“Too exactly, I’d say. Almost word for word. Like ‘it was a purely professional relationship.’ Why did they both have to tell us that, do you think? It’s not relevant. And about her car not starting-she just volunteered that; we didn’t ask her. It was all a bit… pat. Something’s starting to smell a bit here; something’s not quite right…”

“Yes, but why should they be lying?”

“Well, in his case, his whole marriage hangs on it. For her… well, maybe she thinks if she goes along with him he’ll carry on with the relationship. She probably gets some pretty good perks out of it; these girls do, you know: expensive little trips abroad, for instance, staying in the best hotels, jewellery-”

“What’s it got to do with the crash? Doesn’t mean they’re guilty of anything else.”

“No, of course not. He might have been-almost certainly was, I’d say-screwing her into the ground. That doesn’t mean he’s guilty of dangerous driving, or of causing that crash. But maybe he was partly to blame. Maybe she was. Maybe he was driving dangerously; maybe she was distracting him. I wouldn’t be totally surprised if he slewed out into the road, in front of the lorry. In the absence of any other explanation for it suddenly swerving-”

“The driver could have gone to sleep.”

“He could. He could also have had to swerve. Anyway, we’ve got Gilliatt’s measure now. We can take other things he says with a pinch of salt. We’ll tuck this into our back teeth and keep it there. All right?”

“Yes, all right,” said Constable Rowe.

Freeman smiled for the first time that day. “That’s why this game is such fun, in its own peculiar way. I think we have to go back in, ask a few more questions. And we must take a very close look at the CCTV footage at the service station, see what we can pick up there… Also her firm-what’s it called? Oh, yes, Conferphoto-check whether they did actually cover this conference.”

“Should I check with her firm or the conference organisers?”

“The organisers. We don’t want her rattled, thinking we’re on to her. We don’t want to rattle either of them in any way. You know what they say, Rowe: give them enough rope and they’ll hang themselves.”

“Poor Mr. Connell.” Jo Wales walked into the nurses’ room on HDU. The police had become very pressing about questioning Patrick, and reluctantly his doctors had agreed. Jo had sat in on the interview, and her conviction that it was too soon had strengthened with every moment.

“Did they upset him?” Her colleague, Stephanie Hitchens, who had also nursed Patrick, had been equally against the interview.

“Yes, they did. I nearly stopped it twice-sorry, Maria,” she said to the Spanish cleaner whose path she was obstructing. “Anyway, he recovered himself each time. So I let them have their fifteen minutes.”

“Are we any the wiser?”

“Oh, not really. Still going on about going to sleep, remembering getting drowsy, eating his jelly babies-in tears once. That’s when I asked them to go, but he said he was all right, wanted to finish. And he said he thought there might have been someone in the cab with him.”

“Really? Seems very unlikely. I mean, where could such a person have gone?”

“Well, exactly. But of course the police got very interested in it, started questioning him more closely-he got very upset.”

“Poor Patrick. There he is, the sweetest man, having to cope with all this horror. I’ll pop along and chat with him for a bit.”

Maria, whose English was much better than most people in the hospital realised, finished her desultory floor wiping and set off for the lift. That would give her something to tell the journalist who had been pestering her for information for the past few days. And she should get that fifty pounds he had promised her…

Jack Bryant had had a good week. He’d bagged over a hundred brace of grouse, eaten some excellent meals, and furthered his acquaintance with Margo Farthringoe most satisfactorily. She was fifty-one, modestly good-looking, extremely sexy, and a very good shot. She was also newly separated from Gordon Farthringoe, who was disporting himself around town with a fine example of twenty-two-year-old arm candy. Margo and Jack had enjoyed a great deal together that week, and arranged to meet in London in the near future.

Jack was loading up the boot of the E-Type with as much grouse as he could decently take away with him when he thought he should give the car the once-over. She wasn’t as young as she had been, and she needed a lot of TLC. Everything seemed fine: except that she seemed to have lost a wheel nut. Bit of a bugger.

He had no idea where he might have lost it, decided it would be foolhardy to try to drive back down the Mi without it, and embarked on a quest for a new one. It took most of the day; the border country was not rich in specialist garages. His irritation was considerably eased, however, by the offer of a further night at the Mackintoshes’, and a further foray into the arms of Mrs. Farthringoe.

Linda went over to her fridge and took out one of the minibottles of champagne she kept there for such moments. She poured herself a glass, savoured it for a moment, then lifted the phone, dialled Georgia ’s mobile number.

“Darling, it’s good news. I mean really good news. They want you.”

“Oh… God. Oh, God, Linda, that is so… so cool!”

God, thought Linda, that word. That inadequate, all-purpose word.

“I know. It’s lovely. Many, many congratulations. I’m totally thrilled. What are you doing now?”

“I’m in Topshop. Oxford Circus. With a friend. I’m staying with her.”

“Well, want to come over, have a glass of bubbly? You can bring the friend.”

“Can I? Linda, we’d really love that; thanks so much. Can we come over right now? We’ll be about thirty minutes.”

“Great. I’ll get the glasses out.”

“Cool!”

“So… how was it?” William said.

He had driven to Bristol to meet Abi in a state of considerable emotional turmoil; he felt anxious and excited in just about equal measure, alternately wishing he had obeyed his innate instinct that he shouldn’t see her again and wondering why on earth he hadn’t invited her out sooner. She was so bloody sexy, and seemed really nice too, much nicer than you’d have thought a girl like her would be, and seemed (only seemed, he was sure) to like him too.

Of course, a relationship between them was a pretty futile idea; she obviously lived life very much in the fast lane (an unfortunate choice of words, he thought, smiling to himself), and his was… well, from her point of view, anyway, pretty much in the very slow one.

And as for what his mother would have to say… the whole thing was pointless, and this must be a one-off evening, dedicated-as he had said when he called her-to discussing their respective interviews with the police.

But then… he’d walked into the bar she’d suggested, and she had waved at him, walked over to meet him, kissed him hello-her perfume was incredibly powerful, musky and sweet-taken his hand, and led him back to her table. He had said he mustn’t drink, that he had to drive; three beers later, his head was swimming a bit and he was wondering rather anxiously how he was going to get home. Maybe if they had a meal-a large meal-and he drank only water he’d sober up sufficiently.

He would not have drunk so much had he not found himself so relaxed; he might have expected to find someone like her hard to talk to, but she was easily chatty and funny, and she had a talent for listening too, asking him endless questions about the farm, about his life, about his parents, even, and displaying what seemed a genuine interest in the answers.