“Where does this friend live?” John asked.

“Why? Are you thinking of breaking into another house?” There was more than a hint of sarcasm in my tone.

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “If I think it’s necessary,” he said.

“It’s somewhere in High Wycombe,” I said. “I don’t know exactly where. There are lots of houses in High Wycombe. Are you going to break into them all?”

“Oh, ha-ha,” he said. “When does this friend get back from holiday?”

“Sunday, I think,” I said.

“And what’s his name?” he demanded.

“Her, actually,” I said. “And what makes you think I would tell you her name anyway? You must be joking. You’d go and break into her house.”

“Mr. Talbot,” he said seriously, “I don’t think you really understand the trouble you might be in. I assure you, I’m not the only person looking for that microcoder. And some of them might not be so…” He stopped, as if thinking.

“Honest?” I said. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Patient,” he said. “There are some very nasty people out there.”

Be very careful of everyone, my father had said. I certainly intended being very careful of Shifty-eyes and his twelve-centimeter knife. And, as far as I was concerned, that included being very careful of Mr. John Smith here as well.

“You call breaking into people’s houses being patient?” I said.

He sat there in silence for a second or two staring ahead.

“Where can I drop you?” I said. “I have things to do.”

“Here will do fine. A colleague of mine has been following us since we left the racetrack.” He twisted around in the seat.

I looked in the rearview mirror. There was a dark blue Ford in the rest area behind us, but it was some ways off. I couldn’t see the driver due to the reflection of the sky from the windshield.

“Give me a call when your friend comes back from holiday,” he said, turning back and handing me a business card. I looked at it and rotated it in my hands. A mobile phone number was printed across the center of one side. There was no name, no company and no address, just the telephone number. “Call me,” he said. “For your own good.”

He opened the passenger door and eased himself out of my car.

“Go now,” he ordered, closing the door.

He stood there as if waiting for me to depart. I, meanwhile, felt decidedly annoyed to think that someone had been following me. In fact, I was downright angry about it.

I started the engine, but, instead of engaging forward gear, I put the Volvo into reverse and accelerated backwards down the rest area towards the Ford.

I’m sure I would have rammed him if he hadn’t suddenly pulled out into the road and shot away, narrowly avoiding a collision with both a truck and a car towing a caravan. I snatched the Volvo into forward gear and pulled out to give chase, but I had no chance. Both the truck and the caravan were between me and the Ford, and I could see it in the distance speeding away. The twelve-year-old engine under my car’s hood was reliable but well past its prime and, even with its gas-guzzling 2.3 liters plus turbocharger, it was unable to generate enough horses for me to pass the slower vehicles.

Damn it, I thought. That wasn’t very clever. My first-ever undercover, secret-agent, James Bond-style car chase, and I’d got stuck behind a caravan. M would not have been amused.

I turned the car around at the next junction and went back to the rest area.

Naturally, there was no sign of either a dark blue Ford or a certain Mr. John Smith, or whatever his real name was.

13

Sophie’s assessment took all morning and went on into the afternoon. It mostly consisted of a case conference amongst the medical staff, discussing whether they all considered Sophie well enough to go home. It needed unanimity on their behalf. Any dissent was likely to prove decisive. A consulting psychiatrist from another hospital chaired the conference.

In addition, there was an informal presentation by Sophie, where she was invited to explain to the psychiatrists why she thought she was ready to leave their care. Then they, in turn, were free to ask her questions in order to try to determine her state of mind.

This was not the first time Sophie had been forced to go through this type of assessment. Six times before, she had endured sitting quietly while others discussed her mental health and then passed judgment on her fitness, or otherwise, to be released from the hospital. Only on four of those six occasions had she been successful, and it was far from guaranteed this time.

“And what about you, Mr. Talbot?” asked the visiting psychiatrist in the session after lunch. “Are you able to be at home to support your wife through the first few days?”

“Of course,” I said. “I am always there to give my support.”

“Do you work from home?” he asked, looking up at me from his notes.

“No,” I said. “But I intend being there when Sophie leaves the hospital.”

“And what line of business are you in?” he asked.

I paused for a moment. I had once had a bookmaker colleague who always claimed he was an accountant, only adding that he was a “turf accountant” if challenged.

“I’m a bookmaker,” I said.

“In a shop?” he said without a pause.

“No,” I said. “I’m an on-course bookie, mostly at the Midlands’ meetings.”

“Horses or dogs?” he asked.

“Horses,” I said. “Although I have stood at dog racing in the past, there’s little profit in it these days.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And why is that?”

“Not enough tracks,” I said. “There used to be masses of them, but they keep closing for redevelopment. Too few tracks mean too few dogs. It all becomes far too predictable. And the public’s appetite for dog racing has also changed. Nowadays, they all sit in restaurants and bet from their dinner tables using the tote.”

“You make it sound as if you don’t like the tote,” he said with a smile.

“I don’t,” I said. “The tote can never lose its shirt. It always takes its cut before paying out the winning tickets. They can’t get it wrong because they don’t have to set the prices, while I have to use my knowledge and experience to keep myself in business.”

“I see,” he said slowly, clearly losing interest.

“But I will be at home whenever Sophie needs me,” I said.

I decided not to mention unwelcome nighttime visitors or men with twelve-centimeter knives.

“Thank you, Mr. Talbot,” said the psychiatrist. “I’m sure you will.”

His tone implied that he didn’t really believe it. He looked down and wrote more notes.

“Excuse me,” I said. He looked up. “I assure you that Sophie’s well-being is far more important to me than my work. I desperately want her home. And I will do everything within my power to ensure she remains safe and unharmed. I love my wife.”

I had sat all day holding Sophie’s hand, listening to these emotionally distant professionals discussing her most personal secrets in matter-of-fact detail, and now I quite surprised myself with the passion of my plea. But I did want Sophie home.

I realized that I wanted it very much indeed.

“Yes, Mr. Talbot,” said the psychiatrist, “I believe you do.” He smiled at Sophie, who went on holding my hand very tightly.

He went back to writing a few more notes before looking up. “Mrs. Talbot, Mr. Talbot, thank you both for your time. As you know, we shall have further discussion among us before we make our final decision. Today is Thursday. We should have an answer for you by tomorrow or Saturday.” He looked around at the other medical staff as if inquiring whether any of them had anything more to say. They didn’t.

“Thank you, then,” he said, rising to his feet, indicating that our time was up.

“Thank you,” said Sophie.

We stood up in turn and made our way out of the conference room.