20

Kate pressed the ‘Send’ button at the top of her e-mail and made sure her message with its attachment had gone, before pushing back her chair from her desk, picking up a half-empty glass of champagne, and taking a swig. It had been a real roller-coaster of a day, beginning with the agency announcement at eight-thirty that morning, and non-stop activity ever since. There’d been wall-to-wall meetings, then, late in the afternoon, panic in New York, with one of her clients’ American subsidiaries needing her urgent help with an American Stock Exchange release. She’d had no time to bask in the glory of her new title, or to think about how the new job would affect her life. At nine-fifteen p.m., she glanced across her paper-strewn desk, towards the opened magnum of Bollinger; just as well she hadn’t planned to go out to celebrate, she couldn’t help observing, wryly.

Before she left for the day, she wanted to make sure New York had received the information she sent them. ‘Never assume,’ was her personal mantra. She’d call them in five minutes. In the meantime, she needed her evening shot. Stepping into her bathroom, she closed the door behind her. Force of habit. Outside her office, the Pit was deserted. No one had been around for the past half hour except for a security guard on patrol.

In a few, easy motions, she had filled a syringe, given herself the needle, and disposed of the used equipment. Going back into her office, she walked over to her meeting table, and opened her Filofax, even though she already knew what she had planned for this weekend; in marked contrast to her crowded schedule from Monday till Friday, Saturday and Sunday were empty. The prospect wasn’t completely depressing – nor was it one she wasn’t used to. She’d make a plan. Tomorrow morning she’d call a girlfriend and they’d meet for lunch, maybe take in a movie. And whatever else she did, she was most definitely going shopping, to reward herself as the new Deputy Chief Executive Officer of the UK’s largest and most powerful PR agency, with something wonderful from Burlington Arcade, perhaps, or Mappin & Webb. She could certainly afford it on her new package. Just because she didn’t have a man in her life didn’t mean she couldn’t still enjoy self-indulgent treats.

She was just stepping away from the table when the wave hit her. A sudden dizziness which made her crumple, and almost lose balance. It was followed within seconds by another, heady surge. She hadn’t had an insulin rush in years – but she knew, in an instant, what it was – the crazy giddiness and disorientation; the feeling of being almost physically struck down; and, within seconds, the rising nausea. She had to get to her bathroom. What was happening to her? she wondered, bewildered. Why now?

The bathroom door seemed a long way away. She knew she couldn’t walk there. Somehow she managed to fumble on to her desk chair, and lurch across the floor towards the door, throwing herself forward in her seat, desperate to get to the point where she could reach out for the door handle; lift herself up. She managed to grab it, and haul herself up into the bathroom before another, blinding wave of dizziness, threw her to the floor. Please, God, stop this! Give me time! Oh, God! Just one, single minute! Clawing for the toilet bowl, she managed to prop herself up so that the rim of the bowl was cool on her forehead. She was conscious of nothing but pain. Her head felt as though it would explode. She wanted to throw up, but when she retched, nothing came up. She hadn’t eaten for hours.

She knew what she had to do. She kept sugar tablets in the medicine cabinet. Insulin was rushing through her system, plundering all her sugar reserves. She needed to replace them. Immediately. She waited on the floor of the bathroom, trying to summon the strength to stand up, to open the cabinet, to reach for those tablets. When finally she did,staggering to her feet with all the energy she could muster, she swung open the cabinet door and reached out her shaking hand to where she kept the tablets. But they were gone. Oh, Jesus, where had she put them? She hadn’t needed them for ages. They just used to sit there. She’d stopped even noticing them. Had she moved them? Had the cleaners been in?

Her lips were trembling now and her eyelids twitching. Her whole face felt as though it was crawling with insects. She could barely control her hands. They were like claws, shuddering, and being jabbed with the torment of a thousand needles. Somehow, though, she managed to grab hold of the vials she used to inject herself. Standard 100-unit insulin. It said so, there on the labels. But as she fumbled with the vials, they flipped over so that she was looking at their glass bases. The number 1,000, was printed on the bottom of each one. It must be her vision. She held them right up to her face. How many zeros were there? It had to be two! She’d been on 100 units for the past twenty years! But she looked and looked until there could be no mistaking. They were 1,000-unit vials. Someone had switched the labels.

Her whole body was shaking now, and she felt herself sliding down against the wall. She’d had ten times her dosage. There was no sugar replacement. She’d go into a coma in just a few minutes if she didn’t get help. The pain in her head was excruciating now – the whole world seemed to be spinning at a thousand miles an hour, and it was all she could do to get on all fours, to start crawling across the carpet back to her desk.

She was way past the point of worrying if she vomited on the carpet. She couldn’t think about anything. Just get to the phone! She felt her muscles shuddering in uncontrolled spasms as she scraped across the floor. Her face was wet with silent tears of agony. Please God, let this be over!

