“A patient,” he said. “Toby Weston.”

“Well, there’s no one of that name here.”

“No,” said Barney, slightly desperately, “no, he’s on Men’s Surgical. He’s in-been to-the theatre this morning.”

“Well, that’s nothing to do with Dr. King. Who told you to ask for her?”

“She did,” said Barney firmly. “When I saw her earlier today.” As Toby was being taken down to the theatre…

“Well, I can’t think why.”

“I could explain,” said Barney, “but…” He looked at the clock. Shit. One twenty-five. “Look,” he said, “couldn’t you just page Dr. King or something, tell her I’m here? She is expecting me. Please. It really is very important.”

The woman sighed and started tapping at her computer keys.

“Barney! Hi!” It was Emma. Barney had never seen her without a lift of his heart; at that moment he felt he could have taken off through the hospital roof. “I wondered where you were. Come with me. It’s fine, Pat; he’s a friend.”

Emma led him through the doors at the back of the waiting area, and then along a corridor into a small office.

“I’ll ring up to the theatre now.”

Emma dialled a number; waited. And waited. Hours seemed to pass. Barney felt he was about to throw up.

“They’re obviously frantic,” she said, “just not answering. Look-let’s go up there. Come on.”

She led the way on what seemed to Barney an endless journey: into lifts, along corridors, through doors, through more doors. Looking at his watch as she stopped in front of a door marked, Medical Personnel Only, he was amazed to see it was only five minutes since she’d appeared in A &E.

“Wait there,” she said, and knocked on the door. A nurse dressed in scrubs appeared; she looked rather coldly at Emma.

“Yes?” she said.

“Sorry,” said Emma, “Dr. King, from A and E. I’m… well, I wondered if you had any news of a patient. Toby Weston.”

“Oh, him. Not yet, no,” said the nurse. “He’s only just out of the theatre. Still under. Shouldn’t be long. Wait out there.” She glared at Barney. “I’ll give you a shout.”

That was it, then: nearly three hours in surgery. Emma had said that if the news was good he’d be back in an hour or so. It must have gone horribly wrong. There could be no other explanation. Toby had lost his leg. And his old life with it. And if Barney’d got him onto that road just a bit earlier, none of it would have happened; they’d never have got into that bloody accident; it was his fault. Tamara had been right in that, at least…

He looked at Emma; she had blurred, and he realised he was crying. Stop it, Fraser, not for you to blub. Get a grip.

He turned away; he felt a hand slide into his. A cool, small hand.

“Barney. Don’t give up yet. They’ve been terribly busy; they might have had to delay it. Or-”

“Or they didn’t. Or his leg’s gone. How could it take this long, Emma, how could it possibly…?”

“I… don’t know. But… well, this isn’t an exact science; they’re not building a car.”

They were both silent; he realised he was still holding her hand. He looked down at it, and then at her, smiled slightly awkwardly.

“Thank you for doing all this, Emma. It’s very good of you.”

“It’s my pleasure. Honestly. Well…” She smiled suddenly, that brilliant, light-the-day-up smile. “Well, I hope it is. I mean, I hope it will be.”

“If… that is… if they do… you know-”

“Amputate?” she said gently. It was somehow good hearing it spoken, confronted like that.

“Yeah. If they do, who’ll tell him? The doctor, the nurses-”

“They will tell him very carefully. They’re quite… gentle these days. The surgeon in charge is a friend of mine. He’s-”

“What, you know the guy who’s doing this?”

“Well, yes.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” For some reason this had made him angry. “Why the fuck won’t he tell you, at least? That is so arrogant. What sort of rules do you people live by?”

She stared at him; she flushed.

“Barney, you don’t quite understand. It’s-”

“You’re too damn right I don’t. Here we are sweating our guts out, no one having the decency to come out of that door and tell us what’s happening, and you say the person doing this to Toby is a friend of yours. Rum sort of friend, that’s all I can say.”

She shrugged, turned away; he had clearly upset her. Well, that was fine. She-The door opened suddenly, and the nurse came out.

“Dr. King,” she said, “can you come in a minute?”

Well, that was definitely it. He knew now. It was the worst. He felt sick, then as if he might cry again; he turned away from the door, stared down the corridor, wondering how… what-

“Barney.”

He turned. Emma was standing looking at him; she was flushed, looked close to tears herself.

“Yeah?” he said, aware he sounded hostile still.

And then he realised she was smiling and, yes, almost crying at the same time, and then she said, in a voice that was clearly struggling not to shake, “Barney, Toby’s fine. The leg’s good; it’s beginning to heal. He’s… well, he’s only just coming round properly now. Mark-that’s the surgeon-says you can see him, just for a moment. Want to come in?”

“Oh, shit,” said Barney, “oh, for fuck’s sake. Oh, Emma. Emma, I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean anything I just said. Here…”

And suddenly, he was hugging her, and she was smiling up at him and hugging him back, and then she took his hand again and led him through the door and into a small room where Toby lay on a high, hard bed, struggling to smile through the confusion of his anaesthetic.

“Hello, you old fucker,” said Barney. “You really put us through it this morning, didn’t you?” And then he couldn’t say any more, because he really did start to cry, tears running down his face; and he realised both Emma and the nurse were smiling at him, and he pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose very hard and said, “Well done, mate. Bloody well done.”

CHAPTER 27

Freeman and Rowe had been to interview Mary Bristow that day; expecting a dotty old lady they had found themselves confronted by a razor-clear mind, and an extremely lucid account of what she had seen of the accident and, indeed, the road that day.

“Some terrible driving. Two or three lorries cutting in and out of the slow lane, moving in front of people. I have to say they were all foreign number plates. I found that reassuring, in a way. At least our drivers seem to know how to behave.”

“Any more particular cases of bad driving that you recall?”

“Well, I did notice several white vans; they’re supposed to be the worst, aren’t they? Anyway, one did particularly strike me; he’d been sitting very close behind us, and then shot past, and I noticed that he didn’t even have his back doors properly fastened. They were just held together with a bit of rope; it seemed very unwise.”

“Indeed. Did you notice any writing or anything like that on his van?”

“There were three letters on one of the back doors, obviously part of a name, but not in sequence. If you see what I mean. That is to say, not a complete word or name. The rest had come off. It wasn’t at all a well-looked-after vehicle.”

“And can you remember what the letters were?”

“I can, as a matter of fact.”

These old parties: amazing, thought Freeman. He supposed it was surviving the blitz or something…

“Yes,” she said, “they were W-D-T. In that order. I remember because we used to play a game with the children, making up words from car number plates. I’m sure you know the sort of thing. I mean B and T and W would obviously be Bristow. Although proper names were not allowed, of course.”

“Of course,” said Freeman. He was beginning to feel rather confused himself.

“So, yes, I still do it rather automatically. Ah, WDT, I thought-War Department. We used to get countless letters from them, or rather my husband did; they figured rather large in our lives at the time. I don’t suppose it’s much help, but-”