An icy whorl of fear spiralled through him. Had she had an accident? Wouldn’t someone from the police have been in touch by now, if that had happened?

Was she having a long Kellie moment on her own, out in the darkness somewhere? Surely she would have known he’d be fretting?

But that was the thing, part of Kellie’s problem; she did the most irrational things sometimes without thinking of the consequences. She had never actually done anything to endanger the kids, but she often just did not think. Like the time she’d bought one of her endless ‘bargains’ on eBay, a week at a Champney’s health farm, at the same time as he was going to be away in Germany at a trade fair. She had totally forgotten to consider what would happen to the children.

There had also been a couple of occasions when she had simply disappeared, once for a whole day, another time for over twenty-four hours. He had been in despair both times, ringing around every hospital in the south of England to see if she’d been in an accident, wondering if she was having an affair. Then she had turned up, apparently unconcerned that he’d had to take the day off to look after the children, telling him that she’d suddenly just felt she needed some space.

He thought back to earlier, when she had gone into one of her silent modes in the car. Is that what she was doing now, having some space? Nice of her to tell him.

He picked up the cordless phone in the bedroom and dialled her mobile number. Seconds later he heard her demented, Crazy Frog ringtone coming from downstairs and hung up. She’d left her phone behind.

Terrific.

He sat down on the bed, thinking. God, he loved her so much, despite her quirks. They had their differences, yet in many ways they were so comfortable together. He had loved watching her at the dinner table tonight. Yes, she was out of her social league in that vipers’ nest – they both were – but she’d coped; she’d held her head up; she’d looked beautiful; she’d said nice things about him, building him and his business up to the people on either side of her.

Then he thought about the envy he’d detected in her voice tonight, in the car driving back, when he had asked her if she would like to live in a house as big as the Angelides’.

Yeah, why not, if I had all those servants. We will one day, I’m sure. I believe in you.

He hadn’t yet had the courage to break the news to her that they might soon have to sell this house and downsize. He didn’t know how to, didn’t want to see the pain it would cause. And most of all he didn’t want to seem a failure to her.

Christ, where are you, my darling?

He got up and paced around, his insides slippery with fear. It was twenty to five. He wondered whether to call Mandy Morrison’s parents to ask if Kellie had brought her home safe. But if the girl was not home by now, her parents would have been on the phone, anxious.

Still fully clothed, he lay back against the headboard, his brain buzzing, listening for a car coming up the street. Instead, all he heard were the first twitterings of birdsong. After a few minutes, despite the hour, he rang Mandy Morrison’s home number; the phone was answered by her very sleepy father, who assured him Mandy had been dropped safely home at about quarter to two.

He thanked him, then dialled Directory Enquiries and asked for the number of the Royal Sussex County Hospital. A few minutes later he was through to a tired-sounding woman at Accident and Emergency. She assured him that no one of Kellie’s name had been admitted in the past few hours.

Next he got the main number for Sussex Police, from Directory Enquiries again, and rang that. But after being transferred to Traffic, then put on hold for several minutes, he was told there had been no reported road traffic accidents involving his wife or their car.

He did not know what to do next.

43

It was only Wendy Salter’s second time on nights. The probationary WPC was three weeks out of Police Training College at Ashford in Kent, and had the best part of two years yet to serve before becoming a fully fledged officer like her colleague. PC Phil Taylor, a few weeks shy of thirty-seven, was at the wheel of the liveried police Vectra, driving fast, blues on, but on this empty road there was no need for the siren.

They were less than a mile from CID headquarters in Sussex House, and had driven almost the entire width of Brighton and Hove in the two minutes since they had picked up the emergency call from the Control Room. They had only just finished sorting out a drunken argument over a bill, which had turned into a fight, in the Escape nightclub just off Brighton seafront.

Going at high speed through the city gave Wendy a massive thrill – she couldn’t help it – it was like being on the best funfair ride in the world. And a lot of officers felt the same. The expression on Taylor’s face showed he was among them.

It was 4.15 a.m. and, looking up through the windscreen, Wendy could see a few cracks of grey dawn light appearing in the black canopy of the night sky. A terrified rabbit sprinted in the glow of the car’s headlights across the road and vanished beneath the bonnet. She waited for the thud and was relieved when there was none.

‘Bloody kamikaze bunny that was,’ Phil Taylor said cheerily.

‘I think you missed it.’

‘I read somewhere that some bloke’s published a book of road-kill recipes – in America.’

‘Could only be in America,’ Wendy said. She’d never actually been there, and had an image of the country heavily influenced by all the crazies in California she had seen on television, or read about, with a bit of Michael Moore thrown in for good measure.

They were passing woodland on their right and a sweeping drop to their left down to the lights of Brighton and Hove. Then, rounding a sharp right-hand bend, they saw the red glow ahead of them.

For a brief instant Wendy thought it might be the sun starting to rise, but dismissed that when she worked out they were travelling almost due west. The glow intensified as they drew closer, and then, suddenly, she could smell it.

The vile, acrid stench of burning paint, rubber and vinyl.

Taylor braked and pulled over a short distance from the blazing car, which was in a tarmac car park in a beauty spot with magnificent daytime views. But all WPC Wendy Salter could see as she unclipped herself and stepped out of the car, dutifully pulling on her hat, was dense, choking smoke as the strong breeze blew it straight towards them, making her eyes water. She turned away for a moment, coughing, then ran alongside her colleague as close as they could get to the vehicle before the heat stopped them.

In the distance she could hear the wail of a siren. Probably the fire brigade, she thought, the stench of burning paint and rubber one hundred times stronger now, and the fierce crackling and roaring of the inferno filling her ears.

She could see inside the car now, with most of the glass of the windows already burned out, and to her relief it was empty. It was an estate, and walking round to the front she recognized the radiator grille. ‘An Audi,’ she called out to PC Taylor.

‘It’s a recent model; you can tell from the grille,’ he said.

‘I know. The new A4.’

He gave her a glance. ‘Bit of a petrol-head, are you?’ he said with grudging admiration.

‘Not as much as whoever did this,’ she retorted.

‘Kids,’ he said, as if it were a swear word. ‘Little bastards. Torching someone’s brand new wheels.’

‘Joyriders?’

‘Bound to be,’ he said. ‘Who else?’