It didn’t add up to a row of beans, and they would know it; the scenes for The Bill and Casualty had been tiny, Hollyoaks only a bit bigger; she’d been in a crowd scene in the car commercial, maybe slightly more of a presence selling the chocolates, one of three girls eating as suggestively as the client felt they could get away with. And fashion shoots-well, she might just as well have not mentioned it. Except that it did mean she looked all right. But they could see that for themselves…

Then the standard questions they always asked: would she shave her head if she was asked, did she have any tattoos anywhere on her body, would she take all her clothes off, do a nude scene. Georgia told them she’d shave her head and take her clothes off all in one scene if they asked; no tattoos, though, so if they were looking for them… They laughed; then there was a silence. They were going to tell her to go away, not bother, she thought, panic rising, but: “Well, from those scenes we sent you, Georgia, would you like to do scene ten? With a bit of a Brummie accent, maybe. Sue will read the dad.”

“Sure.”

That was lucky: scene ten was her favourite. She walked towards Sue, stood with her legs slightly apart, her hands on her hips.

“Dad,” she said, “can I have a word…?”

By the time she finished the scene she felt quite emotional; and she could tell they’d liked it. They sat looking at her in silence, the casting director smiling.

“OK, Georgia,” he said. “Now could you do it again, please, without the accent. Just in your normal voice.”

It wasn’t quite as good, and she was more nervous, but they still smiled at her when she’d finished.

“ Thank you, Georgia. That was great. Thank you very much. We’ll be in touch. Shouldn’t be too long. Few days, probably.”

“Fine. Thank you.”

She allowed herself to tell Linda she thought it had gone well; she felt she owed her that.

And she’d been really great, not reproached her at all, not asked her any more questions about the crash. Not that she would have answered her if she had. Indeed she didn’t think she would be able to. The only way she could cope now was pretending it had never happened. Or rather that she hadn’t been there. That seemed to be working quite well.

Jonathan sat down facing them, fighting a rising panic and a fear that he might actually vomit.

“Right, Mr. Gilliatt. Perhaps first we could establish exactly what you were doing on the M4 that afternoon, sir? Just so we’re fully in the picture, you understand?”

Right in the deep end, then. He smiled at them carefully. He didn’t look at Laura; that would seem anxious. She mustn’t think he was anxious. About any of it.

“I was driving back from a pharmaceutical conference: I’d been speaking at a dinner the night before. At the Birmingham International Hotel.”

“So why the M4, sir; why not the M40?”

A sudden and very vivid image came to him of where he had gone on the way and what had happened there. It was disturbing; he crushed it.

“It was Friday afternoon; the M5-to-M4 route may be longer, but it’s often less congested.”

“And you left Birmingham when, exactly, sir?”

“Oh… late morning.”

“Right. So you cut down onto the M4 and reached it at what time?”

“Well, it must have taken a couple of hours. I’m not absolutely sure.”

“That’s perfectly all right. Not important. And then you drove straight on towards London?”

“Yes.”

“Did you stop at all?”

“Yes, for some petrol. At Leigh Delamere.”

“Fine. So that would have been about what time?”

“Well, I suppose about two thirty.”

“And you were alone, were you? In the car?”

He felt Laura stiffen, from right across the room. “I had a young lady with me. Abi Scott. She was at the conference in a business capacity, but she’d been having trouble with her car; she’d come up by train, and I offered her a lift to Reading. She was spending the weekend there.”

“I see. Ah, yes, Abi Scott. We’ll be interviewing her as well.”

“Anyway it was a purely professional relationship. I’d never met her before.”

He was aware of Freeman glancing up for a moment, seeming about to ask something, then returning to his task.

“Right, sir. So… were you in a hurry to get to London?”

“A little. Yes. I had a clinic at four thirty at St. Anne’s.”

“Which is where, sir?”

“Just off Harley Street.”

“I see,” said Freeman. “Well, sounds quite a tight time frame to me. I imagine you were driving fairly fast? In the outside lane, perhaps?”

“Well, not at all, no. The traffic was very heavy; there were a couple of minor holdups…”

“So your hunch was a wrong one?”

“I’m sorry?”

“About it being quicker on the M4.”

“Yes, it was a mistake. A bigger one than I knew.” He smiled at them and then at Laura. Her face was expressionless; she didn’t smile back.

“So… just before the crash, you were driving along… in which lane, sir?”

“Oh-the inside lane.”

“Why would that have been, sir? If you were short of time?”

“Well, I had a bad headache. The traffic was very heavy in all three lanes; then there’d been a thunderstorm, of course, which was very disconcerting. It was hard to see for a bit, and then a lot of water on the road. Very dangerous.”

“And what time was that, would you have said?”

“About three forty-five, I suppose.”

“Yes. Well, we can check that. So would you say that it was the storm that decided you to move over?”

“No, it was a number of factors. Maybe it was the deciding one. Anyway, then the storm was over as fast as it had begun.”

“Right. So, at what point were you first aware of the lorry?”

“Oh… I don’t know. Around the same time.”

“And were you driving along level with it? Behind it?”

“More or less level. Yes.”

“Any other traffic that you can recall, sir? In your immediate vicinity, that is, just prior to the accident? No bad driving that comes to mind, nothing that could have cut across the lorry’s path, perhaps?”

What did that mean? Was he suggesting it might have been him? His own fears came back, reinforced by the questioning. Had it been him, confused by the row with Abi, the phone ringing; had he lost concentration, veered in front of the lorry in some way? No! Surely, surely he’d remember if he had. God, it was frightening.

“No,” he said firmly, “nothing like that. Everyone was driving rather well, as a matter of fact. I do remember a rather fine old E-Type in front of the lorry, but he was driving perfectly safely. Pulling ahead steadily, but certainly not speeding.”

“And the vehicle ahead of you?”

“Oh… it was a large station wagon of some kind. Again, driving very steadily.”

It went on and on: could he pinpoint where he had first noticed the lorry, had he been driving erratically, cutting in and out of lanes? Then, suddenly:

“Did you have the radio on, sir?”

“Yes. Briefly, although not just prior to the crash. Miss Scott had switched it on, but I found it distracting, asked her to turn it off again.”

“I see. So you were just… talking?”

“Yes. Chatting, you know.”

Just chatting. While he tried to end the relationship, while she threatened to go and see Laura…

“And I presume you weren’t using a phone?”

Shit. Here it came. He managed to prevaricate.

“The in-car system in my car wasn’t working properly, and I had my ordinary mobile with me. I called my secretary at the clinic from the service station. To say I might be late.”

“And did anyone call you?”

“I did,” said Laura suddenly.

“At what time would that have been, Mrs. Gilliatt?”

They weren’t going to like this.

“Oh, I don’t know. Two or three times. He just didn’t answer. I was frantic with worry. Then finally I got through.”