelp.’I leaned across him,

offered her my hand. ‘Hi,MrsJohnson.RoseMiller.’She refused my hand andglared at me instead. ‘Wewill find out, you know,MrsJohnson.It’llbeinthepublicdomainbeforelong,soyou’dbedoingyourself

a big favour by telling usyoursideofthingsnow.’‘I have no interest in

speaking with you,’ shesaid stiffly. ‘Nonewhatsoever.’‘This is your chance to

put your side of the storyacross.Wecouldofferyouanexclusive.’‘No comment,’ she

sniffed. The little boy

statue peeing into the lilypond looked on languidlyassheslammedthegardengatebehindherandsailedtowardsherhouse.Richard sighed, and

started the car withoutlookingatme.‘Richard,I—’‘What?’Heconcentrated

overhardashepulledout.‘I hope – I mean, you

didn’tthinkIwassteppingonyourtoesbackthere?’‘Of course not.’ He was

obviouslylying.‘I just thought – she

neededsomecoercion,and—’‘Rose, it’s fine really.’

We slowed to a crawlbehind an old red tractor.‘Iunderstand,honestly.’But he still stared

straight ahead, refusing tolookatme.Myheartsank.I rarely mentioned myprevious incarnation, andalthough sometimes theyactually asked my adviceat theBurfordChronicle, itwas hard not to see howdifferently we had donethings on the nationals. Iwasusedtothepaceofthemajor broadsheets, thefast-track of a story you

had to turn aroundimmediately.Iwasusedtoworkingalone,pushingondespite being told no,unrelentingwhenIwasonthe trail of a story. But inBurford they ran a politeship–itwasjustthatkindof operation. Howeverwelcoming they’d beensinceI’djoinedtheirranksa year ago, sometimes Ifelt they just suffered me

because they were just –well,polite.‘So,whatnow—’Ibeganas a shiny black RangeRoverwithpartially-tintedwindows swung into thesmall lane far too fast,raggamusicpumpingfromit, narrowly missing ourwing mirror. I duckedinstinctively as Richardswerved into the

hedgerow.‘Blimey!’An indignant crowflapped out with a rustysquawk.‘Bloody idiots,’ Richardmuttered.‘Can’tevendrivethe bloody things. I don’tknowwhytheybother.’In themirror I watchedtheRangeRoverdisappearround the bend. It was

impossibletoseewhowasdriving.‘Stupid poser,’ Richard

muttered,reversing.I thought of my

husband’s big car andcringed.‘It must be so annoying

whenyou’velivedhereallyourlife,’Imurmured.‘What?’

‘All these fake farmersdriving round in Chelseatractors.’‘Or lived here since

‘ninety-eight, any road.’Richard’s face finallyrelaxedintoasmile.‘Truthbe told, I wouldn’t mindhavingagoinoneofthemmyself. I bet they’rebloodypowerful.’We drove back to the

office debating the finerpoints of Mrs Johnson’stwee front garden. In theend, the pissing boy wongenitals-down.

***

Iwas packing up to leavewhenTinacalledmeover.‘I have got one thingthat might be more upyourstreet.Wewanttodo

akindofHomes&Gardensthing about the new guysupatAlbionManor.Bitoflocalglamour.’‘Oh?’ I chucked mynotebook into my bag,unenthused. It might betime to give up on theChronicle.‘Who’sthat?’‘Hadi Kattan.’ She stuckher pen behind her ear. ‘Iwant to approach them

aboutalifestylepiece.It’dbe quite a coup, wouldn’tit? And I think they’ll bequite keen because he’salready involved withsome community stuff.Word is he’s helpinglaunch his son’s politicalcareer, so they’re gettingstuckinallovertheplace.And you’re our big catchreally,sohemightbuyit.’She looked up at me.

‘Soundupyourstreet?’Ihadachancetosayno.I knew I should. But thepart of me that had beenchasingastorysinceIwastwenty-onesaidyes.‘Sure,’ I said quickly.‘Always. Let me knowwhatyouwanttodo.’

At bedtime I realised

Effie’s efforts at breakfastmeant we were out ofmilk, forcing me tounearth a reluctant Jamesfrom the studio. Leavingthe kids glued to Alice inWonderland,Idrovetothegarage at the end of thelane.Pulling my cardiganover my head, I dashedthroughthedrivingrainto

the kiosk, plucking acarton of milk from thefridge. As I joined thequeue,therewasasuddenscreech of tyres on wettarmac and a collectivegasp. A small sleek silversports car had taken thecorner too fast, swervingto miss a motorbike,mounting the grass vergeoutside the garage andcomingtoajudderinghalt

inchesfromtheEntrysign.She looked like the

mermaid from Alicia’sbook of myths, the youngwoman who flung herselffrom the car, and shewaswailing. Her soaked greendress flowed round herbody like seaweed, herface streaked with blackkohl, her long hair darkand tangled under the

fluorescence of the petrolstation forecourt. The raindrummed down and thequeue shifted andmutteredasoneorganism,succumbing en masse tohorrified fascination – foramoment, I couldn’t dragmyeyes fromhereither. Istared out of the kioskwindow at this beautifulbarefoot woman weavingunsteadily between the

petrol pumps, the silverPorscheabandonedbehindher, driver’s door flungwide. In this light it washardtoseewheretherainendedandhertearsbegan.I looked away,discomfort palpable inmychest,gazinginsteadatthedamp and rather dirtyneck in front of me, itsowner now halted in her

laborious counting out ofcoppers as she too stared,thesilverraindropsonherbeanieglistening.‘She’s pissed out of her

head,’theburlymaninthenext queuemuttered. ‘Shedon’t know what she’sdoing.Lookather.’‘Someoneshouldcallthe

police,’ an elderly womansaid, her whiskers

twitching, her face asagging mask ofdisapproval above her ill-fitting mac. ‘It’s adisgrace.’Themermaid raised her

face to the heavens andhowled into thenight,herwords incoherent. Therewas something so primalin her voice that all thelittle hairs on my arms

stood on end. I pulledmyold cardigan tight aroundme andwilled the cashiertohurryup.‘You should call the

police. They should,shouldn’t they?’ The manlooked tome for approvalas he folded hisnewspaper, but I foundthat I was speechless, asround-eyed as one of my

ownchildren.WhenIlookedback,thewoman was falling. Herhands out before her tomeet the ground, shecrumpled like a woundedsoldier until she wasfinally on her hands andknees,where she froze foramoment,headbowed.Acarbehindhersoundeditshornirritably.

‘Excuse me,’ I said,pushing past a boy on amountain bike gawping inthe doorway. I hurriedacrosstheshortdistancetowhere she crouched,attempting now to pullherselfup,doubledinhalfasifinpain.‘Are you all right?’ Ibent beside her. Her eyesseemedblindasshelooked

upatme.A black Range Roverpulled up behind thePorsche, bumping up ontothe grass, gleaming withrain and polish, brakingjustintime.‘I…’Shewipedherfaceon her arm, smudging thestreaming eye make-upfurther. She seemedslightlydelirious.

‘Can you stand?’ I said,offering her my hand,trying quickly to assesswhatwaswrong. ‘Areyouill?’I was half aware of theRange Rover’s dooropening,atall fairmanina black windcheaterjumping down now fromthedriver’sseat.‘I – I’m not sure,’ she

mumbled. Her hand wasicecold. ‘Idon’tfeel–I’mnot—’‘Maya,’ the man behindmesaid.Iturned.‘Thank you,’ he said tome,buthewas lookingather.Hespokewitha faintCeltic burr that I couldn’tplace.‘I’lltakeovernow.’OureyesmetbrieflyasI

stood too fast, staggeringveryslightly.Heputoutahand to me but I’dregainedmybalancesoheturned back to the girlnow, slidinghishand intohers, gently releasingmine. I stepped back. Hehad her now; supportingher,holdingherupright. Ithought I could smelllemonsherbet.

‘If you’re all right then…’Ibackedaway,‘I’lljust—’‘We’re fine, really.Thanksalot.’Thefairmannodded at me. Under theartificial light, his eyeswere frighteningly blue,his tousled hair sun-bleached like a surfer’s.‘Ash is in the car, Maya.He’s been really worried.

Let’s get you back home,OK?’ His tone wassoothing, like he wascoaxing a nervous animalintoacage.Through the open car

door I saw the shadowedpassenger lean forwardand pull the cigarettelighter from thedashboard. I hesitated fora second, and then I ran

back to the kiosk before Igotanymorewet.The unnerved cashierwas still muttering to hercolleagueaboutwhattodoand the burly man in hissmellyredanorakwasstillloudly demandingsomeone call the policewhen another collectivegroanwentup.Iturnedtoseethegirlcollapseagain,

andnowanothermanwasby her side, dark-skinnedlike her, dressed in anexpensive navy coat. Thefairmansteppedback.Thedarkmanpulledherup with gentle force andfor a moment shehesitated, pulling away.He said something to her,takingherchininhishandand making her look at

him. Her make-up wasstreaming down her facein rivulets as shegazedathim,andsheseemedtobelistening. Eventually shestopped resisting and letherself sink into him,almost gratefully, her facein his shoulder as heguidedhertowardsthebigcar like a docile child,ensuring she didn’t falldespite stumbling several

times.The girl in front of mehad finally pocketed her10Rothmans.‘Blimey,’shesaid, pulling her beaniedown protectively, readyfor the downpour. ‘Youdon’tseethateveryday.’‘Youcan say thatagain.Bloodyforeigners.Justthemilk?’Mycashierheldherhand out. ‘Eighty-four

pence,please.’When I looked again,the girl like a maddenedmermaid was beingswallowed by the RangeRover.Thedarkman shutthe door behind her andturned with a gracefulmovement tohis audiencein the kiosk. He smiledpolitely,bowedhisheadtous in a courtly gesture.

Instinctively I steppedback.He climbed into thePorsche.Withascreechoftyres the Sweeney wouldhave been proud of, bothvehicles were quicklyswallowedupbythenight.And then I went home,put themilk in the fridge,checked the children, fedthecatandfinallywentto

bed alone again, I foundthat the woman’s imagewasimprintedonthebackof my lids. And even as Ifell into sleep, I couldn’tshake the uncomfortablefeeling that the secondman, the man called Ash,had been less guiding hertowards the vehicle thanforcingher.And there was

something else, somethingdeeper down, somethingclicking, whirring intoplace, like the levers on adeadlockthatarenotquitetrue yet. Images from theday: the mysteriousKattan, the MP’s wife sooutraged,James,allnewlytense.Theseimagesfoughtsomething I couldn’t quiteaccess, a memory burieddeep. A memory fighting

tothesurface.

UNIVERSITY,

AUTUMN

1991

FRESHERS’

WEEK

Thevaguecity…veiledinmist…

Aplacemuchtoogoodforyouevertohavemuchtodowith.

JudetheObscure,ThomasHardy

In the beginning

…In the

beginning therewas justme. Andthen they foundme.Had I known I

was being chosenfor such immoralends, I like tothink I wouldhavedeclined the

invitation, that Iwouldhavemadegood my escapebefore it was toolate – though Ifear that mybelief only comesfrom the beautyofhindsight–andanyway,theoryistoo hard now todistinguish fromfact. But if I had

ever guessed itwould all end intragedy anddeath, I wouldhave stayed athome.But I didn’t

know. I was atrue innocentwhenIbegan.Petrified and

knowing

absolutely noone, I arrived inthe small soft-colouredcitywithmy father’s bestsuitcase, a dog-eared poster ofthe HappyMondays and abox-set ofRomantic poetsthat my grandmahad bought me

formyeighteenthbirthday.I’dtriedreally hard todecline the greenvelvet lampshademy motherinsisted I takefrom the spareroom,tonoavail;I planned todump it at theearliestopportunity.

About tobecomepartofaninstitution sovenerable andfamous, in theplace of pride Ifelt fear,constantlywishing I’d gonewith Ruth toBristol to studydrama with allthe cool kids. I’d

enduredapainfulFreshers’Weekofstarting stiltedconversationswith othermonosyllabicteenagers, orworse, kids whowouldn’t stoptalking aboutanything elitist.By and large thebeautiful crowd

from Britain’spublic schools –Roedean andEton,HarrowandKing’s – allseemed to knowone anotheralready and wereimbued with theknowledge theyneeded no oneelse. Completelyignored, I felt

adrift andfriendless;overawed by thebeautyofthecityand themagnitude ofhistory resting onits shoulders.Everywhere Iwalked werebuildings soclassical I’d seenthem in books or

on television;everywhere Iwandered, thevoicesof studentsfar more eruditethan I echoed inmyears.Eventually,sick

of my owncompany, andwith the vaguehope I could win

kudos enough tohangoutwiththe‘journos’, I wrotea ridiculouslypretentious piecefor the studentnewspaper(cribbed largelyfrom librarytextbooks) on theRomantic poets,their denial oforganisedreligion

and how theywouldhavelovedthe speed andfreedom ofmotorbikes. Tomy undyingamazement, itwasprinted.On the Sunday

evening, about toventure to thecollege bar for

the first time,confidentIfinallyhad something totalk about ofinterest, I stackedmy ten-pences upon the top of thepayphone in mycorridorand rangmyparentstotellof my firstsuccess. Mymother had just

answered when Iheard a sniggerbehindmyback.‘Shelley fucked

Mary on aYamaha, didn’tyouknow?’‘Yeah, but

Keats preferredSuzukis, I thinkyou’ll find. LaBelle Dame Sans

Suzuki.Brilliant.’Mortified, I

bangedthephonedownonmypoormotherandhidinmy room for aweek.But boredom

eventuallygotthebetterofmeandIfinally acceptedaninvitationfrom

my soleacquaintance, asulky girl calledMoira, to go tothebar–where Idrank two pintsof snakebite ill-advisedly fastthrough sheerterror. Moira,who’d attachedherself to me theprevious week in

the introductorylecture onWomen’sliterature of thenineteenthcentury, was forsome reasondeeply bitteralready, and Iwasconcentratinghard on blockingout both herdrone and her

rather pus-encrusted chinwhen a dark-haired boy, wholooked like hemightbeabouttointroducehimself,tripped over astool.‘Watch out!’ Ishrieked, tenseconds too late.

He’d depositedhis entire pint inmy lap, the coldbeer soakingstraight throughto my skin. ‘OhGod.’‘Very sorry,’ he

said, smilingbroadly. ‘I’ll getyou another oneifyoulike.’

‘I don’t like,thanks verymuch,’ I huffed,standing up, mysmock dress anunpleasantsecondskin.Ihadan odd feelinghe’d done itdeliberately. ‘Iabsolutely stinknow. I’ll have togoandchange.’

‘Oh, don’t dothat,’ said theboy. ‘At leastyou’ll deter thislot.’ He noddedtowards a groupof apparentlygiant youthswhose ears stuckout at funnyangles and whohad just begun aroundof indecent

rugby songs. Oneofthemwinkedatme andimmediatelybegan to sing,‘Thegirlwith thebiggest tits in theworld is the onlygirlforme.’‘I doubt it.’ I

found I wasemboldened by

the alcohol. ‘Thesmell of beer’sprobably a turn-onforthem.’The dark-

haired boylaughed. ‘Youcould be rightthere.’‘I’ll come with

you.’ Moira shotto her feet,

clampingmy armbetween slightlydesperate handsas if she sensedshe was about tobe usurped. ‘Ineedtostartworkon myWollstonecraftessayanyway.’‘Oh dear, doyou?’ I looked at

theboy’sgrinandthen at Moira’syellow pimples.‘Look, actually,you go on.’ Ieased my armgently from herhold. ‘I’ll have agin and orangeplease,’ I said tothe boy with aconfidence Ididn’t really feel.

It was what mygrandma drank;the firstsophisticateddrink that cameto my slightlypanicked mind.‘As long as youpromise to staybetween me andhim.’The rugby

player’s ruddyface was gurningscarily at me ashe invoked thedelights of thearse of an angel.Moira stompedoff mutteringabout beer andWollstonecraftand ‘somepeople’.

‘I’ll see youtomorrow,’ Icalled after her,rathertooquietly.The eveningbecame a blur ofalcohol and fags,and smoking ajoint round theback of the bar,whichwas not asscaryasI’dfeared

before myinauguralhesitantdrag, though myhead did spin abit, and thengoing tosomeone’s roomin Jesus College,where someoneelse suggested adrinking gameand we sharedwhat they called

‘a chillum’, and Ifelt verydebauched andgrownup until aplump girl calledLiddywas sick inthe bin, so weleft.AndfranklyIwas relieved,because my headwas by now onthe verge ofspinningrightoff.

‘I’ll walk youback if you like,’saidtheboy,whowas called Jamesand had nicesmiley eyes andfreckles. He saidhis dad had beena butcher and hewas the first inhisfamilytogotouniversity, whichbonded us

because I wasalso the first inmy immediatefamily, thoughactuallymyuncle–thewhitesheepof the Langtons –had attended thiscollege and Iwasn’t entirelysure that hadn’thelpedmeabittoget my place.

That,andthefactthat during myinterview thewhite-hairedprofessor hadsucked a stubbyold cigarthroughout, mostofthetimegazingat the velvetsmoke whilst I’dbanged on aboutWilliam Faulkner

and the greatAmerican novelfor fifteenpainfulminutes. Finally,as bored of thesubject as thebe-suited professorobviouslywas,I’daskedwhatbrandhe was smokingas my fatherimported cigarsfrom Cuba to his

little shop inDerby and loveda Monte Cristohimself. After adiscussion aboutthe hotspots ofHavana, where Imanaged to dropin mentions ofboth Hemingwayand GrahamGreene,aswellasthe delights of a

daiquiri, theenchantedprofessor washappy torecommend I gotan unconditionalplace.On the way

back tomy roomJames and Ipassed a polishedDucati parked

between twoobviously studentcars, one of theman Escort leaningdangerouslytowards thepavement.Drunkenly Iadmired thebike;my big brotherrode one andtherewasnothingIlovedmorethan

getting a lift ontheback–thoughmy motheralways wentmadwhenIdid.James lookedatmestrangelyasI kneeled downby the bike(wondering,actually, whetherIcouldeverstand

again). ‘You’rethe girl whowrote that articlein the Cherwell,aren’tyou?’‘My fame

precedes me,’ Iagreed,toodrunkto beembarrassed. Thefresh air wasdoing nothing for

my level ofintoxication. ‘Ithought it wasquitegoodwhenIwrote it, buteveryone elsethought it wasterrible. It wasterriblewasn’tit?’‘Do you knowSocietyX?’Jamessaid quietly. I

couldhave swornhe checkedbehind himbefore he did so,but I was havingsome troublefocusing at all bynow, so perhapsI’dimaginedit.‘Nope,’ I shookmy head. ‘Neverheard of Society

X.’ I’d justattended theFreshers’ Fairbecause franklyI’d had nothingelse to do. I’dsigned up to doMartial Artsbecause I quitefanciedBruceLeeand the idea offelling a villainwith the single

chop of a swifthand, and thePoetry Societybecauseoccasionally Iwroteafewfairlydreadful stanzasmyself, mainlyabout my dreams–buttobehonestI found largegroups of peoplerather shy-

making. Soinstead I made abadjokeaboutX-rated films butJames didn’tlaugh; he justlooked at mestrangely againbefore depositingmeattheporters’lodge without somuchastryingtokiss me. I was a

bit surprised butactually relievedbecause thatweekIwasstillinlove with a boycalled Ralphwhom I’d met inthe summerholidaysandwhohad promised tocall me afortnight ago. Iwasstillwaiting.

And to behonestIforgotallabout James andSociety X until Imet Dalziel, thearistocraticHonourable whospoke like he’dstepped from thepages of Waughbut partied like arock star in themaking.

UNIVERSITY,

OCTOBER

1991

TheheavenlyJerusalem.

JudetheObscure,ThomasHardy

AweekorsolaterMoira and Ibumped intoJames on the

Bridge after atutorial, batteredold guitar slungacrosshisback.‘Come for a

drink. I mighteven playsomething, ifyou’re lucky.’James winked atme, dodging thebike-riders who

soundedindignant bells. Ididn’t needmuchpersuading; Irealised I waspleased to seehim. So far,university wasn’tturning out to bethe socialwhirlwind I’dimagined. As Ifollowed James

into the King’sArms, the pubwhereallthecoolkids drank thatterm, I felt aquickening inmystep. For the firsttime since I’darrived in thecity, I felt like Imight actually bepart ofsomething.

I spottedDalzielassoonasI walked in; itwas impossiblenot to. Hisreputationpreceded him; I’dheardacoupleofgirls whisperingand gigglingabout him a fewtimes in the baror over coffee in

the rec. He wasapparentlyinfamous, a thirdyear known forhis flamboyance,his looks and hischarm. Loungingagainst the barwith an indolentgrace, seeminglybornoftheinnateknowledge thatthe world was

his, he idlysaluted Jamesand then turnedback to hisfriends. Jamesboughtaroundofcider whilstMoiraandIfounda table besideDalziel’sfriends.I watched

Dalziel hold

court, laughingabout something,blowing smoke-rings. After awhile, I found Icouldn’t lookaway.Iheardhimmention a groupcalled TheAssassins.‘I’ve never

heard of them,’ I

muttered toJames. ‘What dotheysing?’‘Theydon’tsing

anything, petal,’James laughed.‘They’re a groupof supposedstudent dissidentswhomess aroundwith gunpowder,amongst other

things.’ Hedowned half hispint in one.‘Bunch of stupidschoolboys,ifyouaskme.’‘I got sick ofblowing thingsup, tobehonest,’I heard Dalzieldrawl,andIfeltaquiver of

somethingvisceral;a leapinmy belly that Icouldn’t name. Istared at him.‘Pretty bloodytame.’ He raisedan eyebrow. ‘Notenoughbanging.’What did I feel

then?Did I see achance to be

liftedfrommyso-far dull suburbanlife? The chancefor theparameters ofmylife to bewidened?OrdidIjust sense pureunadulterateddanger?Dalziel’s group

leaned together

and began towhisper. Aperoxidedbeauty,small and dark-skinned, lazedbesidehim,bitingher nails inevident boredomandscowlingatataller girl with afunny angularchin, apparentlycalled Lena. Lena

was swaying atthetablebetweenthe bar and us;talking very fastand with greatanimation toanyone who’dlisten.Iheardthewords ‘X’ and‘commandment’and then shewastold to keep hervoicedown.

‘Is that thesociety – the Xone?’ I askedJames. ‘That youwere on aboutbefore?’‘Shh,’ he said

nervously, slidinghis eyes towardsDalziel.‘What?’ I

frowned at him.

Moira came backfrom the loo andsat heavilybetween us.James lookedeven moreworried.‘It’s– I’mnot–

I shouldn’t havementioned itreally.’‘What?’ said

Moira. Jamesignoredher.The peroxide

girl sat at theirtable too now,very deliberatelykissingabeautifulAsian boy whohad just leanedover her chair,her lithe bodysnaking round

and up towardshim. The tall girlhad stoppedtalking and wasstaring at themaghast. After afew minutes, sheslammed herchair back andflung herself outofthepub.‘Oh dear,’ said

James with glee.‘Lena’s nothappy.’The other girlwinked at himand turned backto the boy, buther eyes were onDalziel the wholetime.‘Why’s it asecret?’ I

persisted, mysecond pintmaking me bold.‘What’s the bigdeal?’Theboyslippedhis hand into theperoxide girl’stop. I lookedaway,embarrassed and,if Iwashonest, a

little envious. Ihadn’theardfromRalph again,which was rathermortifying as I’dspent the wholeof Augustagonising overwhether to givehimmy virginity.Finally I’dawarded himwith it, sure it

wouldbethestartof somethinggreat. To myundyingdisappointment ithad been painfuland deeplyunromantic, myhead knockingagainst hismother’s coffeetable, fluff fromher sheepskin rug

tickling my nose,a carpet burn onmy calf: all that,and I was stillawaiting his call.Apart from therugby players, Ihadn’t metanyoneyetwho’dshown anyinterest in mesinceI’darrived.Iwas too quiet, I

knewthat;Ihungback, toodiffident,tooshy.‘Just – please,

leave it for now,’James shook hisheadatme. ‘I’ll–one day, youmight find out. Ijust…’he trailedoffunhappily.‘OK.’Iwasabit

hurt. I saw theinclusion I’dglimpsed slippingaway. ‘I get themessage.’‘I think Imight

have to go,actually,’ Moiraslurred. Shelooked a littlegreen.‘It’s not like

that,Rose,’Jamestried to explain.‘It’sjust—’‘I’ll come withyou, Moira.’ Ifinishedmydrinkand stood,noticing thatDalziel hadbroken awayfrom hiscompanions and

waswaitingtobeservedatthebar.‘Please don’tget offended,’James wassaying. ‘It’s justnot my place to—’On a suddenwhim, I crossedto the bar,somewhat

unsteadily.‘Hello,’ I said

shyly to Dalziel,and promptlydriedup.Hisskinwas like a girl’s,so smooth itglowed, and hewas the kind ofnatural blondpeople paidhundreds to

simulate. I staredup at him,fascinated.‘Hello,’ he

replied, obviouslyamused, andoffered me ahand. ‘I’mDalziel.’‘I know.’ I took

thehand.Hisskinwasverycool.

‘Right.Andyouare…?’‘I’mRose.’The barmaidwas there. ‘Abottle of bestwhite,’ heinformedher.‘Don’t get theSoave.’ I wasn’tquitesurehowtosay it so I

pronounced it‘suave’.‘I wouldn’tdare,’ he assuredme. ‘I said best –and anyway, Inever drinkItalian. Sancerre,please,’ he said,flicking throughthe list. A dog-eared copy of

Milton’s ParadiseLost lay besidehimonthebar.‘I’m studying

that next,’ I saidshyly. ‘It’sdifficult, isn’t it?All the oldlanguage.’‘It’s twenty

pounds a bottle,’the barmaid

sounded weary.‘The Sancerre.Areyousure?’‘Sure I’m sure.’

He didn’t bat aneyelid. ‘Greatesttexteverwritten.’He shoved theMilton in thebackpocketofhistight blacktrousers.

‘Darkness visible,andall.’I wasimpressed. Jamesappeared at myshoulder, and Ifound I wasirritated.Surreptitiously Itried to turn myback on him, buthewaspersistent.

‘Your friendhad togo,’Jamessaid. ‘She’s notverywell.’‘Ah, so you’ve

met my oldmucker,’ Dalzielsaid.Next to himJameslookedlikea burly farm-boy,I thoughtdrunkenly.

‘Have you readScott Fitzgerald?’I was staringagain.Theheatofthe pub wasmaking me feelsleepy.‘Of course,’Dalziel shruggedlanguidly. ‘TheBeautiful andDamned. Most

apt.’‘Youremindmeof someone, youknow.’James snorted.‘Great line,Rosie.’‘It wasn’t aline.’ I wasflustered.‘It might nothave been,

sweetness, but Icouldcertainlydowithone.’‘One what?’ I

waslost.‘Onegreatline.’

Dalziel took themoney from thebarmaid idly andthen folded afive-pound noteinto her pudgy

hand. ‘Or more.For you, myangel.’Igapedathim;not even myfather tipped soextravagantly.Dalziel picked upthe bottle andmotioned forJames to bringtheglasses.

‘So, Jamie, mylove,’ he threwoverhisshoulder,heading towardsthe table wherewe’dbeen sitting,‘what do youthink?’James lookedunsure. ‘Aboutwhat?’‘A Rose

between twothorns,hey?’I looked into

Dalziel’s eyes.Later, I realisedI’d never reallyknown whatcolour theywere.Amberperhaps.‘Another little

convert for us?And an English

student too. Areyouwellread?’‘Reasonably,’ Imumbled. ‘I’mgettingthere.’‘Perhaps youcanhelpwithmyUnion debateabout God andtheDevil.’I wasoverwhelmed

with gratitudeand excitement;surprised becausehe didn’t seemthe godly type –but if it meantspending timewith Dalziel, Iwould haveconverted toanything. For thefirsttimesinceI’darrivedinOxford,

I was glad to bethere. But then, Ihadno ideawhatwasinstore.

ChapterThree

GLOUCESTERSHIRE,

MARCH2008

ThemorningafterI’dtried

to help thewailing girl atthe garage, I dropped thetwinsatnurseryanddrovehomewards through thegreen Cotswold lanes,fighting a sudden longingforacigarette.Xavierwasstill waiting to hear fromme; and Lord Higham’sface was staring at meimpassively from themorning paper on thepassenger seat. Images I’d

blockedforyearsflickeredremorselessly through myhead until I had to pullontoafarmtrack.Therainhad finally stoppedduringthe night and thehedgerow sparkled withmoisture, but I feltstrangelybleak. I’dalwaysknown it was a riskcoming here. It was toocloseforcomfort;italwayshadbeen.

But during my lastpregnancy four years ago,Jameshadbeenrecoveringfrom a serious bout ofdepression. His recordlabelhadnarrowlymisseda takeover bid, thanks tohis business partner’s badaccounting, and theincidentseemedtopromptthe return of thenightmaresfromuniversitydays. He’d been haunted

again, resulting in drugsand drink to counterendlesssleeplessnights. Inthe end he’d said thecountryside was what heneeded, he’d practicallybegged: and I’d cravedpeace myself, tooexhausted to question hismotives.Isatinthecarforalong

time,thinking.

‘Oxford 15 m, London53m’readthequaintwhitefingerpost.WearilyIrestedmy head on the steeringwheel as Mick Jaggerbemoaned ‘You Can’tAlways Get What YouWant’. I felt utterlyconfused and suddenlytorn. London and Xavierlay in one direction; myfamilyandmyhomewerein the other. And

somewhere suddenly inthe middle were thesememories, the cold clampofthepastpressingaroundme, the hideousmisadventure James and Ihad fought to leavebehind.I restarted the car,startling a lugubrious cowpeering over the hedge,and I saw it was already

time to collect the twins.They were so pleased tosee me, running into myknees with euphoric criesof‘Mummy!’likeIwasthebest thing since ice creamor Father Christmas, thattheguiltIfeltwassavage.I shouldn’t write aboutanything other than giantmarrows: that much Iowedmychildren.Butmysoul was aching for the

thrill of the hunt. I tookthemhomeandkissedandhugged them until theytold me to go away, andeventually deposited theminthegardensandpitwithsandwiches and juicewhilst I sat on the stonebenchandwatchedthem.After a while I went

inside and unearthed mynotebook from the tidy

pile, peeling an ancienthalf-eaten Twix from thefront, and took it outside.Sittingonthebenchinthespring sunshine, watchingEffie’s sand-cakes growever wetter, and Fredsampling some tastymud,I scribbled for a while.WhenI’dfinished,Iclosedthe book and fished myphoneout.

‘So’, I said carefullywhenheanswered,‘ifIdoit, can I have carteblanche?’‘Don’t be silly. You’re

not Kate bloody Adie,darling.’‘Not quite, no,’ I said.

‘I’mabitNorthernbutnotnearlyasposh.’‘And you’re prettier.

Well,marginally.’

‘Yeah,OK,Xav.Don’tgooverboard.’‘Listen, something else

has just come through onthewirefromQataraboutKattan. It might benothing. But I wanna befirst if it’s there. Speciallyafter the fuckingTelegraphstealing our ten-p taxthunder. I’ll sendeverythingover.’

‘OK.’‘And, Rose, one thing.Be careful of interestingangles.’‘Funny,’ I said shortly.I’dnearlybeensuedbytheSouth African governmentthelasttimeI’dwrittenforXav. Thankfully myinstincthadbeenright,butithadbeenscarytherefora while; the court costs

mounting into six figures,meenvisagingutterruin.‘You’vegotaweek.’‘OK.’ I hung up. Effie

lookedup atme and thencarefully poured somesand into her red plasticcup.‘Cup of tea, Mummy?’

she asked earnestly,holdingitouttome.‘Doyouknowwhat,my

angel,’ I lowered myselfinto the sandpit betweenthem,‘Idon’tmindifIdo.’

Ihadmeanttodiscussmyplans with James thatevening, though secretly Iwas dreading it. He washappy with me doing oneday at the local paper:returning to a nationalwould be entirely

different.But by the time the

children were fed andbathed and I’d thought ofall the right things toappeasehimwith,James’spartner in crime, Liam,had arrived for the night.Unsurprisingly, he had anew girlfriend in tow, atiny jolly redhead withsee-through skin and an

over-inflatedbosom.Lord Highamwas being

interviewedonRadioFourwhen they arrived. I wasdesperate to listen butturned it down hurriedlyas James walked into thekitchen. I knewhe’d freakifhesomuchasheardthename.‘Hey,babe,’ Liamkissed

me.‘ThisisStar.’

‘Wow.’ I suppressed asmile.‘Hi,Star.’‘That’s a funny name,’

Alicia said. ‘It’s like beingcalledMoon.’‘Or Bum-bum,’ said

Freddie with a joyfulsnigger.‘No it’s not, silly,’ said

Alicia. ‘It’s not like Bum-bumisit,Mum?’‘No it’s not,’ I said,

trying to keep a straightface. ‘It’s very silly,Freddie.’‘Bum-bum,’ Freddie

repeated,hiseyesroundathisowndaring.‘Anyway you shouldn’t

saythat,shouldhe,Mum?It’srude.’‘No, he shouldn’t,’ I

agreedsolemnly.‘Itisverysilly,Freddie.’

‘Bum-bum!’‘That’s enough, Fred,’hisfatherwarned.‘It’s not my real nameactually – Star,’ Staroffered in rather vacantNorthern tones. ‘I wish itwere,butit’snot.’‘Oh.’ Alicia,disappointed, took amoment to absorb this.‘Whatisitthen?’

‘Sarah. But you don’tmeet many film starscalled Sarah, do you? It’sdeaddull.’‘Are you a film starthen?’ Alicia’s eyeswidened.‘Arealliveone?’‘No.’ Star shook herheadsadly. ‘Notyet.I’mapodium dancer. But I willbeoneday.’‘What’s a – a podion

dancer?’‘Well, my darling,’

Liam’s eyes lit up, ‘it’s aladywho—’‘Alicia, have you

finished your homework?’I cutacrossJames’s friendandpartner, throwinghima warning glare. ‘Weshould do your reading,shouldn’twe?Doyouneedahand?’

Liamwas now swingingEffie wildly over hisshoulder to screams ofhugedelight.‘My turn, my turn …’

Freddie hopped up anddownlikeasmalljumpingbean. ‘My turn, UncleLiam!’Jamespulledabottleof

Jack Daniel’s and threeglasses out of the

cupboard. ‘We’re goingthrough to the studio.’Hewinked at me. ‘All right,petal?’Itwasn’taquestion.‘Comeon,Liam,putherdown.You’vegot to listentothisnewmix.AndDon’ssent the new plansthrough. They’re fuckingwicked.’‘James!’ I admonished,

buthejustgavemealook.‘Whydon’tyouallhavesome dinner first?’ Ioffered hopefully. I coulddo with the company. Iwanted to hear Liam’snews and Star’s views onpodiumfashionandworldpolitics – anything, really,rather than be strandedhighanddrywithmyownthoughts.The radio stared

atmemalevolently.‘You must be hungry.

Didyoueatontheway?Icould knock up somepasta,ifyoulike.’‘That’d be grand,’ Liam

began,butJamesgloweredathim.‘No time to eat, mate,’

he said. ‘No rest for thewicked!’Liamshotmealookthat

saidhewasn’targuing.Myheartsank.IknewthiswasthelastI’dseeofJamestillat leastmidday tomorrow.Imadeafinalattempt.‘Oh,comeon,guys.Youmustbestarvingafteryourtrek up the M40.’ I wasalmost pleading. ‘It’s notrouble.Howaboutanicecarbonara?’‘Rosie, love.’ James

kissed me on the cheek,hisvoicedangerouslylow.I could smell whiskey onhis breath. ‘I don’t thinkyouneedanymoreslap-upfeeds right now. KnowwhatI’msaying?’I turned away quicklybefore they caught theglintoftears,knockingmynotebook off the counterbymistake.Iusedtobeat

ease with my body, likeStar seemed to be – once,beforeI’dhadthechildren.Jamespickedthenotebookup. Idlyhe flicked it openat the last page, the pageI’d scrawled on earlier,andbegantoreadaloudinastupidvoice.‘“I feel savage, and I

can’t be, not here. I amconfined by the honey-

coloured stone, the sheernicenessofitall,theprettyhouses, the postcardperfect village, the cricketgreen shorn to within aninch of its life, thetwitchingnetcurtainsthatare snowy white. It’s allperfectandyetIamnot.Itis perfect and it’s killingme.”‘‘James, please,’ I said,

trying to grab it back.Mortified, feeling like I’djustbeenhorriblyexposed,I couldn’t bear to look atthe others as James heldthebookoutofreachhighabove his head; withsinkingheart,Isawhewaspoisonouswithdrink.‘Ohdear,Rosiedarling,’he pouted. ‘Bit bored?Pooryou.Theperfectidyll

andyou’resuicidal.’‘I’mnotatallsuicidal.’Iwas flushing violentlynow.‘It’sjustanideaforastory.’James chucked it downontheside. ‘Don’tgiveupthe day job,’ he saidwithmalice. ‘Oh, that’s right,you don’t have one anymore.’‘Come on, mate,’ Liam

muttered. Star seemedoblivious,thankGod.‘James!’ I mumbled.

‘Please,don’t.’As quickly as he

switched, he switchedbackagain.‘I’m only teasing,

darling,’ he said, strokingmy face. His eyes wereblack with something.‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it.

Comeon,guys.’‘You’re gorgeous, babe.’

Liamsqueezedmyhandashe left the room. ‘Ignorehim.Hedoesn’tknowhe’sborn.’‘I like your house,’ I

heard Star saying as theydisappeared in James’swake, off to the studiobuilt in theoldgarage. ‘Isitreal?’

As the door shut onthem, Iopened thebiscuittinandcrammedtwoJaffaCakes down in defiancebefore sharing the restwith my delightedchildren.Iwasn’tgorgeousany more, if I ever hadbeen.Iknewthat.‘Right,youlot.Bed.’

We’dmoved from London

justafterI’dhadthetwins.I’d been in a stupor ofsleep deprivation andcracked nipples, andpossiblyundiagnosedpost-nataldepression,worryingabout Alicia and whethershe felt pushed out,worryingthatIdidn’thaveenough time or love tosplit fairly between threechildren. I did haveenough love, it turnedout

–morethanenough–butIdidn’t have enough time.That had become clearquitequickly.Mymotherhadcometostay for the first month,unpacking boxes, heatingbottles and washing anendless rotation of smallbabygros. My fatherwatched the golf;sometimes I slumped

beside him on the sofa,wondering how a womanwho’d once partied forEngland, ridden in armyhelicopters abovebattlegrounds andregularlyflownintoplaceslike war-torn Sarajevo forwork could be so utterlypole-axed by two tinybabies and a boisterousthree-year-old.Occasionally I also

wondered what the hell Iwasdoinginthemiddleofthe Cotswold countryside,pretty but reminiscent ofthe rural life that I’d leftbehindinthePeakDistrictasateenager–andfartoonearOxford formy liking.ButIwasvictimofJames’swhim after he’d shot amusic video at BlenheimPalace and fallen in lovewith the place –

apparently.Worried aboutthe nightmares and thedepression, I’d let myselfbe roller-coastered by hisenthusiasm.I’d given up everythingformykids,willingly;oneof us had to and theredidn’t seem to be anyquestion that it would beme. I’d certainly neverargued. I’d simply

switched offmy computerandleftthepaper,mycityfriends and my belovedflat inMarylebone formychildren and the countryair they needed. Therewasn’t enough room forthepramonthepavementanymore and, crucially, Ididn’t want to foist themonto a nanny whilst Icontinued tearing roundthe world unmasking

controversyinoftendodgysituations. It was time fordomesticity, I’d acceptedthat quite readily. I wastiredofrunning–thatwasthetruth.

When the children wereasleep,Isatatthekitchentable andpouredmyself asmall glass of wine. Iopened the laptop,

attempted to writesomething about Edna’sallotment – but giantmarrowskeptpoppingintomy head. I saw myselfthrough James’s eyes: Iwas just like a benignshepherd.Noteventhat,awell-trained and obedientsheepdog. I rounded mychildren up and chasedthem gently through theday, and even when they

or I were asleep, one earwas always cocked, oneear pinioned by my duty.GonewerethedayswhenIwent leaping to thechallenge of a good story.Now my role was to stayclose,althoughJameswasapparently still free toroam, and I was tooexhaustedtoargue.After about twenty

minutes of desultorytypinganddeleting,typingand more deleting, Ichecked my emails fordistraction.TherewasonefromXavwith biog details of HadiKattan, which I perusedquickly. He was afascinating man. He wasborn in Iran. His parentsand sister had been

incarcerated under theShah’s regime; hewas theonly survivor from hisimmediate family, thankstobeingawayatschoolinBritain. After their deathshe’d stayed here for sometime, under an uncle’swing, educated first atRugby and thenCambridge. He hadfamouslydenounced Islaminhisthesis,partofwhich

was published to greatacclaimandcontroversyinTheTimes,afterwhichhe’drejectedtheliterarycareersomanyhadpredictedandhad gone on to make hisreputation as a brilliantbut ruthless trader on theLondon and New Yorkstockexchanges.Hebrieflyheaded the Equitiesdivision of the World-Trident Bank before

moving into the artworldand retiring early with ahuge fortune. His wife,Alia, had died five yearsago, leaving him twochildren. The rumours ofpolitical intrigue, and anal-Qaeda connectionseemed unlikely to me,givenKattan’spoliticalandreligiousbackground.Below Xav’s email was

another, forwarded fromTinaattheChronicle.‘ASH KATTAN: HOPEFOR THE FUTURE,’ theheader said, and therefollowed a message fromTina: ‘Hadi Kattan ishostingapartyathisplaceon Tuesday to mark thelaunchofhisson’spoliticalcampaign: we’re invited.Perfect opportunity to

ingratiate ourselves. Grabthat lovely husband ofyoursandgetababysitter.’I contemplated it for amoment. I felt theadrenalin begin to coursethrough my veins, and Iknew, as I’d known allday,thatIwasn’tgoingtobe able to resist chasingthestory.

UNIVERSITY,

OCTOBER

1991

Sweetroses…Oftheirsweet

deathsaresweetestodoursmade.

Sonnet54,Shakespeare

Despite Dalziel’sapparent – if

ratherlackadaisical –enthusiasm formy help in thepub that night, Ididn’t hear fromhim again. I washugelydisappointed, butnot thatsurprised. Alongwith therealisation my

brief encounterwith him hadbeen just adrunken fancy ofhis, my nebuloushope ofacceptance intothe upperechelons slowlydied.The Student

Unionputonado

on Saturday forHallowe’en;resolutely Iboughtmy ticket.MoanyMoirawasgoing home fortheweekend,andI sawmy chance.I had to makesome properfriends. Thetheme was‘Spooky ‘60s

style’; I eschewedthe normal arrayof ghosts andwerewolfcostumes, andwent for a prettyspectacularmulticoloured MrFreedomjumpsuitI found in thelocal Oxfam andsome plasticfangs. After an

hour or so ofpretending I washaving a goodtime with a fewpeople from thePoetry Society,bobbing aroundto the Bee Geesand Mama Cass,James arrivedlooking ratherhandsome as abe-fanged

vampire in aBeatles suit, abesotted freckle-faced girl dressedasTwiggyintow.James waved butdidn’t come tosay hello, and Ifelt a faint lurchas I watched thepair kissingpassionatelybeneath fake

cobwebs in thecorner.Surprised at

myself, I dranktoo much cider,ending upcornered by anover-enthusiasticrugby player, atall sandy-hairedboy called Peterwhose long hair

had a nasty slicksheen, and whowas so drunk hekept calling meRosemary.Eventually Irelented and lethim kiss meoutside the girls’loos,butwhenhestarted to paw atthe zip of myjumpsuit with a

large sweatyhand, I pushedhimawaygently.‘Com’on, Roze-mary,’he slurred,swayingdangerously. ‘Youknowyouwanttoreally.’‘Actually, Ireally don’t,’ Iinsisted, but he

was heavy anddrunk, andhorriblypersistent. Hisbreath a cloyingmix of beer andpeanuts, his wetpink mouthleered above myface beforeclosing down onmine.

‘Please!’ Ipushed him awayharder this time,his lips leaving atrail of smellysaliva and peanutcrumbsacrossmycheek.‘Getoff!’‘Fucking

Christ,’ hesnarled. ‘Youbloody plebs are

all the same.’ Helunged forward,slamming meagainst the wallashepinionedmethere, so hardthatIhitmyheadon the skeletonhanging behindme. ‘Little prick-tease.’‘Ow,’Iclutched

my head as theplastic bonesrattled, a littlestunned. Before Icouldmove,Peterlunged forwardagain– and then,as if an invisiblewire had pulledhim, suddenly heflew backwards,landing on hisarse on the beer-

stainedfloor.‘Didn’t you

hearthelady?’Startled, I

gazed at agloweringJames.‘Are you OK?’

heasked.‘Oh yes. Fine,

thanks.’ Togetherwe stared downat the crumpled

Peter. Greying Y-fronts werevisible above hisill-fitting browncords, largesweat-patchesstaining theunderarms of hisstriped shirt. Ishuddered. I wasdrunker than Irealised.

‘I don’t thinkshe was enjoyingthat very much.’James wasabsolutelynonchalant, buthisfistswerebothclenched. ‘Wereyou,Rose?’‘Not much,’ I

agreed,nervously.

‘Who the fuck… ?’ Peterscrambledinelegantly to hisfeet, a mottledred suffusing hisclammycomplexion. ‘Whothe fuck askedyou?’‘Noone,’James

shrugged

pleasantly,turningaway.‘Oi!’ Peterpulled Jamesround by theshoulder. ‘I said,who asked you,you jumped-uplittletwat?’‘Letgo,mate.’Icould feel thetension rising in

James as hestared at Peter’shand.‘You’re one ofthose Society Xmorons, aren’tyou? Lickingbloody St John’sarse.’James punchedPeter square onthe nose. There

was a nastycrunch and analmost immediatespurt of blood.The taller boycrumpledforwards again,clutching hisnose. James juststared down athim, and theblankness on hisfacechilledme.

‘James!’ Thepale girl he’dbeen canoodlingwith in the barstood in thedoorway, her redberetpulleddownover her curls,false eyelasheslike spider-legsframing her hugeshockedeyes.

‘Yeah,all right,Kate.’ Jamesshook his handruefully. ‘Ouch.His nose washarder than itlooked.’Igapedathim.‘You mightwant to thinkabout leavingnow,’ James said

softly, propellingme back towardsthe bar. ‘Wecould walk you…’‘James!’ The

girlwasscowling.She was veryyoung, fifteen orsixteen maybe.Younger than wewere. Peter

groaned on theground.‘I’ll be fine.’ I

sensed herhostility. I’d hadenough aggro forone night.‘Honestly. Thankyou,though.’As I left the

bar, I glancedbackatJames.He

was holding hiscompanion’s arm,apparentlysoothing her asthey gatheredtheircoatstobeata retreatthemselves.Catching my eye,heheldahandupin farewell. Iwasutterlyconfused.

Thefollowingdaywas theanniversaryofmyFrenchgrandmother’sdeath. I spoke tomymotheronthephone in themorning; shetried valiantly tomaskhersadness.‘Light a candle,

love, if you getthe chance. She’dlike that,’ shesaid,butIknewitwas unlikely I’dbenearachurch.I mumbledsomethingplacatory, andpromisedtowritesoon.Around four

o’clock, after aday spentstruggling withBlake’s Songs ofInnocence, I wasdesperate to getout of my stuffylittle room. Igrabbed my coatand fled into thefreshair.The light was

already dying inthechillyautumnafternoon as Iwalked aimlessly;myfeettakingmeacross the ChristChurch Meadowtowards the oldcathedral. Thewindows suffusedwith gold lookedwelcomingagainst the

darkening velvetof the sky, andthe choir werejust finishingtheirrehearsalsasI slipped into apew at the backof the greatbuilding,listeningto the last fewbeautiful lines ofwhat I laterlearned was

Handel’sMessiah.Iwaitedasthey

packedup,callingto each otherjovially, agreeingto meet in thepub over theroad, and then Iwandered downto the great tablewherethecandleswerekept.

The doorslammed behindthe last chorister.I put my moneyin the honestybox, chose acandle and thencarried it to thewooden rackwhere the othersflickered.Iplacedit alongside theothers, some still

lit, some meltedto tiny jaggedstubs, the flamesshiningbravelyinthedimlight.As I picked upthe matches Ithought Iheardafootstep, butwhen I lookedround, thecathedral seemed

deserted apartfromme. I litmycandle and triedtofocusmymind,thinkingfondlyofmy grandmother,her funnyAnglicisms, herboeufBourguignon thatmelted in yourmouth,herhorrorwhen my mother

cutmyinfanthairshort.(‘MonDieu!So common,Lynette. Vraiment,tout le mondediraitqu’elleestungarçon!’)Placing thematches back, Ifelt a draughtdown thebackofmy neck. A

sudden scrapingnoise made myheart jump – andthen a great gustof wind blewthrough thecathedral fromnowhere. All theflames guttered.My candle wentout.I tried to stand

but I had crampin my leg.Limping, Ihurried as fast asI could towardsthe great doors –which suddenlyseemedveryfar.Ididn’t want tostay and relightthe candle; Iwanted to gonow.Butbefore I

reached the door,a slim figureslipped frombehind a pillar,framed againstthe stained glasslike an unholyapparition. Iblinked. It wasDalziel.‘Hello,’hesaid.‘Oh,’ I

stuttered. Igatheredmywits.‘Hello.’‘Praying forredemption?’ Hearched aneyebrow.Wearinga long blackAstrakhan coat,the collar turnedup to frame hispale face, he

lookedotherworldly.‘Are you thereligious typethen?’ Heregarded mecoolly. ‘You don’treallylookit.’‘No. I – it was

my grandmother.Shedied– just, afewyears–well,I

– I just came toremember her, Isuppose.’‘Well,AllSouls’Eve is past.’ Heflicked his blondhairback.‘So?’ I didn’tknow what hemeant.‘When, mydear, the

boundary is openbetween thedeadand the living.Butperhapsshe’llrise againtonight.’‘Oh.’ I thoughtof how very sickand slight myelegantgrandmother hadbeen at the end.

‘God, I kind ofhope not. I thinkshe might behappier wheresheis.’‘Really?’Dalziellooked amused.‘Remind me ofyour name.’ Hetook a steptowards me.‘Something floral,

wasn’tit?’‘Rose. RoseLangton.’‘Ah yes. Rose.“Of sweetestodours made.”Well,perhapsyoucanhelpme,nowyou’rehere.’Iblushedhotly.‘Helpyou?’‘Yes. Number

Four.’‘You’ve lost

me,’ I mumbled.He was sobeautiful, closeup. Ethereal,almost.‘Never mind.

No time toexplain. Got todefile Sabbath’sday before the

protectors gethere.’ Dalzielpickedupthebagat his feet. Abright pinkfeather boaprotruded fromone end. ‘Jesusneedsalittlehelpwith his outfit.He’s been feelingabitchilly.’

AsIwatchedinamazement,Dalziel producedfull suspendersand stockings,crotchlessknickers andnipple tassels inred satin, a push-up bra in blacklace and a bottleof champagne,stillcold,allfrom

hisbag.‘You open the

Krug.’He pressedthe bottle onme.‘I’ll dress him.And get a moveon. This place isnever empty forlong.’I didn’t dare

admit I’d no ideahow to open a

bottle ofchampagne. Likea lost puppy, Ifollowed him ashe carried theunderwear overto the six-footJesus, who gazedsadlydownatthefloor near ourfeet.‘See.’ Dalziel

ran his handlovingly downJesus’s torso.‘He’s freezing,poor bastard.Where’s Marywhen you needher,eh?’Our eyes metand I felt astrange heatsuffuse me,

somewhereinthevery core of me.Quickly I lookedaway again,struggledwiththechampagne’s foil,untwisting themetal. For somereason my handwasshaking.‘Tasselsorbra?’The cork

popped suddenly,nearly taking myeyeout.Ithitthepillar andricochetedbeneathapew.‘Oh, youbugger,’ Dalzielwas murmuringto himself aschampagnesputum poured

over my leg, thefroth sprayingJesus’s newoutfit.‘The tasselswon’tstayon.Hischest’s tooslippery. So thatdecidesit.’Dalzielclipped the braroundthebackofJesus. ‘There we

go.’ He took thebottle from myhand and toastedJesus.‘Genius.’‘But …’ Ilooked at theincongruous idolbefore me. Thesuspendersflappedinaslightbreeze comingfrom somewhere.

‘I don’tunderstand. Why…’Voices wereaudible from theback of thecathedral. Dalzieltook a quick slugand then shovedthechampagneatmeashegathereduphisbag.‘Come

on.’‘You forgot the

boa,’Iwhispered.‘Too late.’

Dalziel grabbedmy other hand,andweranforit,giggling up theside aisle,dribblingchampagne andpink feathers as

wewent.Outside wekept running,expecting to hearangry voicesbehind us,through thegrounds, past theporter in hisbowler hat andCrombie, towardsthe Meadow,

ending pantingbeneath a hugetreeasitbegantodrizzle. Dalzieltook the bottleand drank, longand hard. Helookedatme.‘You know,you’re more funthan I expected,’hesaid,andIfelt

my heart turnover.‘LittleRose.’‘I’m not so

little,’Iprotested.‘I’meighteen.’‘Are you?’ He

passed me thebottle. ‘Verygrownup.What’sthetime?’I checked my

watch. ‘Six

thirty.’‘Gotta go.’ Heleaned down andkissed my cheek.Hesmelledalittleof somethingsweet; later Ilearned it waspatchouli oil.‘Gotta meet amanaboutadog.’Hewinkedatme.

‘See you around.KeeptheKrug.’He melted intothe night. I stoodfor a momentunder the tree inthe Meadow, thecity bright beforeme, the nightdark behind me.In a window ofChrist Church

halls, a grinningpumpkinflickered.I was more

thanalittlelight-headed. I wasutterlyintoxicated – andnot just from thechampagne.

GLOUCESTERSHIRE,

MARCH

2008

James wasshoutingdesperately in hissleep. As I cameto, I could hearhimmoaningthathe was beingcrushed.‘It’ssodark,’hekept repeating.‘Let the light in,please.’

Befuddled withsleep,Ipulledthecurtains backalthough it wasstill night, andgently tried towake him. Hehadn’thadoneofthe really badnightmares for awhile. Now hewas sweatingandgurning, his face

pallid in themoonlight,thrashing acrossthebedlikeafishinanet.Itriedtoholdhisarmsstillbut it wasimpossible, hisdesperationmaking himstrongasSamson.As he flailed hecaught me hard

across the face –but it was onlythe next day Irealised he’d cutmycheek.In the morninghe said he didn’tremember thedream, but helooked unkemptandexhausted,asif he hadn’t slept

atall,hugecirclesbeneath hisLabrador-browneyes.‘You’re up

early,’ I said,plonking sometoast in front ofhim that hepushed away.‘Are you allright?’

He didn’tspeak.He just satat the breakfasttable drinkingblack coffee andreading theFinancial Times insullen silencewhilst thechildren atecereal andbickered, and theTodayprogramme

murmured in thebackground.LiamandStarwerestillin bed; I didn’texpect to seethem beforenoon.I was plaiting

Alicia’shairwhenJamesorderedmeto turn the radioup.

‘News just inthis morning: asfeared, theNomad BankingConglomerate hasgone down withthe mostdevastatingeffect,’ JohnHumphrysannounced. ‘Ahuge shock to allinvolved. What

exactlyisitgoingto mean for theinvestors?’‘Turn it off, for

fuck’s sake.’James stood up,his face horriblytaut, a musclejumping in hischeek. ‘Christ, allthisfuckingdoomand gloom. I

thought this wasmeant to beboom-time.’I realised itwasn’tthetimetoreprimand theswearing.‘Mummy,’ saidEffie, ‘can I havea cross hot bun,please?’‘I’m not sure

howmuchmoreIcantakeactually.’James rammedhis chair into thetable. ‘We’ll beluckyifwe’renotout on the streetsoon.’He was prone

to exaggeration,but I wonderednow if the

warning signs ofhis formerdepression wererearingtheirheadagain. I thoughtrather nervouslyof the troubleshe’d mentionedtheotherday.‘James, please,’

I beseeched asAlicia looked at

him curiously.‘Let’stalkaboutitinaminute,OK?’‘Crosshotbuns,

cross hot buns,’the twins beganto chant,oblivious.James threw

the paper on thetable andslammed out of

the room. It wasobviously not thetime to tell him Iwanted to goback to work,although if themoney worrieswere real, hemightwelcomeit.I slathered mytoast withmarmalade andglanced at the

frontpage.‘Art Dealer’s

socialitedaughterprotests forIslamicFundamentalism,’theheadlineread.Therebeneaththeprintwasaphotoof a girlstruggling with a

policeman inParliamentSquare, dark hairfalling across herbeautiful butangrily contortedface, a black boywith short dredsbehind her,partiallyobscured. Lickingmarmalade frommy fingers, I

pulled the papercloser and lookedagain. It was thegirl from thepetrolstation.

UNIVERSITY,

NOVEMBER

1991

TheRiverofOblivionrolls…whereofwhodrinks,Forthwithhisformerstateandbeingforgets.

Paradise

Lost,Milton

I didn’t see orhear from any ofthem again untilthe middle ofNovember. Therewere vaguemurmurings oncampusabouttheincident in thecathedral, and

one mention inthe OxfordGazette; andsometimes Iwanted to shout,‘That was me’ –but I never did.Life went on asnormal. Iimmersed myselfinmywork,butIfound myselfsearching streets,

bars and crowdslonginglytoseeifDalzielwasthere.He never was,and there was apart of me thatwas relieved.Once I saw Lenaand the beautifuldark girl in theKing’s Arms butthey lookedthrough me in a

way that mademe shrivel. Iwantedtodowellat Oxford and Ihad a feelingdeepinmybonesthat these boysand girls, thisgroup,werenevergoing to be goodforme. I asked afew people aboutSociety X but no

one seemed towant to talkabout it. Somejust smiled andlooked away; lotshad never heardof it – and a fewlooked faintlyappalled when Imentioned it, soeventually Istopped; I startedto forget about

themall.But one

eveningtherewasa folded notesealed withscarletwaxinmypigeonhole, myname in flowingblack italics. Forsome reason, myfingers fumbledwith the seal as I

triedtoopenit.‘XMARKS THE

SPOT’ the noteproclaimed,givingatimeandanaddress,whichlater turned outto be one of thebest streets intown, instructingme to ‘dressdangerously and

bring somethingintoxicating’. Iwasn’t exactlysure what thelatter two meant– but I did as Iwas told,spending the lastofmy grant on ablack velvetcatsuit and thehighest blackheelsIcouldfind.

Onthenight inquestion I boughta bottle ofLambrusco forDutch courage,and opened it inmy room. Islicked my hairback, painted myeyes with kohland my mouthwith scarletlipstick, splashing

myself withChanelNo.5thatI’d nicked frommymother. Iwasexcited.Overexcited atthethoughtthatIhad an invitationintotheelite.And then I sat

on my narrowbedanddecidedI

couldn’t possiblygo. I wasterrified. I didn’tknow anyone.They’d think Iwas an idiot; acountry bumpkin.They’d laugh atme. I heard theother students onmy floor comeand go, thelaughter of a

Saturday night,music fading andincreasing asdoorsopenedandclosed.OnlyIwasalone,apparently.I reapplied mylipstick for thefifteenth time. Idrank a bit morewine. I changedmy mind, thenchanged it back

again.In the end I

was there justbefore midnight,as instructed,clutchingtheJackDaniel’s I’dbought becauseI’dreadthatJanisJoplin had drunkit, at the door ofthe tall town-

house on LawnStreet. My bellysquirmed withnerves.The lightswere all out as Irang the doorbelland I thought fora horrid secondthey’d forgottenme–orperhapsitwas all a nastyjoke to get mestumbling around

town in killerheels like adrunkenfool.The door

openedacrack.‘Password?’‘Pardon?’Isaid.‘Password,’ the

voice drawledimpatiently.‘I don’t know

the—’ I began,and the doorstartedtoclose.‘No, wait.’ I

had a flash ofinspiration.‘X?’The door

hovered – andthen opened justwide enough toletmein.‘That’ll do.’

Black-tippedfingernailsgrasped my arm,and pulled methrough.Thedoorslammed behindme.Iwasin.I followed the

tall girl calledLena, whose hairwasnowpinkandwho wore

nothingbutabraand bondagetrousers, down awhite hallwayinto a veryminimal room.The floorboardswere paintedblack, the wallsred, and therewas no furnitureatallapartfromared velvet divan,

a black granitecoffee table andlong whitecurtains. It alllooked like astage-set,particularly as ahundred candlesflickered andguttered in thebreeze from theFrench windows.The room was

terribly hot andmusic swelledfrom theexpensive stereoin the corner,some kind ofopera I didn’trecognise. A fewpeople I didn’tknowstoodroundthecornersoftheroom, drinking,smoking, mostly

silent. Everyoneseemed to bewearing blackand it was cleareveryone wasnervous,althoughthere was acertainloucheness tomost of them.They eyed mewith feigneddisinterest and

chose to ignoreme. Lena lit achillum andhandeditaround.Jamesappeared, and Iheaded towardshim gladly. Hewas wearing adinner suit thatrather drownedhim, despite his

stockyframe,andhetooseemedonedge. Hisnervousnesssurprisedme,andmade my ownheart thumpmore.‘Thisisallabit

weird,’ Iwhispered.‘What’sgoingon?

Where’sDalziel?’‘He’ll be down

in a minute.’ Heeyed me warily.‘Youlooknice.’‘Nice?’‘Good, I mean.

Very good. Youlook like one ofthosegirls inthatRobert Palmervideo.’

‘Do I?’ I wasflattered. ‘Justneed a guitar togetmegoing.’‘You’ll need abit more thanthat tonight,’James said,producing a hipflask.‘Drink?’‘Thanks.’ I tooka swig and

choked. ‘God.What the hell’sthat?’‘Hell is right,you innocent,’ hescoffed. ‘Nevertried the greenfairy?’‘Fairy liquid?’ Iwasconfused.‘Don’t bebloodystupid,’he

laughed.‘Absinthe.’I obviously

lookedblank.‘All the French

Impressionistsdrank it.’ He wasimpatient.‘Toulouse-Lautreclivedonthestuff.’‘Toulouse

who?’

‘Painter. Veryshort man, Paris,turn of thecentury. Dancinggirls? Fuckinggenius.’‘Oh, I know.’ I

was relieved.‘Cancandancers?’A church clock

nearby struckmidnight. James

tookanotherswigand pocketed theflask. ‘It’s time,’he whisperedreverently.‘Time forwhat?’ I gigglednervously. ‘Areyougoing to turnintoapumpkin?’‘Shh,’ James’sbrown eyes were

dilated in thecandlelight. ‘He’scoming.’The dooropened slowlyand Dalzielwalked in. Helookedridiculouslysophisticated in atight-fitting blacksuit, a pristine

white shirt, hisblond hair sleek,hislongbonyfacedeathlypaleapartfromtwospotsofhighcolouronhischeeks, his eyesringed with kohl.WhenheturnedIsaw he hadattached to hisback a pair ofbeautiful angel

wingsthat lookedlike they weremadefromswan’sfeathers. Hereally was quiteunlike anyone Ihad ever met.Five or sixbeautiful boysand girls, allwearingblack,allin varying statesof undress,

followedhimintothe room. Heregarded us all,then turned offthe music and,placing acigarette in anebony holder, litit languidly. Hewas captivatingto watch; Icouldn’t tear myeyesaway.Weall

waited.‘Good evening,

my lovelies. It’swonderful to seeyou all here atthe witchinghour. Thank youforcoming.’We waited as

he blew a perfectsmoke-ring.‘Now,’wewere

treatedtoasmile,‘if you coulddeliver yourintoxicatingmaterials for thegood of one andall,thatwouldbemuchappreciated.’One by onewedeposited ourbooty onto the

table. James hada whole bottle ofabsinthe, but Inoticed he keptthe hip flaskwellhidden. I lookedaround for thebeautifulperoxidegirl who hadalways beenwithDalziel before,but she wasn’tthere. Lena put

down a smallplastic bag ofwhite powder,another boy acouple of paperwraps,atallgirlaclump of straw-looking things,which I laterdiscovered weremagicmushrooms.Morebottles and

potions followed.Then Dalzieltipped a bottle ofwhite pills into asmall china bowlin the centre ofthetable.‘One for all,and all for one,’he murmured.‘Never say myloveisnotshared

betweenyou.’James pushedme forward andshylyIplacedmyJack Daniel’s onthetable.Dalziel fixedme with a look.‘Displaying adistinct lack ofimaginationthere, my dear

Rose.’ He inhaledthrough theebony holderwith weariedlanguor. ‘But asyou are a SocietyX virgin, we willforgive yourmisdemeanourthis time,although I mighthave to smackyour bottom

later.’Low laughterrippled throughthe room and Iflushed scarlet,staringatmyfeet.‘Now,’ helookedaround,‘isthateveryone?’The roommurmured assent.Dalziel whispered

to Lena, whowent to changethe CD as hesmiled slowly atus all. I had asudden vision ofus standingbefore him likelowly acolytes,mesmerised, astrangesensethatwe were allwaitingtobaskin

hisapproval.‘So. It isCommandmentsOne and Sevenwe’ll be enjoyingtonight. We’vedone Four mostrecently, we verydefinitely didn’tkeep the Sabbathholy. It wasmostamusing, wasn’t

it,Rose?’I flushed underDalziel’s scrutiny,noddingfervently, awareof the envy ofsome of theothers. Lena shotmedaggers.‘Although theBishop of Oxfordclearly didn’t

thinkso.’‘No sense of

humour, thebloody clergy,’Lenawas keen tojoin in. ‘Jesus inwomen’sunderwear wasfuckingbrilliant,Ithought—’‘Anyway,’

Dalziel cut her

off, ‘tonight wewill begin withNumberOne:Youshallhavenoothergods before me.’He cranked themusic right upand unveiled astatue under avelvet cloth of aman with anenormous cock,festooned with a

garlandofthorns.‘My dear friendPriapus. Let theparty begin. Letusmake darknessvisible.’Jimi Hendrix’sguitar screamedthrough the roomand I felt a greatsurge ofanticipation and,

frankly, terror. Iwasn’t sure that Iwantedtobehereany more but Icouldn’t dragmyself away.Dalzielmusthavesensed my fear;hecametome.‘You look very

beautiful,darling,’ he said

quietly, and heranafingerdownmy cheek. ‘Verycurvy anddelicious.’ He puta pill in hismouth and thenhe leaned downand kissed me. Ifelt his tongueand then Irealised the pillwas now in my

ownmouth.Foramoment I wasabout to protestbuthehandedmea glass andmurmured‘Swallow. Ialwaysdo.’So I drank andswallowed. Thenhe leaned downagain and kissed

me properly, andI felt the lust lickthrough my bodylike forest fire,and I pressedmyself into histallformandheldhis snake hipsand kissed himback. I couldn’tbelieve this washappening tome:my wildest

dreams comingtrue. Dalzielwantedme.Abruptly hepulled away,grabbedthepink-haired girl andpulledherovertous.‘Rose, meetLena,’ and Ismiled, and my

legs felt a bittrembly in myvery high heels,higher than I’dever worn, and Iwenttoshakeherhand but Dalzielsaid, ‘Don’t besilly. Kiss her.’ Ihesitated becauseIreallydidn’tlikegirls, not in thatway, but Lena

wasn’t soreserved; sheleaned in andkissed me, and Ijust thought hermouth was verysoft where aman’s isnormallyharder and therewas no stubble,onlysoftskin,butitwasn’tsobad.Iwas starting to

feel very strange,like the wholeroomwasmovingaway and I wasgrowingverytinyand then bigagain and thenLena was puttingher hand on mybreast and Ipulled awaybecause I felt abitsick.

‘Don’t worry,’Dalziel grinned;he’d beenwatching uslazily, ‘you’re justcomingup.You’llbefineinasec.’I stumbled to

the Frenchwindows tobreathe in thecold autumn air

and after amoment or twothe music startedtooverwhelmme.It had changedfrom Hendrix tosomething tribal,the beat of thedrums pulsingthroughmyveins,and I wasbeginning to feellikeIwasflying.I

was ecstatic, infact I was surelyabout to lift offthe ground like abird. The musicwas inside me,and outside meand then Jameswas there and heheld me and wedanced and hegot nearer and Ipushed myself

againsthimand Inever wanted toletgo.‘This is

amazing.’Ismiledand smiled,feeling my limbswere like liquidand so strange. Itried to articulateit but I couldn’t.‘I’ve never felt

likethisbefore,’ Ishouted over themusic.‘No, well,’ hesmiled back,‘you’ve probablynever takenEcstasy before,haveyou?’‘God,no.Isthatwhat it is?’ Iforgot even to

feel fear; I justfeltamazed.‘Itisindeed.It’sgonna breakdown society’sbarriers.’Hiseyeswere slightlyglazed. ‘We willall love eachotherforeverandindiscriminately.’And I felt

decadentandcoolandamazing,andthen James waskissing me and Ifelt so odd, like Iactually lovedhimandIkindofwanted to saythat to him but Ididn’t, I just keptkissing him. Themusic hadchanged to

banging houseand I wanted todance now. Thebeatwas inme, Iwas the beat andI was dancingnow, writhingandturning,andIfelt like everyonewaswatchingme.And thenDalziel was

talking, far moredishevelled thanearlier, his jacketwas off and hisshirt wasunbuttoned,flowing loosefromhis trousers,exposing hissmooth chest, hisribs that juttedout. He stood onthe small table

and he wasasking for quietand people werecomplaining,‘Don’t turn themusic off’ but hesaid it was time,time to do thesevenththing.I didn’t knowwhat he meantandIdidn’tcare.

A girl was ledin wearing astrapless blackdress, very fittedaround hervoluptuouscurves. She wasshort, elegant,olive-skinned,with almond-shaped eyes, longdark hair in aFrench plait, a

yearor twoolderthan us, perhaps.Shewasbeautifulinasoft,roundedway. I smiled ather, but sheignoredme,andIrealised after asecond that shewas not quiteherewithus.Hereyes wereunfocused and

she stumbledslightly. At firstglanceshelookedquite beatific butthe longer Ilookedather,themore it becameapparent that shewas in somekindoftrance.Lena steppedforward and

blindfolded thegirl, whoappeared toacquiescewillingly,staggeringslightly in herstilettos, a redsatin scarf tiedaround her eyes.Lena ran herhands down thegirl,slowlyacross

her breasts, alascivious smilespreading acrossLena’s face. Themusic was putback on and thegirlwasledtothedivan, her handsheldbeforeherasif in supplicationor prayer. Iwanted to danceagain and I

grabbed James’shand, but hewasdistracted,Icouldfeel that he waswaiting forsomething. Hewatched Dalziel,who had a spray-can in his hand.In his greatlooping script hewrote on thewall. I thought

that was quiteamazing, writingonhisownwall.‘You shall notcommit adultery,’he scrawled, andthen he turnedtriumphantly tous. ‘This isHuriyyah. She isthe lover ofsomeone I know

well,’ heproclaimed, ‘verywell indeed’. Helooked around athis minions,challenge in hiseyes. ‘And I have–’ he pausedmomentarily – ‘Ihave, let us say,persuaded her tohelp my fallenangels celebrate

tonight.So–whowill be the luckytaker?’I was

thoroughlyconfused.‘Or the first,

shouldIsay?’‘Christ,’ James

muttered besideme, and then thedoor was flung

open andsomeone wearinga demonic goat-mask stood there,horns curling upto heaven like adevil.‘Azazel, my

dear friend, comein,’ Dalzielpurred. ‘Join therestofyourclan.’

‘Who the fuck’sAzazel?’ a girlbehind usmuttered.‘Goat-demon,

seducer of menand women.’Dalziel gesturedto him. ‘Cast outbytheArchangelsto abide indarkness for all

time.’Whoever he

was, he steppedforward. ‘I amready,’ he said ina gruff tightvoice.‘Please.’And he

approached theyoung woman,who was beingheld down now,

lyingonherback,seeminglyinsensate, onearm thrownelegantly back,her suspendersshowing. Thesmooth skinabove herstockingsglistened in thecandlelight andon her inner arm

were bruises andwhat I supposedcould only betrack marks fromaneedle.‘Is she up forthis?’ I askedJames nervously,not feelingabsolutelyashighasIhadmomentsago.

‘Looks like it,’Jamesshrugged.‘But –’ I licked

mydrylips–‘butwhywouldshebehere if she’ssomeone else’slover?’‘I don’t know.

Who knows whatgoes on betweenpeople?’