She couldn’t get up to the desk, of course. So she tugged the cord of the telephone. It crashed to the floor. Fumbling with the receiver, she pressed for an outside line. But it was dead. No dialling tone. Oh, Jesus! Something must have happened when it fell! She tried again. Same result. This wasn’t working. She couldn’t get out.

What about security? She pressed the red button. Thank Christ it was ringing!

Ringing and ringing. She lay there, her whole body shaking violently, as though with fever, willing for an answer. Willing, please God, make him pick it up. Make him get back to his desk. She knew he went on patrols throughout the night; patrolling through all five floors of the building. He might be in the middle of one of his patrols. Or just starting. He might be another twenty minutes. She couldn’t last that long.

Sobbing, she kept the phone clutched to her head and floundered towards her office door. Maybe he’d be on the first floor. Or she could get to one of the phones in the Pit. Fuck Elliott North! She wasn’t going to let him do this to her. He wouldn’t get away with it. She was going out there to get help. She’d survive this. She was going to live!

It was only instinct that kept her going, with every muscle, every sinew, racked with pain, and her mind a swirling cauldron of dizziness and torment. Using up the last of her rapidly depleting energy, she shuddered and fumbled her way across the carpet. She had to get there! She had to live! When, finally, she made it to her office door, she threw herself up to wrench the handle. But she failed to open it, and only collapsed back on the floor, in a bruised, weeping heap.

Only sheer desperation drove her to make the second attempt, thrusting upwards and reaching out. She seized the handle and tugged it down and towards her with every last strength of which she was capable. But once again, she failed and fell, broken and sobbing. Just before the last wave of agony exploded her from consciousness, she was struck by the knowledge that she’d been locked inside her own office.

Judith spent the whole of that weekend writing up the article. She was still in her dressing gown when she sat down behind her computer on Saturday morning, a mug of coffee at the ready and a lit cigarette in the ashtray. She began typing. The start of articles was always the hardest, but she already knew how she was going to open this one: a description of one day in the wretched existence of a child slave in India. Having described that, she would establish the facts to prove that this was only one of dozens of similar stories of child slaves used to manufacture Starwear products, to be sold in the high streets and shopping malls of Britain, Europe and America.

Once started, she found it hard to stop. It was a stream-of-consciousness exercise, and the whole story flowed out with an effortlessness she’d seldom experienced before. All the weeks of thinking and planning seemed to click into place, and her fingers rattled over the keyboard at high speed as she included all the different dimensions to the story. Slave labour was the main focus, but she also highlighted the financial irregularities; how Starwear had misled its shareholders about the source of its income and profits; Jacob Strauss’s previous business disasters – versus the way he’d projected himself as the ‘entrepreneurial genius’. And then there was the cover-up, the deaths of William van Aardt and Merlin de Vere. Completely absorbed in her work, the next time she glanced at her watch it was three forty-five p.m.

Blobbing out, exhausted, in front of the TV, she had an early night, before continuing her work the next day, finishing the story, editing it, polishing it and saving it on to disk.

On Monday morning, she didn’t bother dressing in a miniskirt or Wonderbra. Sensible black trousers and a white blouse would do. She was at work early, planning to catch Alex Carter the moment he appeared. But it wasn’t until nine-thirty that he arrived, bleary-eyed and in a foul mood after getting caught on the M25 on his way back from a weekend in the country. So much for her big moment, she thought. The grand delivery of her investigative triumph.

He grunted when she knocked on his office door.

‘Remember how you asked me about Starwear last week?’ She walked over to his desk with her ten-page printout.

His right eyelid twitched. ‘What about them?’

‘Well, I dug up a lot more about them than I thought I would.’

‘What?’ He reached out, seizing the article from her, flicking through the pages. There was no doubting she had his full attention now. ‘This isn’t research?’ he demanded.

‘It’s got past the research stage,’ she said, meeting his eyes. He seemed peculiarly agitated. ‘It’s a six-thousand-word article. I spent all weekend writing it.’

He glanced back at her pages, random phrases leaping out at him: ‘Starwear’s squalid child slave factory’, ‘Jacob Strauss’s trumped-up business credentials’.

‘I think it could be the corporate exposé” of the year,’ she said evenly.

Behind his desk, Alex Carter blanched. ‘Leave this with me.’ He shook her article. ‘Close the door on your way out.’

Back at her desk, she couldn’t stop watching him out of the corner of her eye. She could see everything through the glass walls of his office: how he sat, utterly engrossed in the article, holding his face – she reckoned he could probably hardly believe what he was reading. Then he pulled out a cigar, ripped off its wrapper, and lit up – no fiddling and fussing, no savouring the moment. He was puffing huge clouds of smoke for quite some time, then he was at her article again, pen in hand, scribbling furiously. Next he was making a phone call, pacing up and down behind his desk and jabbing his cigar in the air as he only ever did in moments of high drama. And this was drama all right, she thought. This was the business news equivalent of the atomic bomb.