The girl wasbeing helped bytwo of Dalziel’sboys to peel herpink knickers off,raising her hipsoffthedivansoadark triangle ofpubic hair wasvisible. Despitemy misgivings Ifelt theexcitement in the

room, themurmurastheairthickened withlust, the musicpulsating so I feltit in mybreastbone,wreaths of smokefrom cigarettesand joints andGod knows whatelse hanging intheairaroundus,

and the drugalready in myveins surgedthrough meagain.‘Place her inthe crucifixposition,’ Dalzielordered.Theydidit.Shewasalmostfrighteninglyfloppy and

acquiescent.Azazelremovedthegoat-headandwe saw it was aboy with a headlike a bullet andhair like a brush;aboywholookedsomewhat out ofplace amongst allthe beautifulpeople. He was

sweatingandred-faced, and hiseyes glinted withexcitement as heundid histrousers.‘Formaqueue,’

Dalziel drawledfrom behind thedivan where hewas stroking thenaked arse of a

tall dark boy.Then the shortboy was betweenthegirl’s legsandpulling her dressdown, sucking ona dark nipple hehad freed andfumblingwithhistrousers,andthenwith a greatgroan he was inher and she was

turning her headbackand forthasif shewas indeedenjoying it, orperhaps she wasjust delirious.Then Dalziel andthedarkboywerekissing andDalziel bent theboyforwardsoverthedivanandwasbiting his neck,

grindingintohim.Someone turnedthe music uplouder still andcouples werepairing off. Lenaand another girlwrithed againstthewall together,and James tookme by the handand led me outthrough the

Frenchwindow.He pulled meinto him andkissed me again,and although thenight wasfreezing I didn’tseem to feel itandheuntiedmyhalter neckimpatiently andpulled my catsuit

down. He hikedme up onto asmall wrought-irontableandwefuckedrighttherein thegarden.Hewas only thesecond boy I hadeverhadsexwithbut I felt so fluidright now, madeofair, Imightdoitwithanyone.At

one point a lightin the upstairswindow of thehouse next doorwent on and Ididn’tevencare.‘Someone’s

watching us,’ Imurmured inJames’s ear andhe just thrustharder.

‘Let them,’ hewhispered, and Imoaned withpleasure.Afterwards we

went back insideto find the girlhad gone. Onlythe silk scarflyingon the floorshowed that shehad been there.

Dalziel and theboy were on thedivan nowthemselves. Theylooked like theywere sleeping,wrapped roundeach other, andsuddenly I feltverycold.‘You’re OK,’

James said,

‘you’re justcoming down abit,’ and he gaveme his jacket;someone elseofferedme a lineof white powderchopped out onthe table butactually I didn’twantit.Lenawasso out of it shewas crawling on

the floor,laughing in herknickers and bra,occasionallybarking like adog, much to thehilarityofvariousbystanders.‘That was fullon, wasn’t it?’ adishevelled boysaidtoJames,his

eyes like saucers,his nosestreaming fromthedrughe’djustsnorted.James lit a

cigarette. ‘Toobusy having myown fun, mate.’He kissed myshoulder and Ismiled

decadently. ‘Whatwas?’‘When the girl

started to comeround.’‘What girl?’ I

said.‘The druggie.

Shewas about tochange hermind,Iswear.’My stomach

plunged, and Ifelt icy. ‘Changehermind?’‘Yeah. She

changedhermindfor a minutethere.’ The boylooked dazed, alittle rueful,perhaps. ‘ButDalziel soonsortedherout.’

‘What do youmean?’ I lookedaround for mycoat. ‘What doesthatmean?’‘He sorted hersome moresmack. She wasOK in the end.Could have beenugly, though,couldn’tit?’

‘Ugly?’ Iintoned stupidly.Iwanted to leavenow.‘Yeah. Lessadultery. Morelike …’ Heglanced roundnervously.‘More likewhat?’ Jamesprompted.

‘You knowwhat I mean.More like rape.Specially withbloodyBrian.’‘Brian?’‘Azazel. Thegoat-demon. Veryapt. He gets outof control, thatboy. Dalzielwants to watch

that.’ The boyzipped histrousers up.‘That’sthetroublewithoiks.’Ithoughtofthe

girl, all floppyand blank, and Iwinced. I thoughtof my little roomin the halls ofresidence and all

my things there,even the greenlampshade fromhome, and Iwanted to betherenow.‘Do you think

she’s all right?’ Iasked the boy,andheshrugged.‘HappyasLarry

last time I saw

her. Once she’dstopped cryingand the newsmackkickedin.’I grabbed

James’s hand.‘Can we go?’ Iasked him.‘Please.Now.’Weleft.‘God, I’m

freezing,’ I said

out in the street.‘Ican’twarmup.’James put hisarm round me,andwewentbacktomyroomandIstripped off andput on mypyjamas, socks,my warmestjumper,but still Iwas freezing. He

held me as welistened toMassive Attackand got into mysingle bed,drinking tea andtalking into thedawn. We didn’tmentionHuriyyahbut I knew wewere boththinking of her.And somehow,

Jamesneverleft.

In the cold lightof day I didn’tfeel so proud ofmy behaviour, infact I feltashamed.‘So that was

Society X?’ Iasked James aswe walked into

Brown’s coffee-shop the nextday.‘Yes, it was.

Just for theprivileged few,’he said – whichapparentlyincludedmenow.James explainedthat it wasDalziel’s

brainchild,hispetproject. Was I apet? I sawmyselfout in the gardenhalf-dressed; Ikept thinking ofthe girl’s vacantfaceandher eyesthat were soglazed andunseeing. I didn’tunderstand whathad got into me.

Apart fromJames,andillegalsubstances, ofcourse. I feltstrange.Somehowdifferent – andolder.Itwasallaboutbreaking the TenCommandmentsapparently,Jamesexplained, hence

X, the Romannumeral for ten.Dalziel waswriting adissertation on itfor his theologymodule, Jamessaid, and heapparentlywanted to provethatyoucanhavefree will andchoice and still

live in theconfines ofcivilised life butoutside organisedreligion. It allsounded verypeculiar to me –far more aboutdecadence anddoing exactlywhat you likedthan any aspectof religion. And

although therewas a part ofmethat was hugelyflattered byDalziel’sattentions, thetruth was, lastnight wasbeginning to feelmore thana littlesordid. I hadenjoyed theEcstasy at the

timebutitscaredme too; howconsumed I feltwhilstIwasonit.Society X feltdangerous andexciting, but alsoout of my leagueentirely.Over thenextfewweeks,itbegan to feelnasty and pueriletoo.

I made a fewenquiries aboutHuriyyah but noone seemed toknow her. Iscanned thenewspapers, but Inever heardanything abouther. I started toforget: I busiedmyself with mynew life at

Oxford.Myfathersent me moneyfor a push-bikeand I marchedagainst theKosovanconflict.I found that Iwas enjoying mylectures. I finallyshook Moira andmet Jen and Liz,who were more

like me: webecameinseparable. I gotonwithmywork.And James and Iwere sort ofdating; he wassweetandseemedkeen,andI foundthat I liked sex, Iliked it a lot – itwas liberating.ButIwasworried

by Society X andthelureithadforhim. I tried tofight the feelingsthat wereemergingforhim,his big browneyes, his funnysmile, hisprotective air. Iwould not go toany of the Xmeets that he

askedme to, andthis annoyed himthoughhetriedtohide it. I couldsee the attractionbutitrepelledmetoo. I was notthatkindofgirl.Ifelt very grown-up when I madethisdecision.I read a lot of

Hardy and Ithought of Jude’swords: ‘this cityof light and lore’.I worked hardand started toembrace the factthat Iwaspartofthis ancientinstitution. Someof the confidenceof the kids thererubbedoffonme;

I became less shyand slowly Ibegan to inhabitmy own style.OccasionallyIfeltconfined – thetourists in theircagoulesandwiththeir big maps,snapping usthrough therailings, likeanimals in the

zoo–butmostlyIjust felt proud tobehere.I still foundmyselflookingforDalziel when Iwas out, but itwasn’t with thesame desperationof those first fewweeks, and I wasuncomfortable

with the memoryofHuriyyah,whoI never saw

again. I resignedmyself to the factthatthepartywasan amazingexperience, but aone-off. I toldmyself that if shehad been in anyway unhappy

about it, shewould have comeforward by nowandIwascontenttoleaveitatthat.

ChapterFour

GLOUCESTERSHIRE,

MARCH2008

Asweroundedthebendin

thelongsnakingdrive,thefloodlit manor housefinally came into viewbetween the great oaktrees.‘Christ.’ James stoppedthecarand,foramoment,wesimplystaredinawe.Forallmydoubtsaboutthe Cotswolds, my ownbutter-coloured housewasundeniably beautiful, the

stonewarmandinviting,amuch-loved well-lived-inhome. The great mansionthat stood before us wasnot in the least inviting;majestic maybe, butsomehow unsettling. Itsdark stone spoke ofantique grandeur ratherthan home and hearth.Gargoyles screechedwordlesslyfromtheroofaswe neared, the huge front

doorlitbyflamingtorcheson either side, a line ofexpensive-looking carsparkedneatlyontheright.‘I like the flames. Niceidea for the club,’ Jamessaid, driving up to thegatehouse, where a manwith a clipboard steppedfromtheshadows.James had only agreedto come because he

thought there might besomethinginitforhim.Healways had an eye on themain chance, my lovinghusband, and I’dunderstood in the last fewdays that although therecordlabelwasstilldoingwell, andhisproperties inNew York and Europewere still ticking overnicely, the London clubhad just lost a major

investor, meaning itsrelaunch was hanging inthebalance.Jameswasonthe prowl for morebacking,andfast.At the top of the huge

stone stairs we werehanded champagne andshown through the dark-panelled hall, hung withtapestries of archers anddeer, into a great drawing

room, humming withpolite conversation, thedécor a peculiar clash ofGothic splendour andArabic glamour. Smalltables inlaidwith gold satbetween a leather three-piece suite and hugemarble ashtrays festoonedthe antique sideboards,whilst the mantelpiecegroaned with expensivelyframed photographs of

family,afewofagrinningpolo team and a hugewhite yacht in glitteringblueseas.The walls were hung

with exquisite art thatlooked like it would bewasted on themajority ofthe guests, a mixture ofportly middle-aged menand impeccable womenwith skinny ankles and

expensivehairwhobaskedin the heat of a great logfire.‘Fuck,’ James muttered,

downing his drink in twogulps. ‘Wakeme upwhenthepartybegins.Ithoughtyou said this would befun.’‘Shh, J,’ I warned. ‘Be

nice, please.’ My heartsankas I spotted the local

MP,EddieJohnson, in thecorner. ThankfullyJohnson’s wife wasnowheretobeseen.Tina and her

bespectacled husbandapproached us now andthey began to discuss thelastseriesofTheWirewithJames whilst I eyed thephotographs behind them.I’d just pickedup aheavy

gold frame housing thepicture of a dark-haireddoe-eyed teenage girlwhenalowvoicemademejump.‘MrsMiller,Ipresume?’‘Yes.’ I replaced the

photograph quickly andturned,composingmyfaceas my brain caught upwithfact.‘YoumustbeMrKattan?’

‘Indeed.’ The elegantdark-haired man inclinedhis head politely.‘Charmedtomeetyou.’Involuntarily I looked

back at the picture of thegirl. The waterlogged girlfromthepetrolstation,thegirlfromtheprotestinthenewspaper. Kattanfollowedmyeyes.‘I believe you met my

daughtertheothernight.’‘Ah.’ The all-seeing eye.‘Yes,IthinkIdid.’‘She was having a verybadday.’‘A bad day.’ You couldsaythatagain.‘Sheseemedalittle–confused.’‘Yes. She was taken illon her way home fromLondon. A bad oyster, Ibelieve.’

‘Poor thing. Is she allrightnow?’‘Yes, thank God.

Salmonella can make youquite delirious, her doctortellsme.’‘Sounds horrible. Is she

here?’He sighed. ‘I was

sincerely hoping that shewould be, Mrs Miller, but…’ His Middle Eastern

accent was almostimperceptible. ‘The partywould help her, I think.Meet some local people,make some new friends.But I am afraid she hasgone–howdoyousayit?–walkabout?’‘I’msorry.’Theimageof

her wailing face spunthrough my head; thecontorted face in the

newspaper. ‘Doesn’t shelikeparties?’‘Usually. But she has

had some…some troublerecently with a youngman.’‘Whatkindoftrouble?’I

wasintrigued.‘Oh, the usual, you

know.’ He inspected hisfingernails briefly. ‘I thinkthe boyfriend is what the

filmsmight terma“heart-breaker.”‘‘Poor girl.’ I was

genuinely sympathetic.‘There’s nothing morepainfulthanlove.’He caught my eye. He

hadaneatintelligentface,dark hooded eyes. Nothandsome but rathernoble. ‘That,my dearMrsMiller, is undoubtedly

true.’‘I hope she feels better

soon. It’sa lovelyparty.’ Ismiledagain.‘Thankyou somuch for

inviting us. I’m lookingforward to meeting yourson.’‘Thank you.’ He bowed

again. ‘I’mafraidheisnothere yet. I hope he willarrive soon.’ Dressed in a

grey suit, Kattan was theepitome of elegance, witha presence that pervadedthe party, that drew theguests’ eyes to him. Hisgestures were almostcourtly, and hisimmaculateteeth,whenhesmiled, were a startlingwhite against his oliveskin. He might berenowned, but there wasnodoubtthemanwasalso

somethingofamystery.Theheatoftheroomhitme and I fought a strangeurgetosigh.‘Itiswonderfultoseesomanypeopleinmyhome,’Kattan said, beckoning awaiter. ‘I fear it is oftenalittleempty.And Ibelieveyouarenotalonetonight?’I shookmyhead. ‘No. Imust introduce my

husband.’IcaughtJames’seye across the room, heraisedahandingreeting.‘Ihopeyoudonotmindmesaying,MrsMiller,thiscolour red, it complimentsyou well.’ His voice waslikeacaress,andIflushed,reminding myself I washeretodoajob.‘That’saStubbs, isn’t it,MrKattan?’ I indicatedan

old painting of a glossyracehorse on the wallbehindhim.‘It’sbeautiful.’‘It is indeed.Oneofmy

favourites for the line andrealisation.’ Kattan stoodbeside me now. ‘I havesome marvellous huntershere on the estate. I fearthey do not get enoughusage.’‘That’sashame.’

‘Doyouride?Youcouldborrow one if you sodesire.’‘Thankyou.’Ishuddered

involuntarily. ‘But I don’treally.’ Iwouldnever rideagain, I knew that much.‘Doyou?’A flicker of something

indecipherable crossed hisface. ‘No. Maya does,occasionally, but it seems

infrequentnow.’Ihadasuddenimageofthis man’s hand on mybarearm.Itwasincrediblywarm in here; the drinkwasobviouslygoingtomyhead. James finallywandered over to shakehands.‘Great picture.’ Myhusbandhelpedhimself toa canapé from a tray,

pointing at a Picasso nexttoanEmin.‘ThinkIpreferhis earlier stuff, though.Not sure about all thoseweird-shaped women,personally.’Heshoved theshiny caviar in his mouthinelegantly. ‘Bit spiky forme.Ilikeaboobortwo.’‘James!’ I reprovedsoftly,embarrassed.He rolled his eyes. ‘So

what exactly brought youto our neck of thewoods,MrKattan?’‘This property came up

for rental. I liked thecountryside here. It ispeacefultome.’‘It is beautiful, isn’t it?’

Jamesagreed.I doubted James had

noticed as much as ahedgerowsincethedaywe

left London. Veryoccasionally he venturedinto the garden to kick aball with Freddie, but hespent most of his time inthestudioorrushingbacktothecity.‘Also,’Kattanstrokedhisbeardlightly,‘Ihavesomeinterestsinthearea.’‘Really?’ I was curious.‘Whatkindofinterests?’

‘My son, Ash, wishes torun for Parliament in thenext election, Mrs Miller.’HadiKattancaughtmyeyeand held it. ‘He is veryfond of the area. He waseducated nearby. Thispartyisforhim.’Ash. The namewas likea klaxon. The man fromthe garage, the man whodragged the girl back to

thecar.I glanced around

uneasily.‘Unfortunately he has

been delayed. He’stravelling back fromDubai. He has onlyrecently returned toBritain after a few yearsabroad.’‘Whydidheleave?’Hadi Kattan sighed

again. ‘Hebecametiredofpeoplemoving away fromhim on the undergroundtrains,Ibelieve.’‘That kind of prejudice

mustbeveryhardtobear,’I grimaced. For somereason, my internal alarmwasringing.‘It is the world we live

in now, it seems,’ Kattansaidwithdignity.

‘Can you tell me aboutyour son’s politicalambitions?’‘I’m sure he will behappy to tell you himself,whenhearrives.’Ismiled.Thwarted.‘SoIbelieve you’re also a veryimportantpersonindeedinone of the big banks.’ Itook a sip of champagne,relievedtolookawayfrom

his intense gaze. I noticedthatnoalcoholhadpassedhislipsyet.‘Briefly,’ he acquiescedgraciously. ‘I was adirector of World-Trident.Butitwasnotforme.Idonot particularly enjoydancing to the corporatetune.’‘A man after my ownheart. Impressive, though,

Mr Kattan.’ James raisedan eyebrow. ‘One of thebigplayers.’Kattan shrugged

elegantly. ‘Hardly. Andbanksarenot theplace tobeatthemoment,Ithink,my friends, as we arecurrently learning, no? Igotoutattherighttime.Iprefer theart inmyhometo the numbers on the

screen.’He gestured at the

pictures; my eye wasdrawn to a diamond-encrusted skull in a glasscasebehindhim.‘DamienHirst?’‘Indeed.Areyouafan?’‘Notreally, I’mafraid.’ I

wenttotakeabetterlook.‘Heprettymuchstandsforeverything asinine about

the past decade. Cleverbloke, though, I guess.’ Iglanced at my husband.‘Tapping into hedonisticgreedthewayhedid.’James drained his

champagneandwinkedatme. ‘Another bloke aftermyownheart.’As I straightened up, a

silver Porsche hurtled upthedriveandskiddedtoa

haltinfrontofthehouse.Iwatched through thewindowsasayoungblackman flung himself out ofthe car and headedtowards the house but hedidn’t get very far beforehe was halted by a tallfigure,hoodupagainstthewind.Handonhisarm,hewas apparently trying tocalmtheshorterman,whogesticulated wildly at the

house. Kattan glanced atthem,and then turnedmegentlyaway.‘Anyway, I did not justmean business interests. Iam more keen on therecreational type now.’Heads had begun to turnat the commotion; bothmenwerenowgettingintothecaras Iglancedroundagain.Kattansmoothedhis

lapel carefully with aflattenedhand;hespokealittlelouder.‘Iamthinkingoftakingupguns,actually.I have quite a selectionhere.’‘Guns?’My ears prickedup.‘Shooting birds, youknow,’ Kattan smiledbenevolently. ‘Such acivilised part of your

culture,Ithink.’‘Yeah, well,’ Jamesgrinned and tossed anolivestoneonthefire.Theflames flared, ‘morecivilised than shootingpeople,Iguess.’I glanced out of thewindow. The Porsche hadgone.‘Perhapsyouwouldcareto joinme some time,Mr

Miller. I would behonoured.Weevenhaveahunting lodge on theestatedesignedspecificallyforlunch,Iamtold.’‘Don’t mind if I do, MrKattan.’ James toastedKattan with his glass.‘Always up for a newchallenge,me.’‘I always thought Imight be a good shot,

actually,’Iinterjected.‘I am not sure aboutwomen with guns, I mustbe honest,’ Hadi Kattanbowed. ‘What do youthink,MrMiller? It is notthatfitting,Ifeel.’‘I don’t know,’ myhusband smirked. ‘ThinkofCharlie’sAngels!’I stared at James indisbelief. ‘I think we’re

talking more The ShootingParty than Cameron Diaz,actually, James. Tweedandplus fours, not bikinisandbling.’A thickset young Asianman with greased-backhairandsmallsilverhoopsin his ears entered theroom now and hoveredbehind us, very still andstraight,hishandsclasped

behindhisback.Thethrobof a helicopter could beheard in the distance,above the sound ofconversation.‘Zack. Please,’ Kattan

beckoned him over. Theyoung man mutteredsomethinginhisear.‘Please, excuse me.’

Kattan moved away fromus.‘Ihaveasmallbusiness

mattertoattendto.’‘What’s The ShootingParty then?Apornoaboutcoming?’Jamesmuttered.‘Don’t be so crude,darling,’Imurmuredback.‘It really doesn’t behoveonesowelleducated.’‘Don’t be a bitch.’ Heglaredatme.‘I’m not, really.’ I feltexhausted suddenly.There

wasacrisscrossof tensionin this house; not onlybetween me and James,but the men arguingoutside–andKattan’sowndemeanour seemed ratherintense. ‘I’m going to findtheloo.’Crossing the panelledhall,Icaughtmyreflectioninagreatornatemirrorasthe door to the party

swung shut, the noisequickly fading behind it.My eyes were glitteringfromalcohol,which Iwasunused to these days, andJames was right: Idefinitely looked morecurvaceous in my oldvelvetdressthanIshould.Hand on the loo door,

my heart jumped as Iheardathudfromabove.I

hesitated.Checkingbehindme, I turned back andquickly headed up thehugeoakstaircase.Door after door on thefirst corridor revealednothing but empty rooms,a few with furnitureshrouded eerily in dust-sheets, like small childrenplaying ghosts. I pausedagain. In the distance I

couldhearthechopofthehelicopter above – andsomethingmoresinister.Somewherenotfarfromme,awomanwascrying.HastilyIopenedthelastdoor to reveal an ornatebathroom, and shut itagain. I hurried back tothe staircase and crossedto theopposite corridor,aslight sweat breaking out

onmytoplipasthecryinggot louder. The first doorwas locked. I rattled thedoorhandle.‘Hello?’I thought I heard ascuffle inside. Thensilence.‘Hello,’ I said moreurgently. I thought of thewailing woman, althoughthe crying had stopped.

‘Maya?’I heard the rasp andflare of amatch and spunround. The fair man I’dmetsobrieflyatthepetrolstationwas leaningon thewall behind me, watchingme impassively. I wasstruck by the incredibleease with which he heldhimself.‘Oh,’ I said stupidly.

‘Youscaredme.’‘Lost, Mrs Miller?’ He

chucked the match in thevase of roses beside him.‘The party’s downstairs, Ithinkyou’llfind.’I realised he’d just used

my name. ‘I was justlooking for the bathroom,actually,’ I stuttered. Thechampagne had definitelygonetomyhead.

‘Really? All the way uphere?’‘Yes, really. Like yousaid,’ I attempted awinning smile, ‘I got a bitlost.’Hesteppedclosertome,closeenoughformetofeelthewarmthofhisbodyashe reached down andcircled my wrist with hisfingers; I pulled back. I

could smell lemon again.His eyes narrowed as hecontemplated me. Hedidn’tletgo.‘Whathappened toyourface?’‘It – it’s just a graze.’ Itouched my cheekinstinctively. I’d forgottenaboutJames’sscratch.His expression wasimpossibletoread,buthis

fingers round my wristtightened and he pulledme along the corridor tothefirstdoorsoIstumbledinmyheels.‘What are you doing?’ I

mumbled. He didn’tanswer. He just leanedover me and opened thedoor, then turned meround.‘I’m showing you what

youwerelookingfor.’His hand was in thesmall of my back now ashe pushed me forward. Itriedtoturnback,anxiousnot to be shoved into thisdarkroombyhim–butheblocked the way with hisshouldersoIcouldn’tpass.‘Ihope…’myvoicefeltthick,‘Ihope…’‘Youhopewhat?’

‘I do hope you’re notthreateningme.’‘Don’t be so stupid.’ Helooked at me with thoseblue blue eyes. ‘WhywouldIdothat?’Westaredateachother.His eyes were blue asuntroubled sky. Thenslowly, very slowly, Ibacked into the bathroomandshutthedoorbetween

us,leaningmycheekforaminute against the coolwood. The idea that hewasthereontheothersidedisturbed me intensely. Isatonthesideofthebathandputmyheadbetweenmykneesforawhile.When I came out, he’d

gone. I crept across thecorridor and tried thelocked door again. This

time, it swung open.Behind it lay a prettyyellow bedroom, allsprigged wallpaper and afour-poster bed; in thecorner, a Louis XIV chairwith a woman’s silk robethrowncarelesslyacrossit.There was a silverhairbrush set on thedressingtableandabottleof Dior perfume, but notmuch else – apart from

anotherdoorinthecorner,behind which I thought Icould hear movement.Taking a deep breath, Iheadedtowardsit.‘Hello?’Isaidagain,andthen I put my hand outand wrenched it open. Ahiss and a squeal, and aball ofwhite fur launcheditselfbetweenmyfeetanddisappearedunderthebed.

A bloody Persian cat! Ilaughedtremulouslyatmyownstupidity.As I went to close thebedroom door behindme,I glanced at a portraithanging on the wall. Thesleepy brown eyes of ayoungwomangazeddownonme and I froze on thespot. I felt the same icysensation I’d felt in the

officetheotherday.Istaredandstaredupather, almost expecting herto blink back – but ofcourseshedidn’t.I hurried down thestairs, back to the party,her eyes boring throughthedoor intomybackthewholeway.

Downstairs, the party wasbeginning to thin out.Kattan’s young henchmanwas gone; the MP, EddieJohnson,was so drunk hewas in danger of topplingover like a giant Weeble.Over by the fireplace myhusband was deep inconversation with Kattan,bothtalkinginlowvoices,Kattan smoking a cigar.The smell remindedmeof

mychildhood.‘All right, my petal?’JameskissedmyheadasIarrivedathisside.Ismiledweakly. My every instinctscreamed that somethingwas terriblywrong in thishouse, that the veneer ofwealth and respectabilitycovered up a darkness Icouldn’t yet fathom; thatso far itwas impossible to

putmy finger on it. I feltthestrongestdesire torunaway – but a strongerinstincttoknowthetruth.‘Yes, thanks,’ Imurmured, smiling atJames, who looked likeLewis Carroll’s Cheshirecat.‘I was just telling MrKattan about Revolver,’James said, pocketing

something.Myheartsank.‘Indeed.’ Hadi Kattan,

smilingpleasantly,exhaleda plume of blue smoke.‘Every man should havethe chance to own anightclub.Lifewouldbesoboringwithoutalittlefun,no?’‘Iguess it’salwaysgood

to let your hair down.’ Itook James’s arm like the

loyalwifeIwas.‘Here’s my card,’ Jamessaid. ‘Let me know whatyouthink.’‘I’msosorrytodraghimaway, Mr Kattan, but Ithink –babysitters andall– you know… ‘ Iwantedto be home with mychildrenrightnow.‘It’s been fantastic tomeet you, sir.’ My fickle

husband, so easily turned.‘Guesswe’regoingtohaveto call a cab.’ Jameslooked ruefully at hisempty glass. I bit my lip.Hehadpromisedhewoulddrive.‘Please,’ Hadi Kattantook my hand, ‘DannyCallendar can take youhome. I am sorry you didnot get tomeetAsh.Next

time,perhaps.’‘Oh no, that’s fine,

honestly,’ I said quickly.‘Thank you, but a cab’sfine.’‘Please, Mrs Miller,’

Kattan’svoicewassilky, ‘Iinsist.’ He pressed hiswarm lips to my coldhand.Waiting on the front

steps, I shivered: the

sudden drop intemperaturepervadingmybones.‘Something’s not right

here,’ImutteredtoJames.‘Ican’tputmyfingeronit,butsomething’snotright.’‘Rubbish.’ My husband

shrugged himself into hisleather coat and switchedon his phone. ‘He’s acharming bastard, I’ll give

himthat.’IthoughtofKattan’slipson my hand andshuddered. ‘All that stuffabout women and guns,for Christ’s sake. It’s likethe bloody dark ages. It’slikethebloodyTaliban.’‘For Christ sake, Rose,’James’s cheerfuldemeanourdissolved, ‘yousound like thatBNPbloke

onthenewstheotherday.’‘Idon’t.’ Iwasappalled.‘I just – I don’t trust menlikeKattan,andI’vemetafew. All smiles on thesurface and bigotrybeneath.’‘You sound ratherbigoted yourself, petal.You’re always looking fortheworstinpeople.’‘I’m not. I just look for

thetruth.’Ithoughtofthepaintinginthebedroom;Iremembered James’srecent terrible nightmare.All these events wereconspiring to bring backmemories I’d suppressedfor so long. I wonderedwhether I dare say it.‘James—’‘What?’ He was more

interestedinhisphone.

‘It’sveryodd. I justsawa picture, a paintingupstairs.’‘So?Thewholehouse is

fullofbloodypaintings.’‘It really looked like

Huriyyah,’Iwhispered.I definitely had his

attentionnow.‘For fuck’s sake!’ His

dark eyes were furious. ‘Iactually had a good

evening for once. Don’truin it now with yourstupidimaginings.’‘I don’t think I was

imagining it,’ I protestedquietly. ‘It really gave meajolt.’‘Just shut up, OK.’ He

roundedonme.‘OK?’‘OK.’ I was taken aback

bytheforceofhisangerastheRangeRoverpulledup

besideus.Grit and cut grass stungmy eyes, and my hairlashedmyfacepainfullyasthe helicopter finallylanded, great bladeschopping the air. Jamesshovedmeintothecarandswung in beside me.‘Cheers, mate,’ he yelledover the din. ‘Thisdefinitelysavesusawait.’

My heart sinking, Icaught the fair man’s eyein the mirror and lookedaway as he raised aneyebrow, a very faint grinplayingonhisface.‘Shamewecan’tjumpinthe chopper.’ Jamesstretchedouthislegs.‘Bestwaytotravel.’‘It belongs to AshKattan,’ Callendar said,

pulling away smoothly.ThehelicopterbladeswereslowingasIturnedtotakeafinallookatthehouse.I saw a face at an

upstairswindow; I figuredit was about where thebedroom I’d been in was.Just in time, I suppressedtheurgetoshout‘Stop’.‘Where is Maya Kattan

at the moment?’ I leaned

forward.‘Doyouknow?’‘For fuck’s sake, Rose,’

James hissed. ‘Just leaveit.’‘It’s just that Mr Kattan

saidhewantedhertomeetus,’ I pressed onregardless.‘Itwasashameshe couldn’t make theparty.’Jamestookmyhandand

squeezed it so hard I

winced. I glanced into thedriver’s mirror as I satback. Danny Callendarlookedatmeinscrutably.‘I’m not quite sure

where she is, Mrs Miller,’he answered easily.‘Perhaps she’s gone up toLondonforafewdays.Sheoftendoes.’‘Why?’ I wondered who

themandrivingher silver

Porsche had been. IwonderedifIdaredask.‘I wouldn’t know.’ His

tone told me I would getno further tonight. Heoffered us a paper bagover his shoulder. ‘Lemonsherbet?’Webothdeclined.Silence fell across the

car.Onethingwascertain:I knew for sure I couldn’t

do Xav’s story now.However much myappetite was whetted, Ihadtostayhomewiththechildren. I’d sworn fortheir sake I’d never doanything risky again;motherhood had to comefirst now, and theatmosphere in the manordidn’tbodewellatall.Leaningmyheadagainst

the glass, I watched thetall hedgerows slide by inthe dark, listening to thehiss of the tyres on theroad. I was sitting besidemy husband, but I waslonelier than I everrememberedbeingbeforeIwas married. I felt astrange longing forsomething I could notdescribe.

As we pulled into ourdrive, James’s mobilerang. ‘Cheers, mate,’ hethanked Danny Callendaras he picked up the call,sliding out of his side.‘Good news, Liam. Newbacker in the offing, I dobelieve.’ My husbanddisappeared through thestudiogate.Before I could open it,

Danny was already at thedoor.‘I’m fine, really,’ I

insisted quietly, but heheld out a hand.Eventually I took it andlooked up at him as Ijumped down. I found Icouldn’tsmile.‘Thankyouverymuch,’I

said. My skin felt like itwas burning where his

hand touched me. For asplit second his handseemed to linger onmine,and then he was back inthe car. I saw a flamethrough the dark windowas he lit his roll-up, andthenhewasgone.

THEPOSTON

SUNDAY,

DECEMBER1991

THEGENTLEMAN’S

DIARY:UPTHECREEK?

Wehear thatDalzielStJohn,eldestsonofLordHigham, our currentHome Secretary andJohn Major’s greatgolfingbuddy,hasbeenliving it up again oflate. We all rememberthat St John Jnr wentsomewhat off the rails

duringhisgapyear:thiskindly columnist willdraw a veil over theepisode.Sufficeittosaythat youngDalzielmayhavetakenthe ‘high’ inliving the high life alittle too literally downin North Cornwall’selitistRock.Now inhisthird year atMagdalenCollege, St John Jnrhad apparently worried

hisparentsagainduringthe last summerholidays with talk ofdropping out to modelfor Versace – amongstother ‘keen’ parties(homosexual Frenchdesigner Gaultierfamously called him‘truly divineinspiration’, thefashion-consciousamongst you might

remember). However,under the steadyinginfluence of newgirlfriendand sometimeSapphistLenaHolt(thislady is for turningobviously!),daughterofthe late Marquis ofGloucester and operasinger ConstantiaLatzier, all has seemedwellforawhile:Dalzielhas been safely

ensconced back atMagdalen finishing histheology degree, afterwhichhe is expected tofly straight out toArgentina to managethefamilypolofarmforawhile.

Socouldtherumoursbetrue that Dalziel hasjust this weekend beencaughtdefecatingatthealtar of Christ Church,

the ancient cathedral?Yesyoudidindeedreadcorrectly: defecating,not desecrating, thoughsome might argue theyareoneandthesame.Itmay yet turn out to befortunatethathisfatheris second cousin of theBishop himself,althoughmysourcestellme both men are veryfar from amused.

Indeed,LadyHighamisso mortified that shehas retired toBarbadosfor a sojourn at theSandy Lane spa, citing‘nervous exhaustion’(something the poorlady has sufferedmuchof, apparently, for onesoyoung).

We shall, of course,keep our trusty readersposted of further

developments – but letus just surmise for nowthat young Dalziel iswell and truly up thecreek and in the‘proverbial’ with hisfolks…

‘Have you seen this?’James threw thenewspaper on the cafétable, spilling my tea. ‘Ican’tbelievethatrag’sgot

holdofit.’‘Yeah, I’ve seen it.’ I

pushed the paper awayand finished my poachedegg as James sat down.‘Me and the whole ofcollege. I can’t believeyou’dbuythatrag,James.’Iwas only half joking. I’dbeendiscoveringyetmorepolitical principles thisterm.‘I’mshocked.’

‘You’re too liberal foryourowngood.’Heshookhis dark head sorrowfully.‘Dalziel’soldmandidsuchawicked jobofkeeping itquiet. He’s going to goballistic. White coffee,please, love,’ Jameswinked at the prettywaitress, who tossed herhair and immediatelyturnedherbackonhim.

‘Who’ll go ballistic?’ Imoppedup the last of theyolk.‘Dalziel’sdad?’‘No, stupid. Dalziel.’

James pinched a chip.‘He’s done adealwithhisdad to keep this kind ofstuffoutofthepaper.’‘How can he do that?’ I

was intrigued. ‘Keep itout? He’s not God. Orroyalty.’ I considered that

last statement for asecond.‘Orishe?’‘Not quite, but he’sprettywellconnected.’‘Inever realisedhisdadwas a lord. Or HomeSecretary.’ I wasn’t quitesure whether to beimpressed orcontemptuous, given thatStJohnSeniorwassuchadyed-in-the-woolTory.My

newworstenemies.‘Anyway, Lord Higham

owns half of Wapping.And,’ James lowered hisvoice, ‘Dalziel’s got stuffon his dad that wouldblow the government outofthewater–andhisdadknowsit.’‘God,’ I leaned forward,

‘like what?’ I was reallycuriousnow.

‘I’mnotatlibertytosay,petal.’ James stroked mycheek as the waitressbrought the coffee. ‘He’dhavemygutsforgartersifIbreatheaword.Let’sjustsay it’s inDaddy’s interest– Daddywho likes lots ofgirls–it’sinhisinteresttocoverDalziel’s tracks.Andanyway, he didn’t do it.Dalziel.Theshittingthing.’

I felt inordinatelyrelieved.Itseemedsocrasssomehow; below Dalziel.The young waitress wasstaring at James’s fingersonmyskinandshovedthecup down so hard boilingcoffee slopped out,burningmyarm.‘Ouch!’ I looked at her

reproachfully. She lookedvaguely familiar, her hair

pulled back tightly fromhercross,freckledface.‘Bloody students,’ she

muttered, and slammedbackintothekitchen.‘Friend of yours?’ I

raised an eyebrow at mysome-timeboyfriend.‘Possibly,’ he grinned.

‘Areyoujealous?’I thought about it. ‘A

littlebit,’Isaid,truthfully.

‘Don’t be. She’s just askivvy.’‘James!’Iwasshocked.‘Abitofroughcanbea

laugh, I guess.’ He raisedhis eyebrows at me, allarch.‘Anexperience.’‘For God’s sake, James.’

Itookthebait.‘Yousoundjustlikehim.’‘Who?’

‘Who do you think?’ Iblewgentlyonmyburnedskin. ‘Your great lord andmaster.’‘Don’t be fucking

stupid,’ James bristled.‘I’mmyownman.’‘Boy,’Iteased.‘Man. No one tells me

whattodo.’‘Oh,really?’

‘Yes, really.’ Jamesladled sugar in his coffee,spoons and spoons of it.‘He’s started talking aboutus all meeting again,actually.’Hewascasualashestirredhisdrink.‘Oh.’ My stomachtightened.‘Why?’‘Notsure.He’sgotsomegrand scheme up hisruffled sleeve. It’ll be a

laugh. Just think of lasttime.’ He winked at meagain, rather lasciviouslyfor such a young man. Itturnedmystomachabit;Iwas shocked at my ownreaction.‘I’d rather not,’ Imuttered. I was stillhaunted by the vacantlook on Huriyyah’s face.The fact she hadn’t really

been present despite herbody being in the room;thebodythathadbeennomorethanapieceofmeat.The vague rumours I’dheardsincethatbothboysand girls had been lininguptotaketurnswithher.‘Come on,’ James

persisted,‘we’dneverhavegot together if he hadn’theldthatparty.Anditwas

a laugh, you’ve got toadmit.’‘I suppose so,’ I smiled

weakly.We both jumped as Jen

knocked on the glasswindow, her shorthennaed hair blowingupwards in the Decemberwind, cheeks ruddy fromcycling.‘Gottago.’Igatheredmy

things, relieved suddenlyto be leaving the steamylittle café. ‘I’ve alreadypaid for mine. See yousoon,yeah?’‘Oh, right.’ He lookedputout.‘Likewhen?’The bad-tempered littlewaitress was watching us.IrealisedwithajoltitwasTwiggy from theHallowe’en do.

Instinctively I leaned overto kiss James full on themouth.‘I’llbeinthecollegebarlater, I think,’ I said.‘Aboutsix.’‘And what shall I tellDalziel?’ James swungback dangerously on hischair’sbacklegs.‘Aboutwhat?’‘He’ll want to know

who’sin.’‘I don’t know,’ I

frowned. ‘I’m not thatbothered, to be honest, J.I’ve got a lot on. I’ve justhad another articleactually commissioned fortheCherwell. It’s got tobeinbynextweek.’Jenknockedagainmore

urgently, pointing at herwatchinelaboratemime.

‘I’mgoing tobe late formyseminar.’‘All right, Goody Two-Shoes,’Jamestaunted.I let it go. ‘I’ll see youlater.’Cycling through town,my fingers frozen roundmyhandlebars despitemywoolly gloves, my mindkept darting back toDalziel and how I’d felt

when he kissed me thatcoldwinternight,andhowI’d felt when I’d watchedhim kissing that boy. Butmost of all, to the face ofthegirlonthedivan:howutterlylostshehadbeen.

Leaving my tutor grouplater,IrealisedI’dlostmyscarf; on the way home Ipoppedintothecafétosee

if it was there. The sulkywaitress was cleaning thecoffeemachinebehind thewoodencounter.‘Haven’t seen it,’ she

muttered, and I had nochoicebuttobelieveher.‘Really fancies himself

now, that boyfriend ofyours, don’t he?’ she saidas I opened the door toleave.

I paused and turned.‘Whatdoyoumean?’‘You should have seen

him last year.’ Her prettyface was flushed. ‘He waslike a – a lost puppy andhe dressed like a rightbloody spod, carrying thatstupid guitar everywhere.Only tooglad tomixwiththe likes of me then.’ Shewiped the steam pipe so

savagely I thought itwould snap. ‘Not that Iwasinterestedinhim.’‘Oh,’ I said ratherhelplessly.‘I’msorry.’‘Don’t be. Much betterfishinthesea.’Sheturnedher back on me againbefore I could read theexpressiononherface.Hervoice was strangelymuffled. ‘You’re welcome

tohim.’There wasn’t anythingelsetosayreally.Isawherin towna fewweeks laterwithanotherboy; shewaswearing my scarf. Idecidedshecouldkeepit.

ChapterFive

GLOUCESTERSHIRE,

MARCH2008

The morning after the

Kattans’ party, the taxidroppedmeatthegatesinthe overgrown lane. I hada feeling of forebodingthat I tried to dispel, butmy stomachwas churningslightly even before Ibeganthelongwalkupthedrive.Last night it had beenmy turn to lie awake,sleepless beside a snoring

James, recalling events Ihadblockedforyears.Andas I stared into thedarkness, craving sleepand peace, I couldn’tunderstand why all theseevents were conspiring tomeet now. But whateverthe reason, the pastseemed to be travellinginexorably towards me –and therewasnowhere tohide. All night I’d

pondered the portrait inthe bedroom, until finallyI’ddecidedthatJameswasright: that I’d beenmistaken: that one sloe-eyed beauty might lookrather like another. Butstill I couldn’t quite pushHuriyyah’s face from mymind.The gravel crunchedsatisfyingly underfoot as I

set off, my hand claspedround the car keys in myfleece pocket. In the pastfew weeks the earth hadyawned mightily andbeguntowaken,andIwasflanked now by creamyyellow daffodils thatflickered lightly in thebreeze, the great glossycamellias behind themfestoonedwithbudsasbigas my fist. The

temperature at night wasstill close to freezing, butthis morning had dawnedfresh and bright – amismatch for my sense ofapprehension. I intendedto fetch the car and leavethepropertyasquicklyasIcould.Myphonerang.Xavier.‘Whereareyou?’‘Fetching my car from

Hadi Kattan’s house inGloucestershire.’‘You got in there then?Goodgirl.’‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And nowI’mgettingout.’‘Whatdoyoumean?’‘It’snotforme,Xav.’‘Don’tbeapussy,Rose.’‘I’mnot.Like I said, I’mflattered, and I think you

should follow it up – butyou need to get someoneelsetodoit.’‘But you’re in already.

I’ve got more juicy stuffcoming through; rumoursthat Kattan may havefinanced a trainingcampfrom his home in Tehran.Plus he’s been the subjectofaCIAinvestigation.’‘Really?’Ithoughtofthe

manlastnightattheparty,of the helicopter, of thehysterical and nowapparently missingdaughter.Detectingmyhesitation,

Xav pounced. ‘Come on,Rose.’‘I’ve already been

warned off by his laconicidiotofadriver.’‘A nice bit of rough?

Rightupyourstreet.’‘Upyours,youmean.’‘Darling! All those

coarse farmers are havingaterribleeffectonyou.’I thought of Hadi

Kattan’s firm handshakeand thewayheheldbackfromtherestofthecrowd;theassuranceinhisstance.‘Kattan’s much more mytype.’ For all his inherent

sexism,nomanhadsmiledatmelikethatforyears.‘You’re a happily

married woman, let meremindyou,Rosie.’A sudden breeze sent a

flurryofblossomskitteringbeforemyfeet.‘Not sure about the

happily bit right now,’ Imuttered.

‘At last she’s seen thelight,’ Xavier drawled.He’d never bothered tohide his feelings aboutJames.The blossom whirled in

circles on the groundbeforeme.‘Anyway, Kattan’s

certainlyacharacter.Veryold-school polite, but awillof iron, I’msure.And

hisson,Ash, isapparentlydisenchantedwith Britain,and running forParliament.’ I wasrounding the last bend inthe drive now, headingtowardsastableblockandgarages on my right,walking into shadowbeneath great elms thatblocked the sun from mypath.Thegargoylesontheroof were still screaming

silently as I neared. I hadthe unnerving feeling thatIwasbeingwatchedandIfelt a shiver ofapprehension. ‘But I’msorry, I just can’t do it,Xav.’‘Fuck, Rose,’ Xav swore

softly. ‘It’s not like you towimpout.’The great windows of

theGothicmanor frowned

downlikehugeunblinkingeyes, and then somethingstoppedmeinmytracks.Iwasn’t sure exactly whatI’d seen but it was like aflash of light, somethingwhite billowing in thewindow to the left of thegreat front door.Somewhere nearby theclank of metal on metalstartled me. My owninvoluntarygaspmademe

laugh.‘Rose?’‘I’ll call you back.’ I

hungup.‘Hello?’ I called.

Someone had beenlistening,Iwassure.Silence fell again; just

the fluting of birdsong,and then the distant bleatof tiny lambs. It was aneeriesound;ratherlikemy

children crying. I took afewsmallstepstowardsanold cream-coloured racingcar abandoned on blocks.Alongside the garage wallwere stacked greatcanisters; presumably forpetrol.‘Hello?’ I steadied my

voice.‘Anyonethere?’There was no response.

A sudden gust blew

through the branches likea great breath as I tookanother step and then thelight from the windowstruck me again, flashingacrossmyfaceso Ihadtoshutmyeyes.NotalightIrealised, some kind of redlaser. It swept the groundbefore me and thendisappeared.I contemplated turning

back – and then I heardthemetallicsoundagain.‘Hello?’ I repeated,

awash with adrenalin –and thenDannyCallendaremerged from the garage,rollingacigarette.‘You really made me

jump.’ I tried to stifle mynerves.Wood smokehungin the air like a distantwarning. Like an exhaled

sigh.‘I’m sorry,’ he saideasily, and licked thecigarette paper. ‘Can Ihelp?’I smiled politely. ‘I’vejust come to collect mycar.’‘Fair enough.’ Callendarlooked down to light hisroll-up, then up again ashe inhaled. ‘It’s still up at

thehouse.’He was so abrupt, itseemed peculiar after lastnight. So abrupt he wasrude. I regardedhimforasecond. His eyes wereuncomfortably blue,piercing even; his skinlooked like ithadsufferedtoo many summers underhot sun. It was hard toplace his age; somewhere

in his mid-thirties, I’dguess; a year or twoyoungerthanme,perhaps.‘What exactly is it that

you do here?’ A suddengustwhippedmy key-ringhard against my wrist.‘Ow.’Idroppedthekeys.He bent down to

retrievethem,handingtheringtome. ‘Whowants toknow?’ His skin was hard

and calloused, oil beneathhisnails.‘Me, obviously.’What a

stupid thing to say. ‘I justwondered.’‘I drive for Mr Kattan.’

Hetookanotherdrag,eyessquinting against sun andsmoke.Hehadnicehands,I thought absently. Longelegantfingers,despitethefilthynails.‘Amongstother

things.’‘What kind of otherthings?’‘This and that, MrsMiller, this and that.’ Heleanedagainsttheoldcar.‘AndisMrKattanhere?’‘Dunno.’‘I see.’ I tried anothersmile.‘Doeshehavemanyvisitors?’ Danny Callendar

laughed – but he waslaughing at me, that wasclear. ‘What’s it to you,honey?’‘I’mmeanttobewritinga piece on him for thelocal paper. Justinterested. Professionally,youknow.’‘Well,professionally,’heremoved a bit of tobaccofromhis tongue, ‘hehasa

few.’‘Right.’ I was tired of

smilingtonoavail. ‘SoI’lljustmakemyownwayuptothehouse,shallI?’His expression was

unreadable. ‘Were youexpectingalift?’We stared at eachother

for a moment. A hugechestnuthunterwhickeredsoftlyatthefencenearby.

‘Beautifulhorse.’‘Just for show really.Maya rides themoccasionally.’‘Oh?’‘When she—’ Hestopped, ran a handthrough his fashionablydishevelled hair. Was itaffectionIdetected?‘When she what?’ Ipromptedgently.

‘Nothing,’ he shrugged.‘I’mprettybusyactually.’I’llbet.Cleaningcars.Flatout.‘Soifyoudon’tmind…’Heturnedaway.NormallyI found a Scottish accentattractive,buthisannoyedmeintensely.‘Of course. Thanks a lotforyourhelp.’If he detected the

sarcasm he didn’t reactand he disappeared backinto the depths of thegarage without a secondglance. I took a deepbreath, and carried on uptothehouse.

I was like CatherineMorland from JaneAusten’sNorthangerAbbey,imagining ghosts and

villains where there werenone, always looking fordrama round the nextcorner.Ihadtoacceptthatmy addiction lingered,despite my self-imposedretirement. Ridiculous, Itoldmyself, unlocking thecar door. I turned theradio on, clicked my seatbelt in and began toreverse towards thefountain, where I could

turn.‘This is the sound of abombnot exploding becausethe neighbours noticed thechemicalsbeingstoredinthegarage,’ a male voicedronedfromtheradio.‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Imuttered, puttingmy footdown.‘Bloodyidiots.’Suddenly a man washanging on to my door,

desperatelytryingtoripitopen.Ibrakedsharply.‘Call the police,’ hewasshouting, his thin blue-black face shiny withsweat, his eyes wide withfear. ‘Call the police, tell‘em she’s a prisoner and I—’‘Please,’ I tried to keepcalm,‘letgoofthedoor.’‘Let me in.’ He rattled

thehandle.‘Iwill.Justplease,letgo

and – and we can talkproperly.’He wasn’t listening to

me; he seemed deliriouswith terror. There wasspittle on his broad lowerlipasheintoned,‘Call‘emnow, call ‘em now. Tellthem the truth about thisfamily,aboutthatman.’

‘Please,’ I tried again,‘justcalmdown,OK?’His facewaspressedup

hard against the carwindow,hisnoseflattenedhorribly against the glass,pupils dilated, the whitesyellow.I undid the central

locking and he saw hischance. He tugged openthe door and started to

pullmeout.‘Hang on,’ I cried

frantically. ‘Just, please,letme—’He was really hurting

me, both hands on thecollarofmyfleece,pullingme against my seat beltuntil it cut into my neck,threateningtostrangleme.‘Please,’Igaspedforair.

‘Ican’tbreathe.’

WhenIwassmall,aboyatthelocalswimmingpoolhadgotintotroubleinthedeep end; as the proudowner of a Silverlifesavers’badge,I’ddivedin to help. But panic hadmadehimmadandinsteadof letting me guide himsafely to the side, he’dusedmeasafloat,holdingmyheadunderwaterashefought to stay alive,

pushing me down until Ithought I would die, mylungs exploding with theefforttogetair.‘Please,’ I gasped now,‘my neck. You’re hurtingme.’ But the man was sofrantic,hewasdeaf tomyplea.‘Pleasestop.’A pair of arms camearound the man and hewas pulled to the floor,

hands forced behind hisback.Feet on the gravel nowbutstillsittinginthecar,Ibentdouble,staringatmyshoes, trying to get mybreath.When I lookedup,a young Asian man hadone knee in the small ofthe man’s back, andCallendarwassprintingupthedrive.

‘Are you OK?’ he calledasheneared.Inoddeduncertainly.‘Getoffme,getoffme,’the man on the floor wasmoaning.‘Areyousure?’‘Yes.’CallendarandIstaredatone other; a momentsuspended in time. I

looked at him and I feltnothingbutconfusion.‘Youneedtoleavenow.’He spoke first, breakingthe tension. ‘It’s not safeforyouhere.’Histonewasurgent.‘But …’ I looked at theman on the floor, ‘heneedshelp.Thepolice, hesaid—’‘He needs locking up,’

theAsianman spat, ‘don’tyou, blood? Fuckingnutter.’I recognised him fromthe party; the man whohadwaitedforHadiKattanby the door, now dressedin combats and a vest inplaceoftheshinysuithe’dworn last night, a fadedtattoo of a star andmoonon his upper bicep. He

pulledtheblackguyupbythe hands and thendroppedhimagainheavilysohisfacehitthegravel.‘Don’t!’ I shouted,wincing as I felt the thudof his torso smacking theground.‘Please.’Callendar movedbetween me and the twomen,hisjawsetrigid.‘Zack,takehimuptothe

house.’Fromthecornerofmyeye,Isawhimboottheman on the floor in theribs.‘My pleasure.’ Zack

pushedtheman’sfaceintothegravelagain.Iwinced.‘Your neck.’ Callendar

reachedanarmout tomeand I tried not to flinch.‘You’re bleeding.’ He heldhissleeveagainstthewelts

that were already risingthere. For the first time, Ifeltfrightenedofthisman.‘I’m fine.’ I felt thepressureofhisarmonmyskin.‘Get itseento, Iwould.’Hesteppedbacknow.‘But I think… ‘ Ibeganrather helplessly. I didn’tknow what to think, thatwasthetruth.

‘Don’tthink,’Dannysaidquietly, readingmymind.I sawblood on his sleeve.My blood – or older,darker – drying blood?‘Please,MrsMiller,justgetinyourcar,andgo.’‘But …’ I stammered.‘I’m more worried abouthim.’‘It’s family business,love,’ themancalledZack

said over his shoulder, ashehauledtheblackguytohis feet and marched himtowards the house,scoopingupsometoolboxhe had evidently beencarrying under one arm.The black man’s face wasbleeding from the gravel,bloodandstonesspecklinghis face like some kind ofunholypox.

‘Call the police,’ hegroaned. ‘Call ‘em beforeit’stoolate.’‘Shut it, you,’ Zacksnapped,givingthemanashove so he stumbled.Zack grabbed his wristbefore he hit the flooragain and manoeuvredhimupthefrontsteps.‘Danny…’I’dneversaidhis name before. It

sounded oddly intimate.‘Please, what’s going onhere?’‘Don’t worry about it.’He pushed me inside thecar again. ‘It’s not yourconcern.’‘Is that meant toreassureme?’Isaid.Danny shrugged. ‘Notreally. Remember, MrsMiller, too much poking

around can make Rose averydullgirl.’Hisfacewasgrim.‘Understand,pet?’He shut my car doorhard, and walked towardsthehouse.I sat there foraminute,my hands clammy on thewheel,watching asDannyCallendardisappearedintothehousebehindtheothertwo men. I sat there,

absolutelyimpotent,angryand shaken, unsure whatto do. I cursed myself forevercominghere.Intheend,timedecidedthings for me. If I didn’tleave now, I’d be late forthetwins. I turnedthecarback down the drive, myeyesfixedinmymirrorasthe house receded. It wasfinally quiet from the

outside, but God onlyknewwhatwashappeninginside.AsIpulledintothelane,

a prehistoric Jeep nearlytook me out on theoppositeside.Ioversteeredand rounded thebend toofast, then felt a lurch,followed by the awfulcrunch of metal onconcrete.

‘I don’t believe this ishappening.’ I slammedthesteering wheel with myhands.‘ForGod’ssake.’Somehow I managed tomanoeuvre the woundedvehicle up onto the vergeas a silver BMW, hornblaring, swerved roundme, the driver mouthingobscenities through hiswindow. I ignored him

withwhat I considered tobe great serenity, anddebatedmyoptions.AsIfishedinmypocketformyphone,acarpulledinto the drive from theotherendofthelaneandIfelt my mouth open insurprise.I was sure my husbandhad just driven throughthe gate to Hadi Kattan’s

house.

UNIVERSITY,

DECEMBER1991

Forheonhoney-dewhathfed,

AnddrunkthemilkofParadise.

‘KublaKhan’,Coleridge

Two nights later, I’d beenstudyinginthelibraryandthenout for aquickdrinkwithJen.I’dcycledhome,slightly drunk, ponderingtheessayI’djuststartedonMary Shelley. Myprofessor had suggestedthe great Percy ByssheShelley had actually

written his wife’s classic,Frankenstein, to thegroansof all the girls present. Iwanted something reallyfresh to say, but myresearch had turned upnothingsofar.At the lodge I chained

mybikeandclamberedupthestairstomyroom.Thedoorwas unlocked,whichwas odd, but I’d been in

sucharushearlier, Imusthaveforgottentolockit.Peeling a strand of hairaway from my pink face,damp from the freneticcycle home, I threw mycoatonthebedandturnedon the bedside lamp. Thebulbblewwithaloudpop.‘Shit.’ I didn’t haveanother one. I headed forthe light-switch by the

door. The door slammedshut in my face and as Imoved quickly to open itagain, an arm shot out ofthe shadows and grabbedmy wrist. I shrieked insurprise.‘Don’tscream,precious,’

alowvoicewhispered.‘It’ssoHammerHouse.’Sweating, my eyes

slowly adjusted to the

gloom.Afigurebehindthedoor.‘My love is like a red,

red rose,’ he purred.Something glinted in hisrighthand.‘Youlookwell,lovely.’‘You frightenedme.’My

heart was still thuddingpainfully.Afterasecondortwo,Imovedtoswitchthelighton.

‘Don’t, please,’ Dalzielsaid, his hand tighteningroundmyskin. ‘Ihate thelight. Don’t you have acandleorsomething?’‘Somewhere, I think,’ Isaid,rootingaroundontheshelfabovemybed.Hesatonthebedandhandedmealighter.‘Sorry to have scaredyou,’ he drawled, though

heclearlywasn’t.‘Imissedyou,Rose.Nicebeads.’‘Oh,’ I said, suddenly

shy.‘Thanks.’Iwasn’tsureif he was teasing me.‘They’re like the ones theInspiralCarpetswear.’‘I see.’ He was solemn.

‘Nice picture too.’ Hepointedatthehugeposterof Tim Burgess from TheCharlatans above my bed.

‘If you like that sort ofthing.’‘Anddoyou?’Iasked.‘Not much.’ He flipped

theshinythinginhishandover and again. I realisedit was ten-pence coin.‘Nicelips,though.’I had a sudden flash of

him and the dark boywrithingonthedivan.‘So what are you doing

here?’ I asked awkwardly.‘Not that – I mean,’ Ihesitated, ‘I mean, you’reverywelcome.’‘That’s kind, my love. I

have to tell you, though,I’m very sad, actually,’ hemurmured. ‘Since I heardthat you’re not mynumber-onefananymore.’‘Ineversaidthat.’ Iwas

embarrassed. I sat on the

edge of my narrow bed.‘Who told you that? Ihaven’t – I haven’t evenseenyouforweeks.’‘No, well,’ he pulled

somethingfromhispocket,‘I’ve been quite busy.Finishing my research formydissertation.’‘The Christ Church

thing, you mean?’ Iblushed. ‘Is it true? Did

you – did you crap in thecathedral?’He shrugged, so relaxed

I could imagine himslithering to the floor inonefluidmove.‘No.’‘Whodidthen?’‘How the hell do I

know? Someone whoadores me, clearly.’ Hewasonlyhalfjoking.‘Why do they think you

did?’‘Because they’ve got noimagination. They choosetheobvious.’‘Oh,’ I said, perplexed.‘Isyourdadcross?’‘Don’t be so naïve,’ hesnapped. ‘I don’t give ashitwhatmyfatherthinks.Literally.’‘Sorry,’ I stuttered. Thisboy made me so nervous,

surrounded by his aura ofexpectation.He recovered,flicking his white-blondhair back, and smiled atme,winningly, his face litasiffrominside.‘Rosie, Rosie. It’s just –

I’msoverynear.AndnowIneedyourhelp,lovely.’‘Really?’ I stuttered. I’d

forgotten quite howbeautiful he was; those

girlish dark lashessweeping down ontoporcelain skin, his facefine-bonedandpure.‘Wehad fun,didn’twe?

With the silly underwearthing?’‘Yes,’Ibitmylip.Ithad

beenfun.Andharmless.‘Look, tails you help

me,’ he flipped the coininto the air, ‘heads I’ll

leaveyoube.’The coin shone as it

spun through thecandlelight.‘Tailsitis,lovely.’But I never saw if it

really was. He wasreaching into his pocketnow, rolling somethingdark between his fingers,shoving it down into asmallpipeandlightingit.

‘Please say you’ll helpme, darling.’ He reachedover and took my hand,pullingbackmysleeveandstroking the skin on myinner arm. I froze at theintimacy, and then Iremembered the trackmarks on Huriyyah’s arm.Ilaughedshakily.‘What?’ He looked

amused, but didn’t stop

stroking my arm. ‘Is thatnice?’Slowly I relaxed, feeling

catlike, as if I might startpurring.‘You’ve got beautiful

skin, Rosie. Smooth assilk.’‘Ihaven’t,’ I stammered.

‘HaveI?’‘Oh, yes.’ He inhaled

from his pipe. ‘Try this,

lovely.’‘What is it?’ I eyed it

suspiciously. I didn’trecognise the sickly sweetsmell.‘Isitdope?’‘Yes, it’s dope. Nice bit

of Moroccan hashish froma nice Moroccan boy Iknow.’ He stood up,flippingthroughthebookson my desk. ‘I see you’restudyingtheRomantics.’

‘Yes.’ I took the pipe. ‘Ilove Shelley, don’t you?He’ssopassionate,Ithink.I wish I could have methim.’ I inhaled lightly.‘Can you imagine theconversationsbetweenhimand Byron and MaryShelley? God.’ I stoppedbeforeIcoughed.‘In Xanadu did KublaKhan a stately pleasure-

domedecree’.Dalzielthrewa book down and turnedbacktome.‘Sayyou’lljoinme, Rosie,’ he imploredvehemently. ‘I like you.You’dmakemesohappy.’‘Join you in what?’ Isaid. The sweet smoke hitthebackofmythroatanddespite my best efforts, Idid cough. I felt gauchebutratherelated.

‘Takeaproperdrag,mylove,’ he insisted. ‘You’llsee. For he on honey-dewhathfed,anddrunkthemilkofParadise.’I took anotherbigdrag,

downdown intomy lungsanditwasbothsweetandacrid, and then Icontemplated theenormous world map onthe wall above my desk,

the candle throwing poolsof light onto it, whichmovedendlessly.ThemapI’dboughtfromBlackwellson the High Street, themap I’dmarkedwith pinsforall theplaces Iwantedtosee,theplacesIneededtovisit. I staredat ituntilit became all hazy andthen I thought I reallycouldn’t sit up any more,mybodyfeltsoheavyand

soft. I fell back onto thebed, thinking this wasn’tlike any dope I’d eversmokedbefore.I closed my eyes; Icouldn’tkeepthemopen.IfeltsickbrieflyandthenitpassedandIrealisedIwashaving some kind ofvision. The dreams camequicklyuntilIdidn’tknowifIwasawakeorsleeping.

I dreamed I was MaryShelley, running barefootbyanItalianlakeinalongskirt that swished aroundmy ankles, with Dalzielsitting inside a villa,watchingatadeskandhewas smiling, iron boltsinstead of ears just likeMaryShelley’smonster.At some point Dalzielfed me some more and

thenIthoughtIsleptuntilI dreamed I was flyingaround the map of theworld.MuchlaterIawoke,asif

from the deepest sleep.The neon red ofmy clockradio said it was fouro’clockandIcouldn’tworkout if that was day ornight. I was wedged inbetween the wall and a

warm body; slowly Irealised that Dalziel waslyingbesidemeonthebedand I had no idea whathadjusthappened.Igazedat him, almost unseeing,untileventuallyheopenedonesleepyeye.‘All right, lovely?’ hesaid.‘Enjoythetrip?’‘Oh God, Dalziel,’ Imumbled. ‘That was

amazing.’‘Notbad,isit?’‘Whatwasit?’‘Don’tyouknow?’Ishookmyhead.‘God’sownmedicine.’‘Oh.’ I was none thewiser.‘That, my precious, wasthe poppy. Coleridge andyour friend Percy’s

favouritefriend,tonameafewfans.’‘Opium?’He smiled beatifically,

andshuthiseyesagain.IlayonthebedandallI

knew was I’d seen sightsI’dneverseenbefore.

***

For the next few days I

spent every waking hourthatIwasallowedtowithDalziel. Sometimes hewouldjustdisappearandIwouldcyclepasthishousein the hope the lightswould be on but theynever were – until hewould turn up somewhereunexpected to collect me,and my heart would leapwith anticipation. Nothingsexual had ever happened

between us and I didn’treallycare;Iwasattractedto him, undoubtedly, butin truth, I was happy justto enjoy his company. Heradiated light a little likethe sun; I was happy toabsorb his warmth,althoughtherewerea fewtoomanyofussatellitestomake it entirelycomfortable.

At first the only placewe went together was tomy little room on thesecond floor, but after awhile he tookme back tohis house, so unlike thedigs of any of my otherfriends, and I imagined itwas because he finallytrusted me. It was less atheatricalsetthanthefirsttimeI’dbeenthere,thoughstill minimal in the

extreme. The furniturelooked expensive and thepaintings on the walls bypeople I’d actually heardof.Onthewall in thehallby the unused kitchenwere two black-and-whitephotographsofacoupleofbeautiful children; Iassumed they wereDalziel’s siblings. But herefusedtobedrawnonhisfamilyand I soongaveup

asking.Iwassimplyhappyto be with him, and deepdown I felt like I wasblessed to have beenchosen. Jen and Lizthought I spent too muchtimewithhim, and Jameswas constantly sulkingwheneverweall spent theevening together, but Ididn’tcare.Howcould Iexplain the

grip Dalziel held me in?The long sleepless nightssoaring above the planesof my imagination until Ineverwanted to return toearth. I lovedhim, Iknewthat. ‘You have a sadmouth, Rose,’ he saiddreamily. ‘That’s why Iknew we would be suchfriends.’Hetoldmestoriesofhis

childhood, about rowingon the lake in his father’sgrounds, and hiding intrees when his nannylooked for him,desperately calling hisname until he relented.One night when he wasvery stoned Dalziel talkedabout a puppy he oncelost:hesaidhe’dletitoutat night; it had belongedto his sister and it had

annoyed him, he said, forsome reason, but he feltforever guilty when itdisappeared. After thatadmission he fell silentand refused to talk againuntilthenextday.I asked him aboutSocietyXandheadmittedit was really just a gamethat he had startedbecause he was bored. ‘I

hadapointtoproveonce,I think,’ he said, ‘but Iseem to have forgottenwhat it is right now.’Andwe laughed, slightlyfeverishly.Ihadacceptedwewouldnever become lovers – Iknew deep down that heusually preferred boys –buthemademefeellikeIwas different: special,

intelligent – beautiful,even. ‘Your skin is allcreamy,’ he whispered,stroking my hair as I laybeside him. And I hadspentsolongwaitingtobeaccepted,and IknewnowI was part of somethinggreat.Somethingtheotherstudents could only lookon and dream ofthemselves, somethingtheywerenotprivyto.We

weretheluckyones.‘Little dreamer’, Dalzielcalled me when we werealone. ‘You’re alwayshopingtostepoutsidereallife, aren’t you?’ and hewas right. The lure of theopium formewas findingmyself in deserts withByronorsailingtheseasofColeridge’s AncientMariner. The world was

openingupformeinmoreways than one, and Iwantedmore.

ChapterSix

GLOUCESTERSHIRE,

MARCH2008

Mypoorwoundedcar just

aboutmade it back to thevillageaftertheincidentatAlbion Manor. I keptwondering if it had beenJames’s Audi I’d seen atthegate,butthenFredandEffie were waiting at thenurserydoor,theirchubbyfaces beaming, and somekind of peace settled overme like a thin blanket. Iwatched them paddingacross the grass with a

huge drawing ofsuperheroes flutteringbetween them, Effie’s hatslipping over her face soshecouldhardlyseewheresheran.‘We thought you wasn’t

coming, Mummy,’ Freddiesaid. ‘But Mrs Foster saidyou’donlybeamimit.’I gathered them to me.

‘I’msorry,baby.Iwon’tbe

lateagain,Ipromise.’‘Mummy,’ said Effie,freeingherselfimpatiently,‘I’mvegetarian,aren’tI?’‘Are you now?’ I kissedhercheek.‘That’snice.’‘I’m not vegetarian,’Fred said scornfully. ‘I’mEnglish.’I laughed and kissedtheir shiny heads, tuckingthem into the car beneath

the frosting of cherryblossom on the roof. Ilookedat themandclosedthe door, thinking ofDanny Callendar’s words,thinking uncomfortably ofthemanbeingmarchedtothe house, the sly boot inthe ribs. I had beenwarnedoff,andrightnow,it made absolute sense tostay away. I’d made asilent promise to the

children, to the unbornAlicia after I wasthreatened in LA duringmyfirstpregnancy,thatI’dneverputtheirlivesormyownindangeragain;thatIwouldn’t choose the storyoversafetyanymore.

‘I’mgoingtoVietnamnextweek,’ James said, feet uponthekitchentable.

‘Oh?’ I put a plate ofslightly singed macaronicheese in front of him,which he ignored, flickingthetelevisionon.‘Getusabeer,petal,wouldyou?’‘Why Vietnam?’ Iopenedthefridge.‘Totalkaboutopeningabranch of the club outthere. Saigon’s the newBangkok, didn’t you

know?’ He wasn’t lookingat me, but at the screenbehindme.‘Oh,goal!’‘Right,’ I said, handing

him a Becks. I picked upthesaladandplonkeditonthe long kitchen table.‘Staywithme,J,willyou?’I could tellhewas itchingtoreturntothestudiobuthedidasIasked,forlornlyabandoning his Sight and

Sound magazine andtaking his feet off thetable.‘You know, it’s funny.’

Carefully I stuck my forkprong through amacaronitubeandcastaquicklookfrom under my lashes atmyhusband.‘I’mprobablygoingmad,but I suddenlythought I saw you out atHadiKattan’stoday?’

‘You didn’t.’ Heshovelled a bit of pastainto hismouth and pulleda face. ‘Christ,Rosie!Thismacaroni’sallcrunchy.’‘Yes,well,’Ijabbedatit,

‘itmightnotbeoneofmyabsolutely best efforts.Havesomesalad.’‘Itneverisabesteffort.’

Hepushedthebowlaway.‘Ihatebloodyrabbit food,

youknowthat.’‘It’sgoodforyou,’Isaid

mildly.‘I’msureIsawyouthere when I went to getthecar,youknow.’‘You didn’t, darling,

really.’ James leaned overand kissed my cheek, andslowly I began to relax alittle. I was about to tellhim about the man up atAlbion Manor, about my

disquiet and the violenceand whether I shouldreportittosomeone,whenJames stood, putting hisplate in the sink. ‘I’m notvery hungry, actually. Ihad a burger in Oxfordearlier.’‘Oxford?’Isaidwarily.‘Ihadtogotothebank.’‘Oh?’ Our avoidance of

the place was unspoken –

but we’d never oncevisitedthesmallcitysincewe’dmovedouthere.‘Yeah, it couldn’t wait.’Was it my imagination ordid he look a littlesheepish? ‘I just shot inandoutagain.’‘Everything all right?’ Iabandoned the macaronimyself now and attackedthe lettuce instead. I

pushedthoughtsofSocietyXaway;theywerealreadytoonearthesurface.‘Of course, petal. Never

better.’‘And you definitely

weren’t up at AlbionManorearlier?’‘Rose!’Irecognisedthewarning

signs;Iraisedmyhandsinsupplication. ‘OK, OK. I

just thought, I could haveswornitwasyourcar.’‘Everybody’s driving

silver Audis now. Whereone leads, the othersfollow,eh,Rosie?Actuallythatremindsme.HaveyouseentheBeamercataloguearound?’‘Probablyinthatpile.’Iwas sure hewas lying

about Hadi Kattan but

frankly I didn’t have theenergy to argue with himnow. If he had decided todeny it, the row could goonallnight.Iwatchedhimrifle through the pile,dislodging the travelsupplements stacked onthetop.Hecameacrossanunopened bank statementandforamomenthiseyesseemed to darken as hegazedatit.Ihadasudden

flashofinspiration.‘Why don’t we all

come?’ I looked at him,lightinmyeyes.‘What?’Hepocketedthe

statement quickly. ‘Comewhere?’‘ToVietnam.I’mserious,

J – I mean, it’d beamazing,wouldn’t it? Thekids would love it.’ I feltgenuinely enthused. ‘It’s

good to do these thingsnow, J, before Alicia getstoo big to take out ofschool. It’d be brilliant. Areal bonding experience.We could go back to NhaTrang.’James and I had

travelled all the timebefore we had thechildren,itwaspartofthegluethatheldustogether.

We’dhadsuchadventures;we’d seen such sights. Hewould come andmeetmewhen I finished foreignassignmentsandwewoulddiscover new places,basking in the sun,pottering round parts ofcities that the touristsnever saw, drinking thelocal hooch or playingcards into the early hoursunderstar-studdedskies.

‘Noway.’Jamesfinishedhis beer and threw thebottle in the bin. ‘I’mflying in and flyingstraight out again. There’stoo much to do here tohaveaholiday.’I gazed at him and Iwondered when this hugegulf had opened upbetween us. I’d beenstaring down into it,

teetering on the edge fortoolongnow.‘It’s quite, kind of –solitary sometimes, youknow – specially whenyou’re working all thetime.’‘But you like your owncompany. Potteringaround the gardenandallthat.’I grittedmy teeth. ‘I do

love the garden, yes, ofcourse I do.’ He’d beenworking on the super-clubproject for months now,stayingupallnightagain,chasing sponsors andinvestment deals. I wastryingtobeunderstanding;trying so veryhardnot tofeel ignored. ‘But there’sonly so many plants youcantalktobeforeyoufeelalittlemad.’

‘And only so many youcansmoke.’‘Shut up, J,’ Imuttered.

‘Justforgetit,OK?’James backtracked.

‘Look, I wouldn’t be abletospendthetimewithyouI wanted to. Next time,petal, I promise.’ Heturned the football up.‘Let’sbooksomethingnicefor the summer. The

Caribbean, yeah? Nicefive-star all-inclusive,nanny service, all thatmalarkey. Just what thedoctorordered.’I lookedathimblankly.TheoldJameswouldhaverather stuck pins in hiseyes than go all-inclusive,hermetically sealed into a‘safe’ environment foroverprivilegedtourists.

‘Justnoleavingthekidsalone at night and goingofffortapas,yeah?Bytheway, have you seen myphone? Oh fuck’s sake,JohnTerry.Youmuppet.’He lost his phone atleastonceaweek.‘No Ihaven’t, and that’snot funny, James,’ I saidquietly. I retrieved thebeer bottle from the bin

and put it in Alicia’srecycling box. ‘Where’syour spirit of adventuregone?’‘It’s all used up in this

bloody club, that’s whereitis.Stopbloodymoaning,woman.Oh,comeon,Cole–oh,youstupidtwat.’Ipickedupmyplateand

carriedittothesinkwhereIranthewateruntilitwas

almost boiling. I held myhands under the wateruntil I couldn’t bear theheat any more. Outsidewas complete darkness;my beautiful garden wasutterlyveiledbythenight.The foxes barked andscreamed. I looked atJames’s reflection in thedarkened window beforeme, and considered thetight layers of care we

construct aroundourselves, thosenearest touswhosupposedlyprotectand support us. Iremembered the boyJamesoncewas;lookedathim lounging in his chair,beer in hand, and I sawthe man he had become.Not the man I hadforeseen, somehow, amuchloosercannon.AndIsawthecareIhadforhim,

my fourth child almost,and then all around me IsawthecageIwasin.Butnowhere, nowhere –however hard I looked –couldIseethecarehehadforme.

Stupid with sleep, I waswoken at dawn by atousled Alicia standing bymybedlikeasmallwraith

inherwhitenightie.Jameswasn’t here, which meanthe’d crashed out on thestudio sofa yet again. Islept without James fivenights out of seven thesedays.Iblinkedblearily.‘Climb in, baby.’ I

discovered a snoring Fredalready curled up in thesmallofmyback. Ipulledback the duvet to let my

daughterin,butshestayedstandingwhereshewas.‘There’s a man in thegarden, Mummy,’ Aliciawhispered. ‘I sawhim.Hewent like this.’ Sheheldafinger to her lips. ‘Youknow,like“Shh”.’Isprangoutofbed,andrushedto thewindow,myheart thumping. Aliciafollowedme.

‘Get back, Lissie,’ Iordered urgently. ‘Get inbednow.’Ipulledthecurtainbackquickly and peered outinto the gloom, but therewasnothing.‘Areyousureyousawaman?’‘Yes,’Aliciainsisted.‘Hehad sticky-up hair, likethis.’ She demonstrated

with her own dark locks.‘Anditwaswhite.’‘Youmeanblond?’‘And he waved at me,

andthenIcouldn’tseehimanymore.’‘Get into bed. I’ll be

rightback.’I ran downstairs. In the

half-light I made out asmall flat object on thedoormat. I picked it up.

James’smobilephone.I unlocked the front

door, looking out at thebreak of light on thehorizon, a pale sliverbetweendarkskyandhill.The garden was empty, aquiet settled over it bydawn. I shut the dooragain, put the phone onthe hall table and wentback upstairs. I pulled the

curtainstightandgotbackinto bed between the twochildren, moving Freddie,who was sprawled in adiagonal across the wholemattress. Then I got outagainandcheckedonEffienext door, invisible apartfromatuftofhairstickingoutfromunderherduvet.SoJameshadlied,asI’d

suspected he had, about

being at Albion Manor.And Danny Callendar hadbeen creeping around mygarden whilst we slept.Nothingmade sense, leastof all the strange knot inmystomach.TryasImight,Icouldn’tgetbacktosleepagain.

UNIVERSITY,

JANUARY1992

Iapproachandyevanishaway,

Igraspyouandyearegone;

Longfellow

Iwasdesperatetogetbackto college after theholidays; I was boredwatching Christmastelevisionwithmyparents,listening to my brotherbang on aboutmotorbikesand the assets of Sallyfrom Accounts; eatingendless turkey dinners.Worst of all, I was bored

by my friends in the pubwho suddenly all seemedterribly ordinary afterOxford.Jamescametoseeme just after New Year,and stayed in the spareroom; chastely I didn’tcreep down to him in thenight. We drove over toChatsworth in his bashed-upoldRenault,anddranktea, freezing out by theswans,andtomysurprise,

when he left, my mothersaidshe’dreallylikedhim.ButIdidn’tcare:Iwasjustdesperate to see Dalziel –and,ifIwasreallyhonest,to get high. I missed thedescentintocalm;Icravedthe slow heavy hold thedrug had over me as itentered my bloodstream.Our first Saturday back inJanuary, Dalziel and Ismokedyetanotheropium

bonginmyroom.I’dbeenreading Longfellow allweek and as we layentwined on my narrowbed, I told Dalziel of mydreams of the great whitewinged horse: that I hadseenmyselfflyingovertheworld on the mightyPegasus.IstrokedDalziel’sfaceandcurledmyselfintohim as he coaxed myvisionson,untileventually

my eyes fluttered closedagainstmywill.Already I loved Dalziel

in a way I’d not knownwaspossible.Hemademefeel alive and yet relaxed;protected yet exhilarated.It was like living on aknife-edge between realityandparadise.Iadoredhimin a way I’d onlyexperienced in the school

playground aged five,perhaps, but never since.We didn’t have sex; itwouldn’t have seemedright, by now I was clearonthat,andIknewthathedidn’tseemethatway.The next night I wasasleep in my room whenDalziel wokeme, his eyesshiningstrangelyasItriedtofocusonhim.

‘Number Eight,’ Dalzielsaid,gazingatmeasifinatrance.‘What?’Itriedharderto

focus through eyesseemingly sealed shut. Hepushedmyhairbackfrommy face, gently he tuckedastrandbehindmyearasItried to sit, cupping hishand behind my head.He’d taken something

different fromopium, thatwas apparent; what,though,Iwasn’tsure.AsIhauled myself up on myelbows, he pushedsomething powdery intomymouth,somethingfoul-tasting,holdingabottleofwinetomylipsso Icouldswallow.‘Yuk,’ I shuddered.

‘What the hell was that?

And what do you meanNumberEight?’‘Never mind. Put these

on.’Dalzielchuckedapairof trousers on the bed.Blearily I pulled them onbefore he led medownstairs into thefreezingnight.‘It’s so cold,’ I moaned,

shivering as he wrappedme in a fleecy jacket. I

realised I was wearingskin-tight jodhpurs as hepushed me into the smallcreamsportscarhehardlyeverused.Hedroveusoutinto the Oxfordshirecountryside, the lanesquickly turning black, nolight apart from themoondappling the road throughthe shrouded trees thatleanedeerilytowardsus.

‘Youdoride,don’tyou?’he asked casually abovethe throb of the engine,takingacornersofastandwide that the tyresscreeched.‘Ride? As in horses?’ I

didn’t really. I’d tried itbriefly as a plump ten-year-old,bouncingroundapaddock for a few weekson a bad-tempered pony

before it finally got socross withmemauling itsmouth it deposited mesmartly in the nettles. ButwhateverDalzielhadgivenme nowwas beginning tobuzz into my brain andsuddenly I felt infallible,invincible, on top of theworld. I could ride in theGrand National and nodoubtI’dwin.

‘Definitely,’ I noddedwith enthusiasm. ‘Lovehorses.’We shot past a huge

white gate and Dalzielswore softly, reversing sofast I felt breathless, toofastformetoreadthesignabove it, though I caughtsomething about ‘Royal’and‘Livery’.Heparkedthecarpractically inthethick

hedgebesideagreatstonewall. His driving wasatrocious at the best oftimes, but to be honest, Iwassurprisedwe’dmadeitatall.Grabbing a rucksack

fromthebackseat,Dalzielslung itonhisbackasweclamberedoverastileintoa muddy furrowed field.There, in themoonlight, a

boy was waiting for us.Small, skinny-legged andsullen, his flat cap pulledright down over his face,he held two great horsesby their bridles, one grey,one almost black in themoonlight.‘Wow!’ Slowly I

approached the grey,holdingatentativehandtohisvelvetnose.Hesnorted

intothecoldnightair,hisbreath crystallising beforehim as he whickeredsoftly. ‘Beautiful. You’rebeautiful, aren’t you,darling?’In response he bumped

myneckwithhisnoseandI leaned into him for amoment, revelling in thewarmth of him, thecomforting pungent smell

ofhorse,hayanddust.The boy was nervous,

though, checking hiswatch.‘You haven’t got long,’

he muttered to Dalziel,who kissedme quickly onthelipsbeforegivingmealeg-up into the saddle. Itcreaked satisfyingly as Isat down. I felt like myheadwastouchingthesky

and yet I felt tiny, tiny. Iwas one with the mightyhorse, the power beneathme sending flashes ofexcitement down myspine. My teeth werechattering with cold andnervousenergy.‘Ready, Rosie?’ He

mountedtheotherhorse.‘Ready!’Dalziel leaned down

from the great black andhanded something to theboy; money, perhaps, Ithought. ‘Meet us at theother end,’ he said, andtheboynodded.‘Lot’sfield.I’llbethere.’‘Wecan flynow,Rosie,’Dalziel drawled, his horsewheeling and snorting inthe cold night air. Andthen he slipped a riding

crop from his boot andgave my horse’s flank awhack. ‘Come on,Pegasus.’‘He’s called Hooligan,’the boy called. ‘NotPegasus.’Thehorsewhinniedandbucked,andIclungonfordear life, charged withpure emotion, theadrenalincoursingthrough

myveins to joinwhateverelse I’d taken: the mostamazing thing was that Ididn’tfeelfearatall.We galloped across the

field, with only themoonlight to guide us;galloped until we weresweating and pantingourselves.Thegroundwasflying beneath our feet,clodsofearththrownupin

thefirstfield,thenthroughthe next into the shortJanuary wheat as Iclutched the horse’s wirymane, threading myfingers through the coarsehair, and leaned low overhis neck. I thought I’dnever felt anything soelectrifying in my life asriding this horse beneaththestars.

Finally we stopped.Dalziel dismounted underahugeoaktreeandheldahandouttome.Themoonwasabrilliantwhiteorbintheblacksky,thestarslikeamapof theworld aboveus, and I was wide-eyedand childlike with thethrill of it all. I was theluckiestgirlintheworld.As I slipped to the

ground, legs shaking, theboywasclimbingoverthemetal gate in the fence ofthefieldwenowstoodin.AnoldMiniwasparkedonthe other side, enginechugging.‘Are you ready?’ DalzielsaidtohimasIstrokedmyhorse’s nose andwhisperedendearments.‘Are you sure about

this?’ the boy muttered.His accent was Northern,the vowels elongated. Helooked nervous, his fistscurled by his hips. ‘Ithoughtyouwasjoking.’‘I gave you the money,

didn’t I?’ Dalziel snapped.‘Holdhim.’I watched as the boy

took Dalziel’s mount bythebridle,crooning to the

bighorse.Hewheeledhimround,nudgingthehorse’sshoulder to get him tomove. Dalzielwas delvingintherucksack.‘Number Eight, hey,Rosie!’Irackedmybrain.‘WhatisNumberEight?’‘“You shall not steal” ofcourse.’ He pulledsomething long and black

from the bag. ‘And wehave. Stolen well, mylovely.’And I looked again andrealised with a horriblesqueeze in my belly thatDalzielwasholdinga rifleinbothhands.‘What are you doing?’ Istuttered.Isuddenlydidn’tfeelsohigh.Thebarrelsofthe gun glinted in the

moonlight.‘NumberSixtoo.’‘Mate,’ the boy said,

‘here,mate.’Hesteppedinfront of the horse. ‘I’vechangedmymind.’‘Good for you.’ Dalziel

wasquitecalm.Hecockedthegunatthehorse,attheboy.‘Ihaven’t.’‘Dalziel.’ My own horse

was stamping now,

walking backwards,pulling on the reins as ifhe recognised the danger.‘What are you doing? Putthegundown.’‘No,Rose.“Youshallnot

murder,” remember. Andsettlesomescoresaswell.’‘What scores?’ The

leatherwasbitingintomyhand,chafingmypalm.‘The horse ain’t done

nothing wrong, whateveryour grievance with theboss.’ The boy was small,buthepulledhimselfuptohis full height. The blackhorse towered over him.‘Lethimbe.’‘What boss?’ I wasfeeling increasingly franticand sick. ‘Dalziel, forChrist’ssake.’‘Christhasnothingtodo

with it.’ Dalziel levelledthe rifle at the horse’sgreat chest, the boy stillbetween gun and beast.‘Stepoutoftheway.’‘No.’‘Step out of the way.’ Iheard the tension inDalziel’s voice now. Hegestured with the gun.‘Move – or I’ll shoot youboth.’

‘Dalziel,’ I stamped myfoot desperately, ‘put itdown,now.’‘Or?’‘Or, or I’ll –’ I’d seen a

phone box near the car –‘I’llcallthepolice.’Dalzielcontemplatedme

for a moment, withoutevermovingthegun.‘I thought youweremy

compadre,Rose.’

‘Iam.Butthis iswrong,Dalziel. You know that.Youdon’tneedtokillhim.He’s so beautiful.’ I edgedcloser.‘Please,Dalziel.Putthegundown.’Hestaredatmeas ifhe

didn’t know me. Then heraisedthegunandfiredinthe air. Both animalsshied, my horse rearingagain so I was pulled

almost right off theground, my arm yankedalmost from its socket,makingme drop the reinsas Idid,myhandstingingwildly as the leatherripped the skin from mypalm.Dalziel levelled the gun

at the boy’s chest again;the boy pushed his capbackonhishead.

‘Go on then.’ He stoodfirm, soothing the darkhorse, murmuring sweetnothingstohim.For a moment Dalzieldidn’t move. None of usdid. I held my breath,down onmy knees in themud. And then finally, helowered the gun. Slowly Ipicked myself up off theground.

‘I was only joking,’ hesaid, laughing a strangelytremulous laugh. ‘Youknewthat,didn’tyou?’‘Somefuckingjoke.’Theboy swore furiously andspat on the groundtowards Dalziel’s feet.Dalziel raised the gunagain.‘You’remad,mate.’ Theboystaredathim.‘Fucking

mad,’ and thenhevaultedonto the horse’s back. Hebooted the animal andthey cantered off the waywe’d come, stopping onlyto gather up the grey’sreins, before kicking hishorse on. I could feel thevibration of the greathooves through the dampgroundasItriedtostand.I’drarelyexperiencedso

muchreliefasIfeltinthatmoment, as Iwatched thehorses turn to black dotsbeneaththemoon.DalzielandIdrovebacktohissportscarinsilence.I couldn’t trust myself tospeak: I was still shaking,andwhen I gotoutof theMini to change vehicles, Iwas sick into the hedge.Whatever he’d given me

had worn off totally, andthe opium I’d smokedearlier that evening hadleft me with a terribleheadache.As I straightened up, Iread the glossywhite signabove thegate.Therewasaflouncyblackmonogramthatwashardtodecipher,an H and an S; a Jperhaps. I didn’t care,

frankly.Ijustwantedtogohome now, to crawl intomy bed and to sleep thewholenightmareoff.Aswepulledupoutsidemycollege,Dalzielpushedhishairbackfromhisface.‘Sorry,’hemuttered,andI paused,my hand on thecar door. I realised I’dneverheardhimapologisefor anything before. ‘I

don’t know what got intome.’‘Whatwasthatstuffyougaveme?’Iaskedquietly.‘Just something one ofthemedstudentssoldme.’‘What was it?’ I wasinsistent. I was angry. I’dnever really felt angrywithhimbefore,butnowIwasscaredandashamed.‘Methamphetamine.’ It

meant nothing to me. ‘Ithoughtitwouldbefun.’I opened the door and

staggered out. I justneededtoliedown.‘It wasn’t, though, was

it?’ he said sorrowfully.‘Rosie, I’m so fucking shitanduselesssometimes.’He looked bleak as he

leanedoverandpulledthedoor shut. Before I could

reply,hewasgone.

***

A week later it was mybirthday,andIhaddinnerin a cheap Italian withJen, Liz, James and a fewothers, glad to have someotherfriends,tobehonest;awareI’dmadelittleeffortwith them lately. DalzielwasstillofftheradarandI

was finding it painful. Iwent to bed that nightwith James, a little tipsy,sad but resolute. The nextmorning, though, a hugebunch of white roses waswaiting for me in theporters’ lodge, the firstflowers I’d ever received.The porter winked at meas I fumbled with theenvelope.

‘Letme take you out toapologise, dear Rose,’ thelittle card said. ‘Call me.’So Idid, andwearrangedtomeetinTheTurl.Dalziel never drank in

town; he said it didn’tbehove him to, as a thirdyear. We met in the pub,where he gave me a firstedition of Thomas deQuincey’sConfessionsofan

English Opium Eater,inscribed from ‘Yourloving friend and fellowdreamer’.‘Rosie.’ He kissed mycheek. ‘You look lovely.Look, I’ve justgot tomeeta man about a dog inJericho.’‘Dalziel—’ I started toprotest,buttheglintinhiseyessilencedme.

‘I won’t be long, Ipromise.Buyadrink.Buythree.’ He gave me atwenty-pound note andwasgone.Clutching the book, I’dbought myself a gin andorange and was makingmywaybackfromthebarwhen a slender dark girlwithperoxidehairblockedmy way. She wore very

highheelsandaskin-tightblack dress with a biker’sleather jacket over it; inherperfectnose sata tinygold nose-stud. Yasmin –thegirlwhohadbeenwithDalzielinthepubthefirsttime I met him, and thegirlIcaughthimwiththatnightattheOxfordUnion,Irealisedblushingnow,inmyfirstterm.Itseemedsolong ago, but actually it

wasonlyafewweeks.‘I recognise you,’ sheannounced. Her tonedrippedwithboredombuther stare was caustic aspaint-stripper. ‘You’re thisterm’s inamorata, aren’tyou?’ Her accent was asrefined as Dalziel’s; itsuggested years of easyprivilege.‘Not really,’ Imumbled,

suddenly nervous. Next toher feline beauty, I wasmore carthorse than JoniMitchell, in my leggingsand beads. ‘We’re justfriends,actually.’‘Really?’ She raised a

pencilled eyebrow. ‘Whatareyoureading?’She grabbed my book

before I could stop her.‘Ha!’ she said, flipping

throughit.‘Oneofthem.’‘Oneofwhat?’Iheldmyhandoutformybook.She shoved it at me.‘Tell me,’ she scoffed, herred lipstick too thick overher luscious mouth, ‘is hestill banging on about hisbloody Society X? Sofuckinginfantile.Icouldn’tbearitanymore.’ShelitaMarlborocigarettewithout

offering me one;considered me for amoment before exhalinginto my face. ‘I tell you,he’sdamaged,thatboy.I’dwatchhim,ifIwereyou.’‘Why?’Ishookmyhead,confused. ‘What do youmean–damaged?’‘Positively curly-wurlycuckoo, my dear.’ Shetapped the side of her

peroxidedheadwithared-varnishedfinger.Hernailswere horribly chewed.‘Anyone who’s sent awayto school at five is fuckedup, aren’t they? Specialityof the upper classes, ofcourse.’Irealisedshewasdrunk.‘And even more fucked

up if it’s just so theirdearmother can drink herself

todeath.’‘Five years old?’ Myheart went out to Dalziel.‘But–Ithoughthismotherwasalive?’‘His third stepmothermight be, last time Ilooked.’ She dragged hardagain, scarlet staining thecigarettefilter.‘Justabout.Butshehateshimanyway.Andthenofcourse,there’s

Lucien andCharlie, not tomention Annabella andRebecca, spoiled littlecow.’I had no idea what shewas talking about. Forsome reason she wasbecomingagitated.‘Christ!’ sheexpostulated with disgust.‘You want my advice –’ Ididn’tbutshewasgoingto

give it anyway – ‘run afuckingmile.’She threw the cigarette

on the flagstone floor andgrounditoutwithapointyleather toe. Over hershoulder,IwatchedDalzielwalk into the snug on theothersideofthepub.‘Nice to meet you,’ I

mumbled, banging againsta paunchy drinker in my

rushtogetaway.‘Just don’t say no onewarned you,’ she shriekedafterme.I felta littleshakenas Ijoined Dalziel. ‘Friend ofyours?’ Iaskedhimas thegirlprovocativelywrappedher arms around a shortblackguy,watchingusthewholetime.‘I’ve known her for

years,’ was all Dalzielwould say, and soon afterthatweleft.ButIsawhimglance back as the streetdoorclosedbehindus.Forthe first time since I’dknown him, he lookedvisiblyupset,hispale faceflushedwithcolour.Worsethan upset, in fact. Helookedshakentothecore.

ChapterSeven

GLOUCESTERSHIRE,

MARCH2008

Iwas due at theChronicle

thenextday,but Iwassotired I couldn’tconcentrate, and I wasconscious I was stallingTina about the Kattanpiece. Consciously I’dmadethedecision tohavenothing to do with him,but Iwasaware thatdeepdown I still felt moreallegiance toXav than theChronicle,andthatmaybeIowedittohimtoo.Andit

waseatingawayatme; inhonestyIwasloathtogiveup the story entirely; itjust wasn’t in myprofessional nature and Ithought Xav was right:there was definitelysomething going on. Ithought of the man beingdropped onto the gravel;the stacks of petrolcanisters, the Islamictattoos; the unmitigated

tension. I made a fewsurreptitiouscallstoafewcontactsfromtheolddays:Louise at the PressAssociation, Guy atReuters, just putting outfeelers on the family; andthen I wrote a review ofthe Cheltenham Players’rendition of A Little NightMusic (truly dreadful, buttherefreshmentshadbeencracking, so I wrote a lot

aboutthem).I stopped at the

upholsterersonthewaytocollect the twins; theywere re-covering our olddivan with an incrediblyexpensive red velvet thatJames had left over fromthe Paris VIP room. As Ientered the dark littleshop,thequaintbellabovethedoorjangled.

‘Oh, Mrs Miller.’ Thesalesgirl seemed slightlyflustered as she emergedfromherlairoffabricrollsandribbons.‘Is it ready?’ I smiled

expectantly.‘Actually we haven’t

been able to finish theorder yet because Icouldn’tprocess the creditcard.’ She busied herself

refolding a bundle ofgolden silk. ‘MrBallantine’ssuchaterriblestickler, I’m afraid. Shallwejustcheckwehavetherightdetails?’Flummoxed, I gave herthe card. It failed again. Ifoundanotherone;tobothourrelief,thisoneworked.I’d have to remind Jamesto top up the account.He

was so slap-dash aboutmoney.As I pulled up in the

drive with the twins,dance music throbbedincongruously from thesedate old house, thenaked rose tree creepingcarefully between therattling windows. In thekitchen McCready washiding behind the ironing

board, the cat hunched ather feet; her tracksuit abright vermilion today,matching the thread veinsinherapplecheeks.‘Awful lot of swearing

going on,’ was all shewould say, her mouth atight line. She took thetwins out into the gardenas I began to lug theHoover upstairs, pausing

in the hall as I heardraised voices from thesitting room. It was Liamand James, I realised,though it was hard todecipher the conversationoverthebeatofthemusic.I was about to open thedoor when Liam said,‘Don’t fucking tell her.’ Iheard something elseangryandincoherent,thenI was sure he said, ‘I’m

warningyou.’Fingers on the door

handle,mystomachrolledqueasily.James replied, but I

couldn’t hear himproperly. After a fewminutes, all I’d made outwereJamessaying,’…toomuch money’ and, ‘ …askingfortrouble,mate.’Ibreezedintotheroom.

Jameswasfacingthedoorandsawmefirst,butLiamhad his broad back tomeand he jumped when Ispoke.‘Coffee,anyone?’‘God, you scared me,’

LiamsaidguiltilyasIwentto kiss him. ‘I’d love one,sweetheart.’ He wasparticularly pasty-lookingthisafternoon,agreatbear

of a man wearing a redchecked shirt that didnothing for his frecklycomplexion.‘Latenight?’‘He’sbeenshaggingthatbird all night,’ Jamesteased,whoincomparisonactually looked rested foronce.‘Which bird? The lovelyStar?’

‘Who else?’ James said,a flicker of somethingpassing over his face.Jealousy? I wondered,eyeinghim.‘Yeah,’ Liam flushed.

‘Butnotallnight.Onlytillaboutfour.’‘Oh, only four? You

slacker. God, those werethe days, eh?’ I looked atmyhusband,buthedidn’t

meetmy eye.Our sex lifewas non-existent since thetwins.‘He’s got it bad,’ James

said,turningthemusicoff.‘You know, I’m not sureaboutthatlasttrack,Liam.Ithasn’tgotthe–Idunno–theverveofthefirstfew.What did Noel have tosay?’‘He quite likes it. Don’t

love it, though.’ Liamlooked rueful. ‘I think weall know it’s not quitethereyet.’‘Let’s take it in the

studioandhaveatinker.’‘Iwasn’texpectingtosee

you today,’ I said to Liamas he picked up hisrucksack.‘Just come up to sign

somepaperworkbeforemy

trip.’ James wasnonchalant. ‘Come andhave a listen if you fancyit.’‘I’d hate nothing more,

mydarling,’ I joked. ‘Giveme Fleetwood Mac anyday.’Noonelaughed.WhenItookthemcoffee

ten minutes later, thetension between them

appeared tohavediffused;theywerehappilyhunchedover the computertogether, fiddlingwith thebassline.‘I dunno,’ I said, ‘I

thoughtwhenyougotthissuccessful,I’dstopbeingastudiowidow.’Only Liam looked up.

‘Youknowus,Rosie.Boysand their toys.’ He was

jokingwithme,buthestillseemed remarkablyuneasy.‘Bytheway,James—’Hedidn’tlookatmeasI

passed him the sugar.‘Yeah?’‘Your phone. It was

dropped off by Kattan’sdriver,wasn’tit?’‘Oh.’ Now he did look

up.‘Yeah.’

‘Soyouwereupthere?’Iwastrulypuzzled.‘Yeah. Sorry. It totallyslippedmymind.Iwenttotalk to Kattan about theclub.’‘And?’I sawLiam shoot Jamesalook.‘Andthere’sachancehemight invest. You knewthat.Achance.Quiteslim,

though. He’s got somefunnyideas,thatguy.’‘Oh?’Iwascurious.‘Likewhat?’‘Rosie,’ James widenedhis eyes at me, ‘please.We’ve got to get on. Talkaboutitlater,yeah?’The bass kicked inagain, and I shut thedoorfirmly behindme before Iwas deafened. But as I

drove to collect Alicia, Icouldn’t free my mind ofthe feeling they’d beenarguing about somethingserious. I hoped Liamhadn’t messed upfinancially again; it hadhappenedinthepastwhenthelabelnearlywentbust.At least it might explainJames’srecentstress.ButIstilldidn’tknowwhyhe’dliedaboutbeingupat the

manor. A worm ofdiscomfort curled intomygut.

At5a.m. thephonewokeme.‘Yes?’ I mumbled into

the receiver, suddenlyterrified. Despite all myyears as a reporter, earlymorning and late nightcalls always boded badly

for me. Since theimplosion of Society X itonly made me think offatal news; more recently,ofmyfather’sheartattack.‘Morning,Rose.’‘Who’s that?’ My brainslowlycrankedintolife.‘It’s Louise at the PA.Sorry to wake you,’ shesounded impatient, ‘butyoudidsaytocallyouifI

gotanyinformation.’‘Yes, of course.’ Ifumbled for my watch tocheck the time. ‘What isit?’‘Just came through.There’sbeenadeathupatthat house you were sointerestedin.’‘AlbionManor?’ Isatupinbed.‘You got it. Sounds like

something out of AgathaChristie, doesn’t it? Bodyin the library and all thatkindofthing.’‘Fuck.’BlearilyItriedto

compute what she wassaying. I heard herkeyboard rattle asapprehension crept upmyspine. ‘Who …’ I clearedmythroat,‘who’sdead?’‘Youngmale. No name.’

Therewastherattleofthecomputer again. ‘Early-to-mid thirties, no otherdetailsyet.’‘Right…’Fingersoffearclutched my neck. ‘God.Foulplay,presumably?’‘Definitely soundsdodgy. Not sure what thecoupisyet.IfIhearmore,I’ll let you know. Justwanted to give you the

heads-up.’‘Cheers, Louise. I reallyappreciateit.’I tried to ignore thetightness in my chest,easing myself oversleeping children, pullingmy cardigan on to go tofind James. He wassnoringonthestudiosofa,ahalf-emptybottleofJackDaniel’s on the floor,

headphones beside it andan ashtray overflowingwith spliff ends. Nowonderhewashavingthenightmaresagain.‘James.’ I shook him.

‘James,Ineedtopopout.’‘What?’ He was groggy,

hardly awake, his eyesclosingagainimmediately.‘Can you come into the

house, please, James?’ I

shook him gently. ‘I needyou to listen out for thechildren.I’vegottogoout.Breakingnews.’I wanted to go before I

hadtoexplain,anddashedfrom the room as hestarted to sit up properly.‘The kids won’t wake yet,I’m sure. I’ll be back,’ Icalled, as I heard himgrumbling behind me.

‘Freddie’s milk is in thefridge if he does, though.You’ll have towarm it upinthemicrowave.Twenty-five seconds. Don’t nukeit.’Ipulledonmybootsandfleeceandrantothecar.Iwasn’t sure how I wouldexplain my presence; Iwasn’t even sure why Iwas going, but going I

was. At this moment mymainconcernwaswhothehellwasdead.DawnwasbreakingovertheemptybrownfieldsasIdrove through the lanes,suffusing the sky with anunearthly light. A smallbrown rabbit frozebetween hedgerows as Ibraked just in time.Rounding the bend in the

drive, I saw two policecars and an ambulanceparked at the foot of thefrontsteps.Thefrontdoorwas ajar, a uniformed PCstanding in the porch. Iparked my car by thestableblockandpulledonmywoollyhatandgloves.‘No press, love.’ The

policemansteppeddownafewstairsandblockedmy

path, his breathcrystallising in the dawnair. It was absolutelyfreezing.‘I’m not press, I’m a

friendofthefamily.Who’sdead?’‘I’m sure I recognise

you.’ He cocked a sandyeyebrow at me. His nosewasredanddrippingfromthecold.

‘I think my daughtergoes to school with yourson.’ I smiled asbecomingly as waspossible at 5.30 a.m.‘AliciaMiller?’‘StErth’s?Thatmightbe

it,’ he said comfortably.‘Goodschool,that.’‘So…’ I took a hopeful

steproundhim.‘Youstillcan’tgoin.’He

held an arm out. ‘Thepathologist is doing hisstuff.’‘Who’sdead?’Irepeatedurgently. A cockerel wascrowing somewhereinsistently, over and overagain.‘Not for me to say. Noofficial identification asyet.’Hewasimplacable.I was about to start

wheedling when the frontdoor was flung wide. Ayoung woman stoodsilhouetted on the topstep.MayaKattan,atlast.She was wearing whatlooked like black silkpyjamas and was onceagain wild-eyed anddishevelled. Her face wasastear-streakedasthefirst

time I’d seenher, and shestaggeredwhereshestood,asifitwastoomucheffortto keep upright. And thenshemoveddownthestairsin her bare feet, and shebegan to run. She ranstraight past me, nearenoughformetosmellhermusky perfume. I calledher name but she didn’teven hesitate, just keptgoing right past me

towards the side of thehouse, across the gravel,despiteherlackofshoes.As Iwavered there, twoparamedics emerged fromthe house, stretchering abody, totally covered,downthestairs.The wind sighedthrough the blossom treesasahumanvoiceraisedtojoinitinachillingscream.

I turned to see Mayafalling, sprawling on thegravel,andIbegantoruntowardshermyself,drivenbyinstinct,byherobviouspain – but someone elsehad materialised besideher.Hewas there, leaningdowntopickherup,andIslowed,unsurewhattodo,filled with a suddenemotionIcouldn’tplace.

The stretcherwas downthestairsnow,beingliftedinto the ambulance. Iglancedback toMayaandIwashaltedbythelookonDanny’s face; the hairswent up on my arms as Iread the expression oftenderness. I watched theway she placed her handin his, rather like a childwould. She let him pullher up, and he leaned

down and said somethingto her, pushing the glossyblack curtain of hairbehindherearverygently.I noticed that her handswere intricately tattooedwith henna as she stoodalone now and shook herhead at something Dannysaid, and began to walkaway, round the back ofthehouse.

I stepped in herdirection but this time itwas Danny who blockedmyway.‘I don’t know why I’m

not surprised to see youhere,’hesaid, theScottishdrawl weary. He lookedlike he hadn’t slept, hissun-bleached hairdishevelled, his blackwindbreaker zipped up to

hisunshaven chin. ‘You’relikeabadpenny.’‘I got a call,’ I saidlamely. ‘I thought perhapsIcouldhelp.’Maya Kattan hadvanished as the doors ofthe ambulance slammedshutbehindus.‘It’s a bit late for help,I’dsay,wouldn’tyou?’From somewhere came

an almighty revving of apowerful engine. Dannyglanced round and thenback at me. ‘I think youshouldgo,doll.Gobacktowhere you stay. Now.Before there’s any moretrouble.’Welockedeyes.‘This,RoseMiller,thisisnot a happy family to bearound.’

‘Whoisthat?’Igesturedto the ambulance. ‘Who’sdead?’‘Maya’s boyfriend,

Nadif.’‘OhGod,’Isaid,butfelt

a surge of inexplicablerelief. ‘Boyfriend?Theoneher father called a “heart-breaker”?’‘Whenwas that?’Danny

Callendar looked down at

me.‘Theothernight,’ I said.‘He said she’d gonewalkabout because shewasmiserable.’‘Isee.’HewashardertoreadthanProust,thisman.‘Like I said, not a happyfamily.’‘Washe–’Itouchedthewelts on my neckunconsciously–’Was it the

man from the other day?Theblackguy?’‘Yeah, the Somalian. Iwouldn’t be too sad,’Danny said coldly, andfear licked me again. ‘Hewasbadnewsallround.’‘How did he die?’ Ibegan to ask, and thenMaya’s car tore round thecorner, skidding on thegravel, heading towards

the fountain in themiddleofthecircularlawn.‘Christ,she’sgoingtohitit!’ I gasped, but Mayarighted the wheel just intime, the back end of herPorsche swinging acrossthe grass, tyres churningup the immaculate turfbefore she accelerateddown the drive. A sleekblack vehicle rounded the

bend now, a Mercedes,heading straight towardsher.The cars were going tomeethead-on.I closed my eyes andwaited for the crash–butitnevercame.ThePorschewasalmostinthehedgeasMaya threwherself out ofthevehicle.‘You murderer,’ she

screamed. ‘You fuckingmurderer.Youwillstopatnothing, will you?’ ShekickedthetyreofthenowstationaryMercedeswithabare foot, over and overagain. Shekicked it likeawomanpossessed.HadiKattansteppedout

ofthecar.‘Maya,’hesaid,extending his armstowards her. ‘Please,

Maya.I’msosorry.’‘Getthefuckawayfromme,’ she screamed. Bloodwas streaming down herfoot. ‘I never want to seeyou again,’ and she stoodvery close to her fatherand stared at him. ‘Youjust couldn’t let me havemyhappiness,couldyou?’‘Maya lal,’ he implored.‘Don’t.’

He said something inArabic. She consideredhim for a short momentand then she spat right inhisface.Foramoment I thoughthe might hit her, but hisarmsremainedbyhisside.Maya glared at him andthen she turned and ranback to the Porsche. Thegravel spun and flicked

behind her, making thehorses in the stablewhinnyinterror,andthenshewasgone.‘Callendar,’ Kattan

called. His tone was flatand hard as steel as hewipedthespittleoffwithawhite handkerchief. ‘Takethe car up to the house.Now.’DeftlyDannycaughtthe

key Kattan threw at himandthenhewenttoobey.I felta surgeofnervousenergy as Hadi Kattanwalked towards me. Hecrossedthesmalllawnthathoused the fountain,flattening the tiny whitecrocuses scatteredthroughout the grass. Forthe first time I sawsomething in his face that

scaredme.‘What are you doinghere, Mrs Miller?’ heasked. He looked olderthan he had the othernight, less noble, his facehawk-like in the earlylight.I should have madegood my escape while Icould. I heard the cockcrowafinaltime.

‘Oh, Mr Kattan. I – Iheardthebadnewsand—’‘I don’t think you have

been totally honest withme,’ he interruptedquietly.‘Istheresomethingyou’d like to tell me,perhaps?’My stomach lurched.

‘Like what?’ I smiledshakily. ‘I don’t have anysecrets, Mr Kattan. Not

properones.’He stared at me until Iwanted to hide my facelikemychildrendidwhentheythoughtIcouldn’tseethem.‘But your husband toldme,mydear.’Betrayed by my ownhusband? My mindscrabbled like a rat in atrap.

‘Youareawriter, aren’tyou?’hepersisted.In the background, theambulancestartedup.‘A writer?’ I stalled. ‘Iwritea fewshopping lists,Iknowthatmuch.’‘Oh, come on, Rose,’Kattan’s voice was like ablade coated in honey.‘You write for that localrag,theChronicle.’

Reliefsweptthroughmybody until my kneesactually felt like cottonwool.‘Oh, yes,’ I said, and Iactuallylaughed.‘Ido.I’msorry,Ithoughtyouknew.That’snotasecret.’‘But you do have one,don’t you, my dear Rose?A secret you have kepthiddenasbestyoucan.’

‘What?’Mylegsstillfeltwobbly.‘I don’t want you uphere again, youunderstand?’ Kattan tookmy arm and walked metowardsmycar.‘Youhavedisappointedme.’‘Really?’Iwasconfused,and his grip was firm.‘Why?’‘I don’t want you

anywhere near mydaughter.’‘Butwhy?’Iprotested.‘Listen to me, Mrs Rose

Miller,’ his facewas grim,‘I know all about yoursordidpast.Andletmetellyou, not everyone thinksthatblasphemyisajoke.’‘Blasphemy?’ My skin

was prickling. ‘What doyoumean?’

‘You are an intelligentwoman, I’m sure you canwork it out. Some evencall it a sin, you know.Whatever god you follow.Don’t come here again,and please, don’t crossme.’Hishoodedeyeswereabsolutely unreadable. Helooked suddenly reptiliantome.‘Itreallywouldnotbewise.’

UNIVERSITY,

FEBRUARY1992

Youshallnotcovetyourneighbour’shouse;youshallnotcovetyourneighbour’swife,

norhismaleservant,norhisfemale

servant,norhisox,norhisdonkey,nor

anythingthatisyourneighbour’s.

Bible,Exodus20:17

SincethePostarticleaboutthe defecating in thecathedral, there had beensome mutterings amongst

the students that Dalziel’sexploits were going toofar. To silence his critics,he organised anotherSociety X soirée onValentine’sNight,thistimeto celebrate the tenthcommandment, the oneabout coveting stuff. Onlyhe asked Lena and Jamesto help him arrange theparty,andnotme.Iwasn’tsure what I wasmeant to

have done wrong, but Ihad a feeling it wassomething to do with thegirlinthepub.Dalzielhadseemed so upset thateveningwhenweleft,andeven more so that I’dwitnessed it. When I’daskedhim laterwhy she’dbeen so cross, he simplycut me off mid-flow andrefused to talk about itagain.

The anti-religion aspectofthepartymeantnothingtome; I knewnow itwasjust an excuse – Dalzielhad admitted as much –and Iwas unsurewhetherhe’d put pen to paper forhis dissertation the wholetimeI’dknownhim.AndIwasn’t sure how much Iwaslookingforwardtothenight. Frankly, Dalziel’smood was scaring me a

little since the Pegasusincident. He seemedincreasingly desperate andwild, only calm reallywhen we were in ouropiumtrance.I realised Iwas forgiven

when he arrived at myroom the night before theparty. We got hightogether, and I wasallowed to invite Jen as a

special honour, and thistime the evening wasfunny, people wore sillymasks and camewith realpigs and lambs. Lena andJameswentonebetterandstole a donkey from thesanctuary out byWoodstock. Dalziel hadthe bench from oneneighbour’s gardenremoved and put it in theneighbour’s garden on the

other side, and then rangthepolice to offer an eye-witness account. Anextremely unamused WPCcame to take a statementabout what had occurred.Whensheleft,Dalzielshutthe front doortriumphantly and turnedtotheinebriatedcrowd.‘Number Nine. “You

shall not bear false witness

againstyourneighbour”,’hecrowed, and everybodywhooped and clapped. Itseemed so harmless andsilly that the dramaticevents of that Januarynightmeltedintoadistantmemory. I watched himintentlyashespoke;whenI looked up, James waswatching me. We’d beenspending more timetogether as a group again

in thepast fewweeksandit was a strange triangleDalziel, James and Icreated, one that Lenasometimes barged into aswell, though more andmore often she was sowastedshewasinherownworld. James too wasdrinking all the time,Dalziel constantly plyinghim with whiskey and anew type of dope they

called skunk, so strong itwas hallucinogenic. Jamesand I had stoppedconnecting properly awhile ago, although wehad never officially calleditalloff.‘I am the ultimate

iconoclast,’ Dalzieldeclared that night,standinginfrontofaprintof the hideous green

Grünewald Christ on thecross, pain and sufferingseeping from every pore.His eyes glitteringdangerously, Dalziel heldup a knife and slashedJesusagainandagain.‘The ultimate twat

aristocrat, doesn’t hemean?Thinkshe’s fuckingGod,’ someone muttered.‘Christ, this is

embarrassing.’‘Perhaps God’s fuckinghim – who can tell withthis lot?’ a female voicewhispered back. ‘Whatnext, thou shalt definitelyshagasheep?’Turning sharply, Irecognised the femaleeditor of the rival studentpaper, the New Student,standing behind me. A

jolly Brummie with onelong eyebrow and toomany freckles, shewinkedatme.‘I thought von

Bismarck’s lot were bad,but this is bloody stupid,’she murmured to hercompanion. ‘Someoneought to tell him this isreal life, not fuckingBridesheadRegurgitated.’

‘He’s certainly a vilebodythough.’They both sniggered,

and I felt a flushcreepallover me. Was it for mybenefit?Ididn’tknow,butit was the first time I’dheard anyone speak outagainst Dalziel, and Irealised I felt physicallyshocked, which laterseemed naïve. I didn’t

know whether to saysomething to them – orwhat Iwould have said ifI’d dared speak – butDalziel was talking againnow.Heturnedbackfromthe

poster and toasted theroom, unaware of hiscritics.‘Here’stonihilism,’hecrowed,andwetoastedhimback–eventheeditor

and her crony, with theircansofStella.People started pogoing

to The Undertones’‘TeenageKicks’;Icouldseethat Jen was having fun,as she danced with Brian,the boy with the bullethead. I shuddered,remembering the last timeI’d seen him – betweenHuriyyah’slegs.ThenLena

began an excruciating‘Dance of the Seven Veils’striptease, much toeveryone’s hilarity – andquite quickly I stoppedenjoyingmyselfaltogether.Lena was more and moreout of control these days,since she and Dalziel hadstopped the pretence ofdating.Sheseemedbeyondreach.

Dalziel found melingering in the corner,wondering whether toleave.Hekissedthetopofmy head lightly. ‘Twobirds with one stone, andanother magnificentsuccess,’hedrawled.‘Ijustcan’thelpmyself.’I smiled weakly.

‘Congratulations.’‘Why don’t you go

upstairs?’ he murmured.‘It’s specially for you, youknow.’But suddenly I didn’tbelieve him. Nothing wasfor me, it was all acharade, and I wasstunnedby a sudden flashbefore my eyes: as if I’djust experienced thebeginning of the edificecrumbling and felt the

urge to flee before itcollapsed on me. I keptseeing the gun levelled atthe horse’s great chest; atthe skinny little groom. Ididn’t understand whatmotivated Dalziel anymore,Irealisedthatnow.Soonafter that thedarkboy appeared and Dalzielvanished with him, so Iwent upstairs and had a

pipe in the smoking-denthathadbeencreatedinabedroom, trying to curbmy inexplicable jealousy.Dalzielwouldsayitwassopedestrian–envy.But thebullet-headed boy hadabandoned Jen now andhad persuaded a ratty girlwith train-track braces togivehimablow-jobinthecorner, and she was sodrunk she was alternating

itwithbeingsick,soIleftand went home withJames,utterlyconfused.That night James and I

had strange disjointed sexforthefirsttimeinweeks,and it was like being outof body. I had felt sostronglyabouthimatfirst,butnowIwatchedusfromtheceilingdispassionately,simply craving a return to

my own private andromantic land, a land freeofSocietyX’staint.

THENEWSTUDENT–FEBRUARY1992

What fuels Dalziel StJohn’s arrogant beliefthathispatheticSocietyX holds any sort ofallure for those withhalf a brain? We all

knowthatOxfordisrifewith societies, mostlyfor the richand stupid.Piers Gaveston hascelebrated actor HughGrant looking pretty inleopard-skin and Godonly knows what thoseboys got up to (anyonethere, God?). TheBullingdon Club is ofcourse for those malestudents with more

money than sense -£1200 a tailcoat,people? Ex-chancellorNigelLawson’sdaughterNigella even bravelytackled Sedan ChairCroquet in theDangerous Sports Club(ooh, the danger). Butthe Honourable Mr StJohn prides himself inletting women into hismarvellous society as

well–howverymodern– although I have asneakingsuspicionthereisaveryspecificreasonforthisquaintanomaly.Yawn.

Having attended ameetingof the so-called‘Secret Society’ theothernight,Icansafelysay I was far fromimpressed. The eveningwashardly challenging.

Although St Johnchooses to surroundhimselfwith a groupofeasily-pleased suburbanacolyteswhoapparentlydo whatever hesuggests, this, I shouldpoint out, does notequate power. It justmeanshe’schoosingtheweak. Suicidal ex-lesbians, drippy Englishstudents and music

geeks who can’t play anote are not the newélite, I fear. Nor is it‘iconoclastic’ to slashcheappicturesofChrist;St John calls it‘nihilism’, I call itembarrassing. And asfor the celebration ofstealing farm animals,there’ssomethingdeeplyalarming in thispractice. Far be it from

me to suggest bestialitybutreally…

IwouldsuggestthattheHonourable St Johntake a leaf out ofDaddy’s bookandkeephis antics to the golfcourse. We have hadone upper-class tragedyin recent years totarnish the university’sreputation: we don’tneedanotherone.

N.B. Can anyoneactually remember asingle important changebrought in for the goodof the nation by thesenior St John, ourcurrentHomeSecretaryandatpresent,Britain’smost powerful man?Answers on a postagestamp,please…

ChapterEight

GLOUCESTERSHIRE,

MARCH2008

The day after Maya’s

boyfriend died at AlbionManor, my mother cameto collect the children forthe weekend and Jamesflew out to Vietnam. I’dtried one final time tosuggest that I mightaccompany him – mymotherhadevenofferedtobabysitforthewholeweek– but James still rejectedthe idea. He was goingearlier than originally

planned, to ‘see a manabout somemarble’, asheput it, forhis luxurychill-out room and for ameeting in Saigon. Thereopening of Revolver inLondon was looming andhewas determined that itwas exactly what Britainneeded. ‘People needcheeringuprightnow,’hesaidsimply,andIhadfeltsome affection for his

black-and-white view oflife; his optimism infrivolity.The affection soonvanishedonthewaytotheairportwhen I finally toldJames about Xavier andthe Kattan story. I’d beennervous about mentioningit,butevenIwasshockedby the strength of hisdisapprobation.

‘I can’t fucking believeyou never said anything.’James slammed his fistagainst his window as wejoined the M4. Mythoughtswerespeedingsofast I could hardlyuntangle them quicklyenoughtodefendmyself.‘But I tried to tell you

days ago that Xav hadcalledme. It’s just –well,

youneverlisten.’James’sfacewasdeathly

pale, the shadows hugeunder his eyes. ‘Youwhat?’ His tonewas quietand menacing. I hadn’theard that tone for awhile.I clutched the wheel

tighter. ‘You weren’tinterested,’ I said asblithely as I could,

overtaking a caravan thatrocked dangerously. ‘Andwhy would it have beensuchabadideaanyway?’‘Youknowtheanswertothat,don’tyou,Rose?’Histopliphadgonerigidasitalwaysdidinanger.‘Oh,itall makes sense now. Forfuck’ssake.’‘It’s fascinating. He’sfascinating. I’ve told Xav

no, but you know, James,I’ve got a feeling, a sense,somethingbig’shappeningout there.’ I was gabblingwith nerves. ‘He’s got hisdaughter practically a – aprisoner in thatmonstroushouse, her boyfriend’sdead, it’s practically openmurder. It’s like bloodyJane Eyre up there,womenlockedintheattic,andyouknow,IthinkXav

might be right about theal-Qaedaconnection.’AnAstonMartintoreup

behindme and flashed itslights. ‘Bloody idiot,’ Imuttered, but refused tobudge.‘Rose,’ James looked in

themirror,‘moveover.’‘I won’t be bullied by

some stupid git, J. I’mdoingninety.’

TheAstoninchednearerandflashedagain.ReluctantlyIpulledinto

the middle lane. ‘Godknowswhathe’sup to,orwho is coming and goingthere. There’s chemicalspiled everywhere and thatblokeZack,whoworksforhim,isanutter.He’sevengottheIslamflagtattooedonhisarm.’

I heardmyself, too late.I thought of the terriblegovernment adverts. Ipushed the thoughtresolutelyaway.‘Hadi Kattan? Are you

serious? Don’t be sofucking stupid,’ Jamessnapped. ‘Yourimagination’s runningawaywithyou.He’sjustabrilliant businessman. A

wheeleranddealermaybe.Notaterrorist.’‘But you don’t know

anything about him,James,’ I said. ‘Justbecause you had a drinkwith him once and heasked you to shoot somebirds, you think he’s yourbest mate. And you toldhimaboutbloodyX,didn’tyou? About Oxford? I

mean, why would you dothat?’‘I didn’t.’ James lookedat me like I was mad.‘Don’tbestupid.’‘He seemed to knowaboutit.’‘How could Kattanpossibly know aboutSocietyX?’‘He said somethingabout blasphemy. He said

something about – aboutyoutellinghimstuff.’‘Rubbish. Why in God’s

namewouldImentionX?Iwas hoping he was goingto givememoney for theclub. It’d be madness totell him anything aboutourbloodysordidpast.’‘He insinuated it.’ Iwas

sureKattanhad.‘Wellyou’rewrong.And

you’replayingwithbloodyfireagain,Rose.’‘Why?Lookatit,J.Look

at the facts. Henchmen,whispering, a politicisedson who hasn’t shown upyet. A daughter who’sdemonstrating for Islamicrights. And now herboyfriend is dead too. Imean, what else do youwant?’ Stubbornly I stared

attheunfurlingroad.‘Andwhy shouldn’t I do theresearch,ifIwantto?’‘Becauseyouagreed.’‘I didn’t agree. Not

really.IjustsaidI’dgiveita rest for a while. Whilethekidsaresmall.’‘They’restillsmall.’‘Oh, you’ve noticed,

haveyou?’

‘What’sthatsupposedtomean?’‘Itmeans,James–’infor

a penny, in for a pound –‘thatmostof the timeyouhardlynoticethekids,fullstop.’‘That’sbollocks.’‘It isn’t bollocks, and

you know it. You don’tnotice any of us thesedays, you’re so caught up

allthetime.’‘I’m making money for

the family.’ This was hisusual tactic. ‘I’m earningourkeep.’‘You’re not making

money drinking into thesmall hours and nevercoming tobed.You’renotmaking money gettingfucked and playing X-boxwith Liam, or snorting

coke all night in London,pretending tomakemusicwithtwattypopstars.’‘I’m not. I don’t,’ he

muttered. His tonechanged; he looked justlike one of the childrenwhen they knew they’ddone something wrong.‘Hardlyever.’‘Oh, come on, J. You

promised to knock it on

the head when we camehere,butit’sjustgotworseand worse. You’re evenhaving the bloodynightmares again. Andyou’re arguing with Liam.Has he messed up again?Youneedto tellme. Icanhelp.’‘No. It’s all fine.’ Hestared out of the windowat a field of seated cows.

‘Mustbegoingtorain.’‘James!’‘I’ve just … I’ve beenreally stressedwithwork,’he mumbled. ‘This threatof recession isn’t great foranyone. It’ll calm downagain,Ipromise.’‘Look, you know I lovespending time with thekids –of course I do.But,youknow… ‘Therewere

suddentears inmyeyes. Iblinked them awayfuriously. ‘Youdidn’tevenwant me to drop you attheairporttoday.’‘Ijustdidn’twantyouto

be bothered with it,’ hemumbleduncomfortably.I took another deep

breath.‘I’mlonely,J.’This would be the

moment he turned to me

and said, oh God, I’msorry, darling, I love youso much, it’ll be like itusedto,IknowIneverseeyou,speaktoyou,payyouany attention, want tomake love to you or evenjustcuddleyou.‘So you thought you’d

get all cosy with bloodyXavieragain,’hesnarled.‘Don’t shout at me,

please,James.’‘I’m not shouting,’ heshouted.Therewasalongpause.‘Sorry,’ he saideventually. I could tellfrom his slumped bearingthathefeltashamed.‘Ijust– I thought you’d left allthatbehindyou.YouwriteyourstufffortheChronicle.Isn’tthatenough?’

I thought of Edna’smarrowsandsmiledwryly.‘I suppose it’s a bit likeyounotdoingRevolverorthe label but opening adisco in Burford. Youmight enjoy it, but itwouldn’t be the samebuzz.’‘Isuppose.’I ploughed on. ‘Thetwinsare innurseryevery

morningnow.Ijust…Xavrangme,andIthought–Idon’tknow–Ijustwantedto use my brain again, Isuppose. And it’simportantpeopleknowthetruth. That it’s reportedright.’‘You’re addicted, you

mean. You replaced oneaddictionwithanother.’‘I didn’t.’ But his words

made me start. I wasaddicted – he was right –only I wasn’t going toadmit it now. ‘I’m notreally. I just miss itsometimes.’‘But,’ James put hishandonmine.Hetouchedme so infrequently thesedays the contact wasalmost a shock. ‘But youknow what happened last

time.’‘YesIknow.Butitwasaone-off.Iwasunlucky.’‘And before that? Youwere nearly bloody killedinLA.’I’d been following theVice Squad out there; Iwas in thewrongplaceatthe wrong time during agangland shoot-out. Apoliceofficerandafifteen-

year-old boy had beenkilled, the boy lying in apool of his own bloodwhilst his mother sobbedpiteously, cradling hisheadinherlap.‘You’re not doing it,

Rose.’I slid my hand away.

‘What?’‘Don’tbefuckingobtuse.

You’renotdoingthepiece

on Kattan for either theChronicle orXavierbloodySmith,andthat’sthat.’The slip-road to

Heathrowwascomingup.‘Well, I’m not going to,

you’re quite right. I’ddecidednottoalready.Butactually, I don’t think,’carefullyIindicatedleft,‘Idon’tthinkit’suptoyou.’James left to catch his

planewithout somuch asa backwards glance,withoutgivingmeakissorevensayinggoodbye.I sat outside the airportin the fumes and endlessstream of vehicles, theairportIflewfromatleastonce a month in the olddays,andIputmyheadinmyhandsandcried.I cried for my new

confusion. I cried for mychildren and theinadequatemother I oftenfelt Iwas,andmyguiltatwanting other things, oldthings, like work and thebuzz that used to be thecareerIhadloved.And most of all I criedwith relief that myhusbandhadgone.When I pulled away

from the airport, headingnot for home but forLondon, so did anothervehicle, tight on mywheels, though I didn’tknowitatthetime.

UNIVERSITY,

MARCH1992

IamrecklesswhatIdotospitetheworld.

Macbeth,Shakespeare

After the scathing articleabout his exploitsappeared in the NewStudent, Dalziel vanished.James said he’d beenincandescent with rage;noneofuswassurewherehe’d gone. For the firsttime this term, though, IfeltrelievedDalzielwasn’tin town. My own faith inhim was less solid thanbefore; I sensed he was

walking a tightropebetween fun and hysteria,increasingly tense whenwe did meet. Andcrucially, I’d finallyadmittedIwasinaspotoftrouble myself. My newhobby was fast becomingan addiction. I’d evenstarted to seek out thedealer when Dalziel wasnot around, and Irecognised that it was a

horribly slippery slope. Iwas actually lookingforward to the oncomingEaster holidays so I couldfleehometomyparents.Ineeded todigest thecrazyride I’dbeenonthis term;mytutorswerenotpleasedand I knew I was alreadyslipping behind with mystudies. I needed somenormality.

WhenDalzieldid returnto Oxford a week later,good humour apparentlyrestored, he asked us tomeet, dressed for dinner.The esoteric elite, as hecalleduswithasmirk,metin the pub nearest thecity’s grandest hotel, at7.06 p.m. on Friday 13March. Much later Idiscovered that he’dfigured it was also 6.66

o’clock – the number ofthebeast.James, Lena and I

perched at the bar, andwaited for the others toarrive. Dalziel and Brianwalkedinsometimelater,Brian sweaty anduncomfortable in hismonkey suit, Dalzielelegant and at ease in histuxedo, though his eyes

were glittering rathermanically and his pallorwasobvious.‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said,his pupils like pins.‘Family business.’ Hethrew a car key on thetable. His knuckles weregrazed, I noticed, andthere was a tiny spot ofblood on his otherwisepristine cuff. ‘And a

challengetomeet.’Lena gave a knowing

smile.‘Youdiditthen.’Dalziel held a long

fingertoherlips.‘Shhh.’Hewasongoodformat

first, cracking jokes andstroking us all, physicallyandmetaphorically,tellingus how pleased hewas tosee us. I, on the otherhand,wasnot.Despitemy

new resolve, I’d spent thenight before at his housesmoking with him untilwe’d passed out again intheearlyhours; I’dwokenirritable and headacheyandtellingmyselfthishadto stop soon. But whenDalziel beckoned me overin the pub and kissed mefull on the lips, my fearsdissolved.

He bought a round ofsambucaand continued tomassage our egos, askingus questions about ourcourses, our plans for theholidays. Later Iremembered that Jameswas cross because Dalzielwas paying me so muchattention, and Lena toowas soon sulking, heroddly squashed face alltight and annoyed, her

fingers tapping incessantlyonthetable.An ambulance screamed

by, closely followed by apolice car, sirens blaring.Dalziel stared out of thewindowatthem.‘Bigdramas,apparently.’

The flat-faced barmaidpassed a pint over to anelderly regular, her raisineyes alight with gossip.

‘Girl was in a car smashearlieroveron thebridge.Hitandrun,Michaelsaid.’Dalzieldrainedhisglass

and sent it sliding downthe table. It would havefallen if James hadn’tcaught it. The blue of thepolice-car light wasreflectedeerily inhis eyesasheturnedback.‘One more?’ Dalziel

suggested, pulling a sheafof notes out. We happilyacquiesced, in no rush toleave the comfort of thepub. But now Dalziel’sgood mood vanished; hebecame increasinglydistracted, edgy anddistant.WhenIaskedifhewasallrighthesmiledandsaidhewas just tired;buthe kept checking hiswatch.

The bar was warm andcomfortablewithitssmokyhop-smelling fug; itseemed a shame to leave.But we drank a final shotof sambuca and thenDalziel handed James aparcel and an envelopethat he brought out fromhisinsidepocket.‘This is for you, James.

Don’topentheparceluntil

youneedto.’‘And how will I know

whenthatis?’‘You’ll just know. You

can open the envelopewhenIleave.’James shrugged. ‘OK.

You’retheboss.’I must have smiled

inadvertently because

James shot me a filthylook.‘Where are you going?’

Lenamoaned.‘Ihavethingstosetup,’

Dalziel said enigmatically.‘I’ll seeyouallverysoon.’Then he kissed the top ofmy head and inclined hisheadtoBrian,wholeapedto his feet like anuncoordinated puppy and

scampered after him.‘We’ve got work to do.’Theyvanished.‘You’re very cosy,’

Jamescommentedsourly.‘Don’t be silly.’ I smiled

wanly at him. The truthwas I was exhausted,hardly eating, hardlyworkingrightnow.‘Better get going, I

suppose.’ James fiddled

with the envelope. Helooked vaguely menacingand rather handsome inhis black polo-neck andtight black jeans, but hisnormally open face wastaut and furrowed withworry.‘IwishIknewwhatDalzielwasup to tonight,’hemuttered, tearing opentheenvelope. ‘He’sgoneabit weird, don’t youthink?’

Lena returned from theloo. ‘He’s settling debts,’she drawled, perusing thenote. Her eyes werepinned now as Dalziel’shad been earlier: herpupils tiny and black. Shesmelledof sickandFracasperfume.‘What kind of debts?’

James said. ‘God, he’ll beallnight.’

‘See the stolen chariot,dear boy,’ Lena mocked,dangling the car key onher black-nailed finger.‘Guesswhoseitis?’‘How the fuck should Iknow, Lena?’ James said.‘Why don’t you enlightenus?’‘Actually,’ Lena tappedthe side of her nose, theleft nostril of which was

blood-encrusted, ‘that’s forustoknowandyoutofindout.’James laughed drily.‘You’ve got no idea, haveyou?’‘I fucking well do,actually, and you shouldkeep your fucking mouthshut, dick-head,’ she spat.‘Frankly, you should justbe grateful you’re invited

at all. I’ve never knownwhatDalzielsawinyou.’‘Likewise,’ James

retorted, but he wasobviously shaken by hervenom. ‘Had a line toomany,dear?’‘Imovedonfromcharlie

a long time ago, baby,’Lenasaidscornfullyasshelit yet another cigarette.Her fingers were brightly

stained with nicotine.‘Mind your own fuckingbusiness,anyway.’‘Yeah, yeah, OK, big

girl,’ James snapped. ‘Ifyou want to destroyyourself, Lena, that’s finebyme.’‘Ditto,’ she said

unsteadily. Snatching upher bag she disappearedbackintotheladies.

‘That’s what he likes todo, you know.’ Jameslooked almost angry. ‘I’vebeensofuckingslow.’‘What?’Iwasconfused.‘Get ‘em hooked and inhis power. It’s all aboutpower with that bloke.’James drained his owndrink now and read thenote. ‘Heonlywantsus togo next door to the posh

hotel. To the penthousesuite. Big fuss aboutnothing,afterallthat.AndI tellyou,Rose,’he staredatmewiththebrowneyesthat had recently stoppedsmiling,‘onelastblastandI’mdonewithallthis.’We shivered on thepavement, waiting forLena.Theskywasvastandthemoonshinyandwhite.

James pointed out Orioninthestars.‘He’s the hunter, you

know.’I smiled at him. ‘Yes, I

know.’ I looked at hisfreckled face lit up in themoonlight and thoughtwhat a nice boy he was,despite his sometimemoods. Much safer thanDalziel. Therein lay the

problem.Lenastumbledoutofthepub. ‘Let’s go, shall we?’sheslurred.‘If you’re sure you canactually walk,’ Jamesmocked.‘Why –did youwant tocarry me?’ she retorted,buthervisionwasskewedandshestaggeredalot.Wewerelikeabunchof

shambolic squabblingschoolkids, I thought,hardly the elite societythatDalzielhadenvisaged.Withouthim,wefellapartimmediately.Ilookedatusand for a moment, I sawwhat others might haveseen. I thought of thescathing piece in theNewStudent.NotthesleekpackI believed I moved with,but a bunch of outsiders,

lost and rather lonely. Ishivered in thebitingcoldas James shoved Lena infront of him and towardsthe hotel. She wasmumblingtoherself;Iwasworried that she’d reallyoverdoneitthistime.We walked across the

foyer as steadily andinconspicuously as wecould and congregated

outside the lift. As wewaited, I looked throughthe stained-glass panesinto the restaurant. AndthenIlookedagain.‘God, isn’t that …’ I

poked James urgently.‘That’s Lord Higham isn’tit?Dalziel’sdad?’I recognised his face

from the newspaper. Atall, smooth-haired man

with a long rather benignface and wearing a heavynavysuit,hewassittingata table with a group ofothers: awoman in creamwith long dark hair withher back to us, a boy ofabout twelve next to her,and an older white-hairedman. It appeared to besome kind of celebration.Bottles of champagne,bouquets of extravagant

flowers,cardsonthetable.Andattheend…The lift bell pinged andthedoorsslidopen.‘Come on.’ Jamespushedusall forwardintothelift.At the end of the tablesattheperoxide-hairedgirlwho had accosted me theotherweekinthepub.The doors slid shut on

us.‘Whowas that girl?Did

youseeher?Whoisshe?’Lena leaned against the

lift wall and, closing hereyes, slid slowly downontothefloor.‘What girl?’ James

nudgedLenawithhisfoot.When she didn’t stir, hepicked up her cavernousbagandrifledthroughit.

‘The dark one with theperoxide hair. On LordHigham’s table. I met herlast term.Shehadagoatme about Dalziel. Andthen—’The hazy memory of a

lost night in the OxfordUnion last term; the nightthey hadn’t known I wasthereasIwatchedthroughtheglassdoors,aghast.

‘Andthenwhat?’‘Nothing.’ I shook my

head.James fumbledwith the

coke he’d unearthed fromLena’s bag, scooping itstraight out with his littlefingerandsnorting it,andthen offering a ladenfinger to me. I shook myheadagain.‘Go on.’ He thrust it

right under my nose.‘Don’tbeawimp.’‘I’m not a wimp,’ Iprotested. ‘I just – I’mnotsureit’smything,’butthedrinkwasinmybloodandthe cocaine was rightthere, so in the end Isnorted it. James leanedback against the mirroredwall and grinned, wipinghisnose.

‘Just what the doctorordered.’‘James,’ I was shiveringfrom anticipation andalcohol, ‘who was thatgirl?’‘The beautiful one withperoxide hair?’ The doorsslidopenanddisgorgedus.‘That’s Yasmin. Dalziel’ssister. He’s been in lovewithherforyears.’

ChapterNine

LONDON,MARCH

2008

I spotted her straight

away,sittinginthecornerof the small restaurant bythe window, Jackie Osunglassesshadinghalfherface, a slash of dark redlipstick across thevoluptuous mouth, anexpensivegreencoat,thickwool despite the springsun, collar turned upagainst aworld she foundgrievous.

‘Thank you for coming,’shesaid.‘Iwasn’tsureyouwould.’‘Iwasverypleasedto.’I

smiledather,andorderedsalami and cheese, olivesand sparkling water.‘ThoughIdon’tthinkyourdadwouldbe.Whatwouldyoulike?Somewine?’‘I’ve already ordered,’

she said. She crumbled

bread from the basketincessantly as we spoke,the henna tattoos stillintricate across her slimhands. On her left shewore a twisted diamondring that flashed bluewhenthesunlighthitit.‘Were you engaged?’ Iwas direct. From ourphonecall,Iknewshewasready to talk, and she’d

toldmeshewouldn’thavemuchtime.She shrugged. ‘I was

about to be married,’ shesaid, loosening her coat.‘For all that it mattersnow. Then my fatherfound out.’ She removedher glasses, and I wasshocked at how sore hereyes looked. ‘My father isaterriblebully,youknow.

He likes everything theway he believes it shouldbe.He isa relic.’Shespatthe last word. ‘He is soold-fashioned, he refusestocomeintothiscentury.’The waiter bought a

carafe of red wine andMaya poured herself alarge glass and drank halfof it in one go. Then sheofferedtopourmesome.

‘Just a little, thanks. Idon’t really drink thesedays.’‘Oh?’ She raised animmaculateeyebrow.‘Bit all or nothing, me,unfortunately,’ I said, butshe wasn’t interested inme, and that was how itshouldbe.Iwasneverthesubject – that was how Ipreferredit;howIworked

best.‘So,whydidyouwantto

see me?’ I smiled again.She was rather like anervousthoroughbred.‘My father told me he

was going to do aninterviewwithyouforthelocalpaper. Iwantyou toknowthetruthabouthim.’Idebatedwhethertotell

her I wasn’t doing it any

more.Intheend,Ipressedon.‘Will you tell me about

you first?’ I coaxed hergently. ‘Itwould helpme.Why did he hate yourboyfriendsomuch?’‘Because he was not of

hischoosing.’‘Not because he was a

Muslim?’‘Maybe once my father

renounced Islam,’ sheshrugged. ‘But he’schanged his views since9/11.Weallhave.’I sat up straighter.

‘Really?’‘Everyoneissopolarised

today, don’t you think?’She scratched her armabsently, trailing herfingernails up her smoothcaramelskin.

‘Perhaps.’ I must notreact.Imustjustlisten.‘We all hate the

atrocities carried out inAllah’s name, of course.But that doesn’t meananyone should have torenouncehim.’‘Of course not. So, did

yougrowuphere?’‘IlivedinTehranuntilI

was five and thenwe had

to leave. For variousreasons, it wasn’t safe forus any more. I came toEngland and went toboardingschoolsoonafter.Ididn’tseemyparentsforafewyears.Myfatherhadangered theAyatollahandhewasn’tallowedtoleaveIranforsometime,andmymother… ‘ she drank therest of the wine in herglass, ‘my mother was

busylosinghermind.’I picked at the plate ofham that had arrived.‘Whywasthat?’‘Because my fatherdrove hermad, I believe.’A strange glassy smileappearedthattautenedherface andnevernearedhereyes. ‘Because men in hisfamily believe, like somany others of Arabic

culture,thatwomenaretobe seen and to serve andornament them, but arenot tobe listened to.Thatis like Victorian children,no?Seenandnotheard.’‘I don’t think that’s

unique to Arabic men.’ Igrinnedather.The waiter arrived at

hershouldertotopupherwineglass and she smiled

up at him, a properbewitching smile – and Isaw how very beautifulshewas, theplanesofherfacemeldingtogethersoitwashardtodragyoureyesaway from what wasalmost perfection. Howbeautiful–andhowdeeplytroubled.Shespokeofherfamilyandherbrotherandthe war and theAyatollah’s regime, and

howwhenhermotherdiedher father did not shed atear. She told me of herteenageyearsaftersheleftschoolandpartiedhardinLondon with the childrenof pop stars andpoliticians. Then she hadleftitbehind,shesaid.Herdiction was elegant andformal, her Iranian accentalmost imperceptible, butshe was edgy, nervous,

constantly lookingaround.Occasionallyshetrailedoffas if she couldn’t quiteremember what she wassaying.‘I saw how empty and

vacuousthatworldis.’Herbreadplatewasnowaseaof crumbs, but not onemorsel of foodhadpassedherlipssinceI’dsatdown.‘The world of nightclubs

and celebrity and peoplewhobelievetheyareowedrespect because theirfatheroncehadaNumberOne hit or followed afashionable cause like –like Live 8. It no longerinterests me. In fact,’ shedrainedherglassagain,‘itdisgustsmenow.’‘So what do you do

yourself?’ Iasked,andshe

gazedatmeasifshedidn’tseeme.‘I am retraining. I am

more interested in theacademic life now. Thehistory of my nation, forexample.’She refilled her glass. I

was alarmed at the speedshe was drinking, but Iknewitwasn’tmyplacetointerfere. I topped up my

ownglassofPerrier.IwasfindingithardtogetarealsenseofHadiKattan fromher; shewas soangryandunhappy, but vague abouthis current pursuits. Itouched gingerly on therecent CIA investigationthatXavhadmentioned.‘Very likely.’ She shookherheadvaguely.‘Butyoumust understand we don’t

talkofsuchthings.Allwehave done for a while isargue.’‘WhydidhemovetotheCotswolds,doyouthink?’Iasked, and a sneer causedher lovely mouth to twistdownwards.‘Because he does notwant people to see whathe really is, and mybrother persuaded him,’

she said. She twisted herglass round and round.‘But the trouble is, Rose,the trouble is we do notbelong anywhere. Myfamily does not belong.We are neither one thingnor the other. And nowthis is what my brother,Ash, is trying to leavebehind. He would like tobe the consummateEnglish gentleman. And

what I really wanted totalk to you aboutwasmyownpoliticalbeliefs.Theyare—’She jumped as her

phone rang in her coatpocket.‘You see.’Herhandwas

trembling as she showedme the display. ‘It’s him.Hewillwantmetoreturnhome now. I will have to

go.’ She was suddenly indisarray as she started topull her coat on, allanxiety. ‘He likes to knowwhere I am every hour ofeveryday.’Ihadone lastchance toask the questions I reallyneededto,andtookadeepbreath. ‘Does he lock youin?’‘Who?’

‘Your father,’ Imurmured.‘Ithought–didI see you upstairs at themanor?’She stared at me. ‘Yes,’she whispered, ‘yes, hedoes lock me inoccasionally. And if I donot go home, he sendssomeonetoretrieveme.’‘Who?’ Iaskedurgently.‘DannyCallendar?’

She kept gazing at meuntilIfeltaneeriechill.‘Danny,’ she repeated.

‘Yes, he sends Dannysometimes. Sometimesother people. Sometimesmenorfamilyfromhome.’Shestaredatme.Isawa

light sweat break outacross her face. I couldn’ttellifsheunderstoodwhatI meant; but I held her

gaze.Shewasbroken, likeabeautifulvessel thathadcracked fatally, but wasstill just about in onepiece. Her phone bleepedagain.‘I’m sorry, but I reallyhavetogo.’‘Can you – would youtellmethebeliefsyoujustmentioned? About yourboyfriend?’ I said quickly.

‘Aboutwhathappened.’Her almond eyes filledwithtears.‘Ican’tspeakofNadif yet. It is … ‘ sheclutched the green coatshutacrossherchest, ‘itistoo painful. It is killingme.’ She started to slideout of the booth, awaterfall of sleek hairfalling across her pinchedunhappyface.