She tried to distract herself with routine tasks: expenses form, personal filing, going through that morning’s voluminous pile of media releases from PR agencies. Every few minutes she would glance sidelong towards Carter, who seemed to spend the whole morning stamping up and down his office on the telephone. She found it hard to keep her excitement reigned in. He knew, and she knew, this was no ordinary exposé This story would be picked up, instantly, by all the national and international media. Television, radio, you name it. This story would see the demise of Jacob Strauss and the collapse of Starwear – the world’s second biggest brand.

Eventually, some time after eleven, he called her in.

‘This is the most astounding investigative reportage I have ever seen,’ he told her, once she was standing opposite him, in a fug of cigar smoke. ‘Congratulations! You’ve proved that my decision to hire you for The Herald was absolutely right. I don’t think I’ve known of a case …’ He was scanning through her pages again, shaking his head, ‘Incredible. Quite incredible.’

As he glanced up at her she noted now that his whole right cheek seemed to have given way to a nervous tic.

‘I have just one suggestion to make – and I think you’ll agree with me. The central story, the child slave thing …’

‘What about it?’

‘It needs to be stronger.’

‘Stronger?’ She could barely believe it. ‘But, I mean, how could it be any stronger than it already is?’

When she emerged from his office, two minutes later, she was in a state of shock. Alex Carter had come out with the last thing in the world she’d ever expected.

‘Ellen? It’s Claude here.’

‘Oh, Claude.’ Behind her desk, she felt herself rising to her feet with anticipation. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well, thank you.’ He didn’t return the salutations. The truth was, he felt an awful burden of guilt after so blatantly lying to her during their last conversation. Now he just wanted this over with. ‘I’m delighted to say, your proposals have got the go-ahead. Unanimous funding approval. I’ve just posted you a letter to that effect.’

‘Oh, Claude, I am thrilled!’ She didn’t disguise her excitement.

‘So am I,’ he agreed heartily. ‘I know you’ve been forced to keep a lot of those ideas on the backburner for years, but they’ve always deserved funding.’

‘I’ve already given some thought to the next steps,’ she enthused. Then she was telling him about the staff she planned to recruit, and administration arrangements, her budget forecasts and planned timetable.

Bonning heard her out, and they talked for a while about future Executive Council Meetings, before he got to the real reason for his call.

‘Last time we spoke, you mentioned how pleased you were about the recognition we were giving Starwear at our awards ceremony.’

‘I remember.’

‘Well, how would you like to be the one to present the GlobeWatch Company of the Year Award?’

‘That’s … some kind of speech?’

‘Just a short one,’ he told her. ‘Of course, all the media will be there. Good chance to get your message across.’

‘But, I mean, this is a great honour. Are you sure I’m the best person …’

‘The honour would be Starwear’s to have someone of your calibre making the presentation.’

‘Oh, Claude,’ she chuckled happily, still aglow with delight, ‘flattery will get you everywhere.’

•••

When Chris arrived at Lombard the following Monday, the mood in Reception seemed subdued. He put it down to the way he was feeling. By now, Elliott North would know he’d seen Judith last Friday night. He would probably have known by Saturday morning. During the weekend, Chris had been constantly surrounded with people. He’d played golf and watched cricket and eaten out in restaurants and every minute of both days he’d deliberately kept himself protected among friends.

The first thing he noticed when he stepped into his office was the envelope on his otherwise empty desk. He picked it up and tore it open. It was issued from Mike Cullen’s office. In two short paragraphs it announced that last Friday night, at about ten, Kate Taylor had been found by a security guard in her office, in a coma resulting from sugar deprivation. She had been rushed to hospital, but had died on arrival.

‘I cannot find the words to express my profound shock and sense of personal loss,’ read the second paragraph. ‘My grief is overwhelming. Apart from the highest regard in which I held Kate as a professional colleague, about which I spoke to you all on what turned out to be her last day among us, I also counted Kate as a dear, much-loved friend. Her death is an appalling tragedy.’

Chris put down the paper, in a state of shock, before sliding into his desk chair and putting his head in his hands. He could hardly take in what had happened. Could this really be an accident? Kate had had diabetes since she was a teenager. She’d kept her sugar level balanced for the past twenty years. So why had this happened now? Surely sugar deprivation didn’t strike diabetics down in just a few minutes – not, that is, unless they’d suffered an insulin overdose. Could it be that Kate had paid the price for exposing North’s cover-ups? Maybe, if he, Chris, hadn’t shown her those company accounts, she wouldn’t have voiced her misgivings to Mike Cullen, and North would have left her alone. If he hadn