I reached over and putmy hand on her arm.‘Maya,Ijustwanttoknow– why, why did you sayyour father was amurderer?’‘That’s simple.’ Maya

Kattanputherdarkglassesback on. ‘I saidmy fatherwasamurdererbecauseheis.BecausehekilledNadif.You askhim, if youdare.’

She was standing now. ‘Imust go. Thank you forlunch.’And she was gone, out

into the bright sunlight ofMaryleboneHighStreet inher high heels anddiamonds. I noticed shewalkedwitha slight limp;I remembered her kickingherfather’scaroutsidethemanor house. Her words

rang in my ears: ‘BecausehekilledNadif.’I felt an urgent need tospeak to my children. Iphoned my mother fromthe table and spoke toAlicia and Effie. Freddierefused to come to thephone because he was‘busy, Mummy’, drawingSpiderman, apparently. Itold the girls I’d see them

all tomorrow and howmuch I missed them;judging by the excitedsqueals it wasn’t muchreciprocated.Hanging up, I delved inmybag formypurse, stillthinking about thechildren and the fact IshouldtrytomakeupwithJames, if only for thechildren’s sake, when I

sensed someone watchingme. I looked up sharply.AcrosstheroadIthoughtIsaw Danny Callendarstanding in the shadowofa shop canopy, leaningback against the glasswindow, hands in hispockets, staring right atme. My heart felt like ithadjuststopped.But when I dashed out

onto the street, lookingdesperately amongst thebusy shoppers and theladies who lunch, he wasnowheretobeseen.

ChapterTen

The house was so quietwhen I got home, it wasunsettling. I fed the cat,and then made myselfsome tea and took it outinto the garden. It waschilly now, just before

dusk. I sat on the benchbeneath themagnolia treethat was about to bloom,its pale buds like handstightlycuppedinprayer.I contemplated the pastweek’s events. I couldn’tseewhattherightthingtodo was any more. Ithought I should probablystop, not for James’s sakeor my own, but for the

children. Who was I trulychasing Kattan for? I waslying to myself. But if Igave this last thing up,whatwasthereleftforme,apart from motherhood?JustJamesandIstrugglingtogetthroughthedays.The cat came out for a

while and made a half-heartedattempttocatchacouple of chaffinches on

the bird table, but theywere too fast for him.Despondent,heslunkbackinside.The sun set, sinkingslowly into the woodbehind our garden. Jameswas right: I couldn’t doeverything, couldn’t be allthings to everyone. I wasdeeply intrigued by MayaKattanandherfatherbutI

should turn my back onthis life, at least for now.James’s words in the carechoed in my ears and Iremembered LA: the gunsand the panicked yellingpolice and the grim-facedgangmemberscursingandsobbing over their babybrother, who’d died for abag of heroin. I’d beeneightweekspregnantwithAlicia without realising it

at the time; I’d beenracked with guilt when Idiscovered I might haverisked my baby’s life. I’dsworn then never to putany of us in any dangereveragain,anduptonow,I’dkeptmyword.I sat outside for so long

my tea grew cold andmyfingers were blue aroundthe cup by the time the

weak sun had finallydisappeared for the day. Iwent back inside and hadahot shower towarmup.ThenItriedtoringJames,thinking we should makepeace, but his voicemailwas on, though his planemust have touched downinVietnambynow.I went through to thestudy, switched the

computer on to email Xavandlookedformydiarytofind the number for theRexHotel.It wasn’t in its usual

placeonthedesk.I’d scribbled Maya’s

number on the front leafwhen she’d rung me lastnight; early this morning,justbeforewe’dleftfortheairport, I’d run into the

room to transfer thenumber into my phone. Iknew I’d left the diaryright there on the desk; itlivedtherepermanently.And the picture of the

children had beenmoved.My favourite photo of thethreegrinningupatmeona Cornish beach lastsummer, Freddie’s headturned towards his

grinning sisters, his fattummy swelling abovelittle blue shorts, Effie’sface pink from the sun,with ice cream on herchin, and Alicia straw-hatted,stickinghertongueout mischievously. Thepicturealways sat in frontof the printer so I couldsee it when I wrote. Onlynow it was slightly to theleft,eclipsedbythescreen.

PerhapsMcCready–butitwasSaturday.Shenevercame in on the weekendsunless I asked her toespecially. I began torummage on the desk,moving papers, goingthroughthein-tray.My heart beat a little

faster; I knocked over aleaningpileofNewYorkersthat went tumbling,

slapping to the ground.And then I stopped.Comeon, Rose. I was gettingparanoid. I’d probably leftitinthecar,orupstairs,or—‘Is this what you’re

looking for?’ a low voiceasked.Iscreamed.Afterwards I felt

ashamed, but it was an

animalisticnoisethatcameinstinctively.‘How the hell did youget in?’ My heart wasbanging.Callendarheldmydiarylike a trophy, extending ittowards me. ‘You left theback doors open.’ HeactuallysmiledatmeandIfelt anger rise quicklynow,replacingthefear.He

crunched the sweet he’dbeensucking.‘Well, you can walk

right out of them againthen,can’tyou?’Thewashof adrenalin was makingme shake. ‘You reallyfrightenedme,youknow.’‘I can see that.’He took

asteptowardsme.‘Ididn’treallymeanto.’‘Didn’treallymeanto?’

He shrugged. ‘Didn’tmeanto,then.’‘I don’t believe you.’ I

glared at him. ‘What thehell are you doing here?What the hell are youdoingwiththat?’‘Returningit.’His nonchalance

irritatedmebeyondbelief.‘Butyou’vejuststolenit.’‘Stolen it?’Henarrowed

his eyes. ‘No, Rose, youleftitsomewhere.’‘Somewhere?’‘The exact location

escapesme.’‘Ohreally?’‘Yeah, really. I’m just

returning it. And I alsocame to ask you,’ hestepped nearer to me,throwing the diary on thedesk, ‘what you think

you’redoing?’‘Whatdoyoumean?’‘You know exactlywhat

I mean.’ He rubbed hisfacewearily.I pushed past him and

into the kitchen, where Ipoured myself a glass ofwateranddrankit inone.I heard himwalk into theroombehindme.‘Please, Mr Callendar.’ I

leaned on the sink andtriedtocalmmyself.Iwasso angry now I wassweating; I’d becomeinarticulateinmyrage.‘Danny.’‘Please, Mr Callendar,

leavemyproperty.Now.’‘I came to warn you,

Rose.Foryourownsake.’‘Yeah, I got that bit,

thanks.’ I turned to face

him. He’d laid his gun, aGlock, on the worktop. Itlaythere,blackandsilent.Vehemently I pusheddown the fear rearing upinside;I’dbedamnedifI’dlethimseeit.‘This is whatMr Kattan

pays you to do, is it, the“hired help”?’ I stared atthe gun and I felt hatredfor Callendar’s sheer

arrogance. ‘You must beveryproudofyourself.’‘Maybe.’ He shruggedagain.‘Iknowwhatyou’reupto,bytheway.’‘Oh,really?’‘I mean – I know whoyouare.’We stared at eachotherfor a moment. ‘And whoamI?’

‘You’re a journalist, anaward-winning one,’ hesaid indolently. ‘Butthere’snostoryhere,RoseLangton.Leaveitalone.’‘I was only going tointerviewhimforthelocalpaper,’Iprotested.‘But you work for thenationals, don’t you? TheGuardian, The Times. Hedoesn’t know,’ he leaned

againsttheworktop,lazilycrossed his Conversetrainers at the ankle, ‘notyet. But I do. Like I knowyousawMayatoday.’‘I won’t let you

intimidateme, youknow,’I said, but I was lying. Iwas already intimidated,gun or no gun. Therewasaquietmenaceabouthim,the way he held himself,

apparentlysorelaxed–allscruffy jeans and parkaand messy hair, flecks ofblondinhisdarkstubble–but it was all a front. Icould sense the tension inhim underneath thesurface, like somethingpulled tight. Somethingabouttosnap.‘You don’t understand

whatyou’remessingwith,’

he saidquietly andbeforeIcouldmovehe’dgrabbedmy arm, yanking metowards him. ‘You reallydon’t. Kattan’s playingwithyou.Andhewillturnnasty. You need to keepaway.’‘Getoffme,’Ihissed.Hewas hurtingme.Myheartwas beating so fast now Ithought it might actually

become audible, and Istruggled hard, trying tofree myself but he washolding my arm so tightandhewasn’tabout to letgo. I lookedup at him, athis dark-fringed blue eyesand Iwas so near I couldsee the ring of blackaround the blue.Everything was flyingaround inside my head,bangingoffthesidesofmy

poorbrain.‘Is that why you were

following me?’ Iwhispered.‘Isawyou,youknow.’‘Iwasn’t following you,’

he said, quieter still. Andhe looked at me and Ilooked back at him andsomethinghappened;Ifeltthis surge from deepinside, a surge of

something that I hardlyrecognised, that I hadnever really felt before,notinmywholelife,andIwasshakingnowwithfearbut also something else. Itriedtopushitbackdowninsidebuthewastoonearand I stared at his mouthand then apparently hewas speaking. I couldn’tthink, couldn’tconcentrate.

‘For God’s sake, Rose,’he muttered, ‘you reallydon’tgetit,doyou?’‘Don’t getwhat?’ I said,and suddenly I felt likecrying, and thought, I’mprobably just going crazy.That’sallthisis:I’mfinallygoing mad. And then Isaid, I whispered, ‘I doactually.Idogetit.You’rewarningmeoff.’

Hespoke,but I couldn’tunderstand.‘What?’‘Don’t,’ he repeated.

‘Don’tcry.’‘I’m not,’ I said, butmy

facewaswet.He laidonegentlehand

down my left eye andcheek. ‘You just – youneed to take care,’ Ithought he whispered

then, and he lookeddifferent suddenly and IturnedmyheadsoIcouldhear him better, but hishandwasstillonmyskin.‘Take care doing what?’

I stared at him and hishand slipped down myface and perhaps I wasactually drowning in thesea of that blue. And so Ishutmyeyes.

And when I opened myeyesagainandlookedintothesky,theseainhim,helooked back and Idisappeared into the blueand thenhebenthisheadandkissedme.I couldn’t suppress it,this feeling that had beengrowinginmesinceIfirstmet him. It had grownbigger thanmenowand I

didn’t want to have tofight it anymore. I didn’tknowuntilthesecondthathekissedmethathefeltittoo, the second he leanedtowards me and I foundmyself kissing him back,and it was so natural, themost natural thing in theworld like it was all Iwantedtodo.Wefelltogether.Ididn’t

thinkof anyone else apartfromhimandme. Ididn’tfeel guilt, I didn’t feelanything apart from thisinstant,thehereandnow.The here and now, this

moment, this darkmoment, the slamming,theharshcomingtogether,tearing at each other’sclothes,hisT-shirtoff, thegreat dragon roaring on

his shoulder, my shirtunbuttoned,mymouth onhis, skin beneath myfingers,hishandtangledinmyhair…OhGod.Wedidn’tmake

ittothebedroom.Andafterwards…Afterwards he was so

quiet I thought he mustregretit.Icouldonlyhearourbreathingandthe tick

of the kitchen clock, thehumofthefridge.Andmyheartracing.I took his hand and we

went upstairs and we fellasleep together. And thenwhenwewokeintheearlyhours we moved quieterthis time and afterwards Ifound I was crying silenttears.BecauseIknewthiswas

wrong,buthowcoulditbewhen it was absolutelyrighttoo?

ChapterEleven

In the morning I wokeearlyandalone,beforethesplinteroflightaroundthecurtains appeared. I felttired and bruised, and Icouldn’timmediatelythinkwhatwaswrong.

It was too quiet: therewere no children in thehouse. The rare peaceunnervedme.Eventually Igaveuptryingtodozeandwent downstairs to maketea. I sat at the kitchencountertodrinkit,andtheGlock was gone – and sowasDanny.Ilookedoutatthe light that sliced thegrey morning sky andknew I should try James

again. But his voicemailwas still on, so I rang theRexHotelinSaigon.‘One moment please,’

thesingsongvoicesaid.AsI waited, I caught myreflection in the window.Myeyeswereswollenandthere were bruises on myarm beneath my T-shirtsleeve. Fingermarks. Iturned away as she came

back on the line. Thememory of Danny’s skinon mine – but perhaps ithadnotbeenreal.‘I am sorry. Mr Millerhasnotcheckedinyet.’‘Are you sure?’ I wasconfused. He must havearrived last night. ‘JamesMiller,fromEngland?’‘I will check again.Excuse me one moment.’

An electronic Vivaldi’sFourSeasonschirpeddownthe line; I wasn’t surewhich one exactly.Autumn, perhaps. ‘No,madam. He has areservation for one weekbutheisnotarrivedyet.Iam sorry for your trouble,madam.Wouldyouliketoleaveamessage forJamesMiller when he doesarrive?’

‘Yes. No.’Mymindwasracing.‘CouldyoujustsayRose – Mrs Miller – rang.Hiswife.Andyou’requitesure he didn’t change hisreservation?’‘Quite sure, madam. He

wasexpectedyesterday.’Acrackle of static. ‘Perhapshisflightwasdelayed.’‘Perhaps.’ Perhaps the

plane had crashed. No,

that was ridiculous. I’dhave heard something bynow.‘We will hold his roomfor forty-eight hours – oruntil we hear from him. Iwill pass onyourmessagewhenhearrives.’The newspaper droppedthrough the letterbox as Ihungup.Jamesmusthavedecidedtostaysomewhere

else, though he was acreature of habit; we’dstayed at the Rex on ourhoneymoon and sonaturally, he’d chosen itagain. I tried Liam but itwastooearly:he’dstillbein bed. Then I rang Xavandlefthimamessage.‘I thought you’d like to

know,I’vebeenwarnedoffKattan again by him and

hisbloodyhenchman, andI’msureyou’rebarkingupthe right tree,’ I said,pouring more tea,smoothing out thenewspaper. Riots inLondon. Knife-crimestatistics. Comment onSenator Obama’s wife,Michelle’s, wardrobe.Tightening of terrorismlaws.

‘Yesterday I met hisdaughter, the enigmaticMaya – at her behest,actually,’ Iwenton. ‘She’scertainly got an axe togrindwithDaddy.Callmewhenyougetin.’Icheckedthenewspaper

from front to back andthenrangXavback.‘And by the way, why

are none of you running

the death at the manorstory?’When Iwentupstairs to

get dressed, I took mymobile with me. I waswaitingforJamestoring,Itoldmyself,thatwasall.

***

Mymotherrings.Theyareenjoying having the kidsso much can they stay

another night. Fears thatthe visit would set myfather’s health back haveapparentlydissipated.‘It’s giving him a new

lease of life.’ My mothersoundsyoungandcarefreeforonce.‘Please,Mummy,please,

please,’ Alicia pleads,snatching the phone. InthebackgroundIcanhear

Grandpabeingabear.I laugh. ‘Don’t youmissme?’‘Gran let us stay up towatch Doctor Who andshe’s going to buy me apink dress tomorrow. Andshe let us have a wholepacket of Rolos and aKitKat–’adramaticpause–‘each.’Freddie comes on the

line.‘Batmanwantstostayat Gran’s,’ he sayssolemnly. ‘And so doesUnder-woman.’OnlyEffieseemstomiss

me,with a little sniffle atthe end of ourconversation.‘I’ll see you tomorrow,

Eff, OK, sweetie-pie?’ Ireassure her. I hang upand blow my nose. My

emotions are all on thesurfacerightnow,myskinis off. I feel raw andavailable, like a peeledorange.ForonceIhavethetime

to choose what I wearcarefully.Idomymake-upvery slowly. I play loudmusic in thebedroomandsingandfeellikeIusedtowhen I was a teenager

before a big night out.Before Oxford. The catblinksatme from thebedas I shimmy around, andthen yawns widely andgoesbacktosleep.Idecidetowalktothevillageshop.On the way I pass apheasant running out ofthe hedge; I smile at itssilly run, like an old ladybent double. I sing BobDylan.Ihavesteppedover

the boundary intosomethingnew.Outsidethevillageshop,

I see the Range Roverdrive towards me. I stopsinging. My stomach feelslikelotsofsmallthingsarerolling around insideuncomfortably.Hadi Kattan opens his

car window and looksdownonme.Hismouthis

set and he is wearingexpensive Ray-Bans thathe doesn’t remove whenhespeaks.‘Mrs Miller,’ he says, ‘I

asked you not to go nearmydaughter,didn’tI?ButonceagainIfindyouhaveignoredmyrequest.’He stares atme blankly

through the sunglasses. Ifeel small but I won’t let

himseethat.I consider thebest tack.

‘Really,MrKattan,wejusthad a perfectly harmlesslunch.Shewanted to talk.You said yourself she’slonely.’‘Whywouldshewantto

talk toa journalist?She isdevastated, and you aretrying to find out aboutherpolitics.’

My stomach plunges.Danny is sitting there inthe driver’s seat; heglances over. For aninfinitesimal moment oureyesmeet.Iampiercedbythose eyes – and then helooksaway.Ifeelstung.Instinctively I glance inthe back of the car andthereisMaya.Itishardtosee her face clearly and

she is still wearingsunglasses, but there issomething so bowed andsadaboutherposture.Then Kattan says,‘Please,MrsMiller, this isthe end of our dealingsnow.’I am torn. Do I try tohelp her, or do I goquietly? IglanceatDannybut he is fiddling with

something on thedashboard. I start to turnaway,thenIturnback.‘IsMayaallright?’ Iask

boldly. ‘Are you?’ I saylouder, so that she canhear too. She doesn’trespondbutleansherheadbackagainsttheseat.‘Ah, your new friend,

Maya.’ Kattan takes hisglassesoffandlooksdown

atme. ‘Yes,Maya is fine.’There’s a small markacross the bridge of hisnose where the glasseshave rested.Hisdarkeyesare grave. ‘Please, giveyourhusbandmyregards.’My husband, who has

apparentlydisappeared.And I smile at Hadi

Kattan as best I can andthen I walk away, and I

knowtheyareallwatchingme.The big car passes bywhen I get to the end ofmyowndrive,andwhenIstompdowntomyhouse,Ifind that my hands aresweating where I’veclampedthemintofists.

***

I didn’t want to return to

my empty house. Idespised myself suddenlyfor the Danny thing. Howcould I have been sostupid? I was alreadystrugglingwithourworlds,our worlds that clashed,that did not unite. Withmy attraction to a manwho did something Idisagreed with sofundamentally – andworse, with my own

morality.Ihadahusband,a family.Andyet thepartof me yearning sodesperately recognisedmydeep and apparentlyinsatiable predilection fordanger – something myfriendDalziel had awokeninme, aged eighteen, andstill something I couldn’tseem ever to quash forverylong.

I satonthestonebenchfor a while in the backgarden and deliberated. Idecided I’d go to myparents and stay thenightbefore bringing thechildren back with metomorrow. It was funny,all this time I thought I’denjoytherest,thepeace–butnowIjustmissedthemdesperately: the twins’plump little bodies,

Alicia’s tuneless singing,the constant noise,banging doors, stridentcartoons, even thefighting.I’dpackabaganddrivestraight to Derby; I’d bethere by tea-time. Icouldn’t sit around herewaiting, and the Kattanthingwasgoingnowhere.Infinitely cheered, I

unlocked the front door.Sunlightdancedacrossthehall,theheadysmellofthehyacinths in the kitchenpervadingtheairand—There was an almighty

crash from somewhere inthedepthsofthehouse.‘Hello?’Thecatscreechedacross

the hall and I laughedtremulously. ‘Bloody hell,

Tigger.Takeiteasy,wouldyou?’He crouched with

reproachful eyes beneaththekitchentable.Iputthekettle on and thoughtabouttryingJamesagain.Therewasanothercrash

from the direction of thestudio.I took a deep breath,

picked up the nearest

weapon – a rolling pinapparently–andmademyway to the studio door.Thelightwason.‘Whoever you are, I’mcalling the police,’ I saidloudly, and pushed openthedoor.Liamwasriflingthrougha box-file that he’ddraggedfromtheshelf,hisback to me. He jumped a

footintheair.‘Rosie.’ He turned,flushing guiltily. ‘Christ,youscaredme.’‘I could say the same.’ Isank down on a stoolshaped like a pill bottle.‘Flippingheck.’‘I didn’t think youwerein.’‘No,well, Iwasn’t.God,I’ve had enough shocks to

last me a lifetime thisweekend.’‘What do you mean,

shocks?’ Liam put the filedown and shut it. Hewassweating, but it was coldin here, the radiatorsturned off whilst Jameswasaway.‘Nothing. Forget it.’ I

shookmyhead. ‘What areyoudoinghere?’

‘James called me,’ hemuttered. ‘He needs thedetails of the Barclaysaccount.’‘Whydidn’tyoujustring

me?’ I looked at him,puzzled. ‘I could havefoundthemforyou.’‘I didn’t want to bother

you.’ His big ruddy facewas a picture of sweatyconfusion. ‘I, er, I thought

youwereaway. I stillhadthe spare key fromChristmas. And we werepassing.’‘Passing?’Liam lived in East

London.‘I’mtakingStarawayfor

the night. Swanky hotelwith a spa up nearCheltenham. Jamesrecomm—’ He stopped

mid-sentence. ‘Well,apparentlyit’smeanttobeverynice.’‘Did you get mymessage?’ Iasked.OutsideI could hear a car pullingupinthedriveandIfeltasudden leap inside, like aslipperyfishinmychest.Itwashope,Irealisedlater.‘No,’ Liam said, but Iknew hewas lying. ‘What

message?’‘I haven’t heard fromJamessinceIdroppedhimat Heathrow. But youobviouslyhave.’‘Yes,’ he admittedcarefully,‘yes,Ihave.He’sfine.’‘Buthe’snotattheRex,’I said. ‘You always staythere,don’tyou?’Thedoorbellrang.

‘That’ll be Star.’ Visiblerelief crossed Liam’sfreckledface. ‘Shewenttoget some fags from theshop.’‘So where is James?’ Isaid,pressinghim.‘He’s going down toVang Tau to meet theinvestors, I think. Seasideresort,’ Liam muttered.‘Decided not to stay in

Saigon. Too hot at thistimeofyear.’Thedoorbellrangagain.‘Shall we?’ he said withsomething likedesperation, andwemadeourwaydownthehall,mybrainwhirring.‘You’re not rushingstraight off, are you?’ Iasked, opening the frontdoor.‘Haveacupofcoffee

beforeyougo?’‘I’dloveto,butwe’reina rush, actually.’ Liam’sdiscomfort was almostpalpable. ‘We’ve only gotthe room for one night.Sorry.’‘Oh,’ I said, nonplussed.Star peered at memyopically from thedoorstep, her fur collarframing her pointy little

face, black leather bootsup to her thighs, tinyfrayeddenimskirt.‘Howdo,Rose?’HerflatNorthern tone wasfriendly.‘Nicetoseeyou.Ilikeyourhair.’I hadn’t brushed it allday, but she was inearnest.‘Thanks,’Imumbled.‘Did you get it, Liam?

Canwegetgonenow?’‘Yep.’ He gave me abear-hug. ‘Got it. Thanks,Rosie.SorryIscaredyou.’‘I’ve got a manicurebookedatthree,’Starsaid,turning back to the car.‘Waxhandsandall.’‘Right.’ I had no ideawhat she meant. ‘Well,enjoy.’‘We will.’ Liam beamed

atme–asmallboyoffthehook. I grabbed his handasheturnedaway.‘Liam.’ Iwas starting to

feel hurt. ‘Why didn’tJames tell me where he’dbe?’‘Dunno, Rosie.’ He

shrugged.‘Doyoutelleachothermuchthesedays?’‘Isthatanaccusation?’I

feltacoldstone in thepit

of my stomach, but histonehadbeenguileless.‘No. Just anobservation.’‘Areyoureallysureyouwon’t stay for a cuppa?’ Isaid, suddenly loath to bealone.‘Another time, Rosie.’Heglancedatthecar. ‘It’sjust–Idon’twanttoblowthis. I really likeher.And

youknowmeandwomen.’‘Er,yeah.’Liamwas thearchetypal Jack-the-lad. ‘Idoknowyouandwomen.’We both looked at Star,busy redoing her darklipstick in the car mirror,contorting her neat littlefacefortheperfectpout.‘I’ll try and stop bytomorrow on our wayback,OK?’

‘Not sure I’ll be here,’ Isaid, attempting a smile.‘Got to collect the threemusketeers from mymum’s. You go and havefun.’‘Well, I’ll call,’ he said.

Star beeped the horn andthen turned the stereoup.Dance music thumpedthroughthechillymorningair.

‘Timewaits fornoman,eh?’Isaid.‘Maybe, but with titslike that, I’d wait for heranytime.’Liam’sfacesplitintoabroadgrin.‘ByGod,she’sgoodinbed.Legslikearubber—’‘Liam!’ I pushed him inthe direction of the car.‘Too much information,thanksverymuch.’

After they’d gone I feltdesolate. I stared at mymobile, willing it to ring,but it didn’t. I turned ontheradiowhilstIbegantopack.‘LordHighamarrivedatthe Tory Conference inBlackpool today,’ MarthaKearneyannounced.‘Brilliant,’ I muttered. Icouldn’t find my usual

overnight bag. PerhapsJames had moved it. Iopened the cupboard andpokedaround.‘He is Cameron’s guestspeaker,’ she was saying.‘AndwhilstHigham’saidesare denying any rumoursthathewill try tomakealeadership bid, somebelieve Cameron iskeeping him firmly where

hecanseehim.’‘Huh,’ I muttered.‘Blackpool. Slumming it,poorthing.’I spotted the blackleather corner of my bagon the shelf above mywinter coat; I tuggedhardto free it. A big brownenvelope of photos fell tothe floor, the imagesscattering at my feet. I

bent to pick them up. Atown-house at night, asmart town-house,Georgian probably, withshiny white pillars andclipped topiary. Peoplecoming and going out ofthe front door; no one Irecognised. I realised theywere all men. Then anearlier photograph, datedthe same November nightlastyearastheothers,but

this one taken beforemidnight; a group ofyoung women, high-heeled, long-haired,trench-coatsbeltedtightly,a couple in fur coats,probably fake, pulled uparound hard little faces,the lights from thestreetlamps bleeding intothenight.And then finally,

someone I did know. LordHigham,walkingdownthefront stairs of the house,talkingonamobilephone,shirt unbuttoned, hisjacket slung over oneshoulder. Three o’clock inthemorning.

UNVERSITY,

FRIDAY

13MARCH1992

O, thou bewitching

fiend, ‘twas thytemptation,Hath robbed me ofeternalhappiness…What, weep’st thou?‘Tis too late; despair.Farewell.Foolsthatwilllaughonearth, must weep inhell.

DoctorFaustus,Marlowe

James was still closebehind me as we steppedfrom the Randolph’s lift,mynose running from thecocaine. When Dalzielopenedthepenthousedoorand tookmy hand to pullmeinside,Icouldfeelhimtrembling, his skin glossywith sweat, his handsclammy. Paler than I’dever seen him, he wasobviously wired, his teeth

grinding, so high that hewasalmostrigid,thoughitwas unclear exactly onwhat.‘Nice pad,’ James said,peering into the suite.‘What’ve you been up tothen? Your dad’sdownstairs,isn’the?’‘Yes,’ Dalziel snapped.‘Celebrating his poxywedding anniversary. A

treat for all the family, Idon’t think. For Christ’ssake,’ he’d spotted Lenanow, who could barelystand,‘Itoldhernottogettoofucked,stupidtart.’‘Yeah, well,’ James

stared at Dalziel, ‘maybeyou should have told herthatsixmonthsago.’Dalziel turned his back

onusandstalked into the

suite. ‘Wait there,’ hemuttered over hisshoulder.I’d never seen Dalziel

lose his cool properlybefore; the nearest he’dever comewas at the pubthat night when Yasminhadrailedatme.HissisterYasmin.Iglanceddownatmyhandwhere he’d beengrasping it. Something

dark and sticky hadmarkedmypalm.The boywith the bullethead was waiting at thefoot of the stairs. Helooked petrified. ‘Youheard him,’ he whisperedurgently.‘Waitthere.’‘Keep your hair on,’Jamesretorted. ‘What’sallthe bloody secrecy about?Satanicrites?’

‘I thought this wasmeanttobefun,’Iagreed.Thecokewas suchabriefbuzz, and I was freezinganddoubtful.Iyearnedforthe numbing bliss of myopium.‘Fun?’ Bullet-boy stared

at me. ‘Did you? Did youreally? It is not fun, it isourmission.’A handbell rang

somewhere. I realisedthen, followingJamesandastill-swayingLenaupthestairs of the penthouse,thatIhadn’tthoughtmuchabout it at all; I’d justthought about Dalziel andwhere my next hit wascoming from. Only now Ifelt an increasing sense ofdread.Music was playing –

Handel’sMessiah, which Irecognised from thecathedral: that Dalzieloften played at home, asoprano singing ‘I knowthat my Redeemer liveth’.The entire room wascandlelit and the thickcarpet had been slashedand pulled up. Strangechalk marks and circleswere drawn on thefloorboardsbelow.

‘Christ,’ James laughednervously, ‘this isgoingtocost someone a fuckingfortune.’A huge ornate four-

poster bed squatted at thebackof the room, entirelycurtained in thick redbrocade. In front of it,someonehadconstructedamakeshift altar on whichsat a bottle of golden

liquidandacup.‘Don’t mind if I do,’

James said, movingtowards the bed, andpoured himself a drink –but Lena was too fast forhim. The bottle wentflyingandsmashedonthefloor. She had possessionof the cup; she drank itdowninone.‘Greedy bitch,’ James

muttered. For a moment,Brianlookedfurious.Thenhe shrugged. ‘She’ll besorry,’hemurmured.The room was stiflingandI recognised thesmellof incense from the LatinMasses my grandmotherhadtakenmetoinFrance,and something else,somethingsweet–whichIlater realised was

chloroform.Andthenadooropened

behind us and we turnedour heads to see Dalzielsaunter into the room,chestbareandapentanglepainted on it, his hairgreased back, his eyespainted black again. Hesmiled at us and it was atrulyfrighteningsmile,histeethbared– and I saw it

was because his soul wasnot present any more. Hewas empty and fearlesswith hatred andamphetamine.‘Welcome to

Pandemonium.’Hestalkedto the bed and pulled thefront curtain back.‘WelcometoHell.’There lay a sleeping

child,hairdarkasnighton

the snowy pillow, facepallidasmarble.And inDalziel’s shadow

Bullet-boywalked, and heheld before him a coiledrope.Mystomachplunged.‘What the fuck’s going

on here?’ Jamesdemanded.Lena staggered where

she stood. ‘Christ’s sake,’

she moaned. ‘I think I’mgoingtobesick.’‘Christ won’t help you

now, my dear,’ Dalzieldeadpanned, and heturned to face us. ‘It’s allChrist’s fault in the firstplace,youcouldsay.’‘He’s unconscious, isn’t

he, that kid?’ Jamesaccused, staring at themotionlessform.‘Whatthe

fuck are you doing,Dalziel?’‘Whatdoyouthink?’he

sniggered and his eyeswerewildanddark in thecandlelight, two spots ofcolour high on hischiselled face. ‘Merelyhonouring my father andmymother.’I looked at him and for

thefirst timeIwasutterly

repulsed. ‘What do youmean?’Myvoicewashigh-pitchedwithstress.‘The final

commandments,ofcourse:Five and Six. “Honouryour father and mother,”andofcourse,thekey.Theone you must have allbeen wondering about.Youshallnotmurder.’‘Murder?’ James and I

saidinunison.Lena bent over andthrewup.‘This ismyhalf-brother,Charlie.’ Dalziel gazeddownatthechildandthenpushed thedarkhairbackfrom the little boy’s facealmost tenderly. ‘I don’tlikehimverymuch;Idon’tthinktheworldwouldbeaworse place without him.

My father probably won’teven notice, he’s got somanykids,andhismother– well, his mother is awhore.’HelookedupatusandIsawthathewasmadnow,thatheobviouslyhadlostallsenseofreality,hiseyes flicking round theroomnervously,startingatshadows and daemons.‘Just like his big sisterYasmin.Mystepsister.’

Or not mad, perhaps.Maddened. I thought ofthefailedattemptwiththehorse. I stared at myfriend.‘He’s my twenty-first

birthdaypresenttomyself.But,’helookedroundatusagain, his smile stretchedtaut, ‘as usual, I’m happytoshare.’‘Dalziel.’ I reached my

hand out to him. ‘You’rejoking, right? He’s only alittleboy.’‘And ifhewasagrown-

up,that’dmakeitallright,would it?’ Dalziel giggledandmyskinfelticy.‘No,ofcoursenot.’Iwas

confused, the brandy andthe sleepless nights andthe stress snarling up myweary brain. ‘But you

don’twanttohurtanyone,doyou?Notreally.’‘How the fuck do youknow that?’ he hissed.‘How the fuck do youknow anything about me,any of you? You’re allfucking stupid, the lot ofyou. God, you make mesick, you stupid, stupidfuckingidiots.’And with a plunging

feeling, a feeling ofdespair, I rememberedwhat Yasmin had said inthe pub that night. Irealised that if you feelyou have nothing to lose,youaregenuinelylethal.‘Well,Icare.’Jameswasspeakingvery fast. ‘You’renot going to hurt anyone,notwhenI’maround.’‘Oh, good, James,’

Dalziel smiled at him. ‘Ithought you were tooweak toact –butperhapsyou’re not, after all. Ithought I had chosen youfor nothing, but perhaps Iwaswrong.Idohopeso.’‘What is this – some

kindofwarpedchallenge?’James asked. ‘You’refuckinginsane.’Sweatwasrunningdownhisfaceand

he stepped nearer Dalzieluntil he was standingalmost beside the bed.Lenawas groaning on thefloorandIlookedatBrianand started to moveforwards and then hethrewDalzieltheropeandgrabbed me, restrainedme. I could feel Brian’shandswereshaking,reallyshaking, and I thought Icould probably overcome

him. And all the time Ikept thinking how could Ihave been so stupid, howstupid,howstupid…‘Perhaps I am.’ Dalzielstood now so hewas facetofacewithJames,andinhis hand he held a knife.‘You’llhavetodecidenow,won’t you, James? You’llhave to make your owndecision for once in your

life, without me leadingyou.’James put his hand

inside his jacket andbrought out the brownpaper parcel that Dalzielhadgivenhimearlier,andin one fluid moveunwrapped it. A stilettoknife in an ivory sheath.Hestareddownatitasifitwere alive, as if it might

rear up and stab him intheface.ItwasidenticaltotheoneDalzielheld.‘Killmeor I’ll kill him.’

Dalziel smiled beatificallyandIthoughtthatImightbesicknowmyself.‘It’suptoyou.’Lena was crawling

towards the door, cryingandretching.‘Don’t bother.’ Dalziel

laughed a strange reedylaugh. ‘It’s locked, loves,it’s locked – and I threwawaythekey.’‘I don’t feel well,’ Lenamoaned. ‘I don’t feel wellatall.’‘Well, you shouldn’t beso greedy, should you,love?’Dalziel taunted her,but his beatific smile wasfading. He looked unsure

suddenly,asifhemightbecoming round fromwhatever madness,whateverdrugheldhiminits grip. He put anunsteady hand out, heldontothebedpost.‘Dalziel, please,’ Iimplored.Whenhelookedat me I saw there weretearsinhiseyes.‘Whynot?’hesaid,andI

sawhewascrying. ‘It’saneye for an eye, my love,isn’t it?’ The tears randown his face, trackingthrough the smearedpentangle. ‘My beautifulRose.Mymorningstar.’And then the child on

the bed stirred andmoanedinhissleep,andIstruggleddesperatelyforamoment and I felt Brian’s

hands still shakingalthough his gripwas likesteel. I looked at Jamesacross the bed and westared at each other for asecond or perhaps it wasanhour,itwastoohardtotell,andadrenalinandfeartook over. I sort of threwmyselfoutofBrian’sgraspwith the vague idea ofbringing him down, onlyhe was too quick, and he

picked up something fromthe sideboard. I didn’t seeexactlywhatbutIthoughtit was a crystal vase, andhe brought it down overmy head – and for aninstant the pain wasexcruciating.Myeyeswereswimmingwithwaterfromthevase,orperhapsitwasblood, and then I wasfalling down, down, downand I hit my head on the

floorboards. I lay thereonmy side and I thought Iheard someone screamingand—And then all wasdarkness.

ChapterTwelve

GLOUCESTERSHIRE,

MARCH2008

Before I left for my

parents’, I locked thehouse up carefully,checking every window,every door. I’d justreached the junction forthe motorway when myphonerang.‘Rose,’adesperatevoicewhispered, ‘Rose, I don’thavemuchtime.Ineedtotalktoyou–now.’

I knew it was madnessgoingback,buteverythingthathadforcedmetoseekout the truth in my workfelt heightened; I wascompelled to follow thestory until the factsbecamecompletelyclear.Isquareditwithmyself:thechildrenweresafelyoutoftheway; Iwas still a freeagent for thenext twenty-four hours and I was

determined to dosomethingright.My phone bleepedagain.AtextfromXav.‘Callme:I’minameetingbut I’ll comeout.DonotgonearKattanagain.WeneedtospeakNOW.’I threw the phone backon the seatbesidemeandputmyfootdown.Rain clouds were

travelling fast across thehorizon, gatheringdarkness as they movednearer. Verdi played onthe car radio; somethingdramatic and tragic that Ididn’t know. It suited mymood.The housekeeper

answeredthedoor.‘I’vecometoseeMaya.’‘She’snothere.’

‘I’m sure she is. I justspoketoher.’‘Ithinkyou’llfind—’Maya ran down the

stairs. ‘It’s all right, MissEllis, she’s a friend.’ Shesuddenly looked dubious.‘You are a friend, aren’tyou?’‘Ofcourse.’A doubtful Miss Ellis

retreated reluctantly.

Maya, it had to be said,looked slightly deranged:barefoot, in a white vestand jeans, her armstattooed with unicorns onone side, a rainbow andwhat looked like apentangle on the other.She presented acompletely differentpicture from her previousglamour.

‘Idon’thavemuchtime,’shesaid,draggingmeintothe house from thedoorstep, peering overmyshoulder anxiously. Herface was free of make-upfor the first time, hugeshadows beneath herlimpideyes,herhairwavyand mussed. The windmoaned through the greatoaks behind us and Istepped inside,pullingmy

jacket tighter.Noneof thelightswereonandtheoldhouse was dark andgloomy.‘Look, I was worried

about talking about Nadifyesterday.’Sheledmeintothe vast drawing room,speaking quickly,frenetically even. ‘But I’ma virtual prisoner, and Iwant people to know the

truth about my fatherbeforeitistoolate.Heisatyrant.’ She lit a cigarettewith a gold lighter; therewere scratches on hershaking hand. ‘He is atyrantandamurderer.Butyou, Rose,’ she looked atmeandherbloodshoteyeswereblazing, ‘youcantelltheworldthetruth.’I had found my old

dictaphone in the glovebox; Alicia used itsometimes forher singing.Ipulleditoutnow,placedit on the coffee tablebetween us. Maya eyed itsuspiciously and thenshrugged elegantshoulders. She seemedslightly glazed by herobviousmisery.‘Nadif had such ideals.

No one understood. Theydidn’tunderstand.’‘Who?’‘Mydad.Hisyobs.They

just used him until hecouldn’t say no. And thentheytriedtousehimtogettome.’Iwaslost.‘Maya,hangon.Canyou

slowdownasec?’

‘Youknowmyfatherhasbeenhopingtobeawardeda peerage?’ She slumpedon the sofa, ash droppingonto the floor. ‘It looksdoubtful now, but hethinks there’s a chance hemight have a seat in theHouseofLordssoon.’‘Really?’ I wasfascinated. I saw theheadlinesnow: ‘Peer locks

uphis daughter.’ ‘Does hehaveBritishcitizenship?’‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Dual

citizenship.’‘What’s his connection

intheLords?’‘Never mind,’ she said.

Sheseemedslightlyhyper,her mind skittering fromtopic to topic. ‘That’s notimportant now. Rose, hehas made me a prisoner

here again to stop mespeakingout.’‘Again?’ I leaned

forward. ‘Speaking outaboutwhat?’There was a knock on

the door and we bothjumped. It was thehousekeeper.‘Would you like some

tea or coffee?’ she asked,her small pebble eyes

scanningtheroomquickly.Maya waved her awayimpatiently. ‘Not now.Please, leave us.’ Shegroundouthercigaretteinthe ugly marble ashtrayand then immediately litanother one. Her Frenchmanicurewaschipped.‘Hedidnot likemyboyfriend.Amongst other things, hewas a black man, he wasAfrican.My father doesn’t

believe in mixing culturesorreligion.’‘And what religion do

youfollow?’‘That doesn’t matter,

does it?’ she laughedrather hysterically. ‘Ifollowmyowngod.’Myheartsank.I’dhoped

I’dbeenwrongaboutsomeof my assumptions, aboutfacing the facts that

seemed obvious aboutMaya.‘Isawyouonthatmarch

in London,’ I said. ‘Thepro-Islamone.WithNadif,weren’t you? There was apicture in thepaper.Werethose his ideals youmentioned?’She looked confused for

a moment. ‘Ah, yes,’ shesaid. ‘Yes, I remember

now. He wanted to go. Iwasthereto–itwas—’There was another

knock on the door and arather stooped middle-aged man in a slightlythreadbaresuitenteredtheroom.Hewaspaper-thin,ashadowofaman.‘Hello,’ he said politely.

‘Excuse me, but, Maya, Ithink you should come

withmenow.’‘I won’t,’ she saidrudely.‘Goaway.’‘It’s time for yourmedicine.’ He smiledapologetically at me. ‘Doexcuseme,Miss—’‘Youcan’tmakemetakethatpoison.’I didn’t know what todo. I stood up, quicklypocketing the tiny tape

recorder.‘Please,Mr—’‘Dr Fisher,’ he smiledagain, stepping towardsMaya. ‘Come on now,Maya.Beagoodgirl.Yourfather is soworried aboutyou,youknowthat.’‘Rose, please,’ she said,staringatmewildly.Iwasstarting to feel like I wastrapped in some sort ofVictorian melodrama. I

thought of Mrs Rochesterlocked in her husband’sattic.‘Pleasehelpme.’‘I really think –’ I said

rather helplessly to thedoctor – ‘I think youshoulddowhatMsKattan—’‘And I think you should

gonow,don’tyou,love?’avoice interrupted. I spunround. The young man

called Zack stared at mefromthedoor.‘Infact,youwere just leaving, weren’tyou?’I gaped at him stupidly

whilst the doctor movedtowards a now sobbingMaya, and thenZack tookme firmlyby the armandmarched me to the door,down the front steps andtomycar.

‘Helpme,Rose,’ I couldhear her callingpathetically. ‘Please, helpme.’‘You’re hurting me,’ Icomplained. ‘That girlneedshelp.Letmego.’‘Dousallafavour,love.Getinthecarandgonow,’he said. He smelledunpleasant, of stale sweatand something I couldn’t

place. Something likeammonia. Somethingchemical.‘Is – is Danny here?’ Isaid.‘Danny?’ He stared atme like I was stupid. ‘Hewon’thelpyou,love.God,you’re all the same, youbloody birds. See thoseblue eyes and think he’scometosaveyou.’

He took my car keysfrom my pocket, openedthe door, thrust me intothecar,putthekeyintheignition and turned theengineover.‘But I tell you what,

love, he’s worse than me.He’s dangerous. He mightbe a good fuck, andbelieve me, he’ll fuckanything, but he’d sell his

grannyforaquid.OK?’He was so near I couldsmell his dinner on him,fightingwith the chemicalstench.Ifeltnauseous.‘Go home. Be a goodgirl, OK? Go home, andstaythere.’By the time Igot to theroad I was shaking withrage and anxiousindignation, and I did

whatZacktoldme.Iwenthome. I went home and Icalledthepolice.

ChapterThirteen

I thoughttheywouldsendsomeone but they didn’t.Theytookdetailsandtheyknew who Kattan was –but they didn’t seemunduly alarmed orsurprisedbymycall.

‘Are you makingallegations of domesticabuse?’ they asked, and Icouldn’t really say yes,becauseIhadnoevidence.‘Just talk to her,’ Iimplored. ‘There’ssomething very odd goingon.’ But they said theyalready had interviewedKattanandhisdaughterinconnection with Nadif”s

death, and that unless Ihadevidenceofanysortofviolence, there wasnothingtheycoulddo.‘What is the conclusion

about the death?’ I askedcasuallybefore I hungup,but the policewoman toldmethatwasundeterminedstill.‘The inquest is

scheduled for some time

nextweek,’wasthemostIcouldwringfromher.When I hung up thephone rang again. It wasJames–finally.‘Allright,petal,’thelinewas terrible, ‘sorry I’vebeen—’‘What?’ I found I wasyelling. ‘I can’t hear you.Whereareyou?’‘The mobile doesn’t

work on the—’ Anothermassivecrackle.‘Nosignalthisfarsouth.I’llbeinHoChi Minh by tomorrownight.I’llcallthen.’‘OK,’Isaid.Icouldhear

my own voice echoingdown the line. ‘Have yougot a number where youare?Atyourhotel?’‘What?It’ssohardto…

Kidsallright?’

‘They’re atmymum’s ifyou want to ring themtheredirect.’‘It’s not worth it. I’ll

speaktothemtomorrow.’‘OK,’Irepeated.Ifeltan

almost nauseous sensationdeep in my belly. ‘James,Liamwashere,he—’‘What? I can’thearyou.

I—’Thelinewentdead.

I paced the house,thinking. I turned thecomputeronandsearchedMaya Kattan again, butthere was nothing apartfrom the picture on theLondon march, and arandom shot of her withPaul McCartney’sdaughters and a smallGeldof at some nightclubtwo years ago. Then Ilooked for Hadi Kattan

again. His handsome faceon the computer: hisachievements, his family,hispoloteam,thepossibleal-Qaeda allegations thathad come to nothing. Isearched every article Icould find. What was Imissing?Mybrainfeltlikesomeold-fangledmachine,the cogs grindinguncomfortably againsteachother.

I tried calling Xav,though I just got hisvoicemail, despite hisearlier message. OnSundays he usually wentto ground; we rarelytalked about where hedisappeared to, but he’dobviouslygonetherenow.Irangthekidsagain.My

mother sounded surprised– theywerestillall fine. I

pacedthehouse.I stared at my mobile

phone,willingittoring.Itdidn’t.

When he came back, myhands shook on the latchas I tried to open it. Ilooked up into theblacknessbehindhim,andtherewasashadowonthehalf-moon suspended in

thesky.‘I can’t stop thinking

aboutyou,’hesaid,andhetriedtosmile,butIsawhecouldn’t.Andwhenhepushedme

gentlyagainstthewallandkissedme,I felt thatgreatwash of feeling again likeatide,likeawavethathasbeen coming over the seaallthistime;itisgentleas

it picks you up and youdon’twant to fight it, yousurrender to theinevitability.The wave that brought

mehome.Afterwardswelayinthe

darkness, and he saidquietly, ‘This isn’t meantto be happening,’ and Isaid,‘No,Iguessnot.’I thought of Zack’s

words.‘Isthere–doyou–isthereanyoneelse?’‘No.’ He was almostvehement.‘No,thereisn’t.’Neitherofusmoved.Wetalked quietly for awhile;he asked me about thechildren, and I thought Idetected a yearning in hisvoice.Later, when all I couldhear was his steady

breathing and the silencestretched loosely acrosstheroom,Iasked,‘Doyouregretit?’‘What?’‘This.’‘No.Theopposite.’I felt relief flood over

me for the second time.For a while neither of usspoke.

‘I just wish—’ Hestopped.‘What?’‘I just wish youweren’t

married,’hemutteredintomyhair.His voicewas soquiet I could hardly hearhim.For a moment, a very

short moment, Iconsidered his words. ‘SodoI,’Imurmured.

Thenheturnedoverandhe laid hismouth on thatpartofmyneckabovemycollarboneandIthought,Icouldstayhereforever.Then the wave finally

hittheshore.

ChapterFourteen

I tried my best to avoidher, but to no avail.Dashing out of the villageshopwithwaterandbadlyneeded headache pills, Isaw she’d spotted mealready.

‘You’re out early,’ shecooed, checking her goldwatch, her perfect bobswinging like a shampooadvert.HelenKelsey– thesummationofallIloathedabout the Cotswolds, thetwee main street, theshops that sold too muchsickly fudge and pastelteacosiesandnothingreal;the unsmiling shopkeeperswho eyed my noisy

children suspiciously eachtimeweentered.‘Going up to town.’

SubtlyIbackedaway.‘Inabitofarush,actually.’‘Ooh, lovely,’ she

purred. ‘Meeting Jamesthere? Nice bit of lunch?’Coyly she raised anoverplucked ginger brow,insinuatingafriendshipwedidn’t have. ‘Or perhaps a

nightaloneforthegrown-ups?’I stared at the stubblyregrowth of her eyebrow.‘He’s away on business,’ Isaid, inching towards mycar.‘Gone on ahead? I sawhim last night in Oxford,actually. Frank actuallytook me out for dinner.’Badly she attempted self-

deprecation. ‘Lucky oldme!’I looked at her. ‘You

can’t have seen him. He’sinVietnam.’‘I’m sure it was James’s

car.’Herfrownwasalmoststudious, her pink lipsticklike it had been sealed onwith varnish. ‘I rememberbecause he was going sofast, silly boy, and talking

on his phone at the sametime.Agirlbesidehim.’‘Can’thavebeenJames,’

I said, grasping my bag.‘Sorry, Helen, but I’vereallygottogetgoing.Seeyousoon.’She was poisonous,

reputation apparentlywell-earned as the localgossip, according to thefewschoolmumswhohad

befriended me; she tookpleasure in malice andspite, they said. Deepbelow the surface theremust be some terribleinsecurity, some reasonshe was so odious. But Ihadn’tseenityet.Why then did I feelshakenas I swallowedmyaspirinandturnedmyowncartowardsLondon?

I had such mixed feelingsabout going to thenewspaper that at the lastminute I slunk up the firestairs to avoid the busylift. Xavierwas looking atthe page layout on hisdeskwhenIstuckmyheadaroundhisdoor.‘Mymy, it’sMataHari,’

hedrawled.‘Ha blinking ha.’ I took

mysunglassesoff.‘Why, pray, are you

wearing a not very gooddisguise?’‘I’m just feeling shy.

Pour us a coffee, please.’Peelingoffmywoollyhat,I slumped on the leathersofa. ‘I’m absolutelygasping and I’ve just done100m.p.h. thewholewaydowntheM40.’

‘Hungover?’ Xav eyedme suspiciously as hereshuffledtheheadlines.‘I wish. I slept so badly

last night I’m practicallytrippingnow.’IthoughtofDanny’s mouth on myneck.Ifeltheatsuffusemybody.‘I thought you’d given

up illegal substances forLent.’

‘Funny. I couldn’t – Icouldn’t sleep actually.’ Ipushed the memoriesdown. ‘This Kattan thing’sreally beginning to bugme. I wish you’d nevermentionedit,youknow.’‘Right …’ His desk

phonerang.‘Well,I’vegotsomenewsforyou.’‘Brilliant.’ I satup,alert

forthefirsttimethatday.

‘It’s not brilliant,actually.’Hepickedupthereceiver.I poured us both coffee

from the percolator in thecorner whilst Xavierharangued whoever wasontheendoftheline.Hisoffice was as immaculateas ever, his stereo gentlyplayingBach,hisreferencebooks neatly ordered,

magazines stacked in dateorder, all belying thefrenetic nature of his job.Behind his sleek headhungaframedpictureofayoungerandmorecarefreeus in evening dress,laughingattheJournalismAwards the year before Imarried;besideitapictureof the photographer DeanHarding in a flak jacket,taken just before he was

killed in Afghanistan lastyear. Much loved, muchmourned.‘Get Johnny Field on to

it,now,’Xav snapped intothe phone. ‘Cherie Blairmightbe fucking litigious,butIwillnotgodownthewholefuckingCaplinrouteagain and get shot in thearsewithnostorytoshowfor it.’ He dropped the

phone into its cradlewithdisdain. ‘FuckingTelegraph. Stealing ourbloody thunder a-fucking-gain.’‘Kattan…’Ibegan.‘The Kattan story is

going nowhere,’ Xav saidflatly, adding foursweetenerstohiscoffee.‘Look, I know I’ve been

a bit flaky about it all,’ I

soothed. ‘But give me achance.’‘I mean it’s going

nowhere because it’s adead end.’ He studied hismanicured fingernail as ifit were the mostinteresting thinghe’d everseen.‘It’snotyou,darling.It’s me. I’m pulling theplugonit.’‘But I am finally getting

somewhere.’ I put mycoffeedownandleanedonthe desk. ‘There’s a storythere,Xav,Iknowthereis.Maya Kattan is a hauntedwomanwithwhatIreckonare some seriously dodgypolitics. She’s all over theshop. I think she mighthave been radicalised byher Somalian boyfriend.Justletme—’

‘Rose, I admire yourpassion,asever.Butyou’renot listening. I said it’s adeadend.’‘But why? I don’t

understand.’‘Just accept it,

sweetheart. I’ll give yousomething far better.Howabout the front row atLondonFashionWeek?’I stared at him,

appalled.‘Isthatajoke?’‘No.Perfect if youwant

togetbackintothegame.’He met my eye coolly.‘Rose, you have to acceptthings are not the samesince you had the kids.You haven’t worked forover four years, notproperly.YouturneddownBasra,you—’‘I was five months

pregnantwith twins,Xav,’I protested. ‘Evenjournalists have kids. Icould never have beenembedded then. It wasn’tfaironanyone.’‘True. But malejournalists don’t have topop ‘emout,’ he said. ‘It’sjust fact, darling. Brutal,perhaps, but fact. Youmadethechoice,notme.’

‘Youbastard.’He raised a lazyeyebrow. ‘I’ve been calledworse,angel.’‘I don’t doubt it,’ Imuttered. ‘But you stillhaven’t explained why.’ Iwas increasinglyfrustrated. ‘I think MayaKattan is seriously indanger. I think they’redopingheruptokeepher

prisoner.’‘Well, call the police

then.’ He stood up andwalkedtothewindow.‘I did.Butwedon’t just

call the police, do we? Imean,that’snotourjob.’‘This is dead in the

water.’ His McQueen suithung beautifully from hisshort slim frame as hestared down at the busy

road. ‘Let’s just say it’s inthepaper’sinteresttodropit.’‘Since when have you

worried about the paper’sinterest?’He just kept staring out

at the grey sky, and Inoticed for the first timehow gaunt his clever facewas, and realised he wasdeadlyserious.

‘Our job is to uncoverthe bloody truth,’ I saidslowly, computing theinformation. ‘Which is inthe public’s interest, isn’tit?’‘I can’t go into moredetailnow,Rose.Justtakenoforananswer.’‘HasKattanwarned youoff? Has that bloody—’ Iclenched and unclenched

my fists. ‘Has DannyCallendarbeenhere?’‘Who?’ said Xavunconvincingly.‘Danny Callendar. Tall,Scottish, taciturn. WorksforKattan. I think,’ I tookadeepbreath,‘Ithink—’‘What?’ For a second Ihadhisattention.Ithinkhemighthavehada hand in the death up at

Kattans house. I think hemightbeamurderer.‘Ithinkthatanyonewho

employsa–abodyguardissuspect, don’t you?Anyonewhoisn’tBritney.’IknowIcan’tgethimout

ofmyhead.‘Do you really think I’d

bow to thewhim of someoik? Be careful not to seewhat you want to see,

Rose.’ Xav snapped theVenetian blind shut. ‘Twoplus twomake five if youdothemathswrong.’‘Really?’ I retorted.Something was mostdefinitely not adding uphere. ‘So why the hellhasn’t anyone covered thedeath at the manor?There’snotbeenawhisperoutside bloody

Oxfordshire.’‘Like I said, Rose,’Xavier turnedback tome,‘it’s not in our interestright now to investigateKattan. Should thereactually be anything toinvestigate.’‘You thought there wasa few days ago.’ I couldfeel my blood pressurerising.

‘Ichangedmymind.’‘Well, change it back. I

think there could be amajorscoophere,Xavier.’He took his jacket off

andhungitonthechair.Icouldseefromhispristineshirt thathewassweatinglightly. ‘Write it if youlike,butIcan’tprintit.’‘Can’t – or won’t?’ My

angerspiltovernow.

‘Can’t,won’t–it’sallthesame,’hesnapped.‘Xavier, this isn’t you

talking, I know it isn’t.’ Iwas thoroughly confused.‘Look, Maya Kattan saysherfathermighthavebeenlooking at a peerage, buthe’s—’‘For fuck’s sake, Rose,’

he howled. ‘It might befascinatingbut justbloody

wellforgetit.’RarelyhadIseenhimsoruffled. My fists clencheddefensively by my sideagain. ‘Don’t shout atme,Xav,please.’‘Well, just bloody takeno for an answer.’ Helooked ill, I realised. Henever sweated normally;he was far too self-possessed.

‘But you’re –’ my voicewas rising – ‘you’re nottellingme—’There was a knock atthe door. Xav’s assistant,Joy, stuckherhead rounditnervously.‘Hello, stranger.’Beneath her neat afro herfriendly face broke into asmile. ‘I didn’t know youwerehere.’

‘Hi, Joy.’ I struggled toregain my composure.‘Howareyou?’‘Fine thanks. Sorry to

interrupt,Xav…’I shot him a look. He’d

probablyprimedher.‘ … But Lord Higham’s

office is on the phone.They really need to knowif you’re planning toattend the lunch on

Thursday?’‘Tell them,’ and this

time Xav avoided mystunnedgaze,‘tellthemI’dbehonoured.’‘Come and say hello

beforeyougo,won’tyou?’Joy said as she quicklyshut the door behind her,escaping the atmosphereinsidetheroom.‘LordHigham?’Ifeltthe

oldfearwellup.‘Yes, bloody old

Higham,’ he snappedagain. ‘I don’t know whyyou’resoobsessed.’I felt like I didn’t know

my old friend at all. ‘Ididn’t realise – is hecourtingyounow?’‘No, you dunce.’ Xav

opened the jet cigarette-box on his desk wearily

andpulledoutapacketofnicotine gum. ‘He’s justboughtthebloodypaper.’

UNIVERSITY,

MARCH1992

ShameistheshawlofPink

InwhichwewraptheSoul.

EmilyDickinson

I wasn’t sure what wasworse.Thedisappointmentand confusion in myparents’eyeswhenIwokeup in the hospital, or thesadness I caught on thefaceofDalziel’s father thenextdayashewalkedpastmy room with the thirdLady Higham, Charlie’smother. They looked so

bowed in grief, I had toturnmyheadaway.I was truly ashamed. I

hid my face from thenurses, the doctors, theporters and the cleaners. Irefusedtoseemyfriends.Ithought everyone wasjudgingme. I was glad tobe inmy tiny room,awayfrom the rest of Oxford. Ithought everyone knew

what I’d done; that theycouldseemystupidity.One night the jollyBrummie fromthestudentpapercametoseeme,thegirl who’d written soscathingly about Dalziel.Only she wasn’t so jollyanymore.‘Did you know he triedtokillme?’She satbesideme on the brown hospital

chair,stiffandupright,herleft eye almost entirelyclosed, a rainbow ofbruises around it, onecheekbonebandaged.I stared at her. ‘No, of

course I didn’t.’ From hertone it was obvious shebelieved I was somehowcomplicit. ‘How would Iknowthat?’‘Because you were his

bestfriend.’Iweighed up herwords

for a moment. I thoughthowironicitwasthattwomonths ago I would havebeenecstatictohearthosewords, to hear ourrelationship validated byanoutsider,butnow,nowIwassimplyembarrassed.‘Ihadnoidea,Ipromise

you,’ I whispered, tears

springing to my own soreeyes.Shelookedatmeandthensheshookherhead.‘Youidiot.Youbunchofarrogant idiots. Did younot see what you weredoing? The sheer futilestupidity?’‘If Ihad,’ Igazedoutofthe window; the dusk skywaschoppywithcloud, ‘ifIhad,doyoureallythinkI

wouldhavecontinued?’Apparently Dalziel had

beenwaitingforherassheleft the newspaper office.He had promised her astory she couldn’t refuseand the pair of them hadwalked to her car, wheresomehow he hadpersuaded her to let himdrive. It wasn’t until hewasbehindthewheel,she

said, that she realised hewas out of his head. Itwasn’t until he aimed thecar straight at thewall ofMagdalen Bridge that sherealisedhisintentions;thathe was apparently tryingtokill her.Tokill bothofthem, perhaps. She hadbroken her cheekbone inthe impact, knockedunconscious, whilst,typically, Dalziel had

walked away almostunscathed. Physicallyunscathed,anyway.I remembered the

ambulance racingpast thepub. I rememberedDalziel’s glittering eyes,the spot of blood on hiswhite cuff. I clutched theblanket with both hands.How had it come to this?How I had not seen

Dalziel’s madness? I hadbeenblindedbyhisbeautyandhislove–hisapparentlove – that was the truth.Blinded by the apparentaura of certainty andstrength – and the opiumhaze I’d lived in for thepastfewmonths.‘He’sofferedmemoney,

you know,’ the girl said,‘Lord Higham. Blood

money,tokeepquiet.’‘Are you going to take

it?’Iasked.‘Well, he’s offeredme a

job too, on the Sun.’ Shelooked away, out of thewindow.‘Ihaven’tdecidedwhattodoyet.Butyou–’she looked back at me –‘youshouldwriteaboutit.’I stared at her blankly.

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s a fuckingexclusive, that’s why. Theinner workings of amegalomaniac’s mind.Everyjournalist’sdream.’‘But,’ I said, ‘I’m not ajournalist – and hewasn’tthat.’ And I felt the tearspool in my eyes. ‘He wasjust my friend.’ My handsplucked the blanket. ‘Myveryverygoodfriend.’

‘Obviously,’ she saiddrily.I saw her once years

later in aClerkenwell pubwhenIwasworkingattheGuardian; we nodded ateach other but we didn’tspeak.Shedidtakethejobat the Sun, though, thatmuch I knew; she becamevery famous as a right-wingcolumnist.

When I was dischargedfrom the John RadcliffeHospitalafterafewdays,Iwenthome tomyparents’house.Wedroveoutofthesmall city that had seensuch sights, through themeadows and the moderntoy-towns laid out soneatly by planners.Nothingfeltrealanymore.To everyone’s relief and

my eternal shock, thecollege authoritiesmanaged to hush thewholethingup,alongwiththe Randolph’smanagement andpresumablyLordHigham’sinfluence. There was onlya very small piece in thepapersaboutthedeaths.James had dropped out

immediately. He had a

massive breakdown andnever finished his degree.Likeme,hewenthometohis mother, but when shedied a year later, he leftthe country for good,travelling toAustralia andtheFarEasttorecover.Hesent me the occasionalpostcard, but even thosestopped after a while. Imissed him at first, but itwasas ifwecouldn’tbear

toseeeachother;toadmitourshame.I returned to college in

theautumnterm.IworkedhardandmadeupthetimeI’d lost. I avoided thefunny looks I sometimesgot. I didn’t party anymore.IhungoutwithJenand Liz, thankful for theirrefusal to pass judgementonme:IgotaSaturdayjob

in the Botanical Gardensand sat under Tolkien’stree in my tea-break. IwrotefortheCherwell andthen the new paper theOxford Student; I drankoccasionally in the King’sArms–neverinTheTurl–though my taste foralcoholwaslargelygone.Two years later, I

graduated with a good

degreeandaftertravellinground India, I joined abroadsheet as a trainee.Eventually I travelled theworld as a reporter. Thedreamer in me had beencrushed by the disaster.The naïve teenager fromthe provinces was dead:now I had a thirst fortruth; putting things rightwherever I could byreporting the news people

needed to know. Intenselygrateful that the finalantics of Society X hadbeen kept from the press,thanks to Higham’somnipotence, I turnedmybackonthewholeepisode,never tempted to revealthesordidfactstoanyone.Onlysomewherealongtheway,Ihadacquiredanewcravingforriskanddangerthat I could never quite

suppress. And I neverspoketoanyoneinSocietyXagain,untilImetJamesyearslater.

A warm summer’safternoon, July 2000. IwasattheGareduNordinParis nursing a hangoverand an aching heart,staring dispiritedly at thedry old chicken baguette

I’d justboughtas Iwaitedfor the Eurostar after adisastrous and unusuallyalcoholic sojourn in Pariswith yet anotherunsuitable boyfriend. Mymobile rang: I hoped itmight be him, phoning toexplain, but actuallyConcordehad justcrashedfatallyoutsidethecity.TheWorldServiceasked

me to file an on-the-scenereport, which I did. Laterthat evening, sad andexhausted, I floppedaloneon the huge and emptybed at my hotel in St-Germain.Itriedtoringmyold friendJen,hoping shemightbeintownwiththeFrench Ambassador, buther voicemail was on. Ichucked the phone on thebed, where it promptly

rangagain.‘Guy on the other linesaysheisyourfriend.Sawyou on the newsapparently. Wants yournumber, chérie. He’s in LaVille Lumière too,’ my oldcolleague Bernard at theParis bureau soundedworld-weary. ‘Shall I tell‘imwheretogo?’I tucked the phone

beneath my chin andkneeled in front of themini-bar, debating vodkaor gin. Alcohol might beno longer my thing, but Ifelt I was going downtonight: the grief of theConcordetragedy;myowndisillusionment with thelover whom I’d justdiscovered had a wife hehadn’t yet divorced, andtwo small children. His

protestations about notbeing able to keep awayfrom me, my irresistiblesex appeal et al. simplyweren’t soothing theheartache I now felt. Yetagain,I’dchosenwrongly.‘What’s his name?’ Ibroke the seal on thevodka.Inforapenny…‘James something. Fromyourcollege,hesaid.’

‘James?’ Iput thebottledown.‘NotJamesMiller?’Nervous but oddlyexhilarated, we met thatnight for dinner on theLeft Bank. It was a smallMoroccanrestaurant litbya hundred tiny flickeringcandles; we sat on silkcushions beneath stained-glass lanterns and theyserved couscous from

brightlycolouredtagines.James looked well. He

was tanned and toned,dressed in a pale bluecashmere jumper andjeans.Hewas relaxedandcharming, and full offunny stories about popstars and actors he’d metinLA.‘ImissEngland,though,’

he said as he topped up

myglassof red. ‘I’vebeenaway so long. I miss thegreenness.’‘Yeah, I knowwhat you

mean.’ I thoughtofall thedeserts I’d seen, thecollapsedcities,bomb-tornbuildings,ramshacklepoorsuburbs,half-nakedkidsintheslums.‘But you know, Rose,

most of all I miss the –

familiarity.’Something in his voicemade my stomach lurchslightly. ‘It’ssonicetoseeyou,’ Isaidquietlyand,atthe time, I meant it. Heputhishandovermine.‘Doyouever–haveyouever seen anyone … ‘ Hetrailedoff.‘No.’ I shook my headvehementlyandpickedup

mywineglass.‘Rosie.Petal.’Heputhishand out for a momentand I felt myself start toexhale. As if I’d beenholding my breath foreightyears.‘Do you feel like – doyou feel like it changedyou?Forever?’‘Society X?’ He pushedawayhisplateandrefilled

hisowntumbler. ‘Yeah,ofcourse.’‘We were so stupid,

weren’t we?’ I said,shockedtofeeltearsspringtomyeyes.‘We weren’t stupid,

Rose.Wewerejustyoung.Young and incrediblynaïve.’‘I loved him so bloody

much,youknow.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ he saidruefully.I smiled. ‘I loved you

too.’‘Did you?’He looked so

dubiousI felta latentstabofguilt.‘Yes, of course. It was

just –well, you know.Hewasso–charismatic.Igot…Igot…’Isoughtfortherightword.

‘Side-tracked?’‘Yes, side-tracked. He

was so charismatic – andsobloodymadintheend.’‘Well,I’dcertainlynever

met anyone like Dalzielbefore.’‘Nor had I.’ I grinned

wryly.‘IwenttoacompinDerby,forGod’ssake.’‘So,then.Hewasfroma

different world. You were

overwhelmed.’ He put hishand over mine. ‘Don’tbeatyourselfupaboutit.’‘It’s hard, though, isn’tit? You know,’ I fiddledwith my wooden napkinring, ‘I did a report inRwanda a few years ago,aboutsurvivorsguilt.’‘Idefinitelyfeelguilty.’‘SodoI.Ithinkit’skindof driven everything I’ve

done since then – whathappened in that hotelroomthatnight.’‘Are you saying we’resurvivors?’‘Well, I’m not equatingus to the poor bloodyRwandans, if that’s whatyou mean, but still – Idon’t know. It definitelyleftme–different.’‘Idon’tunderstand.’

‘Like, Iwas lucky togetoutofitallunscathed.’‘And?’‘And now I have a – akindofduty.’‘Whatkindofduty?’‘It’s hard to explain.’ Ifelt slightly abashed. ‘Tohelpothers, I suppose. It’sfocused my career,definitely.’

‘Well, it’s left me –’ hedrained his wine andgrinned–‘it’sleftmewithadutytogetdrunk.’I gazed at him,meetingthekindbrowneyesthatIremembered so well now.‘Oh,James.’OnlylaterdidI regret not heeding hisobliquewarning.He held his hand up tomy face, and slowly I felt

myself start to relax in awayIhadn’tforyears.‘Shallwe…?’WhydidIfeel suddenly shy? ‘Shallwego?’We paid as quickly aswecould.Wewalkedbackthrough the streets of St-Germain,past thebrightlylit cafés and bars, crowdson the pavements in thesultry night – but we

didn’tstopforalastdrink.Wewentbacktothehoteland we fell into bed. Wedidn’tgetoutfortwodays.I couldn’t explain it atfirst.We met and wereconnected. It was as ifour secret held ustogether;asifweweretheonly two who couldunderstand. Perhaps we

remembered why we’dloved one another asteenagers, or maybe wejust clung on, looking forsomething good to comefrom something terrible.And we shared a love ofadventure,athirstfornewexperience that perhapsDalzielhadtaughtus.Ourreward from Dalziel: that,and a sense of guilt.Whatever the truth, the

rest,well, the rest as theysay, was history. Untiltoday.

ChapterFifteen

LONDON,MARCH

2008

I walked through St

James’sParkandIfeltlikeI’ddrunktoomuchcoffee,which I probably had. Ialso felt exhausted and alittlemad,tosaytheleast.Nothing quite added upand every lead swervedoff, with nothing comingback to tie up neatly. Butwhat I couldn’t decipherwas, was there really nostory worth covering – orhad I simply lost my

abilitytofollowatrail?Onthelittlebridgeover

thelakeIstoppedtowatchthe pelicans, who lookedsovenerableoutonthefatrocks,billsrestingontheirplumpchests.Atallcouplein crackling anorakshanded me their camera,thanking me profusely inbroken English. I took thepicture and walked on,

pausing beneath thefrothing blossom trees inthe sweet-scented air, inthis oasis in the midst ofall the fumes of Londontown. My mind wasspinning fast as aCatherineWheel.IfXavrefusedtoprintit,perhaps I shouldwrite thestory anyway: someonewould want it, surely. It

was my duty now todiscernthefacts–that’sallI could see. But I knew Iwas playing with fire. Ithoughtaboutthechildrenup at my mother’s house.This was the longest timeI’dbeenawayfromthem.My phone bleeped. I

didn’t recognise thenumber; the text messagesimply named a London

hotel and asked me tocome there in an hour, totell Reception I hadarrived.Ithoughtabouthowone

day you don’t knowsomeone and then thenext, you meet and youcan never go back, cannever unknow them. Ithoughtaboutthepointatwhich our lives collide,

like a great cometspeeding across a hugesky,touchingfirstonestar,thenimmediatelythenext,connecting momentarily,arbitrarily – and thenmoving on. But thatconnection is indelible,even when it’s lost. It’sthere for ever. Dannywasin the forefront of mymind,butMayaandJameswere there too; and the

tendrils of Society Xwerepushing their way upthroughthefoundationsofmylifeagain.I put the phone away

and I walked on and onand on. The sky was soblue, a true blue, theclouds stacked and soft. Iwanted to reach up andpull them down aroundme,hideawayinside.

The past twenty-fourhourshadchangedmylifeirrefutably, I knew thatmuch. I couldn’t go backtohowIwasbefore.AndIwas too exhausted to gohome.Iwalkedonintotown.

The hotel on CharlotteStreet was discreet andgreen, with flags waving

gently in the breezeoutside, a shinyreceptionist and a busyrestaurant full of womenwho wore sunglasses onthe tops of their coiffuredheads, andmen in chinos.Anote atReception askedme to wait in therestaurant;IwasshowntoatableinthecornerwhereI ordered juice and,realisingIhadn’teatenfor

a while, a scone withcreamandjam.I’d just finished itwhen

a young slim girl wearinga beige headscarf andblack trousers arrived atmyelbow.‘RoseMiller?’Shehada

familiar look but I didn’tknow her. ‘Please, wouldyoucomewithme?’I followedhertoasuite

upstairs. She wore nojewelleryandnomake-up,and her hair was pulledback tightly under thehijab.‘Please,haveaseat,’she

murmured, taking off herjacket, and I perched onthe edge of the armchair,waiting. Her skin wasfascinating: smooth andshiny like marble. ‘Can I

getyouadrink?’‘I’mfine, thanks,’ I said.The sitting room of thesuite was understated andfurnished beautifully for ahotel, the smell from ahuge vase of pink rosespervadingtheair;thedoortothebedroomshuttight.The main door openedand a suave man walkedin; the girl immediately

slunkintothebackground.I recognised him from thepetrol station the othernight.Only,whenIlookedcloser, there wassomething familiar abouthis handsome face –somethingthatstilleludedme.‘Mrs Miller?’ He

extended a hand. ‘AshKattan.’

Weshookhands.‘Who – was it you who

contactedmethen?’‘IbelieveyoumetMaya

againyesterday.Mayaandherdoctor.’Ashresembledhissister,

tawny-skinned and sleek,though he looked morelike his father than shedid, perhaps. Only hisround eyes were very

different, moreprotuberant than Hadi’s,less veiled and far lighter.Reminiscent of someoneelse. I just couldn’t thinkwho.‘Yes, Idid,verybriefly.’

Iwondereduneasily if thefamilyalsoknewI’dcalledthepoliceyesterday.‘I think my father was

surprised that you

returned to Albion Manorwhen he had asked –’ hesmiled–‘well,youknow.’‘Asked me to leave?’ I

helpedhimout.IthoughtIheard a noise from theother room, but he didn’treact. My heart beat alittle faster. I wonderedwhether anyone was inLondon with them, andthen I despisedmyself for

hopingitmightbeDanny.‘Yes. He can be quite –

formidable,myfather.’‘Well, the thing is –

Maya,she—’Ididn’twantto get his sister into yetmore trouble. Quickly Ibacktracked.‘Iwenttothehouse because, well, Ithought I should makesure that your dad reallydidn’twanttospeaktome

again. I was hoping towrite about him, you see.He’s such an interestingman, and the localcommunity would be sofascinatedbyhislife.’Ashstoodandwalkedto

the flowers, which hestudied for a moment.Flattery was getting menowhere, that wasobvious.

‘MrsMiller.’ Ash Kattanhadalowattractivevoice,a voice that was used tospeaking and being heard.I wondered how hispolitical campaign wasgoing, if he was afterEddie Johnson’s seat.Somethingtoldmehehadbiggerambitions.‘I’m very worried aboutmy sister.’ Ash turned. ‘I

will be frank.Maya is nota well woman, you mustunderstand. She isdevastatedbythedeathofherboyfriend.Sheisnot–’he paused, searching forthe right words – ‘she isnot in control, I thinkwould be the most truethingtosay.’‘What do you mean,control?’

‘She – she has somehabits that are not goodfor her. That is why wehave asked Dr Fisher tostayatthehouseforafewdays.Toobserveher.’‘And the medicine that

shetakes?’Iasked.‘Maya is – she has had

some mental healthproblems, Mrs Miller. Sheisofa–ofwhatyoumight

callanervousdisposition.’‘I’msorrytohearthat.’I

thought of Maya’s wordsabout her own mother.Busylosinghermind.‘Couldyou be a little more …expansive?’‘My father would be

upsetthatI’vetoldyou.Heisveryashamedrightnow,ashamedandworried.Butthe truth is, Maya is an

addict, Mrs Miller.’ For asecondIthoughtAsh’sfacemight actually crumple.‘My sister is trulyaddicted.’The room felt stiflinghot suddenly. ‘I see.’ Mymind raced back to thetimes I’d met Maya. ‘Ihadn’trealisedthat,Ihaveto say. I thought she was… just broken-hearted,

really. Brokenhearted andfrustrated…’Itrailedoff.Ilooked at Ash. He smiledback.Hehadasmallblackmole,almost likeabeautymark, by his mouth. Hereached in his pocket,pulledoutcigarettes.‘She is broken-hearted,yes.Herboyfrienddied.’‘Iknow,’Isaidcarefully.‘PoorMaya.’

‘But he was also theproblem when he wasalive.’‘Inwhatsense?’‘Hewasalsoherdealer.’‘Isee.’Iconsideredwhat

he’d said. ‘To be honest, Iwondered if Maya hadsome strong politicalbeliefs too,’ I said ascasuallyasIcould.AshKattanlitacigarette

and exhaled through hisperfect white teeth. ‘Suchas?’Heraisedaneyebrow.‘I saw her picture, onthat Islamic march inLondon a few weeks ago.She was on the news,wasn’t she? And she saidshewas… learning aboutthehistoryofhercountry.I wondered what thatmeant.’

‘You wondered if thatmeant she might be apotential terrorist?’ AshKattan laughed drily.‘Well, why not? We allhavebrownskin;wewereborn Muslim – althoughactuallymymotherwas aChristian. We are theinfidels, no? And I expectMaya said my father’spoliticsaredodgy?’

My mind was reelingback and I tried toconcentrate. The levers ofthedeadlockwerestartingto slide into place – buttheyweren’tthereyet.‘Mayawasalittle…lost

a few years ago and shedid turn to religion. Myfathertriedtohelpher;heintroducedher towhathecalls the jet-set, the

children of his businesscolleagues, the good-timegang.Hethoughtitwoulddistract her from herunhappiness. He does notbelieveinIslamanymore;he lost his faith manyyears ago. Onlyunfortunately, she metNadif.’ He turned to hisassistant. ‘An ashtray,Taalah,please.’

The girl jumped up atonce. She was in awe ofhim; I could see thatmuch.I cleared my throatnervously. ‘But Maya said– she said your dad, after9/11,thathereclaimedhisfaith.’‘You can’t believeanything she says at themoment. She is a very

mixed-up girl. My fatherwasangrythatallMuslimsweretarredwiththesamebrush, that’s true to say.But it didn’t mean hewanted to blow up theworld,MrsMiller.Itdidn’tmean he began to followbin Laden or any othermullah.’‘I see,’ I said quietly. Istudied his face again.

Handsome, smooth. Toosmooth really. Prettyalmost.‘And personally I see

myselfasBritish, firstandforemost. All I want is toiron out Britain’s future.The rise of the BNP, thatidiot Griffin, the EnglishDefence League, theintegrationofthefarrightinto Europe’s major

political parties, it’s all adisgraceinthetwenty-firstcentury,don’tyouthink?’‘YesIdo.Absolutely.’‘So, Mrs Miller,’ he

switchedtack,‘Iwouldaskthat you understandMaya’s sad predicament.And that you trust herfamily know what is bestfor her.’ He held my eyeand I felt a strange

hypnotic quality abouthim, a trait that wouldmake Ash Kattan quitebrilliant as a politician.Like his father, he wasmesmerising.‘Of course.’ I thought

back to the death at themanor. To Maya’s glazedeyes yesterday. ‘So whatwasthedoctorgivingher?’‘Methadone. She is

withdrawing from heroin,Mrs Miller. That is ourpainfultruth.’I felt a rush ofembarrassment. I thoughtof the addicts I’d metbefore; of Maya’s glazedeyes. How could I havebeen so dense? I thoughtofOxfordandtheSociety,ofmyownguiltatthepartI’d played. I felt old and

tired;wearyofthismess.Ijustwantedtogohome.‘I’mso sorry.’ I stood toleave. ‘It must be verydifficultforyou.’‘Maya has beenweakened, that is all. Shehas lost her way but herfamily are there for her.’Ash smiled his enchantingsmile again. ‘Weare theretohelpherbackon track.

The devil is within us all,but we need to learn tosubduehim.’I stared at Ash and helooked back at me. Thedevil is within us … Ofcourse! I’d heard thosevery words in a previouslifetime.Ifeltalightsweatbreakoutonmybrowasitall came back to me in aflash. How could I have

beensoincrediblystupid?Helookedlikehisfatheras he stood now, takingmy elbow lightly. ‘I’m sosorry, Mrs Miller. It hasbeen a pleasure to meetyou properly, but I haveanother meeting soon attheLondonAssembly.’‘Ofcourse.’‘Thank you for yourunderstanding.’

By the door I took adeepbreath.‘Iwondered–didyougotoOxford?’‘Totheuniversity?’‘Yes.’‘Ididindeed.Oriel.Andyou?’Ididn’tknowwhethertofeel relief or incredulitythat he didn’t remember.‘Yes,’ I mumbled.‘Magdalen.Icamedownin

‘ninety-four.’‘A little younger thanme then.’ He bowedpolitely. ‘Amazing place,Oxford. Very – esteemed.What a shame our pathsdidnotcross.’Inodded,mymouthdry.ThememoriesofthatcoldNovember night cameflooding back: thedebating chamber at the

Union, denouncing Luciferand the idea of fallenangels. How young I’dbeen,howutterlynaïve.‘Yes, it is a shame,’ Imumbled.Hedidn’tseemtonoticemy disquiet. ‘I miss mytime there, I must say.Such freedom. Suchopportunity.’‘Yes.Wastedonuswhen

we’re so young, Isometimesthink.’‘And, please, can I ask

for your discretion?’ Heescortedmetothedoor.‘Iknowwhatyoujournalistsarelikewithastory,likeadog with a bone. But itwill only bring shame onmyfamily,yousee.’‘Of course.’ I glanced

backatthebedroomdoor,

still shut. ‘I’m notinterested in shaminganyone,really.’‘Good.’ He half-bowed.‘Thank you. We havesufferedenough,Ithink.’‘Where’s Maya now?’ Iaskedcasually.‘At my father’s house, Ihope.’ He extended hishand. I took it. His skinwashot.‘Beingcaredfor.’

I didn’t doubt that iftheywantedtokeepMayalocked up at AlbionManor, they could. Butmaybe,withherhistory,itwas for the best. I cursedmy journalistic greed formisreading the story; forbelieving the words of ajunkie.Butas I closed thedoor quietly behind me, Iremembered the words ofmy first ball-breaking

editor at the Guardian.‘Followyour gut –ninety-nine per cent of the timeit’llberight.’Something here still

didn’t quite add up.Someonewaslying.

UNIVERSITY,

MICHAELMAS

TERM,NOVEMBER

1991

Brighter once amidstthehost

Of Angels, than thatstarthestarsamong.

Lucifer,ParadiseLost,Milton

I was late for the debate.I’d been immersed inwriting lastminute notesfor Dalziel, who’d finallysummoned my help after

I’dhelpedhimdressJesusin the cathedral, and mywatchhadstoppedso thatI’d run like crazy throughthe chilly Novemberstreetsandstill Iwas late.BythetimeI’dslippedintothe heaving room, Dalzielwas already speaking onLucifer: fallen Angel andmisunderstood hero – orGod’sworstenemy?Hewassurroundedbyhis adoring

entourage, the girls alldolled up in flicky blackeyeliner,most of the boysin velvet trousers likeDalziel’sown.My own churchgoingexperience had beenlimited to once a year atChristmas, when myfather, usually afterhalf abottle of sherry, made hisannual attempt to ensure

everyoneintownknewhewas a ‘good bloke’ andtherefore ‘very generous’(his words), whichinvolved marshalling thewhole family into a pewfor an hour and a half ofcarols and alertingeveryoneloudlytothefacthewasslidingacrispfiftyinto the money bag theypassed round.Occasionally,ifmymother

had a new outfit shefanciedairing,wewentatEaster too; and myCatholic grandma hadtaken me to Mass a fewtimes in Rouen duringfamily holidays,mainly toadore the priests. Theseinauspicious occasions,plus the rather desultoryattempt my school hadmadetofoistsomekindofreligious education onto

largely uninterestedadolescents, were aboutthesumofit.The few debates I’dattended so far at theOxford Union had beenrather dull – over myhead, to be honest. I’dbeen to oneunimaginatively entitledState or Public: Whicheducation serves you best?;

and also heard VanessaRedgrave be terriblyserious and starey-eyedabout communism.Frankly, I found the placeintimidating, theconfidence of the studentspeakers alarming, aconfidence I couldn’tpossiblyrival.ButtonightIhadavestedinterest.Arguing for Lucifer, the

fallen angel and herowasDalziel. I willed him onmentally but although hisargument was interesting,even I could tell it wassomewhat confused. Toolate, the notes from myown reading of ParadiseLostsatwastedinmybag.‘Sure Lucifer missed his

way for awhile, and boy,didn’t he pay the price.

But he was the ultimatebringer of light,’ Dalzielrounded off calmly. ‘Themorningstar.Hejustgotabit big for his boots,thereforeI’darguethatnoone can say he was evil.He only wanted whateveryone wants: a fairdemocratic system, notone where someone isbetter than others. SoLuciferdidn’twanttobow

down to Adam;well,whyshould he have done? Hewas around first. And hewasalotmorecool. Irestmycase.’The dark-haired young

man who opposed himstood now,wearing a suitcheaper than he made itlook.ImissedhisnameasDalziel’s groupies werewhooping loudly, but his

case was compelling.Succinctlyheargued foraDevil who wanted toomuch,who introduced theselfish ‘I will’ into theworldasherefusedtobowtoGod.‘The devil is within us

all,’ he suggested withsilky persuasion, smilinganelegantsmilethatneverquite reached his

protuberant light eyes. Hespoke with an almostimperceptible accent Iwasn’t well-travelledenoughtoplace. ‘ButsoisGod, and not just becauseyou go to church onSunday or pray to Meccaevery morning or don’tplay on the Sabbath. Godis in here.’ He tapped hischest. ‘Satan or Iblis, orhowever you name the

devil, is in here.’ Hetapped his head. ‘But it isup to us to fight thetemptations.AndIsuggestthat if we fight them, it’sfar more heroic thandescendingintoChaosandPandemonium, as Luciferandhisfallenangelschoseto.’‘Really?’Dalzielyawned

withfeignedboredom.His

cronies laughedappreciatively.‘Yes, really, my friend,’

his opponent answeredcalmly, but undisguisedfrustration blazed acrosshisface.‘Thethingis,oldstick,I

think God sodded off along time ago. Just takethis century, for example.A couple of world wars,

Hiroshima, the Holocaust,Pol Pot – where was hethen? So Lucifer canhardly be blamed forgettingfedup.’‘Didn’t Lucifer who

became Satan bring thesethings? Your God perhapsisgone.Mineisstillhere.’Thedark-hairedboyclosedhis fingers into a fist overhisheart.

I felt a stab ofannoyance at hisconviction – and the factthat Dalziel was clearlyabout to lose to a better,morearticulatespeaker.‘Marvellous, my friend.

So,’ Dalziel batted hislashesatthePresident;sheflushed unbecomingly, ‘isit time for the vote? I’vegot some very devilish

drinkingtodo.’Heresistedwinking at the audience,butwas greetedby cheersandcatcallsanyway.The vote was close, but

as I’d predicted, Dalziellost. Despite hissupporters, the otherargument had been farmore compelling – andwatchinghimcloselynow,I saw the anger blaze up

inside. It was almosttangible, the fury, like avirtual life-force stipplinghim; I felt him struggle topush it downagain as thebeautiful dark girl calledYasmin slipped acomfortinghandinhis.Hemanaged to smileelegantly as the other boybowed to her and thendeparted, his largelymaleentouragefollowing.

IspentaslongasIcouldfiddling around with mybag while Dalziel flirtedwith the President but hishumiliation was obvious,and he soon disappearedwiththebeautifulgirlandthetallclumsyoneintow,thegirlshe’dbeenwithinthe pub the first night I’dmethim,withoutsomuchas a backward glance atJamesorme.

‘Why’s he so angry?’ Iasked James, fighting mydisappointment as weheaded for the bar. ‘Hedidn’t look like he wastakingitveryseriously.’‘Dunno. That was somesort of grudge match, Ithink.Andhehates losinganything.’‘Whatgrudge?’‘Notsure.Dalzieldoesn’t

give much away. Thinkthat bloke and Dalzielwenttoschooltogetherorsomething.Don’tlikeeachothermuch,that’sclear.’We had one drink, but

neitherofuswasreally inthemood.‘Come on, I’ll walk you

back,’ James said,retrieving his guitar frombehind the bar. I realised

I’dleftmyumbrellaintheDebating Chamber andtrottedupstairstofetchit.Passing the darkened

pool room, I thought Iheard amurmuring and amoaning.Ipeeredthroughtheglassdoor.I couldn’t be sure but I

thought I could seeDalziel, his hair ghostlywhite in the dim light. In

the corner, someone elsesat smoking. The tall girl,Lena. I blinked. Dalzielwas bending somethingover the pool-table beforehim. Asmy eyes got usedto the dark, I realised histrouserswereunbuttoned.Accidentally I nudgedthedoorwithmyshoeasIcraned to see, and itswung open a tiny bit.

Dalziel turned and smiledoverhis shoulderatme,atriumphant kind of smile,and I saw that he wasrhythmically screwingwhoever was before him,holding their head downas they sighed, their armssplayed across the greenbaize.Irealiseditmustbethe other girl, the lovelydark one with the streaksin her hair. And for a

moment I thought helooked like the devil hehad just revered, thatbeautiful angel Lucifer,fairest of them all, bathedin unearthly light: themorningstar.The portraits of the

robedmenwho’dhungonthe Union walls for everwatched unperturbed as Iran down the stairs, my

cheeksscarletwithshame.‘Let’s go.’ I shot pastJamesandranoutintotherain.At the porters’ lodgeJames tried to kissme forthefirsttime,butIduckedhis attempt and dashedinside, utterly confused. Iwas frightened by myfutile desire to be nearDalziel. I was frightened

by how much I wasattracted to him – anattractionIfeltinmyverycore, despite the fact Iknewhewas dangerous. Isawthepowerhehadoverpeople, a power that Icould not pinpointproperly, and it filled mewith a kind of terror. Itfilled me with terrorbecause it made me wanttoabandonmyself;itmade

mewanttoflingmyselfathisveryfeet.

ChapterSixteen

LONDON,MARCH

2008

Somehow Ihadknownhe

would be there as I leftAsh’s hotel room andwalked out ontoCharlotteStreet.‘Don’t make that jokeaboutabadpenny,please,’Isaidtiredly,butmyheartwasbangingatthesightofhim.‘Notfondofjokesreally,Rose,’ Danny said in hisScottish drawl. He was

chewing amatchstick thathe moved lazily to theother sideofhismouth. ‘Ithoughtyou’dhaveknownthatbynow.’‘Ijustwantyoutoknow,

Iwasinvitedthistime.’‘Aye, Idoknow.’Danny

yawned lightly and pulledhis tobacco out of hispocket.Something strong and

painful filled my veins.Humiliation. Anger withmyself. ‘Don’t you getboredofbeingtheirguarddog?’‘It’s my job,’ he said,removing the match androlling a cigarette. ‘Justdoingmyjob,see,doll.’‘Right,’ I said. I lookedup at him, into thoseinscrutableblueeyes.‘And

how do you square thiswithyourself?’‘What?’‘The violence up at

AlbionManor,theheavies,beating people up – menwhodie,forChrist’ssake–guns, the drug-addicteddaughter–shallIgoon?’‘Pleasedon’t.’‘But,Danny—’

He put a finger on mylips to silenceme. ‘I sleepeasily enough, Rose,’ hesaid quietly, and then hejust started whistling –right into my face. A taxipulled up in front of usand a stunning girl in aleather coat got out. Hewatched her impassively,shrugging down into hisparkaashelittheroll-up.

I felt a curious stab ofsomething in my gut.‘Couldyou…?’Ifaltered.Oureyesmet.‘Could I what?’ Heresumedthewhistling.I could see the frecklesonthebridgeofhisnose.Isuddenlywanted topunchhim square on it. ‘Couldyounotwhistleinmyface,please?’

He justwinked atme. Ishouldered my bag,makingmywaydown thefront steps to the street tothe tune of ‘My BonnieLies Over the Ocean’,gritting my teeth. Then itstopped.‘Rose,’ he called after

mesoftly.Iturnedback.‘Yes?’The smoke from his

cigarette was a hazebetween us. ‘RememberwhatIsaid.Gohome.’Flushing furiously, I

walkedtowardsTottenhamCourt Road and the carpark. I’d be damned if I’dletthemalltellmewhattodo.AndIknewonepersonwhomightbeabletohelpme reveal the secret Icouldn’t work out. It

seemed I wasn’t goinghomequiteyet.

Ihadhalfanhourtogettothecuttingsoffice,CuttingOut, before it closed forthe day. Naturally I gotstuck behind a patheticprocession of anaemic-looking Hare Krishnasbanging their drums andringing their bells down

Euston Road. Then apolice van screeched pastus and blocked off theturningtoCamden.‘For Christ’s sake,’ I

muttered, trying toreverse.Asurlycabdriverwasrefusing tobudgeandIwasabouttogetwedgedin.IndirtyKilburnIparked

thecaronameterandran

uptheroad.Ifoundashopand bought a packet ofBourbon biscuits and abottle of Pernod. Then Ijogged down the stairs tothe basement door of thetown-house.‘Please,’ I buzzed the

door, ‘please, it’s RoseLangton.IusedtoworkforXavierSmith.’‘I’mshut,’adisembodied

voicesaid.‘Goaway.’‘Please, Peggy. It’s soimportant. I wouldn’tbother you, but this one’sawinner.Iswear.’She opened the door acrack.IshovedthePernodroundit.‘And I’ve got biscuits,’ Isaid,placatingly.‘Andhardcash?’

‘Andhardcash.’Muttering,sheletmein.

She was more blind thanthelasttimeI’dbeenhere,andherglassesweremilk-bottle thick, magnifyinghergreyeyesalarmingly.‘Remember me, Peggy?’

I smiled as I pressed theBourbons on her too.‘Haven’t seen you in awhile.’

‘They all come back,’she said, seeming bothcross and triumphant.Thesmell of cats in the warmbasement was ferocious.‘They realise the damnedcomputer won’t revealeverything like somedamned crystal ball, andtheycomeslopingback.’‘Of course they do,’ I

soothed. ‘How else would

we get to the bottom ofthings?’‘No need to butter me

up, my girl,’ she sniffed,but a small smile playedround her wrinkled oldmouth. Her lipstick was astartling orange. ‘I’mmakingchai.Wantsome?’‘Lovesome.’Itwouldbe

undrinkable but worth it.‘Thankyou.’

‘Whatdoyouwant?’‘I’mlookingforanything

you’vegotonamancalledHadi Kattan.’ I headed tothe end of the room thathoused the 1990s throughtotheseventies.‘Hadi,Ashand Maya Kattan – dothose names ring anybells? London societypages,IranianandpossiblySaudiconnections.’

‘Not off the top of myhead.’ She put the Pernodonashelfandpulledopena drawer. ‘But look inthere.Ifit’snotinthere,itdidn’thappen.’‘And I was also looking

for a girl called Huriyyahsomething. Possibly thesame family. ProbableOxford connection. I don’tknow her surname,

though.’Thekettlewaswhistling

asIwentthroughfileafterfile, my hands shaking. Icutmyfingeronapieceofpaper. Eventually I foundHadi Kattan. There was apiece on his rumouredinvolvement with theIranian Secret Service,MOIS or VEVAK, from1989 but it was largely

unsubstantiated.Andthenfinally, Icameacrosswhat Iwas lookingfor.ApictureofHadi’swife,Alia,fromthelateeighties.Her photo stared out atme;apictureofthetwoofthem at a polo match atthe Royal Berkshire PoloClub.ShelookedalotlikeMaya.Andshewasn’twho

I’d feared; she lookednothing like Huriyyah. Ofcourse she didn’t –Huriyyah was far tooyoungtohavebeenAshorMaya’s mother. I felt arush of relief. I didn’trecognise her: thank God,I’dbeenwrong.And then anothercutting,muchearlier,fromTatler, 1972, preserved in

a plastic sleeve. Alia wasso young, pregnant,beautiful and glowing inan ice-cream-coloureddress.Ilookedagainatthephoto. Behind the elegantcouple stood a tallimposing man. LordHigham. Was it myimagination – I cranedforward in the harsh lightof Peggy’s basement – orwasHigham’shandalmost

claspingAlia’s?Silently Peggy passed

me one last file. A smallarticle about an oilcompany, a subsidiary ofShell, franchised by anIranian-basedconglomerate.Therewasasmall photo of two menshaking hands at a do inKuwait.‘I always suspected that

Higham was not to betrusted,’ she sniffed,pushingherglassesuphernose.‘Hisownagendaandallthat.Theposhonesarenevermuchgood.’‘British Governmentsteps into oil crisis: Alliesfor the good of Britishindustry,’ the headlinesaid.Beneath it, a few lines

about how the pair wereallies not just on the polofield, but also in politicsandoil.I looked closer. HighamandKattan, shakinghandsoverahugevaseoflilies.

Ghosts whom I thoughthad been at peace wereback walking the earth –images I’d buried after

university back in theforefront ofmymind. Forthe first time inawhile, Ifound myself craving adrink.Standing beneath the

sprawling sycamoreoutside Peggy’s house, Icalledmydearestfriend.‘Takeme fora cocktail?

No work talk, I promise.Nopressure.’

He took me to his clubinShoreditch.ItwasfullofyounggirlsinlongT-shirtsand leggings, and menwho’d snorted too muchcocaine and talked tooloudlyaboutit.We didn’t discuss work.We talked about him,about his constantexhaustionatthemoment.And thenweendedupon

the subject of mymarriage.Hardlythelesseroftwoevils.‘What’sgoingon,Rose?’Xavier sipped his martini.‘Youseem–distracted.’‘What do you mean?’ Iwasdefensive.‘Distracted by your life.By it not being what itshouldbe.’‘That’syou talking,Xav,

notme.’‘You had so much

promise, darling.’ Helooked positivelymaudlin.Icouldsee thegrey inhiscroppedhair.‘Christ,Xavier,’Ipushed

my straw very hard intothe tiny shards of ice atthe bottom of my glass,‘you sound like myobituaryorsomething.’

‘I meant I didn’t thinkyou’dplumpforthis.’‘For what?’ I felt

horribly raw anddefensive. ‘Three beautifulchildren and a million-pound house in theCotswolds?’‘Oh, do me a favour,

Rose. You were neverabout the money. Youwere about the ambition,

the story and the …’ Hewas distracted by abeautiful mixed-race boyin jeans so low-slung theshadow of his arse wasvisible.‘Thekill.’‘I’m really happy beinghome with my children,thank you.’ It was true –most of the time. ‘Whatyou mean, Xavier, whatyou really mean is – you

don’tlikeJames.’‘Yousaidit,darling,notme.’‘Youmightaswellhavedone.’‘And you married him,notme.ThankGod.’Therewasalongpause.‘You know why Imarried him,’ I saidquietly.

‘But it’s not enough, isit, Rose? It’s not enoughbeinghisnursemaid.’‘I’mnot.’Iwasfurious.‘Or,dareIsayit,darling

—’I held a hand up in

protestation. ‘So don’t sayit,Xavier.’‘His mummy.’ He

ignored me, stretchingwith nonchalance, looking

out at the high-rises thatencroached on us. CanaryWharfblinkedblindly.‘Shut up! James is a

good father,’when he feelslike being, ‘and he’s verytalented. He’s passionateabouthiswork.He’smadesomebrilliantmusic.’‘If you like that sort of

thing. But does he loveyou?’ Xav removed

something from his backteeth with great delicacy.‘I mean, really love you?Like you deserve to beloved?’‘Don’tminceyourwords

will you, Xavier? Christ,it’s not Brief bloodyEncounter or something.It’sreallife.’‘I’m nothing if not a

mincer,darling,youknow

that. So why do you staywithhim?’‘Because.’‘Because?’‘Because I want to givemykidsachance.BecauseIwantthemtohavewhatIhad.’‘Whichwas…?’‘A stable home,’ I saidrather helplessly. ‘A

normal loving home.Parents who liked eachother.’‘Rose,’ he said gently,‘youcan’tfakethattypeofthing.’‘I’mnot.’ButwebothknewIwaslying. ‘I think I’ll haveanotherone.’Idrainedmydrink.‘That bad, eh?’ He

waved at the waitress. ‘Ijust worry that your dearhusband’s the kind ofarsehole who hangs outherewithhis baseball capon backwards aged forty,boasting to a couple oftarts half his age that heonce took an E with theChemical Brothers andstayeduptillWednesday.’‘So what kind of

arseholeareyou,Xav?’‘The kind who can’tresist one,’ he drawled.‘Excuse me one moment.’Heslidoffinthedirectionoftheboy.I checked my phoneagain.Nothing.Funnyhowsuddenly Iwaswedded tothis bit of plastic. Like itwasmylifeline.Xavslidback.

‘Blimey,thatwasquick,’I marvelled. ‘You didn’tjust—’‘What do you take mefor,Rose?’He loweredhislashes. ‘Even I’m not thatswift.’My phone bleeped. Ireadthemessage;myhandshookalittle.‘Who’s that?’ Xavnarrowed his eyes. ‘Rose

Langton. I recognise thatlook.’‘No one,’ I said, but Iwas blushing. I found itoddly comforting that heknewmesowell.‘Rose,’ he sighed. ‘ForChrist’s sake, be careful.Youdon’tneedtogethurtnow.’Itwas late, itwas dark,London throbbed around

me.Fullupwithadrenalinandnerves,Ilefttheclub.

Themoonwasfull,butthedim little street nearPaddington Station wastoo narrow to absorb itslight.Ahanging-basketfullofdeadgeraniumshungbythe peeling front door ofthe B &B, half a bicyclewithnoseatchainedtothe

railing. Somewhere inside,a couple argued in anAfrican dialect, Yorubaperhaps, their voicesfloating out angrily fromthegroundfloor,thesmellof curry and rotten binsmixing in the chill springnight. I paused, unsurewhetherthiswastherightplace. And then I heard alow tuneful whistle. ‘MyBonnieliesovertheocean

…‘The front door wasopen.Iranupthestairs.He was lying fullyclothed on the smalldouble bed, on top of thecandlewick bedspread,smoking, the ashtray onhischest, theonly light inthe room the streetlampoutside. I stood nervouslyat the door, my back

pressedtightlyagainstit.The net curtain blew inthe breeze from the half-open window, and Ishiveredinthechill.Iwasfrightened. I didn’tremembereverfeelinglikethis before. Happiness;excitement, perhaps. No,not so pure as happiness.Absoluteanticipation.‘Whyareyouoverthere

and I’m over here?’ heasked, stubbing out hiscigarette. I walked to thebed, and looked down athim. At his thick tousledhair, at the sharp frecklednose, the veiled eyes, theblue dulled by the dimroom. The blue I keptfallingintotimeandagain.I wavered there above

him,unsure–andthenhe

satup,putoutahand.I’dforgottenwhatitwastobewanted.He pulled me down tohim. ‘Rose,’ he murmuredinto my hair and Ibreathed him in. Thegrotty room, the noisefrom the street, the sirensin thedistance fadeduntiltherewasjustus.Us–andtime.

Hepushedbackmyshirtandputhislipsagainstmycollarbone. Never enoughtime,Ithought,dazed,andthenIstoppedthinking.Afterwards.Isleptforawhile.WhenI woke, he was watchingme,andIsmiled,suddenlyshy, pulled the sheet uparound me self-consciously. We gazed at

eachother, thestreet-lightdimly orange behind thenets.‘I don’t know anythingabout you,’ I said. ‘It’sreallyodd.’Herolledoverandawayfrom me. ‘There’s nothingto know.’ He sloshedwhisky from a half-bottleintoastackofplasticcupswithMickeyMouseonthe

side, and handed the toponetome.‘I’d like to knowsomething.’ I sat up a bit.‘Wheredoyoulive,wheredoyoucomefrom,whydoyoudothisstrangejob?’I wanted him to saysomethingthatmadeitallright; that made what hedidacceptableinmyeyes.‘You don’t need to

know, Rose.’ He stared atmeand Icould seemyselfreflected in his eyes.‘Really. I’ve done somethings I’m not proud of,and I’d rather not sharethem.’‘Allright.’Therewasapause.‘Idon’tnormallybehave

likethis,’Isaideventually,sippingatthewhisky.‘I’m

not–thisisthefirsttime–Imean—’ I chokedon thefieryliquid.He grinned. ‘I’d neverhaveguessed.’Ilikedthelaughterlinesaround his eyes. Lots oflaughter lines; lots oflaughing at some point.Onlynotwithme.Hewasstill and watchful. Like acat,waitingforthemouse.

‘Silly.’ I tried to smile.‘Youknowwhat Imean. Imean, the first time – Imean, I’m not a badperson, you know. I don’t–Ihaven’tmadeahabitofthis.’‘You are very unhappy,that’s what I know.’ Hetookthecupfrommeandputitdown.‘It’sobvious.’Herolledmeovergently

andhetracedmyskin,mynakedbackwithonefingerandIshivered.Iwas terrified. Terrified

by what I was starting tofeelsodamnfast,sofast Iwaswindedbyit.Terrifiedby what I might do. Bywhat he might be able tomakemedo.

***

Later he asked me aboutmy husband. I wasreticent: it wasn’t part ofthis;ofus.Ididn’twantitto be. Thinking aboutJamesbroughtmebacktothechildren–andthenmyguiltbegantokickin.We lay tangled on thebedandheaskedmeotherthings: about my career,my times abroad. And for

some reason, I believedthat he was trulyinterested. I’d break off,embarrassed, and he’dpromptmeonagain.Itfeltlikealuxurytobelistenedtothisway.Myhusbanddidn’twantme, that was the truth.Thismandid.Iwasfallingdeeper, too quickly, Icouldfeelit.

And afterwards. Thismanpushedmebackwardson the bed and held myarmshardabovemyhead.Thisman kissedme like Ihadn’t been kissed since Icouldremember.Since—Ever.

ChapterSeventeen

Lust is not a nobleemotion. I drove home atdawn, sick with a newfeeling I couldn’t admit;sick with missing mychildren.InthefastlaneofthemotorwayIopenedthe

window, in need of freshair.Sunlightsliddownthesky beforeme; thewaterygolden shafts disappearedinto the trees and I had asudden vision of walkingupthem,escapingintotheclouds through thatletterboxoflight.Lustmaynotbenoble–but itwas quickly turningto something else.

Something Icouldn’t seemtoreinin.I shook my head. I

neededcoffee.Allthelightswereonin

thehouse.‘Hello?’Icalled.Therewasathumpfrom

upstairs; the oldfloorboardscreaked.‘McCready?’ I was

confused. The cat shotthrough the banisters,making me jump.McCready must havearrivedearly.Adoorslammedshut.‘Where the fuck haveyou been?’ My husbandstood at the top of thestairs, hair on end, in hispyjamatrousers.Mymindbegan tobang

downdead ends like a flyagainst glass. ‘God, youscared me,’ my voicesoundedhoarse. ‘I thoughtyouwereinVietnam?’‘I was. It went so well,

thedealwasdone–Icamehome again to celebrate.You said you didn’t wanttobeleft.’I’dneversaidthat.‘Onlyyouweren’there.’

He looked downreprovingly.‘IwenttoseeXavabout

theKattanstory.’‘Not that again,’ James

snarled, starting down thestairs. ‘I told you to leaveit,didn’tI?’‘What are you so cross

about?’ I walked awayfromhim, thinking, tryingtomakeitaddup,intothe

kitchen.Iputthekettleon,throwing my coat onto achair, checking myselfquickly in the mirror. Iwas pale,my hair tangledand messy, last night’smake-upsmudgedbeneathmy eyes. ‘Xav and I wentfor cocktails last night. Itwastoolatetodriveback,andIwaspissed.’James followedme into

the room. ‘You don’t getpissed.’‘Notoften,no.’‘You never get pissed,’

herepeated,staringatme.‘Not since—’ He stopped.We eyed each other likeboxersinthering,waitingtoseewhowouldtakethefirstjab.‘Well, I just felt like it

for once,’ I shrugged. ‘No

kids, no husband. Whynot?’‘And where are the

bloody kids? I’ve beenlooking forward to seeingthem.’ Hewas petulant asasmallchild.‘They’re at my mum’s.

You know that. She’sbringing them back thisafternoon.’‘How convenient,’ he

muttered.‘What’s that meant to

mean?’ I asked, chuckingPG Tips into the teapot. Iwouldnotlosemytemper.‘It’sthefirsttimesincethetwins were born thatthey’ve stayed therewithoutme.It’satreat.’‘Forwho?’‘Forallofus.Abreather.

It was you, James, who

didn’t want any of us tocomewithyoutoSaigon,Iseem to remember. So,’ Ichangedtacktodeflecttheinevitable row, ‘did it gowell?’‘Yes,’ he said shortly. ‘I

got everything I needed.It’sallon.’‘Brilliant.’ The kettle

snapped off. ‘Listen, I’mknackered. I’m going to

have a kip. That lastmargarita didn’t go downverywell,Ihavetoadmit.Tea’sinthepot.’‘OK.’He’dstartedrifling

through the post on thetable.‘You can tell me all

about Vietnam later,yeah?’‘Not much to tell,’ he

shrugged indifferently.

‘Got what I needed, that’sall.Wecanrelaxagain.’Upstairs I got straightintotheshower,ashotasIcouldbearit,andscrubbedmyself from head to toe.Then I drew the curtainsand got into bed, but Icouldn’t sleep, despite myexhaustion. I just wantedmy children – wantedEffie’s plump little arms,

and Freddie’s fat tummy,Alicia’s skinny frame – allin bed with me now. Icouldn’twaittoseethem.I’d just dozed off when

the doorbell rang. Ichecked the clock; it wasstillmuchtooearlyformymothertohavemadeitallthewayfromDerbyshire.Igot up anyway,disappointed, and walked

outontothelandinginmydressinggown.‘Whowasit?’Icalledto

James.‘What?’ His voice was

distant.‘Whowasatthedoor?’‘Ithoughtyougotit.’‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I

muttered. I went down tothe kitchen and rang my

parents’ house. My fatheranswered.‘Hi,Dad,’Isaidjovially.

‘Just checking what timeMumleft.’‘She’shere,’hesaid.‘Running late?’ I said,

myheartsinking.I’dnevercraved my children’spresence more than thissecond. ‘Can I talk to thekids,please?’

‘Whatdoyoumean?’myfather said. I heard mymother enter the roombehind him. ‘Hang on,Rose.Speaktoyourmum.’Idoodledaheartintwo

halves on the pad by thephone. A dead fly twirledon a thread from thewindowframe.‘Hello, lovey. Had a

goodbreak?’

‘Sort of,’ I mumbled.‘Lookingforwardtoseeingmymonsters,Imustsay.’‘I’ll bet. Sorrywe’re not

goingtoseeyoutoday,butactually it’s worked outquitewell. Itmeans I canplay bridge with Margelater.’‘Whatdoyoumean,not

going to see me? Can IspeaktoAlicia,please?’

‘They’ve gone already,’shesaidbrightly.‘Theyleftabout half an hour ago.Theyweresoexcitedtogointhatbigcar.Andwhatalovely man. So good withthemall.’Coldsweatbrokeouton

my upper lip. ‘What?’ Icroaked. ‘What are youtalkingabout?Whatman?’‘James’sdriver collected

them.James’sassistantlefta message with Dad thismorning.’Butshesoundedunsure now. ‘Derek? Shedid,didn’tshe?’‘James!’Iwasscreaminghis name, ‘James, comeherenow.’Idroppedthereceiverasmy husband ran into theroom. ‘Rose?’ I couldhearmymother’s frantic voice,

tinny, suspended in thinair as the phone dangled,futile on its lead. ‘Rose,what’swrong?’‘What?’ James wasstaringatme.‘Who did you send topick up the kids? Tell meyou sent someone?’ Igrabbed his top. ‘Who didyousend?’‘What?’ His face was

very pale. ‘Rose, calmdown. I don’t know whatyou mean. I didn’t evenknowwheretheywere.’‘You did know,’ I was

shrieking like a banshee,shaking him fruitlessly.‘You knew they were atmy mum’s. Who did youtell?Who’sgotmykids?’He picked up the

receiver that was still

twirlingasuselesslyasthefly.‘Lynn, it’s James. Can

you explain what’s goingon? Where are thechildren?’This then, this was my

punishment. I could notpossibly hope for a lifeoutsidemotherhood–butIhad – and so thiswasmycomeuppance.

I ran to the sink andretchedviolently.

***

We called the police. Mymotherhadnodetails,shedidn’tevenknowthemakeof the car, but she’dthoughtitwasJames’s,shewas sure she’d seen himdriving it before.Something big and grand,

like the Americans drive,she kept saying. And theman, the man seemed sofriendly, she kept saying.He wore sunglasses and adarkcoatwithahood,andshe didn’t know whatcolourhairhehadbecausehe had a beanie hat onpulled down low, but hedefinitely wasn’t dark.Well, she didn’t think hewas. Perhapshewas a bit

dark – but she’d beenrunningroundfetchingthechildren’sstuffandmakingsure they had theirsandwiches and done awee and she just couldn’tthink straight, she was sopanicked she couldn’tthink straight. He had anaccent, maybe, shethought, some kind ofaccent. He knew James,she was sure of it; she’d

met himbefore, she knewshe had, she just couldn’tremember where, but shewas sure he was James’sdriver. He said he was.And the kids seemedhappytogowithhim,theyknew him, they evenkissedhimhello–butshejustcouldn’trememberhisname, or if he’d said it atall.My father had deletedthe message from the

answer-phoneandsotherewas no way of hearing itback. I tried not to shoutatmyparentsforbeingsocareless; I knew it wasn’treally their fault. It wasmine. I should never everhaveleftthem.‘Theyknewhim,’ my parents keptsaying, bleating in terror.‘They definitely knewhim.’

How could they knowthethoughtsthatfilledmefull of terror now? Mymother just repeatedhelplessly that she didn’tknow cars, she didn’tknow the make, whilstshiny black Range Roverskeptcareeringthroughmyhead.The police promised

they would send someone

round to interview her.Were we sure it wasn’t afamily member, though,theykeptasking.I slumped on the sofa

and James put his armaroundme.Momentarily Iwas grateful for thecontact,butIwassoonupagain, unable to sit still.I’d rung Hadi Kattan’shouse immediately after

we’d spoken to thepolice,but there was no answer.And then when Jameswent to make more tea, Ifound Danny Callendar’smobile number from thetext he’d sent last nightand I rang him. He didn’tanswer either, but I left amessage asking him if heknewwheremykidswere.Anhour or so later, the

doorbellrangandIranforthe door, skidding on therug in the hall. As Iplucked it back, I hadnever been so eager toopenadoorinmylife.Butit was only the milkman,cometosettlehisbill.‘Who is it?’ Jamesappearedbehindme.‘No one,’ I said. ‘JustBob from the dairy.’ My

voicewasunsteady.Jameswalked down the

hallawayfromme.‘I’llputthekettleon.’I didn’t want tea; I just

wanted my children.Crouched down in thecorner of the hall like awounded animal, Ipromised God, I promisedeveryoneandanyonewhocametomindthatIwould

stay at home for ever,never let the kids out ofmysight,neverstrayfromthe house again, nevercraveanythingelse,iftheycould just come homesafely.‘Please, please,’ I

intoned, ‘please let thembeallright.’Danny’s words kept

ringing in my ears; his

warningthatKattanwouldturn nasty. But the kidshad kissed the man, mymother said, so it couldn’thave been Kattan – couldit?Why hadn’t I listened?Why hadn’t I been moresensible? I cursed myself,over and over again; Icursedmyself.James came back out

intothehallandIrealised

I’d been talking aloud,mumbling like a mad oldwoman, rocking back andforthwhereIsat.‘Leavemealone,’ I said,refusingtolethimpullmeup. ‘I’m staying here untiltheycomehome.’

I was almost dozing, myhead on my knees, thephone by my feet, silent

now, despite having rungeverypersonintheworldIcould think of that mightpossibly be able to help.Outside,theafternoonwasdrawing in, the Marchwind buffeting thewindows without mercy.The magnolia tree hadbloomed, but the flowerscould neverwithstand theseverity of the weather:the petals were already

scatteredonthegrass.As the church bellchimed four, I thought Iheardsomething.Myheadshot up and I stood asquickly as my stiff legswould letme,myfreezingfeetallpinsandneedles.Avehicle was pulling intoourdriveasItoreopenthedooragain.‘Liam.’ I saw him

striding across the gravelfrom the big Hummer.‘Liam!’I felt themost almightystabofdisappointmentandthen, as if in a dream, Isawmyeldestchild’sheadpopupfromthebackseatand wind down thewindow.‘Alicia!’Iyelled.‘Shhh,’ she gestured,

pointingat somethingandgiggling. ‘The twins areasleep.’Iranacrossthegravelinmy bare feet, dressinggown trailing, andscrabbled at the car door,breaking my nails,sweeping my eldestdaughter down from theback seat and into myarms.Effieopenedoneeye

groggilyand I leanedoverand unfastened her baby-seat, squashing Alicia’shead in the process. Fredwas fast asleep on the farside, thumb in hismouth,slumpedovertheseatbelt,head lollinguncomfortably.‘Ouch, Mum, you’rehurting me,’ Alicia said,wriggling crossly. ‘Mum!

Getoff.’Jameswastherenowonthe doorstep behind us,talking tersely to hispartnerinalowvoice.‘Come and get Freddie,please, James.’ I carriedEffie towards the house,Alicia twirling across thegravelbesideme,herpinkdressbell-likeasa fuchsiaflower.

‘LookwhatGranboughtme,’ she crowed proudly.‘It’sawesome,isn’tit?’‘Awesome,sweetheart,’I

said.‘GetFred,James,canyou?’Idrewlevelwiththemen.Liamglancedatme.‘What thehellwereyou

playingat?’Ihissedathimover Effie’s wispy head.‘Areyoumad?’‘What do you mean?’

Liam was calm. ‘Jamesasked me to collect thekids.’Astounded,Ispunroundtomyhusband.‘James?’But he was alreadycrossing the drive to thecar, unbuttoning Fred’sseatbelt,kissinghisruddycheeks.Avoidingmygaze.‘Whendidheaskyou?’Istammered. Helen Kelsey

drove past the end of thedrive and slowed, wavinglikeajollyschoolgirl.Ihidmy face behind mydaughter’splumpbody.‘Ask him,’ Liammuttered.‘I will.’ I wasincredulous. ‘I can’t – Idon’t—’ I gave up, beganto walk inside. ‘I assumeyou’re coming in this

time?’‘I can’t.’ Liam shook his

head. ‘I’vegot togetbacktoLondon.’‘Really?’Istaredathim.

‘Whytheconstantrush?’‘Norush,’Liamsaid.‘It’s

just I spent thewholedaycollecting your childrenfrom Derby. I’ve got somuch on. The club opensinthreeweeks.’

‘Right.’ I wasnonplussed. ‘Why did youcollectthem,Liam?’Liam dropped his chinonto his jacket for amoment, his short sandylashes masking his eyes.‘Askyourhusband.’James was by my sidenow, holding a grumblingFred.‘James—’ I began, but

he looked at meimploringly.Irealisedwitha jolt that he might havebeencrying.‘Can we talk about thislater, please, Rose?’ hemuttered, so only I couldhear. ‘Take Fred in, canyou?’I put Effie down andtook my son from hisfather;Iclutchedthetwins

tightly to me and hurriedAlicia into the house as Iheard the men’s voicesstarttoclimbbehindme.‘So,’ I said as cheerfullyas I could muster,watching my eldest childpirouettedownthehallasI drank in the smell ofFreddie, burying my nosein his silky hair, ‘howaboutfishfingersandchips

andFablolliesfortea?’

***

Clamped to the phone,James studiously avoidedmewhilstIfedandbathedthechildren.HeandLiamhad argued out on thedriveforawhile,andthenthey’d disappeared brieflyinto the studio. By thetime I’d sorted everyone

out,Liamhadleft.I’d just put the twins to

bedandwasabout tocurlup with Alicia and watchThe Sound of Music yetagain when the doorbellrang.Itwasdarknowandthe

porch lighthadblownbutI recognised the figurestanding in the drive, theRangeRoverbehindhim.

‘Thankyou somuch forcoming,’ I said shyly,relievedIwasnolongerinmy dressing gown. Thenight we’d just spenttogether seemed so longago already. ‘But it’s allOK. The kids are backsafely,thankGod.’‘Oh?’ Danny looked atme quizzically. I was sopleased my earlier

assumptions had beenwrong.‘Itwasalljustahideousmisunderstanding.’ Ismiled at him, pullingmycardigan tighter againstthe cold evening. ‘I reallyappreciate your concern,though. Thank you. God,it’scoldtonight,isn’tit?’Ipeeredupatthegreatsky.IknewIwasbabblingwith

nerves. ‘Do you think itwillsnow?’The night was

colourless, full and heavywith the silence thatalwaysforetoldsnow.‘I think you’ve got the

wrong end of the stickactually, Mrs Miller.’Danny lookeddownathisfeetforasecond.‘I’vejustbrought a message, that’s

all.’‘Really?’ I said slowly,myheartsinking.‘Aye, really.’ Danny’svoice was low, his handsshoved deep in hispockets.‘Ican’tspellitoutanyclearerthanthis,Rose.Ifyoudon’tstayaway,OK,ifyoudon’t leaveKattan’sfamily well alone, yourweans will be in proper

danger. Don’t ring, don’tspeak to them, don’t doany research. Just leaveeveryonebe.’For a moment I wasspeechless.‘Doyouunderstandme?’He looked up now andheldmygaze.‘Not really. Is Kattanthreateningme?’Iheldontothewallforasecond.It

felt rough beneath myfingers. ‘Threateningmy –my“weans”?Seriously?’‘Maybe.’ He shrugged

with what seemed likeutterindifference.‘Or sorry, perhaps you

are?’ I found my voicenow. ‘Is it you who isthreateningmyfamily?’Theblanknessofhisface

bit into my soul as he

shrugged again. ‘Notespeciallyme.’‘Youbastard.’ Imade toshut the door in his face,buthe stopped itwithhisbooted foot. He took hishands out of his pocketsand I realisedwith horrorhewasholdingthegunI’dseen the other day. Hefolded his hands behindhis back. My heart was

pounding; I could feelmyselfstarttoshake.‘Listen tome,Rose.’Histone was urgent now. ‘Idon’t know where thebairns were earlier, but Ido know this is deadlyserious. I warned youbefore this is not a game.Stay away, beforesomething really badhappens.’

We stared at oneanother for a moment.ThenDannystuck thegunin his waistband, zippedup his jacket so that itcovered his mouth andchin,andhewalkedawayfromme,towardsthegreatblank-eyedcarhedrove.With a bang I shut thedoor, bending double inthehallwayasifIhadjust

been winded with a gut-punch. In the thick rug Icaught the glint of greenglass.‘What did he want?’James said, a shadow inthe kitchen doorway. Ididn’t know how longmyhusbandhadbeen there; Iblinked down the tearsthat smarted, and reacheddown for the green thing

that had glinted.A plasticjewelfromatoycrown.‘I wish I knew, James.’

Still clutching the jewel, Ilooked at my husband’sashenface.‘Whatthehell’sgoingon?’

ChapterEighteen

The next morning thesnowhadcome,sealingusoff into an impenetrablewhite world. I sat at thekitchen table and dranktea, looking at the softbranches bowed down

with their new weight,listening to my children’sincessantchatter.‘It’snot,Mum,isit?’‘It is.’ Freddie’s bottomlip trembled and Igathered him up onto mylap. ‘It is Harry-potomus,isn’tit,Mummy?’‘Durrr,’ Alicia scoffed,wavingabookinhisface.‘It’s Harry Potter, you

idiot.’‘Alicia,’ I reproved

mildly, ‘don’t be horrid.He’sonlythree.’A doleful James sloped

into the room and smiledpathetically atme.AlmostworsethanangryorsullenJameswascontriteJames.‘Stopit,’Isnapped.‘You

look ridiculous. You’re fartoo old for puppy-dog

eyes.’‘You used to like them.’He put his hand on myshoulder. I forced myselfnot to shrug it off. ‘Moretea,vicar?’SilentlyIpushedmycuptowards him as Fredjumpedoffmyknee.Ihadthe sudden inclination tofallinaheaponthefloor,a suppurating, slowly

dissolving mass of wettissueandnohope.Aheapof despair. But I didn’t. Icouldn’tallowmyself to. Ipulled a silly face at Effieinstead.Last night James and I

hadargueduntilI’dfinallygiven in to exhaustion.Hair on end and JackDaniel’s in hand, Jameshad sworn that if he had

asked Liam to collect thekids, he had totallyforgotten. He had drunktoo much on the planecoming back, he said,celebrating the deal, andhehadtoadmittherewerea few lost hours atSingaporeairport.Perhapshe’d spoken to Liam then,perhaps he’d told Marshawho ran the office atRevolver, to call. He was

very sorry, he said, so sosorry. He’d make sure itnever happened again. Hewould make it up to me.How about that spa breakhehadpromisedme?Hewaslying.Butintheface of my cold disbeliefand fury, he lost italtogether.Atonepointhehurled the vase ofbluebells I’d picked from

the front garden onto thefloor,crushingthedelicateflowers underfoot. Later,contrite again,he couldn’tunderstandwhyIwouldn’tjust forgive himimmediately. And therewas something else, atenseknotofsomethinginmy stomach, something Icouldn’t – or wouldn’t –unravel,thatkeptmefromforgiving him. That kept

himatarm’slength.Inbedhehadwantedto

havesex,butIdidn’twanthim anywhere near me. Iwas still so cross, and itwassoraretofeeldesiredby him that it confusedme.Thetruthwaswehadlost our real connectionyearsago.As he began to snore I

laywide-eyed,staringinto

the darkness. I heard thechurch bell chime thehour,andchimethenext.Ifelt crippledwith longing;but overwhelmed withsadness. I couldn’t getDanny’s face out of mymind; I couldn’t get hisbetrayaloutofmyhead. Ihad seen a glimpse ofhappiness and I hadreachedouttoit.IknewIhad started to fall, but I

hadn’t realised how far. Ididn’tunderstandmyself.EventuallyIgotoutand

crept into bed withFreddie, removing a smallrubberlizardfrombeneathmy left ear as I laydown,listening to his peacefulbreathing.When I woke in the

morning, I was clutchingmy son like my life

dependedonit.

I looked out at the catdelicately picking his waythrough the pristineblanket of snow. Iremembered a freezingJanuary day in Oxford inChrist Church Meadow,where Alice had sofamously fallen down theWhite Rabbit’s burrow.

Dalziel and I had lain onourbacksaftertrippingallnight long and madeangels in the new-fallensnow, laughing, gigglingtogether like kids. We’dswept our arms out andabove our heads throughthe thick soft drift,creating wings like thearchangels might havehad.

‘James,’ I said slowly,‘why did Helen Kelseythink she saw you drivingtheotherday?’‘When?’‘InOxford.Thedayafter

youleft?’‘Shecan’thave.’‘Sheseemedprettysure.

And she said you werewithagirl.’

Jameslookedoveratthekids, who were busydrawing snowmen, andthen he sat beside me,lowering his voicetheatrically. ‘Look,Ididn’twant to have to tell youthis,but…’Hepaused.‘What?’Ifeltaclenchof

something.‘I’m–alittleworried…’

hefaltered.

‘Just say it, J, forGod’ssake.’‘Shepropositionedmeat

Karen’sChristmasparty.’‘What?’Istaredathim.‘Helen cornered me

upstairs, by thebathroom.Hershirtwasallundone.Iwas really embarrassed.She’s got it bad, Rose. Ithink she’s a bit obsessedwith me. I think –’ he

paused again –’I thinkshe’sstartedstalkingme.’I looked into his

woebegone face and Ibegan to laugh. I laugheduntil it actually hurt mysides.‘Why’s that so funny?’

he said, all hurt. ‘I’m notthathideous,amI?’‘No, of course not,’ I

said,wipingthetearsfrom

my eyes. I didn’t knowwhether to believe himand frankly I was beyondcaring. ‘I can just picturehertryingiton,that’sall.Ibet she wears beautifullymatchedunderwear.’‘I wouldn’t know.’ He

looked uncomfortable.‘She didn’t get that far.ThankGod.’‘Andwhatdidyousay?’

‘I said thank you verymuchbut,youknow,Iwashappilymarried,etcetera.’But he looked away

whenhesaidthelastpart.I began to gather thecerealboxes.‘Shall we go and play

snowballs?’IsaidtoEffie.James stood and

stretched.‘NowI’vegotthatoffmy

chest, I’ve made adecision,’ my husbandsaid.‘It’stimeforaparty.’‘A party?’ I repeateddully.NeverhadIfeltlesslikecelebrating.‘Liam and I need toannounce our latestendeavours to the world.And we deserve one. Toomuch doom and gloom inthe world right now. But

thingsareontheupforusnow,mypetals.’‘I’m surprised you wantto do anything with Liamrightnow,’ Imuttered. I’dtried to ring him a fewtimes this morningmyselftodemandanexplanation,but his phone kept goingtovoicemail.‘Well, he made amistake,’ James said, ‘but

he knows that now. Hewon’tdoitagain.’‘Can we have balloons,

Daddy?’ Effie asked, hertonguecurledupontoherupper lip as sheconcentrated on addingeyes to her snowman’sface. ‘And cake and partybags?’‘You,mydarling,’James

sweptherupintohisarms,

tickling her until shegiggled helplessly, ‘canhave whatever you sodesire.’‘Can I? Can I?’ Freddie

hoppedupanddown.‘CanIhaveaBatmanmaskanda Harry-potomus and a –anda…’hecouldn’tthinkof anything else hewanted, ‘ … anotherBatmanmask?’

Ilookedoutatthesnowand I felt like my heartwascracking.

***

As quickly as the snowcame, it disappearedagain,leavingadirtyslushin its place, but slowly,spring returned. I got onwith life. I went back tothe Chronicle and wrote

about Edna Brown’svegetable patch and thelike. I avoided calls fromXav though I invited himto the bash; I tried not tobuy his paper but Icouldn’t quite resist thetemptationofkeepingtabson Ash Kattan or LordHigham. I didn’t goanywhere near theKattans, although once Isaw the silver Porsche

parked in town. I lingeredfor a moment looking forMaya, but she neverappeared.AthomeIhelpedJames

arrangehisparty. I finallyremembered about thephotos in the cupboard,the one of Lord Higham,but when he asked me toshow him, I couldn’t findthem, and James just

laughed,andlookedatmeas if I was mad. Andmaybe I was. IrememberedtheimagesofKattan and Higham I’dseen in Peggy’s basementand I felt like myjudgementwasutterlyoff.I’d been too busy readingthings into places therewasnothingtoberead.I cooked themeals (not

very well, admittedly), Ismiled dutifully, I playedwithmy children, washedthem, brushed their hairand cuddled them, triednot to snap at them toomuchwhentheywokemein thenightor foughtandargued,drovethemfromAto B – but inside, inside Ifeltcoldand,iftheyhadn’tbeen there, not muchbetterthandead.

I rangmy friend Jen inLondon.‘Will you come to the

party?’ I said, and shewhoopedwithpleasure.‘Just try and stop me.

Willtherebeanynicementhere? Please say yes. Mysexlife’sliketheSahara.’‘Idoubtit.They’llallbe

wankersfromJames’sclubor married stodges from

roundhere.Orbeautiful–andgay.’‘Great.’Shesoundedless

enthused. ‘I was hopingmore Kings of Leon thanGeorge Michael. I’ll bringmyBarbraStreisandoutfitthen. How are you,anyway? You sound a bitweird.’‘Weird,’ I intoned,

zombie-like.

‘Rose?’ she said,worried.‘What’sup?’‘Something. Nothing.Everything.’ I feltmyeyesfill. ‘I’ve done somethingreallyreallystupid.’‘You’re not pregnantagain?’ She soundedhorrified. Jen had a high-flyingjobasaninterpreterforthegovernment;babieswerelowonheragenda.

‘No I’m not. That’d bebetterthanthis,Ithink.’‘Really?’ She loweredhervoice.‘God.Itmustbebad.’‘Jenny!’ButIknewwhatshe meant. ‘I’ll tell youwhenyoucomeup.’‘Is it James?’ shewhispered.‘No. It’sme. It’smeand—’

‘Oh God, Rose. You’vesleptwithsomeoneelse.’Blood filled my ears. ‘I

haven’t,’Ipanicked.‘Yeah you have.’ She

knew me too well. ‘Andyou’re so bad at sexwithoutlove.’‘I’m not,’ I squeaked. I

wished I’dkeptmymouthshut now. But it waskillingme.

‘I’ll come up early. Youcantellmeallaboutit.’‘OK,’ I said in a small

voice.‘Oh, Rose. You’ve fallen

forhim,haven’tyou?’‘No,’ I lied. ‘Of course

not.’Ihungupquickly.

In truth, of course, I was

immobilised by theonslaught of suchunexpected feelings.Mostly I just despisedmyself for falling soquickly. I told myself itwas just the glimpse ofescapeDannyhadaffordedme, the stupid thoughtthat he would accompanyme on some kind ofadventure, thekind Iusedto have before marriage

and my children. But itwasn’t. It was him. I hadrecognised some kindredspirit in this man. But Icouldn’t have him. It wasallrightandyetsowrong.And this – this was thepunishment for myinfidelity. This pain. Thefact that Iwas lower thanwhenIbegan.Iwasnotagoodwoman

any more; I had left themoralhighground.

The day before the party,Liam and Star arrived tohelp us prepare. Thereappeared to be an uneasytrucebetweenmyhusbandand his partner.A tensionstretched between them Ihadn’t ever known beforeand that I didn’t yet

understand. I was stillfuming with Liam and Iavoidedbeing in thesameroom as him because Ididn’t trust myself. In theeveningStar’sfriendKatyaarrived – a trapeze artistwho would performtomorrownight.After supper James andLiam ensconcedthemselves in the studio;

Star and Katya wereplaying dress-up with thechildren, painting Aliciaand Effie’s faces likebeautifulgaudybutterflies,Freddie’slikeatiger.Itookmycupofteaandslippedofftothemarqueethatwastoposeasachill-out space; I sat amongstthe crates of wineglasseswehadhired,andIfinally

made the phone call thatI’dthoughtaboutfordays,my fingers clumsy on themobile’skeys.Mystomachchurned as I waited for itto connect, but there wasno answer. I suppose Ihadn’t thought therewouldbe.I took a deep breath,andIleftamessage.‘Ijustwantedtotellyou

what I thought of – ofwhat you said. All thingsconsidered.’There was a noisebehind me. The deliverymenmustbearrivingwiththe sofas and the star-cloth. I spoke faster andquieter. ‘I am used tobeing in dodgy situations,but no one has everthreatened my kids. I’ve

donewhat youasked. I’vekept away. But I justwantedto tellyouthatnoone,noonehasreallyevermanaged tomakeme feelquiteso,quiteso—’James pushed his waythrough themarquee flap.Ihungupquickly.‘Who was that?’ heasked.‘Noone,’Isaid.

‘This no one?’ he said.He threwmynotebookonthe table in front of me.‘Thisisreal,isn’tit,Rose?’His face was taut withanger. ‘It’s not bloodyfiction,isit?’

Itwas inevitable, thatwas the terrifyingthing right from themoment I first sawyou,Danny,welocked

eyes and we bothknew,thoughhowcanyou know, somewould say, how canyou knowimmediately like that.Butwedid, therewasno explanation. Wejust did. We movednearer and thenfurther away in fear,but all the time wewaited we were

heading for thismoment,likewewereon some kind of fatalcourse. And the firsttime you touched meyouputyourhandonme and it was like asurge of electricityandneitherofus saidanything but all nightI felt it. Iwould havestayed close, couldn’tbear to be separated

until we had to be.Until we had to gohomealone.

I looked up at Jamesand I felt the worldbeneathmyfeetstartingtotilt, sliding away until IfeltlikeIwasfalling.‘This isyou, isn’t it?All

this time you said yourwriting was work but it’s

not. It’s been reallyhappening, hasn’t it?’ Hiseyes were glazed andblack, like he’d beendrinking or snortingsomething. He’d lost allrationale; he was spittingwith fury. ‘You fuckingbitch.’HeslappedmesohardIfell backwards off mychair. I didn’t see it

coming; I was toounpreparedtosavemyself.I went crashing into acrate,tryingtoprotectmyfaceasIwent.And as I fell, it seemedlikeitwasinslowmotion.As I fell, all I could heararoundmewas the soundofbreakingglass.

PARTTWO

ChapterNineteen

Remembertonight…foritisthebeginningof

always.

Dante

I move through the roomlike a ghost. I feel like a

ghost, though I know Imusthaveshapeandformbecausepeopleseemtoseeme; they smile and greetme and I smile back. Ikeepmovingonwards andI smile over and again, Ipour the wine and ourguests are laughing,kissing me, touching mybare arm.‘Congratulations!’someonesayswith enthusiasm, and

I nearly say ‘For what?’but I don’t. I don’tquestion it: I just thankthemquietlyinstead.I spot Alicia – she is

therebeforeme–andthenalmost as quickly she isgone. She flits in and outof the crowd in her greendress with all the ruffles:in the shop I thought itwas too old for her but I

caved in too fast. I keepfinding thatmy resolve tofight has fled. Alicia isoverexcited,asmallwraithpulsing with theexhilaration in the air, somuch her father’sdaughter, her dark hairfalling against her paleface. Her friend Hollyfollows faithfully behind,carrot-coloured plaitsbouncingonhershoulders

– and then there is Effie,trundling through,strugglingtokeepupwiththe older girls. Her solidlittle limbs so plump youcould take a bite out ofthem, her tongue stuckbetween her teeth inconcentrationasshehuntsfor her big sister, herround cheeks pink witheffortandexcitement.

‘Effie.’ I shove thewineinto someone’s hand –Xav’s I think. ‘Do youmind?’ I mutter absently,and he grins and says,‘Mind? A Clos des Papes‘07? Are you insane,darling?’ I release thebottleandquickenmystepto catch up with mysmaller daughter as hergaze darts from side toside, as she realises she’s

finally lost the trail. Myheart aches, and I reachher with a rush ofsomething like relief,scooping her up, pressingEffie’s face into my neck,the smell of her alwayslikebeinghome.Theshortbunches she insisted ontickle my nose, her shinyblonde hair blending intomine,andforonemoment,Effie relaxes in my grasp.

Sheletsherweightgoandrests there, small andsturdyinmyarms,andfora second I feel safe. Noteven safe, in fact, butactually–sane.And then Effie starts to

wriggle. She’s spottedAlicia and Holly now.They are rapt withconcentration over by theice sculpture of a couple

subtlyscrewingthatJameshad insisted on. ‘It’s art,Rosie,’ he’d said with agrin when I demurred.‘The kids’ll think they’rehugging.’‘I doubt it,’ I muttered,

but I acquiesced, becauseafter all it was his bignight.IwatchAliciaandHolly

now,wide-eyedas theMP

Eddie Johnson flips hisfingers behind Holly’sfreckledearandretrievesashiny coin. I wonder whyhe is here – but then, I’dgivenupanycontroloftheguest list,apart fromHadiKattan. I’d told James Ididn’t want him near thehouse – but Xav said he’dheardhe’dreturnedtoIrananyway.

I’m reminded painfullyof Effie’s presence as shekicks me in the ribs,strugglingtogetdown.‘Let go, Mummy,’ she

demands at the exactmoment the band strikeup, a handsome group ofswaggering twenty-somethings, darlings ofNME,TheHothouse,aboutto become huge. To my

relief Alicia flashesthrough the fishnets andstilettos, the ripped Levi’sandthePradadresses.Starisinadresssorippedandtiny it’s like a teabag,black leather bondagebootsuptoherthighs,andthe pop star DominoMcFadden’s even wearingwet-look PVC, of coursesheis,andIallowmyselfawry smile. Once I might

have worn it myself, butnottonight.Notanymore.Instead, for J’s sake, Ichose a demure Chloedress, grey wool, so verygrown-up. Just like methesedays. I’ve losta tinybit of weight throughmisery, but I am stillcurvierthanIusedtobe.IamnewRose.Undesirable,it seems.Not theoldRose– theRosewho fora time

was shameless inbed, fullof confidence. I am Rosewho has three children,whose body is markedirreparably bymotherhood, who has lostthedefiantconfidencethatcame after Dalziel, theconfidence that camedespite the implosion ofSociety X, that has finallydissipatedforever.Itouchmy bruised face, now

coveredbymake-up.Alicia is by the stage

now, Holly in her wakelikeasmalltug–andStaris about to dance. Shewaits for the music toreach the climax, swayinggracefully. Below her, atthefootofthestairs,aboystands, almost aman, andhe is quite beautiful,withwhite-blond hair and dark

skin,andheremindsmeofsomeone. He reminds meofDalziel, I realisewith asharppain,heremindsmeof the friend I loved somuchandlost.‘Mum-my,’ Effie puffs,

and I come back to thepresent and I lower her.She slides to the groundand I watch her smallfigure stomp through the

adultlegsuntilshereachesher sister’s side and slipsher small hand intoAlicia’sslightlybiggerone.I look for the boy again,buthehashisback tomenow; he’s talking to acoupleofyoungwomeninmatching backless dresses,who look at him ratheradoringly and keeplaughing silly tinklylaughs.

‘Oh, Charlie,’ they keepsaying,‘youarefunny.’I think of myself aged

eighteenandIshiver.Instinctively I start to

move towards the stairs. Iwant to checkonFreddie;he’shadatemperatureandis tucked up in bed. Theband are playing ‘SuicideBlonde’ as I climbupwards, my feet sore in

my Louboutins, and thenthesongisclimaxingandIhear Liam’s voice,thanking everyone forcoming,andI’muponthefirst floor, looking downon them. How absurd, Ithinkabsently,toliveinahouse so old and grandthere’s actually aminstrels’ gallery. I hearmy name as Helen Kelseycomes out of the guest

bathroom, blotting herscarlet lipstickonatissue,her small prim mouthoverpainted, her auburnbobcoiffured towithinaninch of its life. She startswhen she sees me by thepillar.‘God, Rose, you scaredme.’‘Sorry,’ I smileautomatically. I wonder if

she’s looking for myhusband.‘Fantasticparty,darling,’she purrs, but I sense herfighting to keep themalevolence from hertone. ‘This wallpaper’snew,isn’tit?’Shewavesamanicured hand at thegolden caged birds on thewall.‘Yes,’Iagree.

‘It’sNinaCampbell,isn’tit?’‘I thinkso.’ Ishrug. ‘I’m

always a bit rubbish onnames.’‘Who did you use this

time then?’ Her face isrigid with unspokenemotion.‘Oh, some new mate of

J’s.’Ileanovertheparapetand look down at the

many coloured headsbelow me, the cigarettesmoke formingwreaths intheair.‘Who, though? I’d love

thename.’‘I think he was – he’s

calledGilbert.’‘Not Gilbert Donaldson?

Did Madonna’s placeapparently? Oh God, I’djustdie!’

‘Oh well, you knowwhat J’s like,’ though Idoubtverymuchshedoes.I remember his wordsabout her crush. ‘Alwaysgot some new celebrityfriendintow.’Ilookdownformyjollyhusband. Last time I sawhim hewas in themiddleof an anecdote about avery famous rock star and

his predilection for beingspanked with hairbrushes,and everyone was roaringappreciatively.Nowhehasvanished too.Helen’sgazestingsme.‘God, Rose,’ she says,and she can’t hide theenvythistime. ‘Youreallydohaveitall,don’tyou?’‘I’mverylucky,’Iintonepolitely.‘IknowIam.’

As I move off I think Iheara sigh–more thanasigh, a moan. Someone isin the blue bedroom. Ihear the bed creak and amurmured ‘Oh fuck,’ thevowel sound drawn outlanguorously in pleasure,followedbyamoreviolentsound. The crack of theantique headboard againstthewall,Iguess,andIsighmyself. At least the kids

are oblivious and out ofearshot,IthinkasIglancedown to see the girls stillhand in hand waving attheir uncle Liam on thestage, waiting for themagic they’ve beenpromised.And I creep down thegallery, away from thecouple presumablyentwined, away from

HelenKelsey’sfalsesmiles,and down the thicklycarpeted corridor, becauseIhaveacravingtoseemyson; I imagine him asleepin thebed,his fists curledabove his head, his sleep-soaked face utterlypeacefulinthismadness.Isitonthewindow-seatin his room and I realisewith a crashing certainty

thattheonlypersonIwantto see right now, apartfrom my kids, is nevergoingtobehere,andIfeelsuch sorrow; such angerwith myself for havingchosen so badly. I fooledmyself I could do sexwithout emotion: I washorriblywrong.Iamrivenwith desire and I can’tseemtofightit.Ibitebackthe tears. Iwaited so long

forhimandyetIchosesobadly; he only made mefeelworse.Andeverythingis falling apart and I canfinallyseemylifeforwhatit is: the fact that inPariseight years ago, Imistookmy shared guilt withJamesforourdestiny.Freddie murmurs in his

sleep as I hear the drum-roll begin downstairs, and

whenIcomeoutagain,asifoncue, Ihearmynameas James cries it from thestage where he has justreplacedLiam. I lean over thebalcony and James looksmussed and sweaty andlarger than life in hisslightly overtight T-shirt.Inthislightitlookslikehehasglitteronhisface.

‘So, people,’ (I groaninwardly. I do wish hewouldn’t say ‘people’),‘you all know I couldn’thave done any of itwithoutmyrock.’Icringeinside.‘My mate, my lifelongcompanion.’ Outside, Iforceasmile.‘My beautiful wife,mother of my three pride

and joys – I know you’llexcuse my poor English –Rosie has ever since ourstudent days, eh, petal?’Everyone laughsindulgently. I wish he’dhurry up. My face is asrigid now as Helen’sBotoxedoneastheglassesare all extended towardsme,andIsearchthecrowdfor one single upturnedface that I recognise. For

one I actually like. Myeyes settle on Jen,standing beside Xav, andshewinks. I feel so flat, Icannot return the smileproperly, although I dotry.‘Tomypetal.MyRose!’‘To Rose,’ they parrot,

and then, thank God,James is on to the nextthank you, his partner,

Liam, and I exhale,pushing down the feeling,thinking, oh God whenwill this ever end? Thenthe lights go down and athousand fairy lightsflicker across the room,andforasplitsecondthereis silence, and then awhooshofair.I feel my hair flutter

against my cheek as the

girl in silver spanglessweeps above everybody’sheads.Thereisacollectivegaspasshegracefullyarcsabove them, one footextended in its sparklyshoe, the other leg tuckedneatly behind her, andthensheisstandingonhertrapeze, her peroxide hairshort as a boy’s, her facepale and her mouth red,her eyes huge and dark,

dusted all overwith somekind of shimmeringpowder as she spins andarcheselegantlyabovetheroom. The band begin toplay again, a sad kind ofrocky ballad, and slowlythe crowd get used to herbeing there and begin todrink and talk again,although many aretransfixed.

Andforamoment,Ifeela kind of jealousy for herfreedom as the etherealform turns upside downeffortlessly, and thenalmost immediatelyuprightagainontheswingentwined with ivy leavesand tinsel, answerable tono one but herself. Hergaze seems to be fixed onsomeone – though fromthisangleIcan’tquitetell

onwhom. There’s anothersmaller gasp as she hangsprecariously by one foot,and all eyes are back onher.IthinkIhearakindofbanging outside but it isdrownedoutby themusicand I am almostmesmerised. I enjoywatching this supple girlas she passes before meandthenbackagain.Thensuddenly I become aware

of some kind ofcommotion in the cornerby the door downstairs:raisedvoices.Ilookover,Isee James there fleetinglyand then he’s gone again,andstandinginhisplaceisa small cluster of menwhom I don’t recognise,stocky,allincasualjacketsand jeans, and Liam istryingtoplacatethem,andI suppose I’d better see

whattheywant–andthenthereisascream.I turn; I see the girlgrappling with the flimsytrapeze–andIwatchasifit’s slow motion as shetwists desperately throughthe air – as her handclutches emptiness. Theband breaks off and thecrowd are realising thatthe figure who moments

ago soared above themlike some bird of paradisehasinfactlostherfootingandhastriedandfailedtohangonbutnowisfalling,isplungingupsidedown,isspiralling like a heavyfeatheronthebreeze.Thereisnosafetynet,ofcourse – J wouldn’t havethought of such a thing.And I realise the girl is

lost; there is no time tosave her. She is lost. Andthe silence is broken onlyby a crunch, the hideousthud of a body crumplingonthefloor.I wake up. I run down

the stairs, my heartbeating frantically,trippinginmyhighshoes.‘Ring an ambulance,’ I

yell at someone, and I see

Alicia’s great eyes widewithshock.I push through thecrowd to the girl and sheis notmoving, though hereyes are open and she isstill alive, I think, thankGod. One leg is tuckedneatly behind her again,theotheroutatahorribleanglethatIcannotbeartolook at, and two of those

stocky men are pushingtowardsus.Holly’smotheroffers a pink pashmina toplacebelowherhead.‘Don’t move her!’anothervoicesays.I look at that leg and Igrab Effie, who is round-mouthedwith horror, andshove her into the nearestarms, which are Jen’s,hissing. ‘Take her away,

get her away, please. AndAliciaandHolly.’Jennodsdumbly, the colourdraining from her face,and grasps Alicia’s hand.Star issodrunksheburstsinto tears and begins towail.‘Mummy,’Effiewhispers

over Jen’s shoulder, ‘thelady’s not flying morenow,isshe,Mummy?’

I feel a hot needling inmy eyes, and I crouchdownby the spangledgirlwho is breathing shallowrapid breaths, and I say,‘Trynottomove,OK?’andI try really hard to smilereassuringly.‘The ambulance iscoming,’ an authoritativevoice says, I don’t knowwhose. I think it’s one of

those men, he’s on aphone,andItakethegirl’shand and it’s so cold, andasIlookupIseetheothertwo thugs escort myhusbandthroughthearch,towards the front door.And by the door I think Isee Ash Kattan turningaway, and the beautifulblond boy. They look likebrothers, I think vacantly,though the blond boy

looks horrified, trulysickened – and then avoice cuts through mythoughts.‘It was like she threwherselfoff,’thevoicesays,‘I’msureshedid.’‘It looked like she did,’someone else agrees,breathywithshock.‘Itwaslike she was – I don’tknow.Tryingtofly.’

Iturnbacktothesilver-spangledgirlandIwonderwhy her sequins areturningdarker, and then Irealisewithakindofdullhorror itmust be blood. Isee her eyes flutter,reflecting the thousandtiny lights strung uparoundtheroom,andshe’ssaying something,something I can’tunderstand. A name, I

think. Helen Kelsey’shusband,Frank,isheadingtowards me now and Iremember with relief thathe’sadoctor.Just as I hear the front

doorbangshutagainstthespring wind, the candlesallgutteringinthebreeze,the girl’s eyes close; theyflutterandtheyclose.Thereflections are

extinguished; her eyes areshut.

ChapterTwenty

At first they wouldn’t tellme about the girl. Thenurse at receptionestablished that I wasn’tfamily,thereforeIcouldn’tknow, but eventuallyrelented in the faceofmy

evident distress. A harrieddoctorcametotalktome;wearily he looked at myface and asked what hadhappened to me. I’dforgotten about my ownbruise. I’d covered it socarefullyforthepartywithmakeup that hadapparentlynowwornoff.‘It doesn’t look veryhopeful,’ he said quietly

about the girl, and askedme if I knew how tocontact her family. BeforeI could answer, the crash-cartcameracingdownthecorridor and the doctorwentrunning.Isataloneinthewaiting

area,drinking tepidcoffeeand trying to thinkstraight.Istillhadnoideawho had taken James.

After he’d beenmanhandled out of thehouse and all hell hadbroken loose, I’d shooedeveryone away into otherrooms. I’d quickly seenthatStarwasfartoodrunkto accompany her injuredfriend tohospital, andoutof franticguilt, I’d left thekidswithDominoandJenand ridden behind in theambulance.

Two hours later, I stilldidn’t know where Jameswas;hisphonewasringingout – and now Liam,whomI’d left inchargeofthe guests, wasn’tanswering his mobileeither.Andthenthedoctorwho

I’djustspokentoappearedfrom behind the rapidlydrawncurtainsandwalked

towards me, head bowedinexhaustion.I couldn’t believe Katya

had died. I just sat in theneon-lit corridor on anorangechair,inshock,mymindracing.Sparklesfromher costume on thecorridor floor caught theoverhead lights, twinklingincongruously against thewell-troddenlino.Rational

thought seemedimpossible,but Ipromisedthe staff I’d get them herdetails as soon as I could,andthenIcalledacabandwent back to the house;the house that seemedevenlesslikehome.The children weresleeping, thank God, andthe guests had all goneapart from the few who’d

passed out in drunkendisarray. Jen was still up.Shegraspedmyhandsandtoldme therewas still nonewsofJames.‘I’m sure he’ll be fine.

You know James,’ shesoothed,andmademetea,hugging me for a silentmoment before going tobedherself.I satamongst thedebris

of the party, the half-fullglasses smeared withlipstick and fingerprints,the overflowing ashtrays;the empty canapé plattersand discarded bits ofclothing; the paperstreamers and thehundredsofcrimsonroses,and I tried again to callLiam, James, anyone whomight tell me what washappening. I was scared

thatJameshadbeenhurt,that he had been strong-armed away by someonehe’d upset in clubland. Ididn’t know who to callbutItriedcallingthemallanyway, until I ranout ofoptions. Eventually I fellinto a doze on the sofa,clutchingmycoldtea.The phone pealed

through thebizarredream

I was having aboutdancing in the old collegebar with Danny Callendarand Dalziel, and I spilledtheteadownmyleg.‘Rose.’ ItwasJames.He

said–andhewasn’tcalm,he was a very long wayfromcalm–hetoldmehehad been arrested. Themen who looked likethugs,theyhadturnedout

tobepolice.‘What for?’ I asked

harshly. A single silverstiletto shoe layabandoned beneath thecoffeetable.‘Idon’tknow.’Hisvoice

sounded strangely smalland high-pitched. ‘TheyjustkeepaskingmewhereI’vebeenrecentlyandhowImettheguysIboughtthe

marblefrom.’I stared blindly at theicesculptureofthecouplefucking;itwasmelting.‘How did you meetthem?’‘I can’t remember,’ hesaidplaintively.‘Myhead’samessrightnow.’God knew what he hadbeentakingattheparty.

‘Whatdoyoumean,youcan’t remember? Isn’t thatwhy you went toVietnam?’‘Thelastfewweekshave

been so mental, I can’tthinkstraight.IthinkLiamintroducedme.’‘Liam did?’ I said. I

thought of Liam pokinground the studio whenJameswasaway.Ithought

of Liam’s face on the dayhe had brought mychildren home. I thoughtabout the fact that Jamessaidhehadn’trememberedasking Liam to collectthem.‘Ineedtospeaktohim,’

Jamessaidurgently.‘Now.He needs to come downhere.’‘I can’t reach him. I

don’t know where he’sgone,andStar’soutcold.’‘Well, keep trying, can

you?’ he snapped. ‘It’spretty fucking desperatehere.’I saw the trapeze artist

spinning in the air; I shutmy eyes hard as I heardthecrunchandslapofherbody hitting the ground.Someone had covered up

the bloodstains with atowel; it lay at my ownfeetnow.‘She’s dead, James.’ My

voicewasacroak.‘Whois?’‘Thegirlon the trapeze.

Shedied.’ I starednumblyatthetowel.‘Iwenttothehospitalwithher.’‘Dead?’hewhispered.

‘They couldn’t stop thebleeding. Shehadmassiveinternalinjuries.’There was a silence.

‘James?’Softly my husband

started to cry. ‘OhChrist,’he sobbed. ‘Oh Christ. Ican’t believe this ishappening.’‘If there’s anything you

need to tellme, J,’ I said,

and I felt very cold, ‘youshoulddoitnow.’There was a pause. I

pulledmycardigantighteraround me but I couldn’tstop shivering. The cryingstopped. I could senseJames pulling himselftogether.‘I need a lawyer. Ring

Ruth Jones. Get her herenow.’

Inthemorning,afterafewhours’ troubled sleep, Ifound a bedraggled Liamin the kitchen. Jen hadapparently taken thechildren into Burford forhotchocolateandStarhadalready left for London.Shewould contact Katya’sparents and the hospital,Liam said, handing me astewedcupoftea.Ilookedat him slumped over the

kitchencounter.‘What the hell’s goingon,Liam?’‘I honestly don’t know,Rose.’ He lookedexhausted as he ran ameatyhandthroughsandycurls. ‘I’ve been at thepolice station half thebloody night myself withsomeweasely-facedcopperyelling at me to tell the

fuckingtruth.’‘Were you?’ I stared at

him.‘Jamesdidn’tsay.’‘Jamesdidn’tknow.’‘So why’ve they let you

goandnothim?’‘I don’t know, Rose. I

just know that I haven’t afucking Scooby what’sgoingonmyself.’Of course, in time, that

transpired not to be true,either.

ChapterTwenty-

One

THETIMES,APRIL

2008

Millionaire recordproducer and clubpromoter James Millerwas apparentlyapprehended by policeduringalavishpartyathis home inGloucestershire lastnight. It is unclear atthis stage what, if any,the charges broughtagainst Mr Miller arebutheiscurrentlybeing

detained at Oxfordpolicestation.MrMillerhad considerablesuccess in the late ‘90swith remixes of variousTopTendancehits,themost famous beingDomino’s smash ‘Holein the Head’. Miller isalso a partner in theRevolver super-clubs inLondon,ParisandNewYork. His business

partner, LiamMacAvoy, wasunavailable forcomment today as wasMiller’s wife, RoseLangton, the award-winning journalist; sheis believed to be at thecouple’s million-poundhome in the Cotswolds,along with their threechildren.

Slowly, everyone left thehouse until I was alonewithmychildren.Andthescary thing wasn’t beingon my own; it was that Ifelt a kind of peace Ihadn’t felt in years, apeace rapidly spoiled bymy own guilt – and thefact that thepoorgirlhaddiedhere.On Monday morning I

took the children intoschool, valiantly ignoringthe stares and whispers.Only Holly’s motherKaren, who’d been at theparty, asked if I was allright. The rest just stared,po-faced, beady-eyed –and I had the horriblefeeling they were glad;thattheyfeltIdeservedit.We had always beenoutsiders, however ‘cool’

they thought we were,they didn’t really like us.They didn’t like oursuccess, hated the fact I’dkept myself apart. But Ihadn’t isolated myself forthe reasons that theysuspected. Iwas justwaryofgettingclosetothem;topeoplewhowould see thecracks beneath the façadeofmylife.

When I got home, a carwaswaitinginthedrive,asmalldarkwoman leaningagainst it in an efficientgrey suit. Too efficient tobeajournalist.‘MrsMiller?’‘Yep.’ I went to unlock

thefrontdoor.‘You need to comewith

me,please.’‘Are you arresting me

too?’Iswungtofaceher.‘Notunlessyouwantme

to,’shesaidpleasantly.‘Oryouthinkthere’sareasonIshould?’At the police station

theykeptonandonaboutJames’srecentmovements.I was torn betweenexplaining that I rarelyknewwhathewasuptoatthe best of times, and

playing the loyal wife. Iplumpedforthelatter,butI could sense it was tolittle effect, mainlybecause I didn’t have theanswerstheywanted.‘You live an extremely

comfortablelife,don’tyou,MrsMiller?’‘We’veworkedveryhard

forit.’‘Really?’ She looked

disbelieving. ‘I thoughtyou were a stay-at-homemum.’I stared at her. How in

thisdayandagecouldonewoman look at anotherwith such disdain? Whathappened to thesisterhood?‘I am a “stay-at-home

mum,” yes. At themoment. Apart from the

one day I do at theChronicle. But I was anextremely career-drivenjournalist before I hadmyfirst child six years ago. Ihadaweeklycolumn;Idida lotofradio. Iwasdoingwell,financially.’‘Soyoudon’twork?Not

really.’‘Not really, no,’ I said

wearily.

‘But still you live in abeautifulandcostlyhome,you drive top-end cars,you employ a cleaner,yourchildrengotoprivateschool—’‘I drive a five-year-oldPassat. Alicia goes to thevillageprimary.The twinsgo to a nursery that wepayfor,yes.Butit’shardlyEton.’

‘You have expensiveforeign holidays, yourclothesare—’‘Sorry,’ I interrupted,

‘but what exactly are yougettingat?Myhusbandsetup a record label in thenineties that doesextremely well. He alsoproduces artists who aremultimillionairesthemselves. You might

even have heard of someofthem.’‘MightI?’Hersmilewas

false.‘Enlightenme.’‘Bono, Radiohead,

Coldplay?Plusheco-ownsthreelargenightclubswitha massive turnover.Occasionallyweholidayinthetownsthey’rebasedin,but other than that, wemostly go to the Peak

District to stay with mymum and dad. And like Isaid, I used to be fairlysuccessful myself before IhadAlicia.’ Idrewbreath,steadied myself. ‘We’redoing all right forourselves, thankyou.Thatdoesn’t mean we arecriminals.’She changed tack. ‘So

he’s away a lot, your

husband.Andyoukeepupwith his arrangements, doyou?’‘He travels all the time.

It’s normal in his line ofwork. We both used to,when I worked full time.It’s hard,with three smallkids,tokeepupwithexactschedules.’DS Montford looked

unimpressed. ‘Does he

often say he’s out of thecountry when he’s not?’She peered at me overblack rectangular glasses,like an impatientschoolteacher.‘Sorry, I don’t follow,’ I

said,glancingattheclock.‘Will this take muchlonger? I have to collectmytwinssoon.’‘Not much longer, no,’

she smiled affably,perusing her notes briefly.‘The thing is, you’ve justtold me Mr Miller’s lastbusiness trip was toVietnam,lastmonth.’‘That’sright.’‘Only, according to all

our information, he neverleftthecountry.’‘Never left the country,’

I repeated stupidly. My

mouth was suddenly dryas sandpaper. ‘Are yousure?’‘Pretty sure, yes. Henever boarded the flightyou say he did. He nevercrossedaborder.’‘But I dropped him attheairport.Ispoketohimout there and everything.’I thought of the cracklyline, the shouted

conversation. HelenKelsey’s smug little facerearedintomymind.Isawhim driving yesterday. Ilooked at thepolicewoman. ‘As far as Iknow,hewasabroad.’‘Hewasn’t,youknow.’‘Well,wherewashe?’‘Ashiswife,MrsMiller,I was hoping that youcouldhaveenlightenedme

onthatone.’I felta tightening inmy

chest.Ididn’tanswer.‘Asitis,we’rejusttrying

to ascertain exactlywherehewas.’‘Are you enjoying this?’

Iaskedherflatly.‘Becauseyoulooklikeyouare.’‘Just doingmy job,Mrs

Miller,’ she smiled grimly,and pushed her glasses

back up the bridge of hernose.‘Justdoingmyjob.’

They wouldn’t let me seeJames that morning. Iknew that they probablycouldn’t hold him muchlonger without charginghim: the lawyer said theystill hadn’t. But they alsowouldn’tfreehim.I drove home through

hedgerows still burstingwith spring. Unbelievablethat in the midst of thisburgeoningbeautymy lifehad just turned on itshead; I feared it was notabout to turnback soon. Iwas just grateful that fornow, the children werestill oblivious to thesituation.A white butterfly

fluttered across thewindscreen – but when Iglanced again to see it flyto freedom, it haddisappeared. I had ahorrible feeling that I hadjust destroyed it.Annihilated for simplybeing in the wrong placeat the wrong time. I wasstarting to realise thiswasn’t all just a horriblemistake.

ChapterTwenty-

Two

That night, after I’d readstories, sung songs,warmed endless milk andkissed fat cheeks, trying

desperately to pretendeverything was absolutelynormal, that Daddy wasawayforworkagain,thatIwas actually sane, Iwrappedablanket aroundmyselfandwentaloneintothe dark. I sat on thebench beneath themagnoliatree,nowbareofits petals, and listened tothe gentle popple of thepond as the frogs broke

the surface; I thought thatthis night-time peace wasoneof the things thathadmademyisolatedlifehereworthit.I had been so lonely

recentlyinthepresenceofmy husband. I thoughtaboutthefactthatnowhewasnothere,itdidn’tfeelwrong.Therewasa soft crunch

of gravel underfoot; myhead snapped round. Andthenhewasthere,stealthyas the cat he had enteredthe garden without merealising; he was standingtomyleft.He stood beneath thestone archway where therosesgrewinsummer.Mybreathcaughtinmythroatand my heart began to

raceuntilIhadtoforciblyquell it. There were somanythingstosayandyetnothing at all. I didn’twant to soundrecriminatory and yetthere were onlyrecriminations. I wasstupidly glad that he hadcome, although I knew Ishouldn’t be; and yet sohurt and confused that Ididn’tknowwheretostart.

Whydidyouvanish?Whydid you threaten me? Whydidyoucomenearmeinthefirstplace?Questions flooded my

head and yet I stayedsilent.Istaredathimasheleaned back against thewall,contemplatingme.Inthe half-light it was hardto see him properly.Witha pain like a hammer

striking home I realisedtheonlythingIwantedtodo was reach out andtouchhim–andyetIwasstill so angry I wanted toscream.Worstofall,Iwasfurious with myself forfeelinglikethis.In the end I said, ‘Haveyou come to hurt mychildren? Because you’llhavetohurtmefirst.’

‘I’msorry.’Hisvoicewaslow and hoarse, and heseemed more unsure thanI’dknownhimbefore.‘Great. Thanks for the

apology.’ I stood up.‘Please,willyougonow?’My legs were unsteady

becauseI’dbeensittingforso long. He crossed thegravel intwostridesandIstepped back quickly, out

of his reach, almostoverbalancing inmyhastetogetaway.‘Please,Rose.Iamreally

sorry.Ijustcan’t—’‘What?’ I put my hands

up to ward him offalthough he had nottouched me yet. ‘What,Danny? Sorry that youslept with a marriedwoman? Sorry that you

threatenedmykids?Sorrythatyoujustdisappeared?’‘Iwouldneverhavehurt

them, you must knowthat.’‘How do I know that? I

don’tknowyouatall,thatmuchisclear.’‘I can’t explain, not

now.’‘Whynot?’

‘I shouldn’t even behere.’‘Whyshouldn’tyou?’‘Because.Ican’texplain.

Notnow.’‘Right.Well,don’tthen.’

Islippedoutofhisshadowandmovedtostepintothehouse. But before I could,hepulledmeback.‘Don’t,’ I croaked, but

found I couldn’t stophim.

I justwantedtonotthink,tolosemyselfforawhile.‘Rose,’ he whispered,

‘I’msosorry,’andthenhepicked me up and I lethim; he carried me intothehouseandIwascryingtearsof sorrow,angerandfrustration, and I wantedto pummel him with myclenchedfistsbutinsteadIwrapped my legs around

him and kissed him backuntilmymouthhurt.Ifelthiswarmskinbeneathmysplayed fingers and heheld me so tight I felt hecouldcrushmeandatthatmoment it would havebeen all right, because Isoughtoblivion.Afterwards we lay onthefloorbesideeachotherand listened to the sounds

of the night outside. Ilooked over at him. Hehadascaronhisfacethatsomehow I had nevernoticed before, a smallwhite nick below his leftcheekbone. He lookedback and then he strokedmy face, my sore cheekwhere James had hit me,only now the bruises hadfaded.

‘God, Rose,’ hemuttered.‘What?’‘Just…’Heranhishand

through his hairdistractedly.‘You.’My heart caught on

itself,butsomewheredeepdown I didn’t believe himanymore.He felt for his tobacco.

‘Wantone?’

‘I don’t smoke. Don’tyou remember?’ I rolledawayfromhiswarmarms.I lay on the barefloorboards and I felt likean island floating alone,andthenIthought,Imustget up and put someclothes on before one ofthechildrenwakeup.OnlyIcouldn’tmove,notyet.‘I do remember, aye. I

wasjustbeingpolite.’‘Well, don’t be polite.

You’ve never botheredbefore.’‘I’m sorry,’ he said

equably.‘Sweetthen?’‘I don’twant a sweet.’ I

was being petulant, Iknew.‘Whydoyoualwayseatthem?’‘Trying to give up

smoking. I got hooked on

both instead.’ He ran ahandoverthefloor.‘Homeimprovements?’‘Itorethecarpetup.’I hadn’t been able to

bear the bloodstains anymore, so I’d hacked at itlastnight.Theonly timeIhad cried since James’sarrest; I’d sat amidstunderlay and tacks andwoolpileandsobbed.

I lookedback atDanny.‘Why are you here? I stilldon’tunderstand.’‘BecauseIwantedtosee

you.’‘Where’veyoubeen?’‘Here and there.’ He

looked at his watch. ‘I’mgoingtohavetogo,Rose.I’msorry.’Ifeltnumb,likemysoul

wasbeingsuckedout, like

I’d finally lost all sense oflevity and joy. I knewwedid not belong together.That much had becomeclear.‘Danny?’‘Aye.’‘Did you know Jameshasbeenarrested?’Hesatupandfeltinhisdiscarded jacket for alight.‘Ihadheard,aye.’

‘AshKattanwashere.’‘When?’‘The night James gotarrested. Do you knowwhy?’‘Nope.’I wanted to touch himandyetIcouldn’t.‘Can I ask yousomething else?’ I saidquietly.

‘Goon.’‘Was it because of the

children?’He lit theroll-up. ‘What

doyoumean?’‘Didyouvanish,didyou

hate the – the idea ofmein the end because of thechildren?’‘I don’t understand.’ He

ran a hand through hishair; he looked tired. He

rubbed his face as if torousehimself.‘Because I was not just

me?’‘Rose, itwas nothing to

do with your weans, Iswear. Or you. Not in thewayyouthink.’‘Whatthen?’‘One day you’ll

understand, pet.’ Dannyinhaled deeply. He stared

at the ceiling. Carheadlightsmovedacrossit,two white discs slidingdown the shadowed wall.‘Ipromiseyouthat.’‘So why did you comeback?’ I whispered. Iwouldnotcryagain.‘I came to findyou– totell you.’ He reached outand ran a hand downmyribcage. My stomach

contracted. ‘I came to tellyouthatIwassorry.’‘Youcametofindme,tosay sorry,’ Iwasparrotingagain.‘Andthat’sit?’‘I’m good at findingthings.’Theendoftheroll-upwasatinyfireflyinthedarkness. ‘That’s what Ido.’Irolledbacktohimandstared down into his face.

‘Just not so good atkeepingthem.’‘Thatmaybe true,Rose

Miller. It may well betrue.’Helookedupatme,theblueofhiseyesdousedbythedimlight;andthenheranonefingerdownmycheek.Icouldfeeltheheatof the cigarette on myskin.‘IwishIcouldstay.’‘Butyoucan’t.’

‘It’s not something I’mgladabout.’Imovedmyheadaway.‘Whatareyougladabout?’‘Right now,’ Dannystood up fluidly andwalked to the window,buttoning up his jeans,‘notmuch.’I watched himwordlessly.‘I’m flying out to join

Kattan tomorrow.’ Helooked down the drive. ‘Ijust wanted to saygoodbye.’ He drew theblinds.‘Where is he?Kattan?’ Istared at Danny’s nakedback. He was lean in themoonlight, the well-definedmuscles,thedipinthe small of his back, theblack dragon on his

shoulder shadowed andsmooth, another smallertattoo on the other bicep,some kind of flag I didn’trecognise. ‘Where is henow?’‘Abroad. On his way

home,Ithink.’‘Andyou’renothereany

more either, are you? Inspirit,you’renothere?’‘Not in the way you

want me to be, no, Isupposenot.’I wanted to scream

‘Don’t go!’ but I couldn’tspeak. I took a deepbreath.‘Ithinkyoushouldleave

now,Danny.’Heswunground.‘Ican’t

behere,Rose.It’snotthatIdon’twanttobe.It’sjust–Ican’t.’

‘Whatever. It’s fine.’ Istood quickly and pulledmy old sweatshirt backovermyhead,scrapingmyhairangrilyback frommyface.‘Please,justgo.’Howeasy it is to say inlove the opposite of whatisactuallymeant.‘Ifthat’swhatyouwant,’Danny shrugged. ‘I guessyou’reright.’

Howharditistoconfesswhatwereallyfeel.Tolayourselves open, on theline.I stared at him. ‘Couldyounotevenargue?’He didn’t answer, justgot dressed silently.Whenhe left he leaned to kissme on the mouth, but Imovedmyheadsothathiscool lips landed

awkwardly on my cheek.Hestareddownatmeandinthehalf-lightIcouldseethe piercing blue of hiseyes again, and I feltdespair.And when he left,

slipping out of the backdoor like a furtive loverfromsomebadfarce,Ifeltsomuchworse than Ihadbefore. I stared out into

thedark.When I went back into

thelivingroom,Isawhe’dleft his old jumper on thesofa, and a stupid lemonsherbet sweet had fallenfrom his pocket. I pickedthemupandcarried theminto the kitchen; I heldthemabovethebin.I despised myself for

wanting him. I despised

myself forwishing he hadstayed. I hadn’t meant tolet him in but he’d got inanyway,likeafinelayerofsand beneath my skin, hewas there, hurting mebecause I couldn’t havehim and couldn’t rid myheadofhim.AndperhapsIhad been greedy and bad,perhaps I deserved thepain. Whichever, I wassure as hell paying for it

now.I felt dead inside; I hadlost any vestige of hope Ihad left. He might havesaid I was beautiful butstill, he left. And I was abad, badwomanwhohadcheated on her husband;whoyearnedtorunaway,who had, at one madmoment,forgottenshewasa mother and only

remembered that she wasfulloflustandlongingand–love.I carried his jumperupstairs and I breathed initssmell,justonce.ThenItucked it into my bottomdrawer, beneath my oldpyjamas.

ChapterTwenty-

Three

THETIMES,MAY

2008

Record producer JamesMiller has reportedlybeengrantedbail.Heisat home inGloucestershireawaitingthe outcome of aninvestigation conductedby the Met, apparentlyin conjunction withdrug trafficking. As yetno charges have beenbrought. Thirty-nine-year-oldMillerdeclined

to comment, althoughfriends say he is fullyintending to prove hisinnocence, should therebeanyneedto.

TheysentJameshomethenext day. He wasexhausted; hadn’t slept atall,hesaid,andhelookedthinneralready,thoughhesurelycouldn’tbe.

‘I’vebeenfuckingsetup,Rose,’ he kept saying. Hesatatthekitchentableanddrank a bottle of heavyburgundy,glassafterglassofit.‘Hesetmeup.’‘Who?’Icouldn’tbearit.‘DoyoumeanLiam?’James stared at me, hismouth stained red. ‘No,notbloodyLiam.OfcoursenotLiam.Thebastardwho

did the deal on theimportation. He set meup.’‘Who was he, though?

Whowasit?’‘He never told me his

full name. Saquibsomething.’‘You must have had an

idea, though, James, ofwho you were dealingwith?’Iwasnonplussedby

hisapparentdenseness.Hemust be lying again, hehadtobe.‘Surely?’‘I met him in London

before I went,’ was all hewouldsaybeforehedrankhimselftosleep.AndIwatchedhimandI

thought perhaps I shouldfeel real guilt aboutDanny, but I knew that Ididn’t. Not really. I had

lostJameslong,longago.

In the morning overbreakfast, I asked Jameswhy the police had saidthat he had never left thecountry.‘Because they’re out tofucking get me.’ Heslammed the chair againstthekitchenwallsoharditdented the paintwork, his

plateof toast flying to theground. ‘They’reallout toget me. Don’t youunderstand?’Heyelled so loudly that

Effiebegantocry.‘It’s OK, darling,’ I

crooned, cradling her tome as if she was still ababy.Shelookedupatmewithwoefuleyes.‘I want Daddy to go

awayagain.’All morning James

rampaged through thehouse shouting andcursing until he worehimself out, just like histhree-year-old son on abad day. He yelled at meabout the torn-up carpetfor ten minutes until Iquietly explained why I’ddone it.Thenhe slunkoff

tothestudioandslammedthedoor.After school I took the

childrentotheplaygroundbehind the church andthen to The Copper Kettlefor cheese-on-toast andlemonade for tea. Iwatched the little bubblescrowdroundtheglassthatEffie held, and I cravedpeace for them; for their

innocence.Ilistenedtothewomenbehindthecountermoan about the Poles inWitney taking over theirclientele.‘Bloody foreign muck,’

one said, and I looked ather thinning crown, herbaby-pink scalp, as shewipedthetablenexttoherand I tried not to despiseherfear.

I was sure people werestaring at us as Iwatchedthe children laugh on theclimbing-frame,screechingdown the slides. Peoplewho didn’t know us werebusy making judgements,and I thought that Iwanted to leave thisplacenow, this place that hadnever welcomedme. All Iwanted–aswasmyhabit,my oldest trick – all I

wantedwastofly.LaterJameswascalmer.He’d spoken to hissolicitor;Liamwascominguptomorrow.‘I’m sorry,’ heapologised. ‘I’m justunderalotofstress.’I said of course I knewhow hideous it must be,and I understood – butactually I didn’t. I

concentrated on thechildren because I didn’tknowwhatelsetodo.As darkness fell, Helen

Kelsey arrived on thedoorstepwithabasketfullof charity, but I didn’t letherin.Iwatchedherfromthe upstairs window; Iknew she had only cometo delve and then impartthegossip to thevillage. I

was quite simply donewith being nice for thesakeofit.‘Rose,’ I could hear

James calling me as Iturned away from thewindow and drew thecurtains, ‘have you got anumberforHadiKattan?’My heart thumped

painfully.‘Why?’‘I need to speak to him

now.’‘Why?’‘Haveyougotanumber

or not? The one I’ve gotdoesn’tseemtowork.’‘Somewhere,Ithink.But

why do you need him?’ Isaid carefully, comingdownthestairs.‘Because the furniture

guy,I’vejustremembered.He was recommended

throughtheKattans.’James went through to

thestudioandIfollowed.Iwas shocked at the tip ithadbecome;hehadpulledevery file and box andfolder from the shelves.There was paper, CDs,album artworkeverywhere, the floor wascovered. He was neverusually the tidiest man,

but James was extremelyhouse-proudwhenitcametothestudio.‘What do you mean

you’vejustremembered?’Isaid, stepping over MickJaggerdressedasawizard.‘How could you possiblynotrememberbefore?’His eyes were blazing

withsomething.‘Itdoesn’tmatter,doesit?’

‘Butyouwerebangedupfor three days and youdidn’tremember—’‘Shut up, Rose. I’ve

rememberednow.’‘Remembered what,

though?’‘WhenI spoke toKattan

athis house, at that partyhe had. He offered to putsome money intoRevolver.’

‘Yes, I know that. Butwhathasittodowith–todowith—’‘And then we weretalking about decking itout, the new club. I wasadmiring some of hisfurniture. All that gold-inlaidmarble. I thought itwouldbeclassyinthenewVIP.Hesaidhewouldputmeintouchwithsomeone

whoimportedit.’‘James, please. Bestraight with me abouteverything now.’ I satheavily.‘Iam.’‘You’re not. You wentback there, to AlbionManor,andIsawyou,andyouliedaboutit.’‘When?’

‘You know when. Whatelseareyoulyingabout?’‘Nothing.’‘James!Were you really

in Vietnam? Come on, J.Be honest.’ He was aboutto argue – and thensuddenly he shrugged. ‘Ididn’twanttoworryyou.’‘Aboutwhat?’‘Stuff?’

‘What kind of stuff?’God,hewasinfuriating.‘I had so much to sort

out here and I – I wasgoing to go, really, onlythen—’‘But I dropped you at

the airport andeverything.’‘Yeah.Well, Iwasgoing

togoandthen–theyrangme, asked me to meet in

London before I wentaway.’‘And what did you talkabout?’‘When?’‘At this meeting whenyou were meant to be inSaigon?’HowcouldIhavebeen so slow? Marblewasn’t even a Vietnameseproduct. ‘Was it – was itheroin,J?’

He stared at me and Iwaited, hand outstretchedto him, frozen. Finally hewasgoingtotellthetruth,I could tell. The computerpinged suddenly,announcing an email, andthe spell was broken. Heturnedaway.‘That bloke sorted it.ThemeetinginLondon.’‘What bloke?’ I said

carefully.‘Youknow,thatScottish

geezer.The tall quiet one.Callendar.Hearrangedthemeeting – about thefurniture.Ididn’ttrusthimthen.Nevertrustthequietones.Ithink–Christ’ssake–careful,Rose.’‘Ouch.’ I sliced my

finger on the silver knifehe used to open his post.

‘Sorry. You thinkwhat?’ Ifumbled for a tissue tostem theblood; it drippeddown onto the snowypaperI’dbeenassembling.‘I think he’s fucking setmeup.’Hepulledanotherin-tray of stuff from thedesk; it swirled throughthe air. ‘Where are theirfucking numbers? Whydoes everyone move my

fuckingstuff?’Myblood floweredontothe white tissue; a deepdeepred.That night James hadanother nightmare, theworst since we’d leftuniversity. He keptscreaming a name overand over, a name Icouldn’tmakeout;hekeptscreamingitandmoaning,

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry …’When I eventuallymanagedtowakehim,hiseyes werewidewith fear.He said he couldn’tremember anything, buthisdistresswastangible.

***

The next morning I drovetoAlbionManorbutitwasboarded and shuttered –

no cars, no horses in thefield. I tookadeepbreathand rang Danny, but hisvoicemailwasalwayson.Itried to call Hadi Kattan,as James already had, buthis number wasunobtainable. I triedMayatoo, several times, butalthoughitrang,sheneveranswered her phone orreturnedmycalls.

At night James pacedthe house, too frightenedto close his eyes in casethe nightmares cameagain;inthedayhedozedon the sofa. Liam cameand went, they spoke toendless lawyers, theymuttered tooneanother–but they never really toldme what was going on.However hard I tried togetitoutofJames,hewas

constantly vague. ‘Set up’became his mantra; deepdown I was terrified hewasguilty.I couldn’t shake thefeeling that Liam knewmore than he wasadmitting, but he was atgreat pains to avoidbeingonhisownwithmeatanytime. I’d still neverunderstood why he’d

collectedmy children thatday, and I’d lost my trustin him. My paranoia wasgrowing, I was aware ofthat, but our world wasfalling apart and myreasonwasfollowingclosebehind.Attheendofthatweek,

onemorningarounddawn,the police came and tookJames away again – and

this time he lookedbroken. Fred woke upcrying with all the noiseand confusion, and Iscooped him out of bedand carried himdownstairs. He was tooheavyformethesedaystohold for long, but now Iheldhimtightinmyarms,his head heavy on myshoulder, blinking andbewildered, tears like

dewdrops on his lashes.We stood on the doorstepin theearlymorningmist,the distant hills wreathedas if in dragon’s breath,shiveringinourpyjamas.I watched DS Montford

escortmyhusbandintothebackofanunmarkedcar:Ithanked God at least twoof my children were stillsleeping. James staredout

atme, and he looked justlike his son, like a littleboy – and my heart wentouttohim.Helookedlikesomeonewhohad lost hisfight.IheldFred’shanduptowavetohisfather.AndlatertheexpressiononJames’s face–ohGod,it haunted me. I’d seenthatlookbefore.Thesamelookhewore theday that

Dalzieltriedtokillhisownbrother.

ChapterTwenty-

Four

THETIMES,MAY

2008

Record producer JamesMiller has beenrearrested and is nowapparentlybeingheldatLondon’s PentonvillePrison.There is still nonews of the exactcharge, but it’sunderstoodthatbailhasbeen refused on thegrounds that he mightflee the jurisdiction,unusual in a case as

high-profile as his, andworrying indeed forMiller.

When everyone startslying, how do you everknowwhomtotrust?TheonepersonIneeded

to speak to most hadcompletely disappeared.His phone was neveranswered, and then the

number stopped workingaltogether. Like a mightyslapintheface,finallyandirrevocably I realised I’dbeen played for an utterfool. I blocked thepainofrejectionfrommymindasbestIcould,busywiththesalvationofmyfamily,buttheknowledge thatDannycould never have cared atallnaggedatmeuntilIfeltdust-like. Until I was

nothing. The ridiculouslonging dragged at me,scraped its rustyfingernailsacrossmyself–until slowly I realised thiswas the price I must payfor daring to look outsidemy life for happiness; forthe lust that meant I’dforgotten I was not justme,Iwasmany.Iwasnotme;Iwasmychildrentoo.

But there was no spaceforself-pityandheartache.Ihadtofigureouthowtokeep my family togetherthebestIcould,beforewelosteverything.

The week after James’ssecond arrest, I took thechildrenoutofschoolforafew days and we wentdown to stay with Jen in

London. I had people toseeandquestionstoask.Liam wasn’t expectingme when I buzzed at hisdoor. He answered it in apair of cut-off joggingbottoms, sporting a smallpaunchI’dnotseenbefore.He was obviouslyhungover, his pale skinunhealthily pallid, hissandy curls on end. He

looked not unlike thederelicts who lived at thebottomofhisstairwell.‘Rose.’ Was it my

imagination or did heseemapprehensive?Liam lived in the

penthouse of a convertedbuttonfactoryinHoxton–the apartment all shinyfloors and James Bondposters, Nintendo Wii’s

and BMX bikes that Liamnever rode unless he’dbeenpartyingallnight.HewasthearchetypalLondongeezer, full of charm andexclusive drinking clubsand expensive dinners,until his women fell forhimandbegantodreamofwedding dresses andchubby babies. Then Liamwould turn into theproverbial ‘toxic bachelor’

– in short, his dupedgirlfriends wouldn’t seehimfordust.‘God,Hoxton’s adump,’

I said, dumping my bagbeneath a leather chairshaped like a vagina. ‘I’mgaspingforacuppa,Liam.I’m having the worstweek.’ My chattiness wasdesigned to disarm him. Isat on the vagina. ‘Make

that the worst year,actually.’‘No kids?’ Yawning,

Liam put the kettle on,rubbinghiseyesblearily.‘No, Jen’s babysitting.

You remember Jen? Ifinally got my visitor’sordertoseeJames.’‘That’s good.’ He

yawned again, so wide Isawhisfillings.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said drily.‘DidIwakeyou?’It was two in the

afternoon.‘No. Just a bit of a late

night.’The detritus strewn

across the flat spokevolumes: empty bottles,fag ends, rolled-up notes.An electric-blue bra hungfrom the lampshade over

the table. The matchingpantsweren’tvisible.‘Who’sthere,Liam?’Thelittle voice came from themezzanine.‘Noone.JustRose.’Thekettlesnappedoff.‘Hi, Star,’ I called. I’dhopedtocatchhimalone.‘So what can I do foryou?’Liamtriedastrained

smile. He sounded ratherlikemybankmanager.‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ I was

taken aback by his tersemanner. ‘I didn’t realiseyouwere– Imean– I – Iwon’ttakeupyourtime.’There was an

infinitesimal pause whilsthe hung his head. ‘Sorry,Rose,’hesaidsheepishly.‘Idon’tmeantosound—’

‘Unfriendly?’ I met hiseye. ‘Because you do, abit.’‘I’m really sorry.’ He

flushed.‘I’lldoanythingtohelp,youmustknowthat.’‘Thanks.’ But I didn’t

knowthat,Irealised.Whatdid I really know aboutLiam at all? Iwasn’t evenquitesurewhyIhadcome.I had no plan formulated,

nothing more than thesenagging certainties thatJames’s own partner musthave known somethingwas wrong; if James wasguiltyascharged.IfJameshadn’tbeensetup,ashesovehemently insisted thathe had. Right now, Iwasn’tsurewhatthelesseroftwoevilswas.‘Liam,doyouswearyou

don’t know what’s goingon?’‘I swear I’m as

flummoxed as you aboutthe drug thing.’ Liam hadreadmymind. ‘I swear. Itjust doesn’t seem likeJames’sstyle.’Didn’t it?Whatwasmy

husband’s style? Thethings that had attractedme in the past were his

gung-hospirit;hisrestless,recklesslustforadventure.I stared at my hands. Myinevitableattractiontotheproverbial bad boy. Howpathetic.‘It’s not the only reason

I’ve come.’ I took a deepbreath.‘Nottoputtoofineapointonit,I’mbroke.’‘Youcan’tbe.’Hestared

atmeuncomprehendingly.

‘Thehouse,theflat,the—’‘No, Imean,brokeright

here and now.’ The bloodsuffused my own face. ‘Ican’tgetmyhandsonanymoney.They’vefrozenthecredit cards, there’snothing in the bankaccounts. Everything’s inJames’s name. I’ve been abit dozy, I suppose. Babybrain for too long.’ I took

another breath. ‘I’ve beenwondering, can you helpme? Sub me some cashagainst the club orsomething? Somethingfromyoursharedaccount.’I realised slowlyhewaslookingaghast.‘I wouldn’t ask … ‘ Myvoice trailed off into atrickle. ‘Only I’m startingtofeelabitdesperate.’

‘It’s a bit complicated.’His voice seemed harsh.‘We keep our money veryseparate,JamesandI.’I looked at him insurprise.‘Really?’ It made nosense to me. But howcouldIchallengehim?‘I’msorry. I guess I – Ishouldn’thaveasked.’‘Rose, it’s just – it’s

complicated.’‘Really? Complicated

like when you took thekids from my mum’s?’ Iheld his eye; he flushedunattractively. ‘Just tellmethe truth,Liam. I’msotiredofallthebloodylies.’‘OK.’ He took a deep

breath. ‘I took them toscare James. I’m sorry,Rose.’ He saw my furious

face and held up a hand.‘Look, I know it was shit,and I shouldhave thoughtharder about you. But Iwas fucked off with him,so fucked off with him,and I was panicking. Icouldn’t get through anyotherway.’‘To scare him?’ I was

confused.‘Why?’Starappearedatthetop

of the stairs dressed in anelectric-blue thong andlittle else, her brown-tippedbosomstoobigandpendulous for her tinyframe, a gold crucifixdangling between themlike a third eye. I avertedmygaze.‘All right, Rose?’ Sheseemeduncomfortabletoo,although not about her

blatant nudity. ‘I’m sorryabout…youknow.’‘Thank you,’ I said toher feet. ‘And how areyou?’‘OK.’ She shrugged andyawned like a small cat.‘Bit tired. I’d love to chat,but I’mgonnabe late. I’mgoingforabath.’I thought of something.‘Star?’

‘Yeah?’ The girl turned,her bosoms swingingsoftly.‘Did you – did you see

Katya’sparents?Theotherday.Aretheyallright?Doyou know when thefuneral is? I’d like to sendsomething.’‘Her parents?’ She

wrinkled her brow. ‘No.Why would I have seen

them?’‘Goandputthebathon,love,’ Liam interruptedquickly. ‘I’ll bring you acuppaupinasec.’‘’K.’ She wandered off,tiny buttocks tight likehalvedpeanuts.‘Liam,what…?’Ishookmy head in confusion.‘YousaidStarwasgoingtolet them know, didn’t

you?’‘Yeah.’ He busiedhimself with tea leaves.‘God, I never know whatyou do with all of this.Star insists on the bloodygreenstuffbutit’ssofoul.’Through the openwindow a girl’s laughterfloated in from the streetbelow, a carefree kind oflaugh. I felt a stab of

jealousy.‘Liam!ForGod’ssake!’‘Stardidn’tknowKatya,’

he said flatly. ‘I just – Iwas trying to make youfeelbetter.’‘Aboutwhat?’‘About a girl dying in

yourfrontroom.’‘But I thought she was

Star’sfriend?’

‘Nope. That’s just whatJames wanted you tothink.’‘I can’t – sorry, but this

isn’t going in right.’ Istood, then sat againheavily. ‘So who the hellwasshethen?’Liam looked atme very

directly for the first timesinceIhadarrived.‘You’regoingtofindoutanyway,I

guess.’ He submerged theleavesinboilingwater.‘Findoutwhat?’‘Shewas—’Hestopped.‘Goon,please,Liam.’‘Shewasoneof James’sgirls.’‘Oneofhis—’‘One of his girls. That’sright.’‘You mean, like a

girlfriend?’IwassurprisedathowcalmIfelt.‘No, I don’tmean like agirlfriend.Imean,likea—’Westaredateachother;thismanwhomIhadbeenfriends with since Jamesand I met up again; sincebefore my marriage.SomethingelseinmylifeIknew nothing of. My lifewasapparentlyahouseof

cards that couldn’twithstand the pressure ofthe gentlest breeze, letalone the gale that wasnowblowing.‘Youmean– likea–an

escort?’‘Ifyoulike.’‘An escort like a – a

whore?’Iwhispered.‘Yes, Rose. I’m really

sorry,lovey.Imean,likea

whore.’

ChapterTwenty-

Five

After leavingLiam’s flat, IgotthetubetoPentonvillePrison. I felt anxious andstrung out, thoroughly

overwrought.All this time I hadlonged for the city, buthere and now, amidst thefumesandgrime,thedrabgrey uniformity of thearchitecture, the boarded-upshopsandsmellykebabhouses, I found myselfcraving fresh air andspace,justtobe.RuefullyIshookmyhead.Whyisthe

grassalwaysgreener?At the entrance to Old

Street tube I passed a girlon a mobile phone,speaking a language Icouldn’t place – Polish,possibly. She looked tiredand cross, her long hairtiedback,awaif-likebody,slanted eyes, smokingfuriously, jabbering intoherphone.

‘You will be sorry,’ shesaidsuddenlyinEnglishtothe person on the phone,and something inher facemade me pause. Iimagined Katya twistingthrough the air; I heardthe—I closed my eyes andhurried down intoLondon’sbowels.OnthetubeIstudiedthe

women in my carriage:ordinary women readingpapers, fiddling withiPods, napping, eyes shutagainsttheworld.Howdidthey make their living?Did they spend their dayscleaning, filing, strikingmillion-dollar deals orselling their own bodies?How did we ever knowwhatlaybeneathsomeoneelse’s surface, unless they

wanted to share it?Suddenly I feltoverwhelmed by life, bythefactthateverythingI’dcounted on was beingdragged slowly andrelentlessly from beneathmyfeet.The prison was

deceptively white andgrand from the street, butthe air inside was filled

with a lacklustre kind ofdread. The visitors’ hallwas a large soulless placefull of hollow-eyedmen –but somehow their femalevisitors seemed sadder,like they’d givenuphope.Blank-faced or tearful,accompanied by curly-headed toddlers suckingthumbs or plasticdummies, and babes-in-arms thankfully oblivious

toDaddy’snewhome,theywere world-weary beyondtheir often youthful years;the older womenapparently exhausted bytheirlives.James was seated

already, unshaven andblack-eyed, wearing ayellow tabard, and Dieseljeans that were baggierthan a week ago. We

hugged briefly above thewooden divide thatseparated us, presumablysoIcouldn’tpassanythingbeneaththetable.‘Did you bring me

something?’ he whisperedhoarsely.Forthefirsttimesince I’d known him Icouldfeelhisribs.‘What kind of

something?’ I sat, feeling

like an innocent, asnervousasifwewereonafirstdate,onlywithoutthenice bits to look forwardto. I’d visited a fewprisoners during myreporting years, but thiswasentirelydifferent.‘Fags?Money?Dope?’Ilookedathimstupidly.

‘AmIallowed—’‘Of course you’re not

allowed. But next time,bringme some dope, OK?A lump of hash, yeah?Stick it in the fag packet.No one will check,apparently. And somemoney,yeah?’‘OK,’Isaidquietly. ‘Ifit

helps.’‘Nothing helps.’ To my

horror, his eyes began tofill. ‘Fuck, Rose. I’m not

sureIcandothis.’‘Of course you can.

You’retoughasoldboots,’Isoothed,takinghishand.But he didn’t look verytough. I eyed his shaven-headed neighbour, a largeoverweight man whosported a missing fronttooth anda serpent tattoothat slithered up hiswindpipe.

‘It won’t be for long.You’ll be out soon, I’msure.You’vegottohanginthere,OK?’‘I don’t understandwhythe fuck they won’t bailme now. This crap about“fleeing”.’Nor did I, that was theproblem. Ruth Jones,James’s solicitor, said itwas because the CPS

thought there was asubstantial risk Jamesmight ‘flee thejurisdiction’.Why,Iwasn’tsure;noonewouldtellme.I squeezed his hand.

‘They seem to think youmightdoarunner. Idon’tknowwhy. Butwe’ll keeptrying. I spoke to Ruthearlier. She’s pulling outallthestops,Ipromise.’

A blond-haired toddlerwascryingintheplayareaas anolder child snatchedhis action figure. Themother hushed himquickly.‘Will you bring the kids

in?Please,Rosie.Ineedtosee them.’ James staredatmewithbeseechingbrowneyes. ‘They’ll make mebetter.’

‘I can’t, James,’ I saidquietly. ‘Not yet. Let’s seewhathappens,shallwe?’He pulled his hand

away.‘Ineedtoexplaintothem I’m not bad,’ hemuttered.He’dbeenbitinghis nails again, a habithe’dkickedlongago.‘Don’t be so silly, J.

Theydon’t think that,andthey don’t even know

whereyouare.Ijustdon’tthink—They’re so little,James, they wouldn’tunderstand. I don’t thinkweneedtotellthem.’Yet.Theunspokenword

whirled heavily betweenus,likeaspinningplateonastick.I clasped my hands on

my lap. I took a deepbreath. ‘I need to ask you

something,James.’The couple next to us

started kissing hungrily,theburlymanholding thegirl’s dark ponytail andtwistingitroundhishand.There were scratches andnicks all over his baldhead.Fromtheendofourrow, the warder spottedthem.‘What?’Jamesmuttered,

biting his thumb-nail. Hisknee tapped incessantly,nervously, against thedividebeneaththetable.‘The trapeze artist,

Katya…’‘Whatabouther?’‘Whowasshe?’‘JustsomeoneIhiredfor

the party. She worked intheParisRevolver,theninLondon, on the trapeze.

She was good.’ He toreinto the skin around hisnail. ‘I can’t believe she’sdead,’hemuttered.‘I thought you said shewasafriendofStar’s?’‘Did I?’Hemetmyeye.Itwasadirectchallenge.‘But she wasn’t, wasshe?’‘Idunno.’

‘James,’ I felt the firstflickers of anger, ‘that’snot good enough. Wetalked about this before.Allthisnotremembering.Idon’tbelieveit.You’vegottobestraightwithme.’‘Iambeingstraight.’Igrabbedhishand.‘Youare not. You’re lyingthroughyourbloodyteeth.After everything we’ve

been through, I do knowwhenyou’relying.’Hetriedtopullhishand

away,lookedathislap.‘James, it’s not fair.

Thinkofthekids.Thinkofwhatthisisdoingtothem.The better idea I have ofwhat’sgoingon,thebetterchance I have of helpingyou. Surely you can seethat?’

He looked at mevenomously.‘Howthefuckcanyouhelp?Canyougetme out of here? No. Canyoumakeitgoaway?No.So how are you going tomakeitbetter,eh,MummyRose?’I swallowed hard. I

pinched the skin on myhands. IthurtbutIhardlyfeltthepain.

AsquicklyasJameslosthis temper, he saw theerror of his wrath. ‘Sorry,sorry.’ He put his head inhis hands. ‘I don’t knowwhat’s wrong with me atthemoment.It’slikeI’minone of my bloodynightmaresandIjustcan’twakeup.’‘Well,startbytellingmethetruth.Who—’

‘Five minutes for allvisitors,’ the Tannoyannouncedflatly.The guard pulled ourneighbour back from hisgirlfriend. ‘You know therules,Rigger,’hesaid.‘Yeah, all right, geezer.’The man winked at meand stretched leisurely.‘Youcan’tblameamanfortrying.’IsawhehadLOVE

andHATE tattooed on hisplumpinnerarms.‘Bastard,’ the girl said,

just loud enough for thewardertohear,tossingherhair over her shoulder.The warder squared hisshoulders, choosing toignoreher.‘James,tellme.’Ilooked

backatmyhusband.‘WhowasKatya?’

James gazed at me andin that moment I felt theyearsdropawayandIsawthe boy I had met atuniversity, that hopefullively boywith a sense offun, a graffitied guitarslungoverhis back, and Ifought down a suddenurge to rail against oursituation. I saw theemotions fighting acrosshis face. There was so

much I obviously didn’tknow about my husband,so much I hadn’t lookedfororhehadkepthidden;and I saw that he lookedyoung and vulnerable andalmost like he used to.Like I could put my trustinhimagain.‘I’m sorry, Rose,’ hewhispered, and his voicecracked.

‘So … ?’ I held mybreath.‘So – so she was my

girlfriend. Well, notgirlfriend.’ This time hereachedformyhand,butImoved too fast for him. Icouldn’t bear his touchright now. ‘Lover, Isuppose.’‘How romantic.’ It was

toolateforrecriminations.

Itookadeepbreath.‘Liamsaysshewasawhore.’‘He did, did he?’ James

sat back. His face closedupagain. ‘Well,hewould.Hewasjealous.’I looked dispassionately

downonJames,asifIwasout of my body. Howbizarre our life hadbecome:myhusbandandIsittinginprison,discussing

whether his businesspartnerwas jealous of thegirl James had apparentlybeensleepingwith.‘Why jealous?’ LiammightnotbethenextBradPitt – ‘Liams are alwaysmingers’ was the jokebetweenuswhenwe’dmetfirst – but he had notrouble whatsoeverattractingwomen.

James shrugged. ‘I’msorry, Rose, but she wasgorgeous. You saw that.Any bloke would …’ Hecaughtmyeyeand trailedoff. It only affirmedeverything I’d guessedJames felt about myexhausted body since I’dhad the kids. I stayed athome, he cavorted withyoung dancers and thelike. I looked back at

James,whoseemedutterlybashful.‘Well,youknow.’And yet – Danny had

made me feel beautiful. Ipushed the memoriesaway. I thought back toKatya.Ihadn’ttakenmuchnoticeofher,tobehonest.I had been caught up inmy own well of misery,busy with thearrangements. She’d

turnedupthenightbeforethe party and I stayedhidden in my room afterJameshadhitme,withiceon my swelling eye,praying itwould go downbytomorrow.The next day she and

Starhadgone shopping inOxford,thenthey’dplayedwith the children for anhour whilst I ran around

tweaking things. Iremembered her paintedface as she flew throughtheair,thethickblackeyemake-up, lashes likespider’s legs, silver glitteron her cheeks. Iremembered the oxygenmask clamped over herwhite face whilst she laydying.ButIcouldn’trecallmuchelse.

‘Time’s up. Come on,Miller.Sayyourgoodbyes.’Thelankyofficerstaredatme.‘But, James,whywouldhe say that?’ I leanedforward urgently. ‘Hemeant she was a properwhore. Like a prostitute. Iknowhedid.’‘Shut up, Rose,’ Jameshissed,standingnow.‘You

don’t knowwhat the fuckyou’re talking about. Hewasjustjealousbecausehewanted her and shepreferred me. And I’msorry,Rose, I’m sorry thatI slept with her. It wasonlyonceortwice.’‘Oh.Well,that’sallrightthen,’Isaidflatly.ForwhowasItojudgenow?‘Come on, Rose. You

haven’t seemed botheredfor years.’ I opened mymouth in incredulity, butnothing came out. ‘Don’tdenyit,Rose.’‘You’re talking rubbish,James.’ I stood too. ‘I canhardly remember the lasttimeyouactually came tobed with me. Probablywhen the twins wereconceived.’

‘I did try.’ He wasunconvincing. ‘Once ortwice.’I thought of the nightLiam had brought thechildren home. We staredat each other across thetable until James was ledaway. ‘Don’t forget thefags next time, OK?’ hemuttered over hisshoulder.

Inodded.‘And kiss the childrenfor me, please. Tell themDaddy loves them.’ Therewasabreakinhisvoice.‘Iwill.’Buthewasgone.And he was lying, thatmuchwasclear.

ChapterTwenty-Six

TIMEOUT,JUNE

2008

Get down to the

Revolver relaunchtonight and shake yourthang to some of thebest tunes in club-land.Don’t miss British hot-shotDJsNathanColes,TerryFrancis,BethB.B.and the altogether nu-wave Tig-Tig … Anddon’t say you haven’tbeen warned: thequeues will be massive,the floors will be

jumping, the bass willbe pumping. 11 p.m. –5a.m.,Smithfields.£10on the door, £8 if youemailMarsha@revolver.uk.Bethereorbeveryverysorry…

If it had been a story I’dbeen chasing in my oldlife, I would have visited

the London clubimmediately; jumpedstraight on the Eurostarand gone to Paris to findoutaboutKatya– Iwouldhave begun delving intoher life until I found theanswers. But I had adifferent life now, so Iwenthomeforteainstead.‘Mummy, Freddiepinched me on the

tummy,’ Effie told mecrossly as I walkedthroughthedoor.‘Effie’s a bum-bum,’

Freddie said, and pinchedheragain.Shescrewedupherface

and burst into loud anddramatictears.‘Freddie,’ I pulled him

away from his twinirritably, ‘that’s naughty.

Saysorrytoyoursister.’‘Don’tcare,’hesaid,and

stuckhistongueoutatme.His eyes were full of fearthough; he knew he waspushingit.‘You will care when I

makeyousitinyourroomuntilbedtime.’‘I won’t. I’ll – I’ll sneak

out again like Wolverineand then I’ll … ‘ he said,

buthislittlevoicewaverednow. It was hard to becrossforlongwithsuchanangelic-looking child. Hethoughtoftheworstthingpossible. ‘I’ll chop yourtummyoff.’‘Really?’ I bit my lip.‘That’snotverynice,isit?’‘Where’s Daddy?’ Aliciasaid quietly from thedoorway. My heart went

out to her as the twinsbegansquabblingagain.‘Come here, Lissie.’ I

heldmyarmsout,butshejust scrunched up heranxious little face as thetwins began to fight. ‘Getoffme,’Effie squawkedasJen appeared behind herand quickly assessed thesituation.Shegatheredtheterribletwoup.

‘Bath-time, kiddiwinks,’she said, and I shot her agratefullook.‘Praise be for tolerant

andchildlessgodparents,’Isaid, and she laughed. ‘Ioweyouone,Jen.’‘Youowememore than

one, lady,’ she said, andscooped the still sobbingEffie up. ‘Come on, youtwo. Shall we have

bubbles?’‘I can put my head

underwater.Ismygoggleshere?’ A now placidFreddie trotted off behindJen.‘ShallIshowyou?’‘I said where’s Daddy?’

Alicia looked on the edgeoftearsherself.‘He’s still away on his

business trip, darling.’ Ireached out my hand for

her, but she ignored it,eyeingmesuspiciously.‘Why doesn’t he ring us

uplikenormal?’‘Becausehe–thephones

don’tworkwhereheis.’‘Why didn’t he take his

phone?’shesaid,scowling.Her small forehead wasknittedfuriously: Iwantedto smooth it out. I didn’tknow how much longer I

could keep the truth fromAlicia.Shemightbeyoungbut she obviously sensedsomething was deeplywrong.‘Hedid,darling.It’sjust

– you know, sometimesthere is no reception.Mobile phones are funnyold things.’ I imaginedthepolice had confiscated itwhen they arrested him.

‘Intheolddays—’‘He didn’t take hisphone actually,’ sheinterrupted.‘How do you know?’ Isaid tiredly, flopping onthe sofa to takemy shoesoff. Guilt and anxiety andtwenty questions were onthe verge of making metetchy.‘Because it’s here.’ She

heldthesmallblackphoneuptriumphantly.Myheartflip-flopped.‘Oh,’ Ihedged. ‘Hemust

havejustforgottenit.SillyDaddy.Comehere,baby.’Igrabbed her. ‘Come andgive your mummy acuddle.’I buried my face in my

daughter’s slippery hair,savouring the warmth of

herbony frame.The truthwas, I was frightened. Ihad no idea how I wasgoing to keep their worldfromcollapsingcompletely–butIknewIhadtokeeptrying.

‘What would you beachieving, trying to findout more about this girl?’Jen asked, licking the last

of the curry from herfingers.‘Sohesleptwithadancer. I mean, it’sdepressing, but are youreallythatsurprised?’I was shocked by her

words.‘Yes,Iamactually.’‘Oh.’ She went quiet.

‘Sorry.’‘Butyou’renot.’Itooka

sip ofmywine, wrinklingmy nose against the

unwelcome acidity. ‘Sowhatareyousaying?Thatmy husband’s an oldphilanderer?’ I tried tolaugh but somehow I justcouldn’tmanageit.‘No, of course not.’ Jen

stilllookeduncomfortable.‘Butgivenhislifestyle,thetemptations,well—’‘Igetthepicture.’Iheld

ahandup.‘Enoughsaid.’

Perhaps I had beenstupid, trusting andpatient. The truth was Ihad been so immersedwith the children in thepast few years, there waslittle time for anythingelse. Infidelityhadn’tbeenoneofmyworries.Forallhisfaults,itwasdrugsanddrink that were James’sdownfall, not women. ButLiam’s harsh word was

hardtoerase.‘Whore,’ went the

whisper in my ears, overand over again until Iwanted toplug themwithmy fingers like thechildrendid.

I tossed and turned onJen’s lumpy sofa-bed, mybody exhausted but mymind racing. The noisy

city kept me awake, ahelicopter beating the airoverhead over and again,the sirens, blaring carstereos. I imagined Danny–Godonlyknewwherehewas now. I scribbled himout in my head. I turnedthe pillow over, lookingforthecoolside.Ithoughtof James confined in hiscell.

SuddenlyIhadaflashofinspiration and fumbledaround in my overnightbag until I found James’sphone, switching it on.Ofcourse it was dead. Iscrabbled around for mychargerandpluggeditin.Frantically I scrolledthroughthetextmessages.Nothing.I searched for Katya’s

name in the contacts.Nothing there either. Iflung the phone backdowninfrustration.I desperately wanted to

knowwhoshewasandyetI was terrified of findingout.Ipickedthephoneupagainandscrolledthroughthe whole contacts listfrom the top. My heartstoppedatDanny’sname.I

thought about Dannyapparently setting up themeetingforJames.Istaredat the number for asecond. I didn’t recogniseit; Iwas sure the last fourdigits were different fromthe one I’d had. For asecond my finger hoveredoverthecallbutton.Imovedresolutelyon.Finally–anumberlisted

as ‘Angel’, with a Londoncode. My hand shaking, Irang it. A girl answered,boredandforeign.‘’Allo?’‘IsthisKatya’shouse?’Therewasa longpause.‘Who is this?’ the girlasked in heavily accentedEnglish. ‘What do youknowaboutKatya?’‘Is Katya there?’ Ipersisted.

‘Fuck off,’ came theretortasshehungup.

I pulled on my jeans andslipped out of the flat,hailingthefirsttaxiIsaw.Arriving at the club, Iasked the exotic doorgirlfor Liam. With her tinyleather hotpants, glossyblondeboband legsup toher armpits, she looked

dubious about my casualclothes, my unmade-upface. I doubted shewouldknow I was James’s wife,andIchosenottomentionit now, but her eyesflickered uncertainly. Shelickedherpillowylipsandmadeacall.‘Twiceinoneday,’Liam

tried to joke as heunclipped the red rope.

‘I’mhonoured.’‘No’, I said drily as Iwalked through, ‘you’recornered.’He took me upstairs tothe VIP bar where heordered us champagnecocktails until he saw mepullaface.‘I’m not drinking,thanks. Bad for the brain.I’llhaveaDietCoke.’

He shrugged. ‘Yourchoice.’‘You need to cut thecrap,Liam,’ Isaid. ‘This isme, remember. Rose. AndI’ve had enough of all thesubterfuge.Ineedtoknowwhat thehell’sbeengoingon.’Wryly he looked atme.‘Yes, you. Award-winningand all that jazz.’ He

sighed. ‘OK.What do youwanttoknow?’‘Everything.’ I swigged

my Coke. ‘Money, girls,heroin,thelot.’‘Heroin – first I’ve

heard.Wouldswearonmymother’slife.’Liamadoredhismother. ‘Girls, James’sthing,notmine.’‘Butwhatkindofthing?

He says Katya was a

girlfriend.Lover.’‘Not girlfriends, no. He

lovesyou.’‘That’s sweet, Liam, but

we’ve gone beyond thatpoint. He’s alreadyadmittedscrewingher.’‘Really?’ He narrowed

hiseyes.‘Yes,really.’‘It all comes down to

money,Ithink.’

‘Money?’Liam took a great swigof his drink, rubbed hishead until his hair stoodonend.‘Thisishard,Rose.Thisisuttershit.’‘Justtellme.’‘I feel like I’m grassingonmybestmate.’‘Well, don’t. To helpJames,Ineedtoknowthetruth.’

‘He’d fucked up. Icaught him … ‘ Paincrossedhisface.‘What?’‘Embezzling.’‘Embezzling?’ It washard to hear him abovethebanginghousemusic.‘Yes. That’swhywe fellout.’‘Ithoughtitwasyou.’

‘Me?’ He stared at me.‘Why?’‘Because you were

creeping around. And Iheard you arguing. ThatdayyouhadtheOasistuneinthestudio.Andbecausehe said – you messed uponcebefore,didn’tyou?’‘When?’‘When the record label

nearlywentunder.’

‘Is that what he said? Iwas trying to help him,Rose. He’d screwed up sobadly.’‘That’swhyyoutookmy

kids?’ I said slowly. ‘Forleverage.’‘No.’ But his pale skin

was blotchy now. ‘Toshockhim.’‘To shock him? What

aboutshockingme?’

‘Ididn’tthinkitthrough.I was so angry with himfor risking everything. I’msorry,Rose.’‘It’s a bit late for sorry,

Liam!’Itriedtopushdownthe fury again. I neededcold hard facts. ‘Sowheredidthemoneygo?’‘He’s got extravagant

tastes.He’sbeengamblingagain.Youknowwhathe’s

like.’‘Gambling?’‘And playing the stockmarket. Bad timing,’ hesaid ruefully. ‘Tens ofthousands.More.’‘More?’Iwasaghast.‘Spread-betting. Puttingmoney into youngventures that went down.He’d been fucking up allover the show. And he’s

been hit like the best ofthem by the bloodyrecession that’s coming.Look at the US. Nomadgoing down was the finalstraw. I think he lost amillionthatday,atleast.’I remembered thatspring day in the kitchen,Radio Four’s bleakannouncement. Thehidden bank statements;

the rejected credit cards.Howcould Ihavebeen soblind?I’dstupidlyjustputit all down to James’snormalrelaxedattitude.‘But I thought youweredoingsowell.’‘We are. But James –he’s been getting out ofcontrol. He just won’tlisten, that’s the bloodyproblem.’ He waved a

gurningDJawaywhowastryingtohigh-fivehim.‘Ina minute, mate. I mean,that party, Rose. How thefuckmuchdidthatcost?’‘I don’t know.’ Forlornwith misery, I’d hardlybatted an eyelid as thecosts mounted. I’dassumed James had itcovered. I hadn’t cared,that much was true. I’d

simply been limpingthrough the days sinceDanny disappeared. ‘Ithoughtthepartywasbothyouridea?’‘No way. It was sostupid. We’d just lost abacker because he sawJamesget so fuckedupattheclub.’‘How?’‘Too loud, too drunk.

Snortingcokeblatantlyoffthe seats. He’d met thatgirl, Katya. There wassomething about her.Something that reallybotheredhim.Likehewasdrawn toherbutnot; likesome…’‘What?’‘I really don’t know. Itsounds stupid,Rose, and Ihate to say it, but like

some kind of fatalattraction. He wouldn’ttalkaboutitbuthestarted– all the drinking again.He said something aboutsome grand scheme, someold friends. And then thisbig cheese pulled out. Iwassopissedoff.’‘And that’s when HadiKattangotinvolved?’‘Ifhedid, Ineversawa

penny from him. I onlyever met his son oncewhen he came downwithsome friends foranight. IknowJameswas trying toappease me with thepromise of money,though.’Liam’s attention was

distracted by somethingand I followed his gaze.Star appeared up on the

podium opposite the VIPbar. In her thigh-highboots and slinky magentadress she looked amazing;I saw Liam’s smile spreadacross his face. I’d neverseenhimlikethisbefore.‘You’re really quitetaken, aren’t you?’ Inudged him, and heblushedlikeanovergrownschoolboy.

‘Guess so.’ He took myhand. ‘God, Rose, I’msorry.And I’msorry Iwasso shite earlier. Iwas justhungoverand—’‘And embarrassed,’ Ifinishedforhim.‘I s’pose. Look, let mesort you out some cash.Give me your accountdetails, I’ll get ittransferred.’

He looked round at thejumpingcrowdbeneathus,boys whistling, girlsspinning, everyone sweatyand ecstatic as the musicthrobbed through thepacked club. I thought ofthat night in Oxfordlifetimes ago, the night Ihad first had sex withJames, thenightour toxicrelationship really began,themusicbangingthrough

my body in a way I hadneverknown.Ifeltsotirednow – like I’d neverwashedtheguiltaway,thedirtofthatfirstnight.‘I’d appreciate it, Liam,’I said quietly. ‘I reallywould. Just till I getsorted.’‘And you will, mylovely, I know you will.And James will be just

fine.’I slipped off the stool.‘AndKatya?’He sighed. ‘I’ll think onit,Rose,Ipromise.SeeifIcan come up with someinfo.’As Liam stood to hugme,myeyewascaughtbyacouplebehindhimatthebar. The blond boy fromtheparty,sweatypaleshirt

undone almost to hiswaist, clinging tohim likeasecondskin,armdrapedroundayoungblackgirlinslashedleggings.Heraisedan indolent hand to Liamand then he caught myeye. We gazed at eachother for a moment, andthen, bored, he leaneddown to kiss hiscompanion’s glossy pout,his lashes sweeping down

toveilhiseyes.‘Whoisthat?’Isaid,myheartracingsuddenly.Liamraisedahandback.‘That’s Charlie. He was atyourparty.’‘Yeah, I recognise him.Charliewho?’‘James knows him.Charlie Higham. He’s aright little toerag. Trust-funded up to the hilt. Got

all the girls falling at hisfeet.’I stared at the fine-

bonedface,thedyedblondhair falling just like hiselder brother’s had asslowly he kissed the girlwhoclungsohardtohim.I heard a rushing in myears. Isawthebedinthathotel room, the carnagearound it. I felt dizzy and

sick. This could be nocoincidence. I had to getoutofthereimmediately.

IwalkedbacktoJen’sflat.Ineededtoclearmyheaddesperately after the heatandnoiseoftheclub,afterLiam’s words. Nothingmade sense: no one wasbeing completely straightwithme,not evenLiam. I

had to get back to seeJames, to make him tellmethetruth.Just past midnight incentralLondon,thestreetswere still busy; streets I’dwalkedalonehappilyatallhours since moving hereaftercollege. I turned intothe squarewhere I’d oncelived. Quieter here, Islowed my pace. A rattle

of a bin, a fox, perhaps.The shadows drew in; itwas dingy, not so manystreetlights, the smallprivategreeninthecentreincompletedarkness.I thought Ihearda step

behind me and turnedquickly, but there was noone. Still, Jen’s warm flatseemed appealing now.Another noise; a door

slamming somewhere.Someonerunning.And then a lowmournful whistling; itturned my stomach insideout. I was obviouslydelusional.Why would hebeherenow?I paused. The whistlingstopped.My heart aching, Iwalkedon,quickeningmy

step now. My mind wasplaying tricks on me.Longing can do terriblethings. I thought I sawsomethingandIslowedfora second, and then Ihurriedpastashadowinadoorway.Too late. I was pulledintothearch.Icouldsmellsherbet.‘What do you want?’ I

said, but I was shaking. Ihated him and myself forit, for my weakness. AndyetIwasoverjoyedtoo.And all these weeks I’d

prayed I’d seehimandallthese weeks I’d imaginedhim so fiercely; imaginedhim in crowds, on buses,in fields, inmy house. I’dprojectedusintoahealthyfuturewherewehadbeen

together … but he hadnevercome.And yet now here hewas and I was rigid withsomething–fearperhaps.Iwas struck dumb … Mymouth couldn’t catch upwith my mind to formwords. What to say andhow to act when all Iwanted was to crawl intohis arms and find the

peace I craved. The peaceI’d never really had sinceadulthood. I stared athimblankly.‘Icametosaygoodbye,’hesaidquietly.‘Well, you’ve said itnow.’Ipulledmyarmfreebuthisgripwas too tight.NotforthefirsttimeIfeltfrightened of him, of thisman I knew so little of;

this man I had awardedmytrustsocarelessly.Morethanmytrust.I swallowed hard.‘Where’s Kattan, Danny?Wherehashegone?’‘Abroad.’‘Where?’‘Ican’ttellyou.’‘Whynot?’‘Because.’

‘Because what?’ Myvoicewasrising.‘Because it’s more thanmylife’sworth.’‘What about my life,Danny? What about mychildren’s?’‘Why do you want himsobadly,Rose?’‘Because he’s involvedwith my husband’s arrest.Andsoareyou.’

Danny relit his roll-up.‘What makes you thinkthat?’‘Because James told me

so.’‘And you trust your

husband, do you?’ Heinhaled, narrowing hiseyes against the smoke.‘The husband who’sbanged up. The husbandwhohitsyou.’

‘Heonlyhitmeonce,’ Ilied.‘Ohgood.Sothatmakesitallrightthen?’‘No,I’mnotsayingthat.Thepointis,youneedto–’I was blusteringridiculously–‘youneedtohandyourselfin.’‘And what would thatachieve?’ Danny actuallygrinned. ‘I’msorryforyou

both, but I don’t muchfancy doing time, if youdon’tmind.’‘Don’t laugh at me.’Tears of frustration filledmyeyes.‘I’m not, Rose, Ipromise.’ He stoppedsmiling. He reached ahandtowardsmyface,andIducked,bangingmyheadagainst the wall. ‘Don’t

cry,baby.’‘I’m not your baby.’

HowevermuchImightwanttobe.‘Iamverymuchnotyourbaby.’‘Fairenough.’Hesighed.

‘Butstill,don’tcry.’‘Why not? I feel like

crying, to be honest,Danny. Everything’sturned to shit. Myhusband’s in gaol for God

knowswhat,mykidshavegotnofather,youscrewedme and left me. I can’tbelievemyownstupidity.’‘Areyouangrywithme,then?’ He looked down atmecalmly,unblinking.‘Oryourself?’‘Both.’ I dashed awaythe threatening tears.‘Both. I don’t know whatthe hell’s happening from

oneminutetothenext.’‘IwentbecauseIhadto.’‘Hadtowhat?’‘IonlyleftyoubecauseIhadto.’I absorbed his words. Ifelt a grain of hope. ‘Whydidyouhaveto?’‘You’re a marriedwoman, for starters.’ Helooked at me blankly.

‘Whatdidyouexpect?’I’d never known him to

be so loquacious. I staredathim.‘Isthatthetruth?’‘Ofcourseit’sthebloody

truth.’‘You would have stayed

—’‘If I could have done.

God,Rose.AndIdidn’tsetJames up, I swear. I justarrangedthemeetingwith

Kattan’s importer, asJames and Kattanrequested. That’s all.’ Hetook a final drag, tryingnot to burn his fingers.‘Whateveryoumightthinkofme,Rose,I’mnotabadman.’‘Really?’‘Really.’Hechucked the

roll-up in the gutter. Itsizzled in the damp. We

areall ofus in the gutter, Ithoughtabsently. Iwishedhewasn’tsonearme.‘Like you care what Ithink,’Isaidquietly.Iwishedhewasnearer.‘Whatdoyoureckon?’My mind wheeledfuriously. ‘Andwhyhasn’tKattan been picked upthen, ifhe’s theother endofthedeal?Orhashe?’

‘Of course he hasn’t,’Danny said wearily. Hepulled his zip up to hischin, the gesture I’d cometo recognise as a nervoustic.‘Whyofcourse?’‘Because he’s donenothingwrong,doll.’‘For fuck’s sake, Danny.Doesyourloyaltyknownobounds?’

‘And,’ he lowered hislids, until his eyes wereslits, ‘because he hasdiplomaticimmunity.’‘What?’Iwhispered.‘Surely you knew that,

MrsRoseMiller.You,withall your training and yourcontacts.’It started to rain, big

heavy raindrops ploppingontothedustypavement.

I opened my mouth tosaysomethingbutbeforeIcould speak he pulled metowards him, unbalancingme so I fell into him. Hekissed me so hard anddeep that I forgot abouteverything for a second,burying his fingers in myhair, holding the back ofmy head so fiercely, as ifhe could crush it easily ifhe tried. And without

meaning to, I kissed himback. I didn’t care anymore; for amoment I lostmyself, my insidesliquefying, the smell ofhim,thesmellI’ddreamedof, his skin, his hairbeneathmyown fingers. Iheldontohimlikehewasmysalvation.A police car blared past

attheendofaroadandas

quicklyashehadgrabbedme,Dannyletmego.‘Rose.’ He looked downintentlyatme.‘Yes?’ I mumbled and Iknew I was cryingproperly now, my tearsmixed with the drivingrain.‘I’ve got to go.’ Hewiped my eye with agentlethumb.Myfacewas

soaking with rain, andtears. He mutteredsomethingIcouldn’tcatch.‘What?’‘Ican’t–Iwon’tseeyouagain. I think it’s for thebest.’ It felt like a skewerthrough my heart. Iclenchedmyteeth.‘Isee.’‘ButIwon’tforgetyou,Ipromise. I’ll think of you,Rose.’

‘Thanks,’ I said shakily.‘But hopefully I’ll forgetyou.’ I stepped backwardsintothestreet.I wouldn’t let myself

lookback. Igot round thenext corner; saw Jen’smansion-blockaheadbutIdidn’t want to go thereyet. Iwanted tobeonmyown; I wanted to crawlintoacorneranddie.The

tears coursed down mycheeks. I bent double intheroadandIsobbedandsobbed, feeling likesomeone had just slicedmy arteries open. Howcould it hurt thismuch? Itold myself over and overagainitwasn’tjusthim,itwas the whole situation,butitdidn’thelp.A young woman on a

bicycle stopped to see if IwasallrightbutIheldmyhands over my face untilshewentaway.Isatthereon the pavement, leaningagainst the railings, and Icried until I could cry nomore.Inside my heart was

breaking;and inside Iwasthinking that I’d known itwould do all along; that I

deserved no better. And Irealised finally howdangerous it had been toletmyself fallwhen I hadnot been ready; whentherewas no one there tocatchme.Itrainedsohardthatall

the flowers in the pots bythefrontdoorwerebowedand broken when I stoodagain.

ChapterTwenty-

Seven

THETELEGRAPH,

JULY2008

BrightyoungToryhopeAsh Kattan todayjoined David Cameronand Baroness Warsi atthe Young MuslimAssociation for a talkon racial harmony.BothareOxfordalumni–althoughKattanoncepublicly criticised theinfamous BullingdonDrinking Club thatMayor Boris Johnson,

CameronandcloseallyGeorge Osborne wereall members of – thepair seem to haveironed out differencesnow with theannouncement thatKattanisstandingforaseat in Berkshire. Sonof international bankerand art dealer HadiKattan, Ash is the faceof‘anewandexcitingly

diverse Britain’,according to the Torywhips.

‘There’s a girl called Staronyourphone.’Jenpulleda face at the name,extending my mobiletowardsme.‘Tea?’‘Oh God, yes, please.’My eyes still felt swollenand sore as I pushed

myself up off the sofa-bedand took the phone. ‘Hi,Star.’‘Morning, Rose.’ Her

voice was absurdlycheerful. ‘Good night attheclub?’‘Oh.’ I thought about it,

my brain fuddled. Nextdoor I couldhear thekidsdiscussing Scooby snacks.‘Well, youknow.Different

circumstances, it wouldhavebeengreatI’msure.’‘We’ll have to have a

night out one of thesedays. When your – whenit’sallsorted.’‘Yes.’ What did she

want?IlookedatLondon’shard water scum floatingonmy tea. To chat aboutevenings out? Surely not.‘Star,I—’

‘Rose,’ her voicedropped suddenly, ‘listen,the reason I’m callingyousoearly–’itwas9a.m.,‘is‘cosLiam’s still asleep.Hetold me you want to findoutaboutAngel.’‘Angel?’ I repeatedstupidly.‘Katya. Angel.Whateveryouwannacallher.’‘Yesofcourse.Katya.’

‘I can give you anaddress. She lived withthis foreign birdsomewhere south of theriver.Poledancer, I think.Bitmoody,Lana,butshe’sall right. I expect she’llknow a bit more abouther. Right pally, theywere.Haveyougotapen?’I wrote the address

down.

‘Only, Rose,’ Star waswhispering now. ‘Can younot tell her, or Liam,whogaveyoutheaddress?’‘Why don’t you want

him to know?’ I askedslowly.‘Oh,youknow,’shewas

still so upbeat, ‘he don’tlike me getting involvedwith the club. You know,business affairs, and that.’

She yawned. ‘Right then.I’m off to bed. Nightnight.’

‘Last favour, Jen, I swear.’I wrapped the bobbleround the end of Alicia’splait, and kissed the backof her head. She was soskinny, her little shoulderbladesjuttedlikethestubsof angel-wings from her

narrowback.Jensighed. ‘It’snot that

I mind having them.’ Shewidened her eyes, subtlyindicating thekids. ‘I loveit. Not least because itreminds me why I’m notready to have any of myown.’‘Jen!’‘Joking, obviously.’ It

wasn’t obvious. ‘But I just

wonder – I mean, do youknowwhatyou’redoing?’‘Of course.’ I didn’t.

‘You’re talking to thewoman who staked outArafat for aweekuntilhegave me an interview,remember? This is just –stuff. Trying to helpJames.’Trying to help myself

too. Needing to know the

truth.‘It’s fine.Really. Justbecareful,forGod’ssake.’‘It’s London, Jen, notGaza. And when I getback,’ I looked at thetwins’ blond heads, facesturned up like flowers tothe sun of the televisionscreen, where theimmortal Scooby Doo ranfromthebaddiesashehad

done since my ownchildhood, ‘we’ll go andget pizza, shall we? Mytreat.’

Gaza it might not havebeen, but this part ofBrixton was a dive. Theroad was run-down, binsoverflowing, severalbuildings with smashedwindows badly boarded.

The house I needed wassmart by comparison, thefirst-floor flat sportingbeautiful window-boxesfilled with violets anddaisies, though thewheel-less pram in the frontgarden slightly ruined theeffect.I rang the doorbell

insistently, but there wasno answer. Amiddle-aged

Rasta with an enormoushatandasmallmongrelintow rounded the corner.‘She never up beforemidday.’Hewinkedatme.‘Fancy a brew while youwaiting?’I looked at him, at his

calm face, and I smiled.‘That’s really kind but Idon’t have much time.’ Ibuzzedagain.

A cross voice suddenlyfloated out of theintercom.‘Yes?’‘Lana? I left you a

message this morning.RoseMiller, the–er–theclub gave me yournumber.’Therewasapause.‘Please, Lana. It’s really

important.’Asigh.‘Hangon.’

The Rasta sucked histeeth. ‘She got a temper,that one.’ He shook hishead ruefully. ‘I hear hershoutmanyatimeatthembad men on the corner.You come see me if yougetscared.’Theflatwasimmaculate

but homely, kitsch even.Thegirlhad long fairhairscraped back very hard

from her bony face. Sheworeakimonocovered indelicate butterflies, out ofwhichher longthinhandsprotruded like smallspades, too heavy for herwrists.Thecoffeethatwasbrewing smelled deliciousand I realisedhowhungryIwas.‘Thank you.’ I took the

scaldingcup.‘Niceplace.’

She yawned widely.‘Whatdoyouwant?’‘So you were friendswithKatya?’‘Katya?’ She looked atme and her tone wasaccusatory. ‘She died inyour house. That isstrange,no?’‘Not really strange.Tragic, I think is probablyabetterword.’

‘Are you saying myEnglishisnotgood?’‘God, no, not at all.’ Iwas flustered. ‘I just – itwasaterribleaccident.’‘Wasit?’shesaidflatly.Istaredather.‘Whatdoyoumean?’‘I knew something likethiswouldhappen.’‘Didyou?’Myheartwas

starting to race painfully.‘How? I mean, we justhiredherfortheparty.ForJamesandLiam’sparty.’‘And you, you are

marriedtoJamesMiller?’‘Yes,’ I mumbled. She

made me bizarrelynervous, this thin, crossgirl.‘Well, you should ask

himthen.’

‘He’s in prison. That’swhyI’mhere.He’sinalotof trouble, and I’m tryingtounderstandwhy.’She sniffed disdainfully

and spoke in a language Ididn’tunderstand.‘Look, please.’ I put my

hand on her arm. For thefirsttimeinalongwhile,Ifelt likemaybe Iwasnearthe truth. ‘Please, you

must tell me what youknow. I don’t even knowwhere Katya came from.Whatcountry,anything.’‘What country?’ Shescrewedupherface.‘Whatdoyoumean?’‘Was she Polish, likeyou?’‘I am from Russia,actually.Andshe–shewasfromyourcountry.’

‘What?’ I stared at herwithout comprehending.‘My—But,hernameand—’‘Kate.’‘ButIthought—’‘Katyaisjustfortheact.More – exotic, I guess.KatyatheFlyingAngel.’Kate, from my country.Alarm bells began to ringsomewhere faroff. ‘Christ.You’resure?’

‘Sure I’m sure.’ On theshelf behind Lana was aphoto of her and anotherwoman, arms round eachother, smiling into thecameraonasummer’sday.Katya was older than I’drealised; I’d only reallyregistered her in all herstagefinery,thickmake-upslathered on. I lookedclosely at the wholesomescrubbedface,thecropped

pixie-cut, the beamingsmile and my worldsuddenly seemed verysmall. I felt my chestconstrict until breathingseemeddifficult.‘And I tell yousomething else.’ Lanalooked at me again, hergrey eyes full of sadnessnow. ‘She loved yourhusband very much. Only

one other man she lovedthat much before. I thinkmaybeshegiveherlifeforJamesMiller.’I felt a terror that Ihadn’t since the nightKatyadied.Asmallpain,anutofsomethingrattledinmygut. I remembered thehorrifiedguestswhisperingasshelaydying.Shefellonpurpose.

‘Died for him? Werethey …’ I cleared mythroat. ‘Did they see a lotofeachother?’‘You mean was she his

mistress?’ She lit acigarette. ‘No, but shewantedtobe.’Sheexhaledthe smoke in a perfectplume. ‘Shewas confused,though.’‘Confused?’

Lanastoodwithaswishof her kimono and a trailofsmoke.‘Followme.’I did as I was told,

following her down thedarklittlehall.Sheopeneda door: Katya’s bedroom.Thebedwasneatlymade,stuffed toys and a chinadoll on a heart-shapedpillow, a table full ofglitter and gloss, lights

roundthemirrorlikeJudyGarland’s dressing room.On the shelf by thewindow were framedphotos, the biggest of aface I recognisedimmediately from lastnight. Charlie Higham,lyingonabed,proppedononeelbow,smoking,nakedto the waist, staringaffectedlyintothelens,bigbrown eyes narrowed

slightlyagainstthesmoke,lookingverymuch likehewas making love to thecamera.‘You know this boy?’Lanapickedup thephoto.‘This boy, he is trouble.Thisisboyshewasinlovewith.Isay,becareful,buthe breaks her heart. Thenyour husband, he getinvolved.’

‘Getinvolvedwithwhat,though?’ I was more thanconfusedmyself.Lanaslammedthephoto

down so the glass rattled;pushedmeoutofthedooragain and shut it firmlybehind us, stalking downthe hall back to thekitchen.‘Iwarnedher.’‘Aboutwhat?’Ifollowed

inherwake.‘When your husband

took her to that man, Iknewthiswould–howdoyou say here? – be intears?’‘Endintears?’‘Yes.’‘Whatman?’‘Thebigman.’Againshe

spokeinRussian.

Istaredather,lost.She relented. ‘Always

these guys. You cannottrustthem.Ever.’‘Sorry, what guys?’ My

heartwasbeatingsofastitfelt like it was going toexplode. ‘Why did Jamestake her to a – a “bigman”?’‘Why do you think?

Money,’shesaidgrimly.‘It

always comes to money,no?’‘Andwhowasthisman?Was he called HadiKattan?’‘She would not tell meexactly who. But I knowheis–verypowerful.’Shegroundhercigaretteoutsohard that it waspulverised. ‘She goes tohimandasks formoney–

andonemonthlater,sheisdead.’Lana’s phone began toring. She looked at thecurly pink clock on themantelpiece and stood. ‘Ihavetogetready.ThereisnothingelseIcantellyou.’‘Do you – did she havefamily?’‘Hermother.Sheisverysadnow,Ithink.’

‘I’m sure. Do you knowwhereIcouldfindher?’‘Her mother?’ Lanashrugged.‘Shelivesinthatoldplace.’‘Where?’The girl clattered thecoffee cups into the sink.‘Where all the clever onesgo.Ican’tthink–howisitcalled?’ She swung roundtriumphantly. ‘Ah yes.

Oxford.’

BeforeIleftLondonIwentto meet Xav. I got a taxithat passed throughParliament Square on theway to the City; I staredoutatthefairy-taleturretsofthebuildingthathousedour government and itjoggedmymemory.I sat up straighter,

thinking ofDanny’swordslast night. How couldKattan possibly havediplomatic immunity? Itmade no sense. I’d turnedup so little when I waslooking into him earlierthis year; I’d found nomention of any kind ofdiplomatic status. Iwonderedaboutthesecretservice rumours in Iran:he’d obviously had some

connections in Iran in theeighties or nineties but ifanything,thatsurelymadehimabiggerthreathere.MymeetingwithXavierwas so tense, though, thatI forgot all about Kattan.We met in a fashionablywhite restaurant in busySpitalfields, the kindwhere children are notwelcome and celebrities

pretendtheydon’twanttobe seen. From the verystart,itfeltuneasy.Xavierwas preoccupied, but Ididn’t know why – theabidingthemeofmylifeatthemoment.‘You look very pale,’ hesaid accusingly after we’dordered.‘So do you, actually,’ Ibatted back. ‘Burning the

candle,mydearXav?’The cash Liam had

eventually sorted wouldtide me over for a while.But I needed to startearning again, that wasquite apparent. Theobvioussolutionwastogobacktoworkfulltime,andXav’s offer now madesense. I’d pack up thehouse and rent it out;

move thechildrenback tothe flat in London for thetime being. I wouldn’t besorry to leave our stiflingvillage,especiallysincethestoryofJames’sarresthadbroken. I needed to benear my old friends rightnow.‘So when do you wantme?’Ifinishedmychickenand wiped my mouth on

the pristine napkin. ‘I’mgoingtomovebackinthesummerholidays.ButIcanstart from home sooner.I’ve got to get the cashrolling in pronto or we’llbe living in a cardboardboxsoon.’Xav summoned thewaiter and ordered anespresso. He buttered hisbreadroll,thenabandoned

it; added salt and thenpeppertothetomatosaladthathehadn’ttouched.Hedideverythingbutlookmeintheeyeorrespond.‘Xav.Didyouhearwhat

Isaid?’Ismiledathimbutmy heart was sinking. ‘Icancomeback?’He looked at me, then

awayagain.Myoldfriend,sogauntandstrained.

‘Can’tI?’Xav picked up hisBlackBerry,turningitoverand over on the whitelinentableclothincessantlyuntilfinallyIlaidmyhandover his to stem thefiddling.‘Stop,Xavier.’Helookeddown.‘I see.’ I felt the clenchof nerves in my stomach.

‘Soit’sano,then?’‘Rosie, it’s not me,darling.’ He sighed longandhard.‘I’dhaveyouonthe staff in a shot, youknow that. It’s – well,ordersfromabove.’‘Higham.’‘No.’ he took a gulp ofhiswater.‘Xavier!At least tell thetruth.’

‘I – oh, I don’t know,Rose. Things are changingradically since thedownturn. Budgets havebeen slashed. And I haveso little hiring power atthemoment.Myhandsaretied.’‘Not literally, I hope,’ Itriedtojoke.ButIfeltthethudof the floor comeupandhitmyfeetawayfrom

me. I was diving throughthin air, spinning awayfrom my own world infreefall.‘Andtobehonest,Rose,I’m stepping back a bitanyway. I’ve not – I can’tliveforworkanymore.’‘I see,’ I said slowly.‘Well, that’sgood, isn’t it?Totakesometimeout?’‘Iguess.’Hedrainedthe

espresso that the waiterhad just put before himand gestured for anotherone.‘Issomethingwrong?’He gazed into the

middle distance like theanswertoallourwoeslaythere.‘Xav?’‘No,no.Ofcoursenot.’‘Are you sure?’ I felt a

coldwaveoffear.‘Xav—’

‘I’m fine,’ he snapped.‘Justleaveit.’‘Right. OK. Good. Look,I’ve been thinking. TheKattanstory—’Ibegan.‘Rose, for Christ’s sake.You’vegotenoughonyourplate.’‘It’s just – he’s involvedwithJames’scase.’‘Are you mad?’ Xavierstared at me. ‘Or just

paranoid?’‘Both. Neither. I don’tknow, Xav. We met himand then – well, Jamesswears Kattan introducedhim to the guy whoorganised the shipping ofthe furniture. Only he’sdisappearedoffthefaceoftheearth.’‘Christ.’ Xav rubbed hiseyes; they were already

bloodshot.‘And now – now

someone’stoldmehe’sgotimmunity. The policearen’t interested in himapparently. Someone’shidingsomething.’‘Who?’I felt my frustration

mount. ‘Actually makethat, everyone’s hidingsomething. I want to find

out the truth. And I wantto bloody well knowwhereheis.’‘But you’ve got noevidence?’‘Whatam Igoing todo,Xav – just lay down anddie? And, Christ, letHigham ruin meprofessionally nowbecause of some oldgrievance?’

‘Whatoldgrievance?’‘Nevermind. Somethingthatwasn’tmyfault.’I thought of the pictureof Charlie Higham inKatya’s room – debatedwhether to mention mynew concerns to Xav, butitseemedpointless.‘Look, I’m not going tojust walk away from mylife.’ Iwasmore emphatic

thanIhadbeeninmonths.‘Notbecausetheywantmeto.’‘But you’dwalked away

from it anyway, hadn’tyou? Your career,anyway,’hesaidtiredly.‘Notreally.Iwasjust…

changingpriorities.’‘They’re good priorities

tochange,’hesaidquietly.‘Puttingyourkidsfirst.’

‘Yes,Iknow,they’rethebest priorities. But itdoesn’t mean it’s OK forthem to tarnish myreputation permanently.And to be honest, Xav, Ineed towork rightnow.’ Ipleated my napkin intoangel wings. ‘It’s the onlythingIknowhowtodo.’‘Rubbish,’ he saidvehemently. ‘There’s loads

of other things you coulddo.’‘But I don’t want to doanythingelse.’‘Because you areaddicted. You alwayswere. That’s what gaveyou your edge in the firstplace. You were like abloody Jack Russell downafox-hole.’‘Well,thereyougo.And

now I need to ferret outthisbitoftruth.’‘You’ll be sub judiciousif you even try to writeabout James, or Kattan, ifthey’re investigating himtoo. Plus, you’re marriedtothedefendant.’‘I could do it under afalse name.’ I knew I wasdesperately grasping atstraws now.

‘Anonymously.’‘Justleaveit,Rose.’‘But I need to know thetruth. James is looking atprison,Xav, that’s becomevery clear. I don’t knowwhat the hell is going on,but I’m sick of doingnothing. I’m just sittinghere letting it all happen,and I haven’t got a cluewhatrealityisanymore.’

Xav took my hand. IlookedathisfaceandIfeltaplunginginmystomach.‘Whatisit?’‘Sometimes–sometimes,

angel, the truth is just toopainfultoknow.’Beforehecould sayany

more, his phone rang. Hepaled visibly when heheard the voice on theotherend.

‘I’ve got to take this,Rose,’ he said, movingaway from the table tostand in the window. Isighed.SomethingtoldmeI wasn’t going to getanything else from Xavierthat day – other than afreelunch.

ChapterTwenty-

Eight

Of good and evil muchtheyarguedthen,

Of happiness and finalmisery,

Passion and apathy,andgloryandshame:

Vain wisdom all, andfalsephilosophy!

TheDevil’sCouncil,ParadiseLost,Milton

I packedupourovernightbag and took Freddie toHydeParkwhilstJentookthe girls shopping forclothes. I pushed him on

the swings and held himtight on the see-saw tostop him bouncing offthrough the air, whilst hegiggled raucously, and allthe time my mind rattledbacktoLordHigham.Whythis vendetta now?Wheredid this all link up? I haddone nothing to hurtDalziel;I’dlovedhimverymuch, adored him even.SowhydidIfeelnowlike

I was being heldaccountableforthepast?Something hadhappened somewhere,andI wasmissing the obviousclue. I needed to speak toJamesagain,buttherewasno chance of that for atleastaweek.‘Which superhero doyouwant tobe,Mummy?’FreddiesaidasIliftedhim

toringJen’sdoorbell.‘Batman?’‘No. I’m Batman.’ He

consideredmekindlyforasecond.‘YoucanbeUnder-womanifyoulike.’‘Under-woman? OK.’ I

kissed him and ploppedhim down on thepavementagain.‘She wears big pants

actually.Andacake.’

‘Bigpantsandcake?’Hemeant cape. ‘My type oflady.’A man suddenly stood

behind us, too close. ‘MrsMiller?’My scalp prickling, I

glanced round, clutchingFred’shandtighter.‘Would you accompany

me please, Mrs Miller.’ Itdidn’t sound like a

question.QuicklyIpushedFred between me and thefrontdoor.‘Sorry–who—’‘Lord Higham wouldverymuchliketoseeyou.’Hewaspolitelyunsmiling.‘Now.’‘Now?’‘It’simportant.’‘I’msureitis,butasyou

can see,’ I picked myprotesting son up again,‘I’mbusyrightnow.’Jen opened the door,

Effieinherwake.‘I’msureyourfriendcan

helpout,’themansaid.Hehadaveryfaintaccentandgreasy pock-marked skin.‘Can’tyou,madam?’Jen’s eyes flicked

anxiously between us. I

hesitated,rapidlyweighingup my options. Then Ipressed Freddie into Jen’sarms, kissed Effie’s headand turned away. A blacklimo purred at the kerb,thewindowsdarkened.‘I’mreallysorry,Jen.I’ll

explainlater.’‘Are you sure this is

wise?’Shelookedworried.‘Whereareyougoing?’

‘Takedownthenumber-plate,’ Imuttered into herear,‘andifI’mnotbackbysix,callthepolice.’I followed the man to

thecar. ‘Seeyou forpizzainaminute,kids,’Icalled,waving cheerfully. ‘DowhatAuntieJen tellsyou,OK?Andnofighting.’The man didn’t quite

push me in, but his hand

was merciless, and whenhe slid into the front, helockedeverydoor.

Inanalleywaysomewherebetween the Houses ofParliament and VictoriaStation, I was led pastgreatstinkingbinsthrougha cramped and sweatykitchen into a tiny darkrestaurant.

Agroupofmen,someofwhom I recognised, werehunched over a tableapparently finishing ameeting over a meal,papers and dispatch boxesstrewn between carafes ofwine, half-empty glasses,bits of bread and reeking,sweatycheese.Atleastonewas a Tory ex-cabinetmember whom I hadinvestigated in the past. I

ducked my headinstinctively, wonderingwhat theywerediscussingnow. How best to explaintheir latest expensesmaybe, after the Conwayandsonscandal.Whateverit was, the tension waspalpable in the small hotroom.Thedriver signalledourpresence to Lord Higham,

who sat in the middle ofthe table, calmly holdingforthaboutsomething,themenat either endarguingand gesticulating. WhenHighamsawus,hequicklymade his excuses to theother men, moving downthe back of the room togreetus,brandyballooninhand. His half-moonglasses gave his ratherlugubrious face a

professorialair.‘Welcome to

Pandemonium,’ he saidwryly,andI staredathimindisbelief, theeerieechoof his son’s words fromyearsagoinmyears.‘Youhave caught us at aprecarioustime.’The other politicians

hardly glanced round, soimmersed in their

discussions, and I had asudden ghastly vision ofLucifer’s council: Vainwisdom all, and falsephilosophy. Dalziel hadbeen obsessed with therebelangels.‘Or possibly our last

supper,’ Higham smiledwearily. He was older, ofcourse, and thinner than Iremembered from our

brief acquaintance afterDalziel’s death. Morestooped; more avuncular,somehow. I thought againhow he looked nothinglike his son. His face wasmuchbroader,thefeaturescruderthanDalziel’sfinelyboned beauty, his skinnow folded in on itself asif it had been neatlycreased in the middle ofhischeeks.

‘So good of you tocome.’ His mellifluousvoice was assured as heremoved his glasses now,courteously inclining hisgrey head. Instinctively Icrossed my hands beforeme.‘I’mnotsureIhadmuch

choice.’‘Well,’ he smiled. ‘I

shouldapologiseforasking

you here at such shortnotice.’‘I’m not sure ask is the

right word, but I’mintrigued, LordHigham,’ Isaid casually. Inside Ididn’t feel the least bitcasual, but I couldn’t lethimseethat.I followed him upstairs

to another dining room,most of the tables

upended, redvelvetchairsagainst the wall, oneyoung waitress busyfoldinglineninanofficeatthefarend.Thewallsweredotted with framedphotographs of politiciansand singers, many signedto someone called Mario,interspersed with smallwatercoloursofItalianandEnglishcountryside.

Higham indicated anunlaid table in thecorner,thewhitetableclothringedwitholdwinestains.‘Can I get yousomething?’ he asked,offering me a chairbeneath a watercolour ofthe white cliffs of Dover.‘A glass of Chianti? Abrandyperhaps?’‘I’m fine.’Myheartwas

beating uncomfortablyfast. ‘I don’t have muchtime. The children, youknow…‘‘Of course.’ He inclined

his heavy head. ‘Howmanydoyouhavenow?’How did he know I had

anyatall?‘Three.’ I prayed my

calmness belied theturmoilinside.

‘Three.’ He smiled andsmoothed a hand acrossthe tablecloth. He wore aheavygoldsignetringthatlookedlikeitshouldweighhis little finger down. Itried to remember thefamily motto. Dalziel hadhad a copy of the cresthanging in his hallway;somethingaboutTruthandFortitude.

‘Andyou?’‘Oh, youknow.’Hemetmy eye, and the sheerinsouciance gave me asudden flash of his son. Idropped my gaze. ‘I losecountsometimes.’I felt my past gallopingatmy heels; a faint sweatbroke out across my toplip. I stared at the tiredwhiteroseinasmallgreen

vaseon the tablebetweenus. I forced myself tospeak. ‘So, Lord Higham.Whatdidyouwanttotalkabout?’‘I’ve been thinking …’He gazed at the paintingbehind me for a moment.‘There’s a nice little spotcoming up on one of thered-tops. A kind ofupmarketgossipcolumn,if

you like.Moreclassy thanthosesilly3a.m.girls.Dowith it what you will.Make it your own.’ Helooked back at me,reached into his insidepocket for something.‘Mightthatappeal?’‘That’skind,’Imuttered,

‘butI’mnotsureit’sreallymyfield.’‘Youcouldmakeityour

field, of course. If you sochose.’‘I’mmorecurrentaffairs,you know.’ I thought ofXav’s discomfort earlier.‘Why are youmaking thisoffernow?’‘Whynot?’Hebroughtacigar out now, rolled itbetween thick fingers.Eachonesproutedapatchof springy hair. A goat, I

thought, he’s like a largeapparently benevolentgoat.AndthenIthoughtofAzazel, devil goat; horridBrian in that nasty maskbending over theinsensible Huriyyah. Ishudderedinvoluntarily.‘I’vejust—’Ididn’twanttomentionXavier’s name.‘Iknowthere’snoplaceforme on the Guardian. So

whynow?’‘Is it not good to have

friends in high places,Rose?’ he smiled. But thesmile went nowhere nearhis eyes. ‘And currentaffairs,well.There’satimeand a place. And this ismost definitely not thetime.’‘Highplaces?’‘I imagine you’ve heard

the rumours about theparty. There’s likely to bean election soon; thegovernment can’t possiblykeep up this ridiculouscharade. It’s time for newblood. Or rather,’ hetapped the cigar hard onthetable,‘oldblood.’‘What kind of old

blood?’Ifrowned.‘Our own kind. Far too

much new blood in thiscountry. And so you see,well,weknow,Rose–mayIcallyouRose?–weknowthereare some things thatneed to stay in the closet,as itwere.Andofcourse,’he took my hand. I felt awaveofnausea,‘ofcourse,I like to take care of myown.’I couldn’t suppress the

sound of disbelief. Helooked at me, his eyessteely,andthefatherlyairdissipated.‘I’m so sorryaboutyourhusband’sarrest.’‘Oh.’ I stared at himstupidly.‘You’veheard.’‘Of course. I met youngJames at Oxford, youremember.He’sdonewell,I believe. A great

entrepreneur, no doubt.But – prison, I believe …notfun.’‘No.Notfun.’‘Poor man. Oh dear,

Rose.’Highamletgoofmyhand as quickly as he’dtaken it. He turned thevase around until theflower drooped its wearyheadtowardsme. ‘ORose,thou art sick! I remember

that poem from myschooldays. Pretty creepy,I always thought.’ Hesmiled at me, a ratherghastlysmile.‘Areyouthesickrose,MrsMiller?’‘I don’t think so,’ I

mumbled.‘And if so, who, I

wonder, is thatnastylittleworm?’‘There isn’t one.’ Panic

was building slowly butinexorably in my chest. Ifelt like Iwasheaded intoa tunnel and I could justabout see the light at theend.‘Isn’tthere?You’reafan

of Blake, I suppose?’ hesaid.‘Notreally.’Andtheend

was about to be blockedbeforeIreachedit.

‘My son liked his laterwork, of course. All thenationalistic stuff aboutpoor Albion. I have greatsympathies for that,especiallytoday.’‘Why?’Iheldhisgaze.‘Who would ever havebelievedtheBNPwouldbeascending as they arenow? Such oiks really,which is a shame. Still,

overcrowded and buffetedBritain.’ Higham downedthelastofhisbrandy. ‘Wehave to make a stand,don’tyouthink,Rose?’‘Againstwhat?’‘Immigration?Integration?’‘No, actually.’ I feltsickness in my craw. ‘Ireallydon’t.’‘That’s a shame.’ He

sighed deeply. ‘But Idigress.AndI’mforgettinghow well you knewDalziel. You wouldremember all his littlefoibles.’‘I’m not sure that I didactually.’ I looked at hisfather. ‘Know him thatwell,Imean.’Where was this allgoing?

‘Dalziel loved all thosedreadful flouncy angelsflapping about in Blake’sart.’Hetappedhiscigaronthe tableagain. ‘Beforehebecame obsessed withbloody Milton, anyway.Ridiculous obsession. Ineverunderstoodit.’Oneof the creampetalshad a tiny stain ofburgundyonit.Likewine.

Orblood.Istaredatit.‘Dalziel once toldme,’ Icleared my throat, ‘heonce said he thought hismotherwasafallenangel.’‘Afallenangel?’Highamlet out a short bark oflaughter.Ithadlessjoyormirth in it thanany laughI’d ever heard. ‘Thatbloody lunatic? Christ.Poormisguidedboy.’

‘I think he identifiedwith something in thepoem– inParadiseLost,’ Isaid quietly. ‘The moralchoice between heavenand hell. He was reallystrugglingattheend.’Foramomentwegazedatoneanother,andIknewwe recognised ourmutualshame,shamefortheroleswe had inadvertently

played that cold springevening so many yearsago.‘I still miss him, youknow,’ I said. ‘I really do.Hewas–hewasamazing.Despite what happened intheend.’Ourgazes locked.Therewasnoplacetohide.‘Hewasflawed,’Highamsaid coldly. ‘Deeply

flawed,poorboy.’Downstairs the guffaws

grew: presumablyindicatingthemeetingwasdrawing to a close.Higham checked hiswatch.‘So–thejob?’‘And what’s the

condition,LordHigham?’‘Straight to the point. I

likethatinawoman.’Thewaitress appeared at his

elbow nowwith a lighter.She was very young.‘Come now, Rose. Youmust know what theconditionsare.’‘MustI?’‘Oh, I think so,mydearRose. I mean, you’re abrightgirl.Youmustknowwhat serves you best.Especially with yourhusband so far out of

reach.’‘I think I’d better gonow.’Istood.‘Must you?’ He pulledthe waitress’s hand downto cigar level. ‘Got to sortout the little worm, eh? Imust say, it’s really not agood idea to send peopleintothreatenme.’‘Sorry?’ I felt wrong-footed suddenly. Scared

even.‘Have you met my

youngest? Charlie?’ Hechanged tack abruptly,dropping the name in likewe were at some kind ofsocialgathering.‘Notreally.’Mystomach

clenched. ‘He came to aparty at my house, but Ididn’tknowwhohewas.’‘Charlie is my latest

worry.’ He gazed at me.His eyes bulgedunattractively, likecongealedaspic.‘Despiteabrilliant education, he’sgoneofftherails.I’vehadtocut theties forawhile.Financially, Imean. I fear–I fearhemightbegoingdowntheroutehisbrotherdid.’My mind was racing,

tryingtomakesenseofhiswords.‘Soyouunderstandme?’Higham smiled a grimsmile. ‘Sending people toextort money is nevergoingtobewise.’‘You’ve lost me.’ Butwith a sinking heart, Iremembered thephotos inthe cupboard. ‘I don’tknow what you mean,’ I

lied.Hestaredatme.Andhiseyes, they suddenlyreminded me of someoneelse– I justcouldn’t thinkwho. Not Charliewith hislimpid dark eyes. NotDalziel,whoseamber eyeshad been slanted andbeautiful. Someone I’dseenmorerecently.‘Well,it’sbeendelightful

meeting you again, afterall this time.’ Hewas stillholding the girl’s hand.‘You know, I have suchlittle timenow forR&R.So little time for family.Though of course,’ he lether go now, ‘I do what Icantoprotectthem.’‘I guess everyonehas tomake sacrifices,’ I said.‘Sometimes.’

‘Sacrifices,’Highamsaidslowly. His eyes wereblank now; blank andstaring like the dead. ‘Notone of my most favouritewords,Rose.’I thought back to

Oxford;tothelittleboyinthe bed. The little boyCharlie. I wonderedexactly what heremembered today.Christ,

what a family. What amess.‘Really?’Ilookedback:Iheldmynerve.‘Think on the job.You’ve a few days todecide.’We both knew that Iwouldneverworkforhim.Iturnedtowardsthestairs.‘Oh,and,Rose?’

Iturnedback.‘DearsickRose.Dosendmy love to your children.Hadi Kattan told me theyweredelightful.’‘Mr Kattan? He nevermetthem,’Istammered.‘Oh – didn’t he?’Higham stood now,brushing imaginarycrumbs from his trousers,cigarclampedbetweenhis

teeth.‘Imusthavegothimconfused with someoneelse.Easilydone.’‘When did he say that?

What’s your link withKattan?’ I asked. ‘Are youfriends?’‘All these questions, my

dear. Anyonewould thinkyouwerea journalist.’Histonewasmocking.‘Just answer the

question, please.’ I bit theinside of my lip. ‘Please,LordHigham.’‘I’m not sure “friends”would be quite right, mydear. We’ve known eachother – well, for ever, itseems.’I thought of Peggy’scuttings. ‘Because of theoilembargo?’‘Maybe.Iknewhiswife,

Alia, briefly. A long timeago. And her son, Ash.’Highamsmiledagainnow,his arm around the younggirl who blinkedimpassively.Ihatedhimatthat moment. ‘Actually,Kattan rented myCotswolds house recently.Perhapsyouknowit?’My skin crawling, Ipaused for a second,

looking down the stairs,rackingmybrain.‘Do you remember the

endofBlake’srosepoem?’I pulledmyself up tall. ‘Ifmy memory serves meright, it’s: And his darksecret love Does thy lifedestroy.Prettyapt,I’dsay.’Then I ran down the

stairs and out of therestaurant. The driver

openedthepassengerdoorofthecarasIpassed.‘I’llwalk,thanks,’Isaid.Theeveningwasclear,thesun a dusky pink orb justdissolvingbehindthecity’sskyline. I knew I wassetting off into my ownhowlingstorm.

ChapterTwenty-

Nine

Whenaman is tiredofLondon, he is tired oflife.

SamuelJohnson

I took the children homethe next day. There wasnothing forushereexceptimmediate danger and Icouldn’t see James againuntilnextweek.IknewI’dnever work for Higham; Ifeared I might not workagain at all right now. Iwas exhausted byeverything and utterlyconfused; unsure whichwaytoturn.

I’d spent hours makingcalls – and frighteningly,I’d found the same storyall over town. Ex-colleagues weren’tanswering; no one washiring because of the‘global downturn’; no onewas posting abroad.Higham’s name resoundedround my head; somehowitseemedhistentacleshadcreptintomylifeandwere

strangling it. I could onlythink that he waspunishing James and mefor knowingDalziel – andI’d always known that Iwouldpayformymistake.I just didn’t realise thebanker would claimeverythingatonce.In the past when thingshadgot tough inanyareaof my life, I’d run. I’d

follow a story until itunfolded as far as I couldtakeit.IfIwasunhappyoranxious, I’d bury itbeneathwork.I’djumpona plane, I’d live out of asuitcase. Iwasaddicted tomoving on. Everythingthat happened to me atcollege had shaped me,mademerecklessinawayI hadn’t been naturally.Later,when I found that I

waspregnantwithAlicia,Iweaned myself off thedanger and took differentassignments; I stoppedrunning and settled downtodomesticbliss.ButnowIwantedtorun

again. I wanted to scoopup my children anddisappearthemtosafety.Iwas facing the truthhead-on and it was this: I

wanted out of me andJames,IwantedoutoftheCotswoldsand,forthefirsttime, London was nolongeranoption.I’dlovedit for so long, but now Iwas tired of the buzz andadrenalin of a city thatsuddenly seemedmired incorruption. I cravedsanctuary,althoughIknewnow it didn’t lie withanyone apart from myself

andmyfamily.But for now, our little

village would have tosuffice. Jen and I huggedgoodbyeoutsideherflat.‘You be careful, Rose.

No more funny business,’shemademepromise,andwesetoffforhome.‘Cor, who’s been eating

garlic?’Aliciawrinkledupher nose and opened her

window.‘Itsmells.’‘There’s a garlic in

Doctor Who,’ Freddie saidsolemnly. ‘A bad garlicwhatwillexplodeyou.’‘Dur,’Aliciasaid.‘Dalek,

dummy,notgarlic.’‘It’s not, Mummy, is it,

it’sagarlic.’‘Itisn’t.’‘Is.’

‘Isn’t.’Freddiebegantowailas

Alicia began to chant,‘Isn’t, isn’t, isn’t.’ Freddiehither;Inearlyhitthecarin front as I turned torestrain Freddie’s flailingarm. In the midst of thechaos, Effie read herCharlie and Lola comiccalmly,suckingherthumb,wisely ignoring her

siblings.

***

‘I spy with my little eye,something beginning with–motorbike.’‘Beginning with

motorbike?Er–’Itriedforsolemnity.‘Motorbike?’‘No.’ He was

triumphant. ‘It’s –

motorbike.’‘Fred-die!’ Alicia kissed

himaffectionately.‘Silly!’‘Thisisn’tourhouse.’‘Thisisafunnyplace.’‘This is – where is this,

Mummy?’A group of children

kicked a ball against thewall of the last squarehouseinthecul-de-sac.

‘I’ll only be a sec. Stayhere and listen toWinnie-the-Pooh.’‘I’mboredofWinnie-the-Pooh,’ Alicia moaned. ‘It’sforbabies.’‘Iwanttoplayfootball.Ican do really high kicks,’Freddie said,watching thebig boys reverently. ‘ShallIshowyou?’‘Look, we’ll be home in

half an hour, I promise.Then you can havefootballs, telly, and –’ Ifloundered, bit theparentaldust–‘icecream.’‘OK,’ they sighed in

unison.Bang, went the ball.

Bang,wentmyhead.I rang thedoorbell. The

PVC front door bore anintricate pattern of gold

leaf in the thick frostedglass. A middle-agedwoman answered,gingham tea-towel inhand. She looked droopyand sad; pretty once,washed-outnow.Evenherfrizzyhairwaslimp.‘Hello.’ Iofferedher the

bouquet of rather patheticcarnations I’d just boughtatthepetrolstation.‘Ijust

cametosay–I’msosorryaboutKatya.’‘Kate,’ she sniffed. ‘Her

namewas just plain Kate.Noneofthatfancyforeignstuff.’‘Of course,’ I agreed

quickly.‘Kate.’‘Not Angel either. Just

Kate.’‘Sorry.Yes,Kate.Itmust

beawfulforyou.’Effieand

Fred’s voices were risingquerulously behind me. Itried hard to concentrate.‘Such a tragedy. She wassoyoung.’‘She looked young for

thirty-two, I know that.Shealwaystooksuchprideinherappearance.’Icouldfeelherneedtotalkabouther daughter. She lookeddown at the flowers, and

then eyed my car parkedattheedgeofthepostage-stamp lawn. ‘Doyouwanttocomein?’‘Oh,Iwon’t.’Ididbadly

wanttogoin.‘I’vegotthekids. I don’t want todisturb you. We’re—I justwantedtosaysorry.’I just want to know how

your daughter knew myhusband. What they had

plannedtogether.‘Bringthemin,’shesaid,

peering overmy shoulder.‘I’d be glad to see somelittleones.’Ifeltsickwithguiltand

duplicity. This woman’sdaughter had died in myhouse; this was dishonestand—I hesitated. But Idesperately needed toknow why she had been

thereinthefirstplace.‘Ifyou’resure.’She gave the childrenflapjacks she’d madeherselfandglassesoffloridorange squash, and theyrandown the tinygarden,two immaculatelymatching beds stripingeither side, a swinghanging from the cherrytreeattheend.

‘My only grandchildlives inAmericanow,’ shesaid sadly, watching themruntotheswing. ‘Myson,well, his marriage brokedown. It’s so commonthese days, isn’t it? Hiswife went back to Texas.Andnow–well,nowKateis gone.’ Her eyes filledwith tears. ‘How did youknow her?’ She turned tomeabruptly.

‘We—From the club.Youknow.’‘Those bloody clubs. I

neverwantedhertodoallthatcircusstuffinthefirstplace.’‘She was brilliant,

though.’ For the first timesince I’d arrived, I wasn’tlying. ‘She had a realtalent.’‘She loved it, she did,

flyingoverpeople’sheads.Youshouldseetheirfaces,Mum, sheused to say.Allturned up to me. And sopeacefulupthere.’‘I’llbet.’ Ihadan image

ofhertwistedbodyonthefloor and clutched myteacuptighter.‘And she met all sorts.

Rich boys who promisedher the world and never

stuckaround.’IthoughtofCharlie Higham. ‘I wishshe’d stayed here. Therewasalwaysaplaceforherhere.Withus.’‘I suppose – the clubswereveryglamorous.’‘It was him that did it.He came into the café, allsmiles and charm. Heofferedherajob.Andnowlook. So much more fun

than a café in town,’ shemuttered. ‘That’swhatshesaid.’‘Who is – who is he?WashecalledCharlie?’‘No, it wasn’t Charlie,though he was good fornothing too. It was thatbloodyman.Hebrokeherheart once. Then he cameback.Andnow look.Lookwhereheistoo.’

My stomach lurched. Iwatched Freddie trip andfall on the grass, Aliciahelp him up. Effieclamberedawkwardlyontotheswing.‘You’ve got a café?’ I

triedtosmile.‘Yes,intown.Itwasmy

parents’ before mine.’ Shesat wearily on the beigearmchairinthecorner,the

fussy lace antimacassarsover the arms, remindingme of the ones mygrandma used to have.‘The Tea Room, on theHighStreet.’I was in that tunnelagain.‘We’re going to changethe name now.’ I realisedshe was still talking. ‘Myson’sarranginganewsign.

We’re going to call itKate’sTeas.’The tunnel’s end wascoming up too fast; I wasgoing to smash into it. Iblinked.‘The Tea Room besideBlackwells?’Myvoicewasstrangely hoarse. ‘WherealltheMagdalenandJesusstudentsgo?’‘I don’t know which

colleges use it, love.They’reallthesametome.Lots of foreign studentstoo, these days.’ Shelooked at me again. ‘Howdid you say youknewmyKate?’‘I–wemetinLondon.’‘And where do you live

now? Did you come allthis way to see me?’ Herforehead creased. ‘It’s a

long way to come, withthem.’ She looked out atthechildrenagain.‘Oh dear, I think – oh

poor Fred. He’s hurt hisknee.’ I putmy cup downtooquickly, it spilton thetable, next to the bowl ofpungent pot-pourri thatlooked like bits of deadskin.‘Kids, we’re off now.’ I

quicklyslidopentheglassdoor. I was suffocating inhere.‘Have we met before?’She was standing now,staring at me. ‘You lookfamiliar,nowIlookatyouagain.’‘No I don’t think so. I’dremember,wouldn’tyou?’I ran out into thegarden, and plucked Effie

offtheswing.‘Mum,’ Alicia whinged.‘Weonlyjustgothere.’‘And now we’re goinghome. Now. Hurry up.’ Ishouldneverhavebroughtthem here. Such a badmother. Such bad parents.I grabbed Alicia’s hand.‘BringFreddie.Hurryup.’I got them to the car,apologising profusely,

Kate’s mother standing ather door, nonplussed. Icouldn’t tell her the truth,though I’d done nothingwrong.Icouldn’tadmitI’dseenherdaughterdyingatmy feet. Not now, Icouldn’t. I had to makesenseofit.‘What, by the way,’ I

croaked,asIshutthebackdoor.‘Whatwastheman’s

name?’‘Theman?’‘The man you said she

loved.’Thoughof course Iknew the answer. But Ihadtohearhersayit.‘Oh.’ She stared at me.

‘Itwas thatbloodyJames.JamesMiller.Hebrokeherheart when she was ateenager, and then hecameback,andhebrokeit

alloveragain.’

ChapterThirty

LoveIstheDrug

RoxyMusic

We settled down to ourroutine at home. Evenwithout James it wasn’tverydifferent fromhow it

had been before. Thechildren readily acceptedthat he was workingabroad. Until his trialcame up, I didn’t want toscarethem;I thoughttheywere too little, and whenhe was acquitted, well,they couldwait until theywere older to know thetruth.Whateverthatmightturn out to be. If he wasacquitted… I pushed that

thoughtaway.Jameswasabletospeak

tothemonthephoneoncea fortnight and somehowhemanaged to keep up aconvincing front. I visitedhimwithoutthem,studiedthe casewith the lawyers.But there didn’t seemmuch to know.Thepolicehad impounded a hugeamountofherointhathad

been contained in theshipment of furniture –and that was that. Jamesswore at first he didn’tknow what Lana meantabout the blackmail, buthe did eventually admitthatKatewasthesamegirlfrom the café all thoseyears ago, that coldmorning in Oxford. Thewaitress who’d stolen myscarf.

‘I bumped into her,’ hesaid when I confrontedhimaboutit.‘Iwenttothebank and it was oppositethe café. She recognisedmefromFacebook.’‘Soyoudidn’t justbump

into each other?Make upyour mind, J, for God’ssake.’‘We’d emailed a bit on

Facebook last year,’ he

scowled. ‘But we had noplanstomeet.Itwasjust–oh God, Rose. Whatever.We met, we went for adrink.’‘And?’‘And one thing led to

another. She’d trained atthecircusplaceinLondon,but she still helped hermum and dad out whenshewas back in Oxford. I

gotherajobinParis.’‘Very convenient. Sowhy–whathappened?’‘Nothinghappened.’‘You fell in love,’ I saidsourly.‘Notlove,no.Just—’‘What?Lust?’‘Isuppose.Itwasnicetofeel wanted. But it wasonlyonceortwice,Rose,I

swear.’ He tookmy hand.‘I want to make thingswork.’It was too late for us,

though.Iknewthatmuch.Only –what do they say?Don’t kick a man whenhe’sabouttogodown.‘And the money thing?

Thebigman thing?Kate’sflatmate, Lana, mentionedabigman–andshemeans

Higham, I know she does.He hauled me in to seehim. He was threateningme.Tryingtobuymeoff.’‘There was no money

thing.’‘James,Iknowyouwere

in trouble financially.What were those photosdoing in the cupboard?ThephotosofHigham?’‘They were his son’s.’

James wouldn’t meet myeye now. ‘CharlieHigham’s.’‘When did you get

involved with him? Whydidn’t you tell me you’dmethim?’‘WhywouldI?’‘Oh, come on, James.

The kid who Dalziel triedto get us to kill. Whywould you not mention

him?’Hedroppedmyhand.‘I felt bad when I first

methim,Iadmitit.Igavehim free entry, VIPmembership, free drinks –but he’s just an arrogantlittlefuckerwhothinkstheworld owes him a living,Rose. Just like Dalziel, infact.’‘I don’t think Dalziel

really thought that,’ I saidquietly. ‘I think he wasdesperately lonely andunhappy.’‘Yeah, whatever, Rose.’

James raised a scepticaleyebrow. ‘Why the fuckyou’re still defendinghim,I don’t know. But actuallyit was Charlie that Katereally loved,notme.Theywerehisphotos.Notmine.

He gave them to me, andtheyaddeduptopreciselynothing.’‘James,’Isighed.‘You’renotbeinghonest.’‘I’ve done nothingwrong,Rose.’Theshutterscame down. ‘Other thanfucking up a bitfinancially. How manybloody times do I have tosayit,Rose?’

He wasn’t budging. Hewas innocent; he was setup. He was the eternalchild, the petulant littleboy whose friend hadstolen his toy. I gave up.Not knowing what tobelieveanymore,Itreatedit as Iwould have done anews story and keptimpartial. Of course Iwouldtrytosupporthim–hewasmyhusband,father

of my family – but I nolongertrustedhim.Eventually they moved

James to a prison on theIsle ofWight,where Liamor I visited him once aweek. He adapted to hisenvironment, growingstronger and moredetermined he would getout.Iencouragedhim,butdeep down, I feared he’d

done something he stillwasn’t admitting. Iwaitedfor the day it would allcomeout.And the loneliness I’d

felt when James wasaround faded into a kindofpeace.Iwasquestionedagain by the police; I stillknew nothing. I keptwriting for the Chronicle,thankstoTina.Istartedto

earn again, writingfeatures for various glossymagazines; slowly workcame through from thenationals. Xavier sentwhatever he could myway. He came to stayoccasionally and I lovedhavinghim there.Ouroldfriendship cheered mebeyond belief. One coldautumn weekend as wetramped along with the

kids deep in the Cotswoldhills, he finally admittedthat he was ill. Hispenchantfornaughtyboysand early morningclubbing had apparentlycaughtupwithhim.Iheldhis arm firmly, feeling aprofoundgriefformydearfriend, although he wasremarkably cheery aboutthe prognosis. ‘Amazingwhat drugs can do these

days, darling.’ He pattedmy arm sagely as Iwipedawaymyowntears.I watched Ash Kattan

rise through the partyranks and win the Toryseat justbeforeChristmas,not Eddie Johnson’s, butsnatching a Labour one inBerkshire, much to theTelegraph’s delight. Therewas never anymention of

his father in the Britishpress,althoughonenightIthought I caught Hadi’sname on the radio, areport on the WorldService about a party fortheSaudiroyalfamilywhowere visiting Tehran. IwonderedwhatKattanwasdoing in Iran now. Iimagined that, though onthe streets chaos reignedas the people started to

fight hard for democracy,Kattanwouldriseaboveitall as ever, enigmatic andmysterious. And in hiswake, would Danny befollowing?I had pushed allthoughts of Danny as farfromme as possible, untilsometimes it all seemedlike a dream. There weremany nights when I

couldn’t sleep, his facespinningthroughmyhead,but I was no longercrippledwithyearningasIhad been at first. Thesickening pain dulled to amonotonous ache. Thedrug that had filled myveinsebbedaway,thefearthat this was my one lastchance for happinessfaded. I accepted my lot,but it was a long and

torturouspath,consideringthe brevity of ourrelationship, and one Istruggled to comprehend.Only I could have chosensomeonewho, rather thanrejuvenate my flaggingself-worth, actuallyplunged me deeper intodespair. And yet, I startedto thinknow,was itmoreto do with the place I’dbeen in, than the man I

hadchosen?Whatever the answer, Ihad fallen too fast, toohard; irrationally,illogically. Now I had togetbackupagain.Mostfrighteningthough,Lord Higham’s newlyformed party, the UKNational Party, was beinggreeted by the Britishpublicwithanalacritythat

was entirely alarming. Ascharismatic as smoothRobert Kilroy-Silk but notasoilyoroverlyearnestasthenewUKIP lot,Highamspoke with such charmand fervour that hewhippedtheproletariatupinto a frenzy of desire tobeBritish, tounite, to seethenationreturntoits‘onthe beaches’ mentality,accompaniedbythetrusty

bowler hat or knottedheadscarf. OccasionallyHigham would mentionthe scourge of Muslimterrorists, the rise ofdivisive faith schools,immigration gone mad –but he tucked thesesubjects carefully into hisspeeches between theothermorenoblekind.‘He’s a dangerous

fucker,’ Xav sniffed at thetelevision we werewatching with the sounddown, gorging ourselveson the champagne truffleshe’dbroughtwithhim.‘I’llsay.’I looked at thoseprotuberant glacial eyesandIthoughtofmyfriendDalziel. I remembered thewayhisfatherhadcovered

the crisis up; how a fatalsituation had been madeslick after Higham’s handcarefullysmootheditover.Who knew what laybeneath?

PARTTHREE

ChapterThirty-One

THETIMES,APRIL

2009

Our pleasures in this

world are always to bepaidfor.

NorthangerAbbey,JaneAusten

The notorious Revolver trialof James Miller finallybegantodayatLondon’sOldBailey. Mr Miller, themillionaire club promoterand record producer, isaccusedofsmugglingheroin;

the consignment policeseizedholdsastreetvalueof£2.5million. The drug wasallegedly contained in ashipment of marble andwooden furniture bound forMiller & MacAvoy’s newsuper-club Revolver, basedin Smithfield. A last-minutedevelopment means Millerwill now stand trial alongwith co-defendant SaquibBaheev;bothmenaresaidto

be pleading not guilty.Miller’swife,Rose, formerlyRose Langton, was at thecourt today, although hisbusiness partner, LiamMacAvoy, is still out of thecountry; there has been nosuggestion of MacAvoy’sinvolvementinthecase.Priortothebirthofherthreechildren,MrsMillerenjoyedan award-winning career as

an investigative journalist,butshedeclinedtocommentoutsidecourttoday.The Sunday morningbefore the trial finallybegan, I awoke to findEffiestaringatme.‘Open your eyes,

Mummy,’ she was saying,squishing my cheeksbetween small hands. Iopened and shut them

again quickly. I feltvertiginous: like I was atthe top of the ski-jump inInnsbruck where Jamesand I had gone when westill did things like that,theChristmasbeforeAliciawasconceived.I screwed my eyes up

tight; saw myself as aminute speck waiting atthe top of the mighty

white expanse – about tohurtle off the end intooblivion.‘Open,’ Effie insisted.Reluctantly, I did. Shestucka small finger inmyeye.‘Ow!’‘I want a biscuit,Mummy,’ she guffawedwithdelight.‘Now.’Ithadbeenthestrangest

year ofmy life. A year ofguilt and unrest. A wholeyearafter thepartywhereKatya had fallen to herdeath and my world hadfinally split open likesomeone had cleaved itcleandownthemiddle.As soonas the casewas

over, whatever theoutcome,we’dmove fromthe Cotswolds. I’d

relinquished the delusionthat I could ever make ithome now; valiantly I’denduredthegossipandthestares until finallyeveryone got tired of usand forgot the scandal.Surprisingly, a few hadshown true friendship;even Helen Kelsey hadinsisted on making me aweekly casserole, forwhich my kids were

eternallygrateful.Properlycooked food, made withcare – unlike my burnedofferings. I realisedJames’s story about hercrushhadprobablybeenadownrightlie.My mother packed the

children into the car thatbreezyAprilafternoonandtook them up toDerbyshire. For the

duration of the trial I’dstayinLondonwithJenorXav, and see the childrenattheweekends.I kissed them bravely

and then my motherhugged me. ‘Good luck,Rosie. I hope it goes allright.’My parents had been

mortified by the wholesituation, I knew, but

stoicallyandwithabsoluteloyalty, they had neveronce mentioned theirembarrassment, thoughmy own guilt wasimmense.Iwavedthecaroff,tears

springing to my eyes asEffie blew me kissesthrough thebackwindow.As they turnedthecorner,I saw Freddie stick his

light-saber up Alicia’snose.After a year of indrawnbreath, I was waiting toexhaleagain.

I got up at dawn thenextdayanddroveintoLondonbeneathspeckledmackerelskies. As I sped down theWestway,myphonerang.

‘Rose?’ It was Ruth,James’s solicitor. ‘I’ve gotsome bad news, I’mafraid.’‘What?’ Fear gripped

me; for a moment I feltlight-headed. The van inthelanebesidemeblastedhis horn as I swerveddangerously.‘We’ve only just heard.

The Crown want to call

youasawitness.’‘Idon’tunderstand.’The van driver was

mouthing at me, jabbinghis finger atmymobile. Iignored him, tucking thephone under my chin.‘Whatdoesthatmean?’‘It means you’d be a

witness for theprosecution.’Amotorbike flashed by,

the driver crouched like abatoutofhell.‘God,’ I mumbled. ‘And

whatdoesthatmean?’‘Itmeans,Rose,thatyou

will be called to giveevidenceagainstJames.’

Given the massive mediainterest in James, I wasunsurprisedbytheamount

ofpressasIarrivedattheOld Bailey that firstmorning–butstillInearlyturned back. The houndswerebayingforbloodasIputmyheaddown,hidingbehind sunglassesalthough thedaywasdullandgrey,theskyovercast.Still, I recognised faces I’dknownforyears,morethatI hadn’t; TV crews, evenpaparazzi in some vain

hope that a real celebritymightturnup(somehope;James’s famous friendshadprovedfair-weathersofar).Every fibre of me

screamed ‘go back’ as Ibroke through their ranks.Itwasutterlyalien formeto be on this side – but Ihad no choice. Suddenly Iknewhowthefoxfelt.

‘Giveusabreak,guys,’Imuttered. A few stoodbacktoletmethrough.Thefirstfourdays,Ijust

waited around. As aprobabledefencewitnessIwasn’tallowedtoenterthecourt whilst the Crowncase proceeded first. But Ifelt it was my duty to benear James, despite notbeingableeventoseehim.

Isatinthecorridororthecanteen; I read gossipmagazinesanddrankalotof tepid tea. I taughtmyself Sudoku.Occasionally I tried towrite something, but myconcentration was shot.And all the time I waswaiting the refrain playedthroughmyhead:ifJamesgetsout,IhavetotellhimI’mleavinganyway.

Iwatchedfamiliescomeand go, crying, ashen-faced, complacent. Iwatched the defendantswho swaggered and thosewho’d bought a new suitfortheoccasion.Iwatchedthose shaven red-raw forthejudge,whiteshirtsstillshowing the creases fromtheir M&S packet. Iwatched nervousgirlfriends called to give

evidence.Onetallthingirlstuck in my mind, bitingher nails as shewaited tospeak in an assault case. Iwatched the innocent andthe guilty, and try as Imight to discern whichwaswhich, I rarely could.Did people wonder thesameaboutme?Each night after court

adjourned, Ruth would

patiently run throughthingswithme. I read thewitness statements. TheCrown were alleging thatJames had known aboutthe heroin; it had enteredthe UK inside a massivefurniture shipment. Theysaid that James had longbeen part of the team tomastermind the operation.Thedrugshadbeen insidehollowed-out furniture –

garden tables, statues –and they believed that hehad used the clubs as afront.Another man was ontrial too, a British-Pakistani called SaquibBaheev. I vaguelyremembered Jamesmentioning a Saquib, butthe fuzzy little head-shotthey showed on the one

newsbulletin I sawmeantnothing to me. Theprosecution alleged thetwo men had worked inconjunction with eachother,butJameshadmadethe initial contact. Therewas never anymention ofHadiKattan.‘He’s slipped the net onthis one,’ Ruth had saidwhen I pressed her. ‘Even

ifhe is involved–andtheCPS have no evidenceapparently to say he is –I’d guess he’s beingprotected by someone. Idon’t know. We have noextradition treaty withIran. Even if he wascharged, they’d never beabletobringhimin.’Danny’swordsechoedin

my head: diplomatic

immunity. He was like aphantom,HadiKattan,likethe Scarlet Pimpernel.They seek him here, theyseekhimthere.Somewhere,someone was protectinghim. I just didn’t knowwhy.

Andthenitwasmyturn.Itook the stand on theFriday morning, feeling

under-prepared, tremblingwith nerves. I’d tried sohard to be calm andcollected but I evenfumbledmyswearingin.Itwas the first time I’d seenJames in a week; helookedthinandanxiousaswe smiled at each othershakily across the room.And then I looked at theother defendant seatednext to him and I felt

nausea rise quickly in mygullet.SaquibBaheevwasZack

from Albion Manor: theheavy who had been partofKattan’sentourage.Cold sweat broke out

under my arms; I graspedthe card I was readingfrom so tight I left shinyfingerprints on it. Saquiblooked over at me and I

could have sworn hewinked.The barrister for the

prosecution, Janet Leen,stepped up. Leen’s facewas clay-like, raw and ill-defined, like someone hadforgotten to finish it. Shemoved uncomfortably inher smart clothes;herwigwas tatty and trailinghairs; she stamped across

the court. But when shespoke, shewas sharp as acut-throatrazor.‘So your husband wasexperiencing severefinancialdifficulties?’‘Not to my knowledge,no. His income wasconsiderable.’‘But we know he was;his accountant’s alreadytold us. And his spending

wasoutofcontrol.’‘Not really, for someonewhoearnedwhathedid.’‘But the money haddriedup.’‘Not as far as I wasaware.’ Ihad tobehonestnow. ‘Hewas inchargeofhisbusinessaffairs.’‘Ah,’ Leen sniffeddisdainfully. ‘The dutifulhousewife taking the back

seat.’Christ.Whatwasitwith

these bloody women andmydomesticlife?‘Hardly.ButJamesdealt

with his business incomehimself. I mean, whywouldIgetinvolved?’‘Whywouldyouindeed,

Mrs Miller, apart from tospend it?’ She smiled ahorriblefauxsmile.

‘I’m not some sort ofWAG,’ I retorted.The jurysmiled and I relaxed alittle. ‘I had a successfulcareer myself beforehavingmychildren.’‘Really?Doingwhat?’‘I was – I am a

journalist.’‘A journalist.’ Leen spat

out the word as if I hadjust professed to being a

child killer. ‘So how didyou feel when you foundout he was having theaffair?’ Slowly she drewout the syllables of ‘aff-air’.The head of John

Huntingdon, James’sbarrister, snapped up.There was a murmurthrough the jury. Mystomachplunged.

‘I didn’t know anythingabout an affair.’ I tried tokeep my voice steady. Ihadn’t; not when Jameswas arrested, so I wasn’tlying,Itoldmyself.‘Didn’titstartwhilstyouwere at university?’ Leensaid calmly. ‘When youwere involved with theghastlySocietyX.’James and I glanced at

eachother; I tried tohidemyshock.Therehadbeenno indication that thiswould be brought up; wehad not talked about theSociety to Ruth and shehadnevermentionedit.‘Objection, YourHonour.’ James’s barristershot to his feet. ‘Whatbearing can universityshenanigans possibly have

onthiscase?’The judge looked downfrom her position ofgravitas. ‘Expand, please,MsLeen.’‘I just want to explainthatMrMiller is far fromthe blemish-free characterthathasbeensuggestedsofar.’‘That’sabsoluterubbish,’I expostulated. ‘Society X

—’‘Mrs Miller,’ the judgesaid quite gently, ‘please.Waituntilyouareaskedtospeak.’‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.James’s legal team werelooking vaguely horrified,mutteringtooneanother.Istared at Janet Leen. Shestared calmly back. Hernose looked like someone

hadgiventheclayasharptwist.‘I believe your husbandwas actually arrested andcharged in 1992, was henot? Accused of intent toharm after an incident inOxford’sRandolphHotel?’‘For about an hour. Allcharges were dropped. Itwasamistake.’Leen looked at me and

then she turned to thejury. ‘Ladies andgentlemen, I would justlike you to take intoaccount that James Millerwas a member of thenotoriousSocietyX,whosepranksended in the tragicdeath of at least onemember.’‘Objection, YourHonour! This is

inadmissible.’‘ForChrist’ssake!’‘MrsMiller,please!’‘Well, honestly.’ IignoredJohnHuntingdon’sdesperate gesticulating.‘Wewerekids.Really.Wewere eighteen, nineteen.We thought we knew theworld, but we didn’t, andwedidn’tknowanybetter.We were just trying to

have fun, to be a littleoutrageous–anditwentabitwrong. It’sgotnothingto do with this. Nothing.James doesn’t have anysortofcriminalrecord.’The judge banged her

gaveldown. ‘The jurywilldisregard the allegationjust made by counsel forthe prosecution.’ Like helltheywould.‘AndMrsMiller

willrefrainfromusingthestandasasoap-box.’I gave her a sheepishlook.‘We’lladjournforlunch.And, Mr Huntingdon,’ thejudge turned her gaze tothebarrister,‘Isuggestyouget the witness into lineover a plate of somethinglight.’A titter rippled round

the court. Huntingdonsmiled a pained littlesmile.

‘You can’t let them rattleyou, Rose.’ Ruth took meto task over a stale hamsandwich in the canteen.‘You’vegottoappearcalmandmaternalandsensible.And you certainly can’tspeakoutofturnlikethat.

It just makes you lookhysterical.’‘OK.’ I abandoned my

unappealing lunch. ‘Butit’s hard. They really dotwist everything, don’tthey?’‘Of course. That’s their

job.Now,’shelookedtiredand for a moment, Ithought,defeated,‘isthereanything about this

Society X that I need toknow?’‘No. It was just a sillysecretsocietyatuniversitythatendedbadly.’‘Badly?’‘Someone else gotcarried away with a sillyritual. The police gotoverexcited and chargedJames: it was droppedwithintwodays.’

‘Are you sure? What’sthedeaththing?’‘LenaLatzieroverdosed,’Isaidquietly.‘The opera singer’sdaughter? Bloody hell.’Ruth drained her can oflemonade.‘Anythingelse?’‘Dalziel St John killedhimself.’ My voice wassmaller now. ‘LordHigham’sson.’

‘Tell me you’re joking,please?’Ruthstaredatme.‘Higham,asintheUKPP?’‘Yes. Dalziel was the –thering-leader,ifyoulike.And some overzealouspolice got involved, andtried to make a caseagainst some of us whenhe died. But honestly, thecharges were dropped asquickly as they were

brought.’I didn’t mention that IwassureLordHighamhadhadahandinmakingitgoaway; that he hadobviously wanted nomentionofscandalaroundhis name if he couldpossiblyhelpit.Asitwas,he had resigned from thecabinetthefollowingyear.Ruthlookedatmesadly,

rather as if I had let herdown. Then she left methere alone and went totalktoJames.

James’s barrister, JohnHuntingdon, was graveand sincere. I had beenalarmed by his youth, byhis ruddy complexion andair of suppressed bonviveur – but I had been

assuredhewasthebest.‘Your husband is afamily man, Mrs Miller?He worked hard, createdeverythingfromscratch?’‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Heisextremelyhard-working.He was -sorry – he is adedicated father. Hischildren need him athome.’‘Of course. And would

you think there was anyreason for him to put thisatrisk?’‘No,’ I said honestly, ‘Idon’t. He was extremelysuccessful. His businesseswere doing very well. Heisverywellrespectedasamusic producer. Whywouldheneed tosmuggledrugs?’I talked some more

about him being anupstanding pillar of thecommunity, employinglots of people, givingtoday’s youth a chancewith various schemes atthe label and the club,contributing to charity.Thejurylookedreasonablyimpressed, I thought, buttheywere amotleybunchthemselves. One thicksetmiddle-agedwomaninthe

front row looked like shemight combust fromdisapproval; anotherfoldedherarmseverytimeI spoke. James studiedhishands.Janet Leen started onabout Katya and James;fortunately she didn’tmention Society X again.Asshedronedonandon,IlookedupandIsawKate’s

mother sitting at the edgeof the gallery, holding onvery tight, and I cringedinside. She would knownowthatIhadliedonmyvisit to her house. I triedveryhardtonotcatchhereyeatanypoint.Icouldn’tlookatJamesatall.At the end of myquestioning I sensedmovementattheotherend

of the gallery and Iglanced up to see a tallfigure in a long blackjacket heading for thestairs. For a second, Ithought it might beCharlieHigham.Then Leen took a final

swipe.‘Were you ever aware

that your husband wasusing his clubs as a front

forsomethingelse?’‘No, absolutely not.’ Idragged my eyes backfrom the gallery. ‘He justlovesmusic;helivesforit.He always did. It was adream come true tomakesuch a great career out ofit.’‘Anddrugsandpartying,withlotsandlotsofgirls?’‘Objection, Your

Honour.’ Huntingdon shotup like a jack-in-the-box.Theusualtoingandfroingbegan again between thelawyers.I glanced back up, butthe figure in black wasgone.

ChapterThirty-Two

The following Monday, Isat outside the courtroomwith a newspaper and acup of tea.Waiting, again– this time for Liam, thefirst defence witness. TheCrown were nearing the

end of their case;apparentlytheyonlyhadafewmorewitnessestocall,and Liam was coming infrom France where he’dbeen sorting out someproblems with the clubthere.To my surprise, DSMontfordsuddenlyarrivedandsatoppositemeattheendofthecorridor,staring

at her navy court shoe,swinging itonandoffherfoot like it was the mostinterestingthingshe’deverseen.‘You’ve given evidence,

haven’t you?’ I askedeventually. There was asmallladderintheheelofhertanpop-sock.Montford nodded. I’d

read her statement. She’d

wielded the knife againstJames like a derangedteenager.‘So?’ She’d obviouslycome to freak me out.‘Whyareyouhere?’‘I’m waiting forsomeone,’ she said,pushingherglassesuphernose.‘Who?’‘No one you know,’ she

saidcrisply.After awhile, I couldn’t

bear the tensionanymoreand went outside to lookfor Liam but it started todrizzle.As I walked back into

the building, the clerkswere ushering someoneinto Court Number Two –the one beside ourcourtroom, the wooden

doors swinging shutbehind him, DS Montfordin his slipstream like asmallblackbird.I stoppedacourtofficer

whowasfollowingthem.‘What’sgoingon?’‘Anonymous evidence

fortheMillercase.’‘Why are they going in

therethen?’

‘They’ll video it andtransmititthroughtonextdoor.’Twenty minutes later,Liam arrived, sweatingprofusely.Hekissedmeonbothcheeks,hisgreathulksqueezed into a navy suitthatwasasizetoosmall.‘I’ve put on someweight,’ he said ruefully,asIpattedhistummy.

‘It’s all that loving,baby,’ I tried to joke. Itwastoooppressivetojoke,here in the corridors offear. ‘Or too much foiegras.’‘Both probably. Sorry

I’m late. Christ, I’mnervous.’‘There’snoneedtobe,is

there?’ Isaid,eyeingLiamcarefully. We’d seen little

of each other recently;we’d kept in touch on thephone or by email duringthe past few months. Hehadsortedoutthefinanceswith Revolver’s lawyersand I received a monthlysum that at least paid themortgage – the enormousmortgageI’dneverrealisedJames had taken out tofinance the club inBangkokhe’ddreamedof.

‘Guessnot,’heshrugged.‘You’ve just got to tell

the truth, the wholeshebang.’‘I bloody hate lawyers,

though.’Liamrana fingerround his tight collar; theshaving rash on his necklooked red and painfullyraw. ‘So smarmy andsmug, always out to tripyouup.’

‘Liam?’‘What?’‘You know Lana

mentioned some kind ofblackmail, and LordHigham accused me oftrying to extort money,’ Imuttered. ‘Then theprosecutionjuststartedonabout the club being afront.’‘Lana?’

‘Kate’s flatmate. AndJamessaidCharlieHighamwasinvolvedinsomethingdodgy.’‘That doesn’t surprise

me. But it’s the first Iheard of blackmail.’ Helookedatme levelly. ‘AndI canassureyou the clubsaren’t a front. You knowthat. I tell you, they’vebeen through bloody

everything with a fine-toothcomb.’Ruth was bearing downon us. ‘Liam, we need tohaveaquickchat.’I couldn’t decidewhethertogoinandlistento his evidence. I was sosulliedbythewholeaffair;every day it seemedmorehopeless. I thoughtlonginglyofmychildren:I

missedthemdesperately. Iwentoutsidetocallthem.

I was at the tea machinewhenLiamappearedagaininthecorridor.‘Thatwas quick,’ I said,

surprised.‘Theysentmeoutagain.

Big old kerfuffle in there.Some copper’s giving

evidenceanonymously.’‘Whatpoliceman?’‘Dunno. Never actually

sawhim.’My plastic cup dropped

down from the machinewithaclunk.‘And they only used his

Christian name anyway.’Liam leaned against themachine.

‘John?’ Dully I watchedthe cup fill with tepidwater,idlypluckingnamesfromtheair.‘Peter?’‘No. David. No. Not

David. Dan!’ He lookedtriumphant. ‘Yeah. Danny–thatwasit.’

ChapterThirty-

Three

EveryounceofadrenalinIpossess crashes throughmybody;I’mshakingwithrage. I will find him if it

killsme. I smashopenthedoors and run into thecourt. He is here, so nearand yet still so bloody,bloody far. Further thanhe’severbeen.Ilookup,across–andIsee him. It takes me asecondtoabsorbthefact–andthenIcan’tbelieveit.I can’t believe Liam wasright.

You are in the wrongplace, absolutely thewrongplace, I think. I seehim and for a moment Ithink I am surelymistaken.He stands to leave the

witness box; he hears thecommotion and he turns.Our eyes meet across thecourtroom.‘You can’t be in here,’

someonesays.‘Please,’thecourtofficerisspeaking,‘cantheushers…?’Her voice fades.Everything fades as helooks at me across theemptyroomanditallfallsinto place. How could Ihave been so very, verystupid? Of course he is apoliceman.

Someone in uniformholds my arm as I juststand there, immobilisedbyshock.It’s as if my whole life

has been headinginexorably for thismoment: like the momentwhen you switch off thetelevision set and the tinywhite light dies, themoment you are alone in

thedarkness.The officer takes my

arm. She is trying toremoveme,pushmebackoutside, back into thecorridor.Thereisafuriouswhispering, a room alivewiththeexcitementofthecase,ofmymisdemeanour.But they are light yearsaway; I don’t hear themany more because we are

staring at one other, oureyeslocked.There isonlyhim–andmyheart,itactuallystops;it feels like it stops so Igasp suddenly with theshock of it. I think I evenstagger.Ifeelapain,arealpain deep in my belly, asvisceral as if my insidesare tearing away fromthemselves.Iwanttobend

myself double, to curl upand hide – but how can Ihere,whereIamwatched?Iamtrapped.Andthenhelooksaway.So this is it, I think.

There is just white lightand noise aroundme thatmakes no sense, and theneventually they succeed.They get me back outsideagain.

The doors close in myface,andheisgone.Sothis iswhattheycall

it. It is worse than Iimagined: it isworseeventhan heartbreak and, Godknows,I’vefeltthattoo.This is worse than

heartbreak. It is infinitelyworse.Thisisbetrayal.

And then they werehustling me out and hewasbeingledtheoppositeway. I tried to turn to seehim but I couldn’t twistmy head far enough as Iwasmarched out, and thedoor was firmly shutbehindme.

Where would they takehim? Where would they

trytohidehim?After a couple of false

starts,Ifoundanalleythatled to the back of thecourt-house. I saw DSMontford come out andget into an unmarkedRover, and I guessed he’dbesomewheretheretoo.Iranacrossthecarpark

and a security guard wascalling, ‘Miss, miss,’

behind me in a strongNigerian accent, but Iignored him and pushedthe firedooropen, almostfalling as it took myweight.He stood there, leaning

against the wall quitecalmlyjustinsidethedoor,rolling a cigarette, andwhen he saw me, henarrowed those

unreadable eyes at me.Blue as Hockney’sswimming pool; blue asTurner’sskies.‘Hello, Rose Miller,’ hesaid, and my worldcrashed again. Blue asforget-me-nots.He just stood thererolling a cigarette like hehad no care in theworld,notone.

The security guardlumbered up behind me.‘Please, miss.’ He had ashiny bovine face. ‘Youcan’tbe—’Danny flashed

something that he pulledfrom his jacket pocket,some kind of badge. ‘It’sOK.She’swithme.’With me! I nearly

laughed – except itwould

havekilledme.The reluctant guard

sizedusup.‘OK,sir.Ifyouaresure.’‘Sure I’m sure. Cheers,

pal.’The guard lumbered off

again.‘You’re going to say,

what am I doing here,’Dannysaidquietly.Hewaswearing a grey suit and a

dark shirt. He lookedsmart, handsome, his hairlessdishevelledthanusual.I’d never imagined himlikethis.‘YesIam.Whatthefuck

are you doing here? OhGod. I can’t believe it.’And I slapped my palmsagainst my own foreheadso hard it hurt. ‘God GodGod,’ I intoned. ‘You

bastard.’He grabbed my wrists.

‘Don’t.’‘Fuck off,’ I hissed. I

didn’t ever rememberfeeling this angry. Ever.Fury made me strong,strongenoughtogetoutofhis grasp this time. Ilunged back from him.‘Howcouldyouhavedonethat? How could you

have?’‘Calm down, Rose,’ he

said.‘Why? Why would I

calm down? You bloodybloody liar.’ I stared athim. He dropped his gazefirst.‘Just wait a sec.’ He

leaned over me andpushedopenadoor.Itwassome kind of waiting

room; he manoeuvred mein.‘What the fuck are you

doing here? Where’s—’ Igazed at him. ‘Is it true?Are you really apoliceman?’We looked into each

other’s eyes; the eyes thatonceIcouldhavedrownedin.‘Aye.’Slowlyhenodded.

‘’Fraid so.’ Then he benthis head to light his roll-up.‘So.’ I was trying tocatch up, to getmy brainto catch up -but I was soshocked I couldn’twork itout.‘Sowhat,Danny?Or–Iguessthat’snotyourrealname.’‘Rose,’hecamenearer,‘Inevermeant to lie toyou.

Butmyhandswere tied. Icouldn’ttellyouthetruth.’TheScottishburrsuddenlysounded stronger than itever had. ‘I didn’t have achoice.Ireallydidn’t.’‘You played me,’ Iwhispered, and I felt sicktomycore. ‘You justusedme to get to James. OhGod,ohGod.’‘Listen to me.’ He

grabbed my wrists againand the smoke from hiscigarette made my eyeswater. ‘It was nothing todo with your husband, Iswear. I wasn’t interestedin him. No one was. Hejust got in theway, that’sall.’‘So who were you

interested in? Kattan,obviously.’

‘I’m not at liberty tosay.’‘Liberty?Areyou taking

the piss?’ I glowered athim.‘Please, Rose.’ He

droppedhishands.Didhelook a little sad? ‘It’s socomplicated.’‘You know, when you

ran away from me, Ithoughtthathurt.Butthis,

this is worse.’ My eyesfilled with tears of rageand pain. ‘I thought – Ithought that you quiteliked me.’ I heard mypatheticplaintivetoneandIdespisedmyself.‘I did. Ido.’He reachedouttotouchmyface,butIducked like I had in therainthateveninglastyear,turnedaway.

Slumping down at thebaretable,Ihidmyfaceinmy hands. ‘You don’tknowwhatyou’vedonetome, Danny Callendar. Orwhoever you are. Youhavenoidea.’Everything I thought Iknew had gone now; theground beneath my feetwas disintegrating. Jamesand I were finished and

though I knew he’ddeserted me already, Isuppose I’d held on tosome vestige, thatsomewhere deep down,Danny had really cared.Hemusthavelovedme:hehad come back to see methatnight.Butnow,nowIrealised it was all just agame; that it had meantnothing. Worse than agame,even.Justajob.

‘Rose, please,’ Danny’svoicewastense. ‘I triedtostayawayfromyou.Rightfromthestart. I tried,andI know I fucked up, and Ifailed you. I couldn’t stayaway.Itried.’The tears werestreaming down my face.‘Whyme?’‘I couldn’t help it.’ Hethrew his fag on the floor

andhewalkedtowardsmeand he held my facebetween his hands. ‘Listentome, you daft woman, Ididn’tlietoyou,notaboutmy feelings. I was doingmy job, but – and it’ll befucking curtains for me,’he had never sworn, Irealised, normally, ‘it’ll beover forme if they know,but listen, listen to me,Rose.’

‘I’m listening.’ Ibreathed deep, trying nottosob.‘It was just about you.’

Heleanedtowardsmeandhewasalmostwhispering.I could see the tinyfreckles on his nose now.‘That’s all. Just you andme.’And, oh God, I wanted

to believe him; I needed

somethingtoholdontoasthe world kept tipping onitshead.‘I’vegottogo,Rose.But

listen…’Tipping until it would

throwmerightoff.‘I am listening,’ I said

fiercely,wipingmyface.‘I’ll find you again, I

promise. Afterwards. I’llcome and explain

properly.’‘AndJames?’Icroaked.‘Kattanhadsomekindofgrievance against Jamesthat he never sharedwithme.’ Danny leaned downandgentlywipedmyface;just like he had oncebefore. My skin felt likebutter, like it would holdthe imprint he lightlymade.

‘Grievance?Overwhat?’‘Idon’tknowexactly.Hewas settling scores for hisson,Ithink.’‘ForAsh?’‘Something to do withthat secret society thebarrister mentioned. Doesthatmakesense?’‘But –’ my mind wasreeling – ‘butwhatever, ifhuge drug deals were

happening, why is Kattannot implicated? I don’tunderstand.’‘Justbecause,Rose.He’s

wanted for far biggerthings. And James wasstupid,hewastemptedbygreed and desperation.Heshould have stayed awayfrom them. It was alwaysgoingtobebadbusiness.’‘Are you saying James

didit?’Iwhispered.Danny shrugged. ‘What

doyouthink?’‘I don’t know what I

think, Danny. Or – orwhoever you are. I don’tknowanythinganymore.’‘Listen, Rose. There’s

nothing I can do to helphim. He might get off,there’s a chance. But Iswear,itwasnothingtodo

with me; our paths justhappened to cross. I’vetold them what I know,andtherestisdowntothecourt.AndIknowIdidthewrongthingwithyou,andI’msorryforthat.Iswear.’He hugged me. ‘I shouldneverhavecomenearyou,Rose.’HepulledmecloseandI

clung to him. I knew he

hadbetrayedme,butforamomentIclungonlikemylife depended on it. Hekissed me once, on thelips, and this time he felthot.Hisskinwashot,andsomewhere, faintly, thelemon sherbet tastedbitter-sweet.‘I shouldn’t have comenear you,’ he murmuredinto my hair. Then he

opened the door. ‘Ishouldn’t–butIhadto.’‘Danny,’ I said urgently,and he turned. ‘What’syour name? Your realname?’‘TheycallmeCal.’‘Cal?’‘Iwasbornonthebanksof the riverCallendar.’Hesmiledatme. I’dsorarelyseen him smile. ‘That’s

where we stayed. Myfamily. Ma was a bitpoetic, you see. Just callmeCal.’And then he was gone.Somewhere deep inside,my instincts screamed; Iknew I’d never see himagain.

ChapterThirty-Four

‘That fucking barrister,’Liamkeptsaying.‘Fuckinguglybitch.’I clinked the ice aroundmyglass,roundandroundit went. I tried toconcentrate on Liam’s

words as a group oflaughing men camethrough the pub door. Iturned abruptly at thesoundofaScottishaccent.Itwasn’t him; of course itwasn’t. Danny was longgone. I bit my lip hard.Thepaintookmymindoffhimforaboutaminute.‘Itwas a fucking set-up,James was right,’ Liam

was slurring in thebackground. ‘They fuckingmassacred me. Thatfucking bitch barristermade it sound like we’rejust a pair of lightweightsmessingaroundwithdrugsandravers.’Liamslammedhisglassdownonthetableand almost missed; itnearly fell onto the floor.‘Howfuckingdareshe?’

‘Whatdidyouexpect?’Isaid wearily, pushing theglasssafelyhome.‘I don’t know. Not that.PoorbloodyJames.Ican’tbelievehowshitthisallis.’Liam clutched my hand.He was drunk, reallydrunk.Heswayedforwardalarmingly, until gently Ipushed him back. ‘He’sgoing to get off, Rose, I

know it. He’ll be homesoon.’I patted his hand. ‘Let’s

hopeso, lovely.Let’shopeso.’

***

The next day they calledSaquib Baheev to thestand. I sat in the publicgallery, thanking God forthe small mercy of Kate’s

mother not being heretoday, of her reproachfulgaze. I listened as Saquibinsisted he’d only donewhat he had been told,according tohim:meetingpeople, couriering,drivingfor the Kattans. It allsounded very respectableatfirst.‘I’mnottryingtosayI’m

blameless,yeah?ButIwas

justasoldier,right?Nadif,hewastheman.Ididdoabit of heavy stuff for him,formysins.’I sat up, alert suddenly.Trying but failing to winthe jury over, Saquibblamedtheentirethingona man called Nadif Mosa:he was the mastermind,apparently.‘The boss’s daughter’s

boyfriend. He infiltratedthe family through poorMaya.’ Saquib tried aneyebrow-raise that meantWomen, eh? ‘Well clever,thatone.Fooledusall.’Nadif.Maya’sboyfriend,

whohaddied.ThemanI’dseen Saquib smash downin the gravel. He wasobviouslylying.‘And what happened to

NadifMosa,MrBaheev?’Baheev made another

ill-judged attempt atconspiracy with the jury.He was not an attractiveproposition right now,sweating and nervous, afalse smile like a tic thathekeptflashingattheminsome kind of delusionalhope. They stared blanklyathim.

‘Let’s just say it ain’twise to get high on yourown supply. Know whatI’msaying?’‘Meaning?’Thebarrister

wasbrusque.‘Meaning he majorly

overdosed,yeah?’Thiswasborneoutbya

writtenstatementfromthecoroner,andthecourtwasadjournedforlunchbefore

Baheev was questionedaboutJames. I thought I’dbetter tell Ruth what IknewaboutNadif,butshewasnowheretobefound.Ifeltreallyshakytoday;myappetite was shot and I’dhardly slept. Facts thatmade no sense pursuedone another relentlesslyround my head. I wisheddesperately that Dannywere here; I wished

desperately that I couldstop thinking of him. Hewouldn’t be the answer, Ihadtorememberthat.Outside in the street, I

leaned on the railing,glancingdowntheroad.Agroupofbarristerscheckedtheir BlackBerrys andsmoked by the revolvingdoors, their robes flappingout behind them like

clipped crows’ wings.Beyond them, a womanwason thephonebeneathanelmtree.Ilookedagainassheputherhandupforablackcab.‘Excuse me.’ I began towalktowardsher.She was getting in thecab now, still on thephone.‘Wait.’ I was hurrying

now. ‘Please, wait…’ Buttoo late. The cab waspulling off now into thebusylunch-timetraffic.I was sure it was Maya

Kattan.Slowly Iwalkedback to

the Old Bailey. Ruth waswaitingformeoutsidethecourtroom. She lookedslightlyfeverish.‘Something’s happened.’

Shetookmyarm. ‘They’readjourningthetrial.’‘What?Why?’‘Some kind of new

evidence has come tolight.’‘Whatdoesthatmean?’I

wasconfused.Was it my imagination,

or was there a strangelightinhereyes?

‘Idon’tknow.AllIknowright now is they’readjourning the case for afewdays.’Sheclutchedmyarm. ‘Keep everythingcrossed for your poorhusband.’‘I am,’ I smiled shakily.

‘Believeme,Iam.’

ChapterThirty-Five

The moon was a chalkcircle etched on the palesky as I walked throughthe dusky city. Dodgingtourists still snapping StPaul’s, I felt confused andwashed out. My

exhaustion was immense.At least now, I thought,trying to fix on a brightspot,atleastIcangobacktomyparentsandbewiththekids.Wemighthavetowait some more, but atleastit’snearlyover.Outside Jen’s flat, Iwassearching for the doorkeywhenmymobilerang.‘Hello?RoseLangton?’a

creaky voice asked. ‘I sawyouon thenewsat lunch-time. It jogged mymemory.’‘Sorry,’ I couldn’t place

her,‘whoisthis?’‘I found something a

while back, but I have tobehonest, it’sbeen sittinginthein-tray.’PeggyfromCuttingOut. ‘Gettingabitforgetful, if I’m honest.

You’llhavetocomebackifyouwanttoseeit.Thefaxisbroken.’ThefaxhadbeenbrokenaslongasI’dknownher.‘Itmight be tricky rightnow.’ I’d lost interest. I’dlost my fight. ‘I’m a bittiedup.’‘It’s up to you, dear. Ithink you’ll be interestedbut – your choice. I’ll be

hereuntilseven.’Ihesitatedonthecorner

ofJen’ssquare,andthenablack cab trundled past. Itook it as a sign, thoughthis time I didn’t botherwiththePernod.‘Sorry, dear,’ she said

unapologetically as Iwalked through the door.‘You slipped my mind, ifI’mhonest.’

‘Nice suntan.’ I admiredher deep mahoganycolour, against which herorange lipstick was morealarming than ever. Thesmell of cats was evenstronger today in the fetidbasement.‘Yes,well,Ipoppedover

to see my dear friend theSphinx. One never knowswhen it might be the last

time,youknow.’‘Don’tsaythat,Peggy.’‘Well, it’s true. Timewaits for no woman, asthey say, my dear.’ Sherummagedthroughseveralwire trays, muttering toherself constantly. ‘I knowit’sheresomewhere.’I turned over a copy oftoday’s Telegraph, a flurryof cat hairs wafting into

the air as I did so. Thefront page bore a bigpicture of Lord Highamshaking hands with BorisJohnsonoutsideCityHall.‘UK Nationalists stride

towards Westminster,’ theheadline crowed. Ishuddered.‘One giant leap for

racism?’ the Guardianasked.ThankGodforXav.

‘Aha.’ TriumphantlyPeggy handed me acardboard file. The firstpiece was on Kattan andhis polo team in the lateeighties,averyyoungAshproudlywearingpologear.I saw the insignia, themonogram, and Iremembered thesign fromthe horses Dalziel and Ihad ridden at midnightsuchalongtimeago.They

hadco-ownedapoloteam,KattanandHigham,butI’dlearnedthatmuchalready.I felt a crash ofdisappointment.‘Isthisit?’Isaid.‘You’re

sokind,but–I’mnotsure– I think I’ve seen it.’ Itwas one of the pieces I’dfoundlasttimeIwashere.Impatiently Peggy

pulled something from

behind it, pushing herraffish glasses on top ofherheadtopeeratit.‘You did say Huriyyah,

didn’t you?’ She jabbed agnarlyfingeratatinyface.‘I wasn’t going to forgetthatnameinahurry.’On a rather crumpled

piece of yellowing A4,therewasatinyphotoofaglamorous young couple,

anarticle fromthesocietypages ofHarpers & Queen,marked 1990, the brightcolours faded, the edgeslightlytorn.‘It means Angel you

know, in Arabic,Huriyyah,’ Peggy saidconversationally.Huriyyah, wearing a

midnight-blue eveningdress, mouth wide and

broad in a great smile ofhappiness. And with hisarm around her proudly,head slightly tippedtowardshislover,thelookon his face unmistakable,straight-backed anddebonairforonesoyoung,AshKattan.Behindthemagroupofpeople, laughing,drinkingcocktails.And then a tiny article

clipped from one of thebroadsheets, datedDecember1994.

Omar Rihad and hisfamily have left theofficial residence inKensington andreturnedhomeafterthetragicandsuddendeathof eldest daughterHuriyyah, 24. MrRihad hasworked as a

diplomat in London forthepast7yearsfortheEmirate government.British envoy LucasJohns extended hisdeepestsympathies,andin an unusual move,Lord Higham attendedthefuneralonbehalfofthePrimeMinister.Itishis last officialengagement before healso leaves British

shores. Mr Rihad’ssuccessor has yet to beannounced.

Nothing was mentionedaboutthewayshe’ddied.Ifelt an intense wave ofnausea.HuriyyahRihad,deadat

twenty-four, Christmas1994, two years after theimplosion of Society X. I

would have been in Indiaby then, sweating in Goa,planning my trip up toRajasthan, newlygraduated. I was busyfindingmyself, setting outon my new adventure …andshewaslyingcoldinamorgue.Peggy jabbed at the

pageagainwithhercerisefingernail. ‘They tried to

cover it up, but it wassuicide or drug overdose,I’m fairly sure of it. IrememberitnowfromtheExpressnews-desk.’‘Really?’‘No one really covered

it, though. If you look atthis,’ she handed me aphotocopy of that week’sheadlines, ‘Lord Highamannounced the changes to

PollTaxthatweek,Ithink.Thenheresigned.’Ishiveredindistress.Huriyyah ‘Angel’ Rihad.

ThegirlinDalziel’shouse.The girl on the divan. Ilookedbackatthesmilingcouple,obviouslybesotted.I looked at the group ofpeople in the background.I thought one might beHigham.

She had been AshKattan’s girlfriend all thetime.

ChapterThirty-Six

I was climbing into thebath when Jen camehome. ‘I got ravioli andHäagen-Dazs,’ she called.‘There’s a letter here foryou,bytheway.’She handed me an

expensive cream envelopewithmynamehandwrittenin thick black ink. Iopened itwithwethands,trying not to smudge it.Thenoteinsideread:

Like David, line 1,Psalm32.

I hope this is enough,Rose. You deservemore.

Fromafriend

When I turned over thepostcard, it was a picturefrom the British Museumof William Blake’s AlbionRose, the pale figureslightly plump and girlishbeforetheflamingsun.Iclimbedoutofthebath

and sat, dripping wet,wrapped in a towel in

front of Jen’s battered oldPC. I lookedupPsalm32.The first lineread: ‘Happyare those whosetransgression is forgiven,whosesiniscovered.’The handwriting of thepostcardwas unfamiliar. Iturned it over in myhands, searching foranother clue, and then Imadeacall.

***

‘You back then? Doing aRussellCrowe?’Pat and I hadn’t spoken

in over a year, but hesounded unsurprised tohearfromme.‘Awhat?’‘You know. A maverick

truth-seeking journalist onaquest.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I grinned.‘I’m slightly more sveltethan him, I hope. No, I’mjust trying to help myhusband.’‘Yeah, sorry about that.’

He soundeduncomfortable.‘You still in Miliband’s

office?’ I changed thesubject.‘Bytheskinofmyteeth,’

he laughed ruefully. ‘SowhatcanIdoforyou?’Hegaveme the addressI needed, a road near theOvalCricketGround. ‘Justdon’tletonitwasme,’hemurmured. ‘All right,sweetpea?’‘Would I?’ I murmuredback. ‘Samebankaccount,isit?’‘Don’tbother.Saveitfor

something bigger. I mightneed it one of these days,thewaythislotaregoing.’‘You are a star, lovely

Pat.Thankyou.’‘Cocktails on you,

though, all right,Langton?’‘Soon,Pat,Iswear.Soon

asImoveback.’

I waited outside the greathouseintheOvalforwhatseemed like eternity. Iused to love this side ofmy job – the inexorablejourney to the centre ofthestory–butnowit justfeltdepressing,sittingherein the car with a cup ofcold coffee. A Filipinamaid left and returnedwith a shopping trolleythat she could barely get

upthefrontstairs,justasagroup of hooded blackboys swaggered down theroad.Thehandsomeleadercaught my eye, his eyesnarrowed, his diamondstuds flashing beneath thestreetlight. I debatedgetting out to save her.Then he turned to thesmall puffing woman andcarried the trolley up tothetopstairforherinone

hand.There was hope here,

somewhere,Ifeltit.Theseshores were wide enoughforallofus,weren’tthey?AblackMercedespulled

up outside the big houseon the end of the row. Igotoutofmyowncarnowand moved into theshadows.A slim woman, all long

hennaed hair and highheels,gotout–andthenaman.‘Ash,’Isteppedforward.

‘Do you remember me? Iwonderifwecouldhaveaquickchat.’‘I’m busy, Mrs Miller.

I’vegot togetback to theCommons in anhour.’Hishandsome face was setgrimly – he didn’t look

pleased to see me at all.Gently he pushed thewomantowardsthehouse.‘I’llseeyouinside,Laila.’Out on thepavement inthehumid street,we eyedeachothercarefully.Itookadeepbreath.‘Please, Ash. I need toknowwhat’sgoingon.’‘Whatdoyoumean?’hesaiddiffidently.‘Where?’

‘IknowaboutHuriyyah,’Isaidquietly.A siren wailed in the

distance.Ashstaredatme.‘Whatdoyouknow?’he

snapped after a longminute.‘Anotherscoop?’‘Thatyouandshe—’‘Thatyourstupidsociety

ruined her?’ He took aninfinitesimal step towardsme.‘Thatshewasdrugged

and raped and that sheneverwasthesameagain?That she became a junkieafterwards, that she neverregainedherhonour.’‘It wasn’t my society,’ I

said, but I felt my skinburning with shame. ‘AndI only ever saw her once.She looked like—I didn’tthinkitwasrape.’‘Oh, didn’t you?’ he

spat. ‘Andwhat does rapelook like exactly, MrsMiller?’‘I don’t know,’ I

mumbled.‘Butatthetime,shelookedlikeshewas…‘ Icouldn’t sayenjoying itexactly,‘…complicit.’Had she though?At the

time, maybe, but Iremembered my doubtsafterwards. My hesitant

enquiries intoherwelfare,enquiriesthathadcometonothing.‘A little heroin can help

a lot,can’t it,MrsMiller?’Heglaredatme.‘Iwouldn’tknow.’‘And then a little

becomesalot.’‘But what has any of

thatgottodowithJames,Ash? He didn’t give her

heroin, I swear. He didn’thave sexwithher. Iknowthatforafact.’‘I don’t know what you

mean.’Heslammedthecardoor so violently that Iflinched.‘It’snothingtodowith me, your husband’smess.’‘It must be linked. The

coincidenceistoogreat.’‘All I know,Mrs Miller,

is –’ and I felt him sethisteeth–‘allIknowisIneedto be back in theCommonsforavoteatten– and you need to go. Idon’tknowanythingaboutyour husband, andHuriyyah,well, shediedalongtimeago.’‘You must have been

very sad. I hadn’t realisedshewasyourgirlfriend.’

He glowered at me. Hewas imbued with utterrage, I could sense it,palpable in the airbetweenus.ButIstoodmyground. ‘Is your fatherhere?’‘Myfather?’‘Yes.’ I narrowed myeyes.‘MrHadiKattan.’‘No. He’s in Iran. And Iwouldn’t believe anything

youhearaboutmy father,you know. He’s achameleon. A shape-shifter.’‘Really? You soundangrywithhim.’‘Mrs Miller, I really amnot going to discuss thecomplexities of my familywith you.’ He wasdisdainful, rattling thekeys in his hand

impatiently.‘Soifthat’sall—’‘It’sbeenadjourned,you

know.Myhusband’s trial,’Isaid.‘Really?’ His surprise

was unconvincing. ‘Whywouldthatbe?’‘I’m not sure yet. You

wouldn’t know anythingaboutit,Isuppose?’‘Don’t be stupid,’ he

spat. I tookadeepbreath.Ihadtopresson.‘So, you buried

Huriyyah?Poorgirl.’Iwasemboldened by hisrudeness.‘MuchasIesteemedher,

she was weak in the end.Weaknessneverpays.Lookat your great friendDalziel,’hesneered.Unconsciously I

clenched a fist. Iremembered the Luciferdebate, I remembered thecrackling animositybetweenthetwoboys.‘And you, Rose Miller,you need to decide whatyourpathis.’I was surprised. ‘Whatdoyoumean?’‘Are you trying to savetheworld?Orareyoujust

trying to find a story, aheadline where there isnone?’ He pocketed hiskeys and stepped towardsthehouse.‘Aterrorist–oraninnocentMuslim?Asaddrug addict – or animprisoned daughter?’ Heturnedawayfromme,soIcould see the beauty spotonhischeek,theelegantlycurved nose. ‘A truereporter–orlatchingonto

a cause célèbre? Go home,MrsMiller.There’snothingforyouhere.’Hewassoangrythathe

no longer lookedhandsome,hisfacesotaut,pale eyes wide, and Isuddenly realised who heremindedmeof. I thoughtof the first cutting inPeggy’soffice.IthoughtofLord Higham standing

behindAliaKattan in thatearly photo, their handsbrushing.I stoodwatchinghimasheclimbedthefrontstairs.Atthetopheturned. ‘Youmay feel guilty aboutHuriyyah, though, peacebewithher.Youmay feelthatguiltforever.’‘ButI—’He slammed the front

doorinmyface.Wearily I drove back toJen’s for the night.Crossing the river,Parliament silhouettedagainst the night sky, Isupposed it was LordHighamwho had sent thenote, although I guessedI’d never know for sure.Atoningfinallyforhissins.

ChapterThirty-

Seven

LongisthewayAndhard,

thatoutofHellleadsuptotheLight.

ParadiseLost,Milton

I was sitting in mymother’s garden whenRuth rang to tell me thenews.Asquicklyas ithadstarted, itwasover.Threedays later, a mistrial wasdeclared.Oneofthejurorsalleged he had beenapproached by ananonymoussourcetoswayhis verdict. At the same

time, Saquib Baheev hadapparently confessed thathe had been coerced topointthefingeratJames–and suddenly, all chargesagainst James weredropped.Myhusbandwascoming

home. I put the phonedown and just sat for awhile, watching thechildrenfinishtheirteaon

the tartan blanket laid onthe lush emerald grass. Itwas a warm, rather sultryevening, given that itwasMay.‘You’ve got tomatoketchuponyourforehead,’Alicia was telling Effie.‘Wipeitoff.’‘Where?’ The little girlput her hand up andsmeared the sickly red

sauce into her hair. ‘Ihaven’t.HaveI?’‘Have Igota forehead?’

Freddie said. ‘Where’s myfive-head?’I watched them, feeling

such incredible love that Icould hardly believe therehadbeenadaywhenIhadeven thought I couldhaverunawayfromthem,frommy life. The madness had

truly consumed me for awhile,butnowIwascalmagain.Calm–butwithouthope

formyself.Ihadseenhopein Danny, I’d grasped itbetween my fingers, thatwas what he had broughtme.Itkeptmegoingforawhile during bleak days,that tiny scrap.But in theend ithadgot so tattered,

so dirty and mauled andtorn that there was reallynothingleft.Myonlyhopenowlayinthechildren.Myonewishnow was that their liveswouldbecarefreeandeasyforaslongasIcouldmakethem so. They would beenoughforme.I sat numbly in theeveningsun,knowingnow

that James would comehome and the childrenwouldbeecstatic.GingerlyI pressed the small lumpbeneathmyeye, the lumpthat had never quitedisappeared,vestigeofthelast back-hander Jameshad given me that coldspring day a year ago.Soon I’d have to tell himthatIwantedtoleave,thatI was taking the children

too – and how muchlonger could they becarefreethen?And all I could think

was, tonight is my lastnightoffreedom.The doorbell rang. My

heartleaped.Danny’sfinalwords stayed with mehowever hard I foughtthem. ‘I’ll find you, Ipromise.’ That tiny shred

ofhopestillflickeredthen,despitemyflatdespair.I heard voices, excited,

and thenmy father calledout, ‘James is here.Daddy’s home.’ The kidsstood as one, screamingwith excitement andconfusion, and wentrunning inside, tumblingover one another to reachtheir father first, my

mother’s dog barking infrenzy.For a moment I didn’t

get up. I looked down atmyhands, atmyweddingring, and I saw the stormclouds reflected in myteacup.

We went back to theperfect house in thecountry.AllthistimeIhad

been running, and now Isaw there was nowhereleft to go. The childrenwerehappyhere,settled–and I was about to pulltheir life apart again. Foryears I had beenchampioning the outsiderwithout realising that Iwas deliberately makingmyselfone,and slowly I’dbegun to realise, too, thatitwasn’ttheplaceasmuch

as me. I was rejectingsafety, not location. Andmychildrenneededsafety;sohere,fornow,wewouldstay. It finally felt morelike coming home; andalthoughwewouldn’tstayin thishouse, thechildrenand I would stay in theCotswolds.Fromthedaywearrivedback in Gloucestershire,

James and I slept inseparate bedrooms. Hethrew himself into hiswork and I prevaricatedabout tellinghim thatoneofushadtogo.Itbubbledunsaid beneath thesurface: I figured I’d waituntil the end of the longsummer holidays, then atleast the children couldhavesometimeasafamilybefore it was finally torn

asunder.James was different,

humbled perhaps. I feltthat he too knew that itwasn’t going to work, buthe wasn’t going to be theone to broach it. Weskirted round the subjectof his guilt; I builtmyselfup to confront him finallyaboutit.And then one morning

thephonerang.‘Let’sjustsayyou’vegot

aspecialfriend,darling,’awoman’s voice saidquietly, giving me a timeand place to meet. Ithought I recognised herbutbeforeIcouldquestionher,shehadhungup.

ChapterThirty-

Eight

Thelightshinesinthedarknessandthedarkness

hasnotovercomeit.

John1:4,5

AllthewaytoLondon,thewoman’s words circledround my head likecarrion crows. She’d hungup before I could askmore; that silky voiceechoingdowntheyears,avoice I was sure I knewand yet couldn’t quiteplace. One more piecefromthenightmare jigsaw

the last year had become;one more piece nearlyslottedbackin.Off the motorway, the

trafficsnakedbacksolidtothe Blackfriarsinterchange. Frantically Iwatched the clock,creeping forwardincrementally,untilIcouldbear it no longer.Abandoning the car on a

broken meter I sprintedthrough the rush-hourfumes, dodging swearingcyclistsandthemotorbikesthat sneaked down themiddle,stumblingoverthekerbonLudgateHill,untilI was falling in panic,unable to right myself. Adouble-decker bore downon me, horn blaring; abuilder in a yellow hardhat snatched me from its

path in the nick of time,his calloused hand warmonmine.Iwastoostunnedto do much more thanblinkathimandrunon.They were closing St

Paul’s Cathedral tosightseers as I finallyreached the great stonestairs. For too long nowmy life hadn’t made anysense; I had to know the

truth. Someone,somewhere, had to knowthetruth.Inside, the internal gate

wasshut.‘Please,’ I gasped at the

curate,closingup. ‘Please,I have to – I’ve come sofar.’That someone might be

here.‘You look pretty

desperate,’ thejollycuraterelented, his chin restingon his collar, waving methrough with his walkie-talkie. ‘Last one in. Thisone’sonGod.’‘Howdo I getup to theWhispering Gallery?’ Iwheezed gratefully,leaningonthebarrierforamoment to catch mybreath.

It took me ten minutestoclimbup,andmyheartwas banging so hard bythe time I’d reached thegallery in the huge domethat I had to sit down assoon as I got there. I’dpassed a gaggle of Italiantourists coming down thestairs, but otherwise thespace was empty. Ithought he hadn’t come,the anonymous writer –

andIheardmynamesaidsoftly, and I turned andsawhim.They say that when

you’re drowning yourwhole life flashes beforeyour eyes – though itseemsunlikelythatanyonecould confirm it. True ornot,IfeltlikeIwasfallingbackwards now, splashingmessily through my own

life.He walked towards me,

thinandnolongerelegant,wiry-limbed and crop-hairedinstead.‘Hello, Rose,’ he said

and I tried to find myvoice.‘I thought,’ it came at

last, ‘I thought that youweredead.’

LordHighamhad let itbeknown thathis eldest son,Dalziel,hadtakenhisownlife, permanently scarredby the tragic and suddendeath of his girlfriend,Lena.Therewasneveranyformal announcement ofthe death and the funeralwas said to have takenplacequietlyandprivatelyon the family estate inScotland. And of course,

thatsuitedthemjustfine.HowcouldHighamever

admit that, actually, onechildofhishadattemptedto murder another? Onechild of his, high on thedrugPCP–orangeldust–had tried to coerce a‘friend’–thebullet-headedBrian–intorapinganotherchild, his own half-brother, in front of an

audience.One childofhishad encouraged his once-girlfriend to use so muchheroinandXanax thatshehad overdosed and died,gurglingatourfeet.And so all this time,Jamesbelievedthathehadeffectively murdered hisbest friend after they hadtussled with the knives.Dalziel had been removed

inanambulance,bleeding,takentoaprivatehospitalafter the horrible scufflewhilst I still layunconscious. I’d beenhospitalisedmyself; Jameshad been briefly arrestedalongwithBrianwhilstthepolice tried to ascertainwhathadhappened.Enquiries I’dmade later

tothefamilyaboutDalziel

hadbeenpolitelyrebuffed.Theyweremourning theirdearson; theydidn’twantstrangers’ eyes on them,and I accepted that. Brianhad disappeared into thenavy, I found out later.James and I returned toour lives, separated –scathed and saddened butultimately the apparentsurvivors. We had beenutterly brazen in our

ambition to show no onecouldrestrainus–andourambition had exploded inourfaces.All these years, James

had endured the pain ofthinkinghe’dmurderedhisfriend; that his fatal blowhad killed Dalziel. We’dbelieved that Higham hadcovered up the death toprevent a scandal; that

James had been saved bythe lies of the father forthedeathoftheson.But Higham had been

covering up somethingverydifferentindeed.

I sat beside him, staring,staring,andIwaseighteenagain, back inOxford.Myhandswereshaking.Ikeptlookingupathimtocheck

thatIhadn’tgonemad.‘Where have you been?’

I said, and he smiledslightly, and I saw aglimpseof theoldDalziel,theboyIhadonceknown.Although now I lookedcloser, Icouldsee thathisbeautywasquiteravaged.‘Hereandthere,darling,

here and there. SouthAmerica,mainly.’

‘But how can you havejustdisappeared like that?You can’t have justvanishedoffthefaceoftheearth.’‘I can.’ He put his hand

in his pocket. ‘AlthoughobviouslyIdidn’t.’‘Well,where—’‘There are plenty of

placestohide,Rose,ifyoudon’twanttobefound.’

‘Soyourfather…‘Isaidslowly.‘Has forgiven me? Justabout.’ Dalziel tried tosmile, his teeth baredbriefly. They told the taleof past addiction andindulgence; no longerperfect and straight andwhite. ‘As long as I dowhatmyfathersays,I’llbeallright.’

He spoke differently, nolonger with the louchedrawlIremembered,moreclippedasiftherewerenowords to spare, and heheld himself as if he wasso tense he might neverrelax. Once willowy, nowhewaswiry, the veins onhis arms too pronounced.And he didn’t lookwell, Ithought suddenly. He wastoo thin and his eyes

seemed tobeblazingwithsomething,thoughthedimlightmadeithardtotell.Ifeltashiver.Itwashardtoimagine Dalziel evergrowing old. In mymind,he was twenty-one for alltime,goneforever,havinglived fast and died tooyoung. I’d always thoughthe was like Dorian Gray.Hewouldneverage,nevergrowoldoruglyor fat. It

isbettertobebeautifulthanto be good: Wilde hadwritten it, Dalziel hadlived it. But now, here hewas. Severe and somehowrathermonk-like.Slowly it began to

tumble into place. Thereason Higham had triedto buy me off. And nowapparently, why he hadstepped in, involving

himself in something on afarbiggerscale.Alittlegirlinpolkadotsentered the gallery,dragging her motherbehindher.‘You’ve got little onesthen, Rose?’ Dalzielwatched the couple as thegirl leaned precariouslyover the barrier. Iimagined I saw a shadow

ofsomethingflitacrosshisface. ‘With the lovelyJames.’For the first time, I feltanger flare. ‘You nearlydestroyedhim,youknow.’Dalzielbowedhishead.‘He still has nightmaresnow.’ I had never spokenup against Dalziel, notonce during the days ofSociety X, not until that

fatefulfinalnight,butnowI could hardly bear tosummon the filthy terrorhe’d put us through.‘James thoughthe’dkilledyou.He’sbeenhauntedbywhat happened. Howcould you let him thinkthat for all this bloodytime,Dalziel?’‘I didn’t have much

choice,’hesaidflatly.

‘Whatdoyoumean?’Hesighed,andthethingin his pocket that hefiddled with rattled. ‘Let’sjust say I haven’t beenmasterofmyownshipforsome time. And I promiseyou, I’m haunted too.Utterly.’ He slumped backagainst the bench. ‘I’mruinedforalltime.ThoughImustsay,Jamesdidhave

aprettygoodgo.’‘That’s rubbish and youknow it. He just tried tostopyoudoing–’Ipaused– ‘doing whatever it wasyouwereabouttodo.’We sat there for asecond in quietcontemplation. Did eitherof us even know whatDalzielhadplanned?‘I still bear the scars,

you know.’ Dalziel pulledhisblackshirtasideattheneck to showme the finepuckered line of a woundI’d never seen, a woundthat travelled fromcollarbone to breast, thathad missed his throat bycentimetres. But Jameshadno intentionofkillingDalziel,thatmuchIknew.He was struggling withhimwhen the knife inhis

hand had slipped andgashedhisfriend.Slowly Dalziel did the

buttons back up, right upto the top sono fleshwasexposed.‘IguessitwasnolessthanIdeserved.’‘It wasn’t about what

you deserved. It wasdesperation.’‘I was mad, Rose.’ His

voice was a monotone. ‘I

didn’t know what I wasdoing.’‘Christ, Dalziel. Whydidn’tyoutellus, though?Wethought thatyouweredead.’‘Let’s not bring Christinto it, shallwe?’Hetriedto smile that confidentsmile that I rememberedso well, but he washollowed,ashadowofthe

boy I’d known. ‘That’swhere the trouble started,Iseemtoremember.’‘Sowhathappened?’‘Iwasincarceratedforawhile.’‘Awhile?’‘A few years. A specialhospital inBuenosAires. Ihavetotakealotofmedstoday.’

‘Medicine?’ I said. ‘Forwhat?’‘Depression.

Schizophrenia. You nameit, Rose. But I’m fine.Really.Don’tbescared.’‘I’m not scared of you,

Dalziel.’‘But you’re angry.’ It

wasacurtstatement.‘No. I don’t know. It’s

been so long. It’s such a

bloodyshock.’Two portly Americans

entered the gallery andbegan to search for theWhisperingWall.IthoughtofhowDalzielhadopenedup my narrow world. Forall hismadness andgranddesigns, he had lentme alust for life that I hadn’thadbeforeI’dmethim,anenthusiasm that had led

me to places I’d neverhave seen if I hadn’tknownhim.‘Why now?’ Dully I

watched the Americans. ‘Imean,whyareyouhere?’‘Icametopaymydues.’‘Whatdoyoumean?’‘To help get James

acquitted.’‘Howthehellcouldyou

dothat?’‘Ithinkthat’saquestionforJames,dearRose.’‘But James isn’t here,Dalziel.Soyou’dbettertellme.’‘I only know the barefacts. She tried toblackmailhim,youknow.’‘Whodid?’‘I came back to see a

doctora fewyearsago, atthe London Clinic. I spenta bit of time in townbeforemyfamilycorralledme again. I fell into someofmy…ofmyoldhabits,shallwesay.AndthatgirlwhohadgotinvolvedwithCharlierecognisedme.’‘What girl?’ I stared athim.‘Kate?’‘The silly waitress who

lovedJames.’‘Yes,Kate.And?’‘And she tried toblackmail my father. Lastyear.My littlebrotherputher up to it, though, Ifear.’‘Why?’‘My brother hates myfatheralmostasmuchasIdo. And he admitted toKate – Katya – that I was

alivewhen she asked. Sheput twoand two together:shesawthatmyfatherwasonthepoliticalupandshethreatened to expose thefactthathissonwasamadex-junkie, still alive.Amongstotherthings.’SoLanahadbeen right.But that would meanJames had known Dalzielwas alive…Panic rose in

mybelly.‘Whatsortofthings?’‘Things she had on myfather.’‘Howdidsheknowyourfather?’‘Don’t be dim, darling.’For a second, he soundedlike the old Dalziel.‘Becauseshewasawhore.’So it had been true all

along. I thought of thephotosofHigham,takenatthree in themorning. Thepictures of scantily cladwomenenteringthehouseearlier.Somekindofposhbrothel,presumably.‘And then she paid theultimate price.’ His voiceslowed. ‘She died, didn’tshe?’Irealisedthethinginhis

hand was some kind ofworrybeads.‘Yes.Inmyhouse.Butitwasanaccident.’Itriedtokeepupwithwhathewassaying.‘Really?’‘Yes. It was, definitely.Or, at worst, it was somekind of stupid noblesuicide.’IsawJamesbeinghustled out. I saw Charlie

Higham chatting up thegirlswho’dadoredhim.‘Itwasn’tmurder.Shefell.’‘I see. Well. That’s one

relief,Isuppose.’‘But–hangon.Thetrial.

Itwasyourfatherwhogotit stopped? Is that whatyou’re saying? And James– James knows you arealive?’‘I guess so. And I don’t

doubtmyfatherhadsomehandinitonceI’dappliedthepressure.’‘But he’s not thatpowerful, Dalziel. Noteven Lord Higham couldhaltatrial.’‘Never underestimatetheoldschool tie,darling.The firm grip of the oddhandshake. The power ofthepoliticallycorrupt.’

‘Andwhywouldhe?’‘BecausemyfatherknewI’d come forward.Becausehe wants me back out ofthe way before the mediacottonon.Heplanstotakeovertheworld,youknow,’his eyes blazed, ‘and hedoesn’t want his lunaticson emerging from thegrave.’Nothing made much

senserightnow.Wesatinsilence again, listening tothe Americans bouncetheir shrill voices off thewalls, giggling at eachotherlikesmallchildren.‘AndtheKattans?’He shrugged. ‘We were

always going to pay, mydarling, I guess, for ouriniquity.Ashneverforgavemefor–forscrewingwith

his girlfriend.’ I felt himhesitate on the harshword. ‘Though she wasalready screwed, shall wesay. Beautiful angel.Beautifullostwoman.’‘Whydidyoudoit?Whyher?’‘Because,’ and his facetook on a blankness Iremembered for amoment, ‘I suppose, if I’m

honest, because hehumiliated me in front ofall those people. At theUnion that night. And shewasaround,abandonedbyAsh,most of the time, forall his anger – at all theparties in London, hungryfor oblivion, already anaddict.Easytopersuade.’I remembered her,utterly insensate, I

remembered Brianbetweenherlegs.Ifeltlikesomeonewasscoopingoutmyinsides.‘And my father likedAsh, too much,’ Dalzielmuttered. ‘My father andHadi were in cahoots formostoftheeighties–tillitallwentwrongovertheoildeal. And my father’sundying bloody respect,’

he was paler now thanbefore, ‘his respect for thehigh-achieving Ash? Well,thathurt.’‘Is Ash –’my brainwaswhirring – ‘is Ash yourbrothertoo?’Foramoment I thoughtDalziel might cry. ‘Whatdo you think?’ hewhispered.I thought of those eyes,

the steely ambition, thephoto of the parents. ‘I’dsayitwasquitelikely.’‘Andyou’dbe right,my

Rose.’‘And so the whole

Huriyyah thing? Was thatjusttogetatAsh–atyourownhalf-brother?’‘I suppose so, yes. But,

look,shewasaslostasme– Huriyyah. As lost as I

was,beforeIfoundGod.’‘OhChrist,youdidn’t.’Istared at him. In the olddays, he would havelaughed, but his face wasstill blank. ‘Have youreally?’‘I always knew Iwould,Ithink.Thatwasmypath.There is such a thin linebetween Lucifer, the lightbringer, and our Maker.

It’sbeenmysalvation.’I looked at himcarefully, still expectinghim to turn and laugh atmynaivety.‘That’swhyIthoughtweshouldmeethere,Rose.AtHeaven’sgate.’I thought of the psalmon the note. Happy is hewhose transgression isforgiven, whose sin is

covered.Atonement forhissins. He was deadlyserious, I realised. Notworry beads in his hand,but a rosary. I found itpainfultohearhimnow.Downstairs, Evensong

was beginning. We wouldhavetoleavesoon.‘Where do you live?’ I

still couldn’t believe hewas here. ‘Back in

London?’‘What, with my dearfather? Hardly, Rose.’ Heleanedbackandlookedupinto the great dome. Intothe void. ‘I live in amissioninCaracasmostofthe time. Occasionally Iretreat to the family farm.My father wouldn’t haveme,tobehonest.Nothere.Not any more.’ Dalziel

lookedsosad.SosadIhadto turn away. ‘I wasn’tallowednear thekids. Fartoo untrustworthy. Thatwasthedeal.’That bed in the hotelroom was vivid in mymind now. The snowypillows, the small darkhead. ‘I suppose,’ Imurmured, ‘I supposethat’sunderstandable.’

Helookedatme.‘Isthatwhat you suppose, mylovelyRose?’‘Well,you–youweren’t

verywell,wereyou?’‘No, I wasn’t very well,

for a long time. I …’ hepaused.‘IthinkI’malittlebetter now,’ he finishedquietly.‘I’vecertainlypaidtheprice,Ihope.’‘Doyoulivealone?’

‘Yasmin comes to seeme.Shestaysforweeksata time, quite often. So it’snotallbad.’Yasmin. The stepsisterhehadlovedsomuch.Dalziel,mytragicfriend.Born into such privilegeand wealth, giveneverything except properlove.Leftwithnothingbutan empty life. The

iconoclast turnedconformist.‘It’s nice to see you,’ hesaid quietly. ‘It really is,Rose.Thegirlwiththesadmouth.’The voices rose andswelledbelowusaswesatinsilence.IthoughtofthatcoldOctobernightsolongago, of the two of usrunning laughing from

Oxford’scathedral,trailingchampagne and pinkfeathers,withoutacareintheworld.After a while, I slippedmyhandintohiscoldoneandwesatsomemore.Wehad come full circle, itseemed.

UNIVERSITY,

CHRISTMAS1991

Yea,hehadpowerovertheangel,andprevailed:hewept,andmadesupplication

untoHim.

Hosea12:4

I had caught themtogether, although theydidn’tknowatthetime.ItwasanicyDecembernightjustbeforewebrokeupforChristmas, and I’d boughtDalzielapresent.I’dsavedtherestofmygrantandallmy dad’s allowance, and

travelled up to Londonspeciallytobuyhimararerecording of Maria Callasthat he’d told me aboutone night, and I was soproud of myself.Exhilarated,IrodemybikeveryfastfromMagdalentohis house, almost fallingon black ice by theBodleianLibrary.At Dalziel’s I rang the

doorbell several times buthedidn’tanswer,thoughIcould see light creepinground the curtain in thebedroom and when Ipeered through theletterbox, I could hearopera playing softly fromsomewhere. Dalziel wasprobably comatose on thesofa, or soaking in thebath. Leaning my bikeagainst the front porch, I

letmyselfthroughthesidegateintothebackgarden.They didn’t see me.

They didn’t see me as Istood by the Frenchwindows and stared in;finallythingsbegantofallinto place: the reason thegirl had been so angrywith me in the pub theweek before. Theconnection I had always

felt between them; thetension, the look on hisface when she wrappedherself so deliberatelyaround another boy infrontofhim.Drunk and naked, they

lay entwined on a greatwhiteblanketon the floorbefore the fire, as if theyhad just made love. Agreat painting of an angel

leanedagainstthewall,anangelapparentlyholdingaman tenderly. Later Ilearned it was aRembrandt, the angelwrestling with Jacob whowas pleading forforgivenessforhissins.AndforamomentIwassimplyentrancedbythem,thepairontheruginfrontof the fire, because they

were beautiful together;his long slim body, hertiny slender frame, theywere like somethingBiblical. Oh, the irony.And as she turned over,yawning and purringalmost,Isawthatherfacewas made up like theangelinthepainting.Dalziel stood now and

stretched as she relit a

joint.Hewrappeda towelaround his narrow hipsand walked over to thefire,where Iwatched himtake something from themantelpiece. He tested iton his finger. I steppednearer: realising withhorroritwasaknife–andshehadn’tseenit,thatwasobvious. For a moment IthoughtIwouldraponthewindow to stop whatever

hewas about to do. But Isaw she was smiling,sleepily, reaching up tohimwithpeacefullanguor.He sat down again

besideherandhetookherhandandlaiditinhislap.And as I watched, hebegan to carve somethinginto herwrist: so tenderlyheheldherand theblooddripped on the white fur

she lay on and when shewinced a little, he liftedher arm to hismouth andsucked the blood away.Andthenhelaidherdownagain and arranged theblanket beneath her untilit looked like she waswearingwings,greatwhitefeatherywingsthatsoaredand arched behind her.And then he climbed overher, astride her, and

leanedtokissher.You shall not make for

yourself a carved image –anylikenessofanythingthatisinheavenabove,orthatisintheearthbeneath,orthatis in the water under theearth.I was freezing now, my

fingers numb in thestingingcold.I watched them for a

minutemoreastheykissedslowly and then began tomake love again – and Iwas jealous and I wasmoved. Eventually, Iturned away, disturbed,andIpocketedtheprettilywrapped CD of MariaCallas, and I cycled toJames’s house instead. Icraved company andhuman warmth, and Ispentthenightwithhim.

Later, I realised it wasthe second commandmentDalziel was breaking thatnight. Making andworshipping a carvedimage. The knife hadfooled me at the time:later, I knew he wouldn’thave hurt her – he lovedhertoomuch.Andthesexhadn’tshockedme,thoughit had stabbed me to thecore, despite our own

asexualrelationship.Butitshocked me later, whenJames told me, that nightattheRandolph,thattheyweresiblings.Stepsiblings,whatever. It seemedindecent somehow; dirtyandspoilingthebeautyI’dseen.The day Dalziel finally

wentmadandtriedtokillher little brother. The

brother who was like apiece of Yasmin. Dalzielhad loved her and hewasn’tallowedher–sohehurt himself instead. Heturnedhimselfslowlymad,I realised much later,throughloveofher.

ChapterThirty-Nine

GLOUCESTERSHIRE,

SUMMER2009

Soheavenlyloveshall

outdohellishhate.

ParadiseLost,Milton

Summer came. Tractorstraced lanes through thefields like finger-trailsthrough sand. Rabbits sat,fat and free, birds rose inwavesfromthehedgerowsbeneaththesun.Weputtheperfecthouseon the market. It was a

beautiful family home,waiting for the rightfamily.We justweren’t it.James went away onbusiness: we didn’t talk,notreally.Ithungoverus,but it wasn’t time – yet.SlowlyIbegantopackup.A week or so after his

release,Istartedtoboxupmy books, and I found acopy of my university

diary wedged betweenColeridge and myShakespeare’s Sonnets. Iflicked through it, feelingunexpected tears floodmyeyes.Howmuchhopeandhow much expectation I’dhad. How nearly it hadendedindisaster.‘Penny for them.’ Jamesstood behind me. He’darrived back from Paris

thatafternoon.‘God you scared me.’ I

turned quickly. He tookthebookfrommyhands;Ipushed down the instinctto grab it straight back.Why did it matter if heread the ramblings of aneighteen-year-old, unsurewhether she should carryon seeing him at all,secretly in love with his

best friend? But Jameswasn’t interested inreading it anyway. He’dnever really cared aboutmywriting.‘I’m sorry, Rose,’ he

muttered, staring at thefadedbluecover.Itboreayellow smiley-face stickerand my name doodled inbiro round a badly drawnrose. ‘I’ve been an utter

bastard.I’d–’helookedupatmenow–‘I’dreallyloveitifyoucouldforgiveme.’‘Forwhatexactly?’‘For – everything.’ Hegave the book back andslumpedontothesofa.‘Forhitting you, first andforemost.’‘Oh.’‘Andfor–forKate.’

I thought of Danny. Ihadn’t even felt guiltyabouthim, I realisednow.I’d felta lotof things,butguiltwasn’toneofthem.‘Thank you,’ I said

quietly. ‘Of course I canforgive you. I guess – Iguess we haven’t beengood for each other for alongtimenow.’‘Youmust have been so

pleased, the day I gotbangedup.’‘Areyoujoking?’Ishook

my head at him. ‘It washideous.’‘I didn’t do it, you

know.’‘Didn’t you?’ We stared

at each other. I felt like Iwas slippingback into theyawning black hole. I hadbeensounsureofthetruth

forsolong,Iwasn’tsureIcouldbearitnow.‘DidyouhonestlythinkI

hadbecomeadrugbaron?’ThismanIknewsowell

andyetdidn’tknowatall.I gazed at him in silence.Behind him on thewall aprint of Lautrec’s cancandancers kicked out theirdelicately heeled feet,faces mischievous, their

skirts primrose-yellowfroth. So much history -andyet…‘Come on, Rose. Don’t

actdumb.Ithought…’Hetrailedoff.‘What?’‘I thought it was you

thatshoppedme.’‘James!’‘I thought you were so

angry, you wanted toshockme.’‘Christ, James. Why

would I want that?’ I feltwearied, a thousand yearsold.‘Don’tberidiculous.’ButIsawmyselftearing

round his studio the daythatI’dcaughtLiamthere.I had doubted Jamesseverely,thatwastrue.I’dpulled things down, I’d

opened drawers, files, I’dgone through his emails.I’d sat numb and dazed,knowingmylifenolongerstacked up, and hadassumed he was up to nogood.‘I thought about it, youknow.’ He read my mind.‘When they offered to cutme in on the deal; whenthey asked if I wanted to

take over running one oftheiroperations.’I saw the vortex now; I

saw my chance to climbback before I was suckedthroughforever.Thiswasthe chance to scrambleout. ‘So you weretempted?’‘Iwasdesperate.’Iputallthebooksdown

andsatonthesofanextto

him.‘Desperate?’He put his head in his

hands, staring at his feet.At the new carpet. ‘I’dfucked up so badly,financially. Iwas terrified.Ipanicked.ForamomentIsawitasaquickfix.’‘Aquickfix?’‘Do you have to keep

bloody repeating me?’James snapped. He stood

and walked to the drinkscupboard, pulled a bottleofwhiskeyfromtheshelf.‘Isthatwhyyoutriedto

blackmail Higham?’ Iaskedhimdrily.He put the bottle down

withabangandswung tofaceme.‘That wasn’t me.’ His

forehead wrinkled into adeep frown. ‘That was

Kate’s idea. Kate andCharlie.Iswear.’‘Did you know Dalziel

wasalive?’Hestaredatme,hisskin

blanching.‘Alive?’‘Yes,J,alive.’Wehungover the lipof

our life. Themoment thatfinally cracked the finalvestige of trust betweenus.

‘I had an idea,’ hemutteredintheend.‘Isee.’‘Only very recently,

though, I swear. And Ifigured…’‘What?’‘Heowedme.’‘You?Youspecifically?’I

felt that familiar flicker ofangernow. ‘Not all of us?

Justyou?’‘It was me that thought

I’d killed him. And itwasn’t my idea. It wasKate’s.Shesawhim,afewyears ago apparently, offhisfaceagain.’‘So shewas a whore?’ I

saidcoldly.‘Shewas…let’sjustsay

she was a good-time girl.Whatever.Shewasinlove

with Charlie Higham, andhe had some kind ofrevenge up his sleeve.When Lord Highamappearedagain–well,sheknew Higham wasstruggling for politicalpower. She did it all, Iswear, Rosie.’ He grabbedmy hand, my hand thatsuddenlyfelt terriblycold.‘Iswearitwasn’tme.’

‘Andtheheroin?’‘I thought about it.’ Hepoured a few fingers ofwhiskey and downed theglass in one. ‘He made itsoundsobloodyeasy.’‘Whodid?’‘Kattan.’‘But I still don’tunderstand. If itwas him,if you knew he’d set youup, why didn’t you

implicatehiminthetrial?’‘Theyweren’tinterested.

They literally ignored meeverytimeImentionedhisname. Jesus, Rose,’ heslumpedagain,hisheadinhis hands, ‘I was just apawninsomethingelse.’For the first time in a

year, I realised I believedhim. The relief I felt wasimmense. He was telling

the truth. I put my armaround him, felt his solidwarmth through hissweatshirt.Ifeltsorrowforwhat he’d endured; butmostofall, I feltrelief forour children, that theirfather had not veered asfarofftrackasI’dfeared.‘Ithinkhewantedmeto

go down.’ James stared atthewall.‘ButIdon’tknow

why.’‘Whodid?HadiKattan?’‘No.’ He gazed at me.‘NotHadi.Ash.’

In the end, who knew?Who knew whether theKattans came to wreakrevenge or whether theyjusthappenedtobeinourpathwhenwestumbledso

clumsily across them? ButMaya apparentlyrecovered, and for that Iwas truly pleased. Thephoto in the paper at theIslamic protest; it turnedout to be a photo takenfrom the wrong angle, animage from a set snappedby one of Xav’s staffphotographers thatprovedMayaandNadifwerepartof a peaceful protest all

along – against thefundamentalists,notfor.Some time in the

autumn I caught Maya’sappearanceonChannel4’sNews, talking passionatelyagainst her brother’sinvolvement withHigham’sparty.‘No comment,’ said Ash

Kattan icily, outside theHouse of Commons,

pushingpasttheTVcrew.‘Heisbetrayinghimself,’she said, back in thestudio, and she seemedalmostregal,andsilentlyIcheered her. ‘Just like hisfathertoo.’I began to accept thefacts would never add upneatly. Life didn’t workthat way. Not mine,anyway.ItoldJamesthatI

wasleavinghim;hewasn’tsurprised. I rented a smallcottage outside Stow-on-the-Wold. Alicia wouldn’thave to move school, andthe twins would join herthere in the autumn.James was going back toLondon, tostaywithLiamuntil he’d sorted himselfout. He’d keep a flat inOxford, he said, and he’dseethemintheweek,after

school; he paid half therent on the cottage andthat was fine by me. Thechildren seemed largelyaccepting. They’d got soused to him not beingaround,andwe’dmanagedto separate without theacrimony that could haveruinedusall.

One Monday morning in

September, Mrs McCreadyarrived early, lookingterriblypink,clutchingtheDaily Mirror. She hoveredby the kettle for amoment, finally thrustingthe paper almost violentlyinto her shopping trolley.For the first half-hour shepuffed around the smallkitchen,tidyingthingsthatdidn’t need tidying.Eventually, after she had

wiped the counter for thefourth time, I looked upfromthecomputer.‘What’swrong?’‘I’m–Ireallydon’tthinkit’s my place to say,’ shemumbled, her mouthsetting in that familiarline.‘Whatisn’t?’Reluctantlysheretrievedthe newspaper from the

trolley.Abroadandratherrepellent face stared fromthe front page, cheeksangry with something redlikeacnerosacea.Hairlikeabrush,headlikeabullet.‘My life in the den ofdevils: Sex, drugs and LordHigham’sson.’For a moment I justgazed at the headline, atBrian’suglyface,andthen

slowly I grinned.‘Brilliant.’‘It’s all about sex!’

McCready stared at melikeIwasmad.‘Are you horrified,

McCready?’ I stood andput my arm round her,scanningthefrontpage.Asmall mention of Jamesand me – but no newscandal involving us. And

since the trial, it was allouttherealready,asfaraswewereconcerned.‘Please don’t abandon

me now,’ I murmured,scanning the page. ‘Notafter everything we’vebeenthroughtogether.’‘As if,’ she sniffed.

‘Rottenlittle liar, Iexpect.Allthatstuffaboutopium.It’s Chinese, that poison.

Andsuchhorribleskin.’‘Iexpectthat’strue.’She gazed at me, soft

cheekstrembling.‘What?’‘Thatit’sChinese.’Iwas simply exalting in

Lord Higham’s shame.Therewasasmallphotoofhim,stern-faced,gettingina car outside his house;one of Dalziel, smirkingmischievously, taken at a

May Ball in 1990. And apicture of Charlie Highamoutside a club calledBungalow 8, wearing abowlerhatanda furcoat,smoking from a holder,eyescaressingthecamera.I couldn’t help thinkingLord Higham had gotexactly what he deserved.Itwouldbe forgotten in aweek, anyway.

Tomorrow’schippaper,noskin off his back. I gavethe paper back toMcCready.‘I got you some morePledge by the way. Theecokind.’

AndDannynevercame.I waited, but he neverrangthebell.Ourswasnot

alovestory.ForamomentI’d believed it would be,but then he went,retreatingfrommesofaritwas like he had neverexisted. The only reason Iknewhehadwasthepainhe’d scored on my heart;right through my verysoul. And the fact thatwhilst he’d been here, sobriefly,I’dfeltaliveforthefirst time in years. One

morningIreceivedasmallparcel in the post, an oldcopyofTSEliot’sTheFourQuartets,withasinglerosepressed between twopages: the lines aboutdoorsnotopeningintotherose-gardenunderscored. Ilifted thebook tomy faceand breathed in the oldleather: it smelt somehowof Eastern bazaars, and Ithought of my lover,

watchingKattan,likeacatabout to pounce, and Itriedtostaunchmytears.I’dconfusedhimfor therealthing:he’dmaskedthepain of my own life withJames, and it was all tooeasy to let myself go. HelitmeupandIbelievedinhim, so I came forward towhere I thought I wouldmeet him. Only by then,

hewasgone.After a while, a verylong while, I stoppedwaitingaltogether.

UNIVERSITY,MAY

1994

When no fair dreamsbefore my ‘mind’s eye’flitAnd the bare heath of

lifepresentsnobloom;Sweet Hope! Etherealbalmuponmeshed,And wave thy silverpinionso’ermyhead.

ToHope,JohnKeats

On the May Day before Igraduated, I roseatdawn.I walked over the bridgewith hundreds of others,above the brightly

coloured punts bobbing inthewater, and sat outsideMagdalen chapel. Ilistened to the youngchoristers sing ‘Te DeumPatremcolimus’,andIcriedandcried.IknewthatI’dmanaged

to successfully salvage thetime I’d spent here, butinside I carried the mostimmense sense of loss.

Loss and somethingstronger I couldn’t quitedescribe. Gratitude,perhaps.We had been the lostkids, the ones Dalziel hadroundedup,theshyorthesador themisfits.Wehadfallen from our nests,pathetic fledgeling birds –and he watched, and hecollected us. Carefully he

pickedusup,andwewereso grateful for beingrescued by him that weforgot to question what itwashewanted.Perhaps, more simply,

we were merely theoutsiders.And inmy joy at being

accepted, of being desiredin thisstrange form, Ihadtemporarily chosen to

ignore the whisperings,whisperings that later Isupposed were always inthe ether. I chose tobelieve that others werejealous, of him, of us. Icouldn’tseethetruthuntillong afterwards. Until itwasalmosttoolate.And yet somehow, I’d

stepped back from thebrink in time. Somehow,

I’dmadeitthrough.I sat in the chapel, thesun rising in a palewashed-out sky, tearsstreaming down my face,and I thanked a God Ididn’t believe in for achancetostartagain.

PointsfordiscussiononNEVERTELL

Consider the roleoftruthwithinthenovel. How muchof the actionwould beirrevocablyalteredhadpeoplechosento tell the truthatalltimes?

Can any of thecharacters bedescribed aswholly‘good’?Discuss Rose’sready acceptanceof Society X’smore salubriousactions, such asgroup sex or drugtaking. What doyou think she

foundinthegroupthatwaslackinginherownlife?Is Rose always incontrolofherowndestiny?Consider whysecret societiesseemtoproliferatein elite learninginstitutions – bothhere and in the

US. Do youbelieve thatparticipating inthese clandestinegroups has anybearing on themembers’ successinlaterlife?Discuss Dalziel’sassertionthat ‘youcan have freewill…andstill live in

the confines ofcivilised life butoutside organisedreligion.’ Do youagree with Rose,that it was ‘farmore aboutdecadence anddoing exactlywhat you liked’thananyaspectofreligion?’

Aboutthe

Author

NeverTell

Born in Londonwith a loveof allthings dramatic,Claire Seeberbegan her career

as an actress.Soon decidingshe’d rather pullstrings safelybehind thescenes, Claireforged asuccessful careerin documentarytelevision,enabling her totravel the world,glimpsing into

lives otherwiseunseen. Also afeature-writer fornewspapers suchas the Guardian,Independent onSunday and theTelegraph, Clairenow combines(furious)scribbling withkeeping a beadyeye on her two

youngboys.To find out moreaboutClairegotohttp://www.claireseeber.com/orvisithttp://www.authortracker.co.uk/for exclusiveupdates.Claire blogs atwww.claireseeber.com/blogPraise for ClaireSeeber:

‘An intensepsychologicalthriller.’OK!‘An absorbingpage-turner.’Closer‘A powerful andsensitivetreatment ofevery parent’sworstnightmare.’Laura

Wilson, TheGuardianVisitwww.AuthorTracker.comfor exclusiveinformation onyour favoriteHarperCollinsauthor.

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work offiction.Thenames,charactersandincidentsportrayedinitarethe work of the author’s

imagination.Anyresemblancetoactual persons, living or dead,eventsorlocalitiesisentirelycoincidental.

AVON

A division ofHarperCollinsPublishers77–85FulhamPalaceRoad,LondonW68JB

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Copyright©ClaireSeeber2010

ClaireSeeberassertsthemoralrighttobe identified as the author of thiswork

Extract from River of Time isreproduced by kind permission oftheauthor.

Published by William HeinemannLtd,1995

AcataloguerecordforthisbookisavailablefromtheBritishLibrary

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EPubEdition©2010 ISBN: 978-0-00-733468-1

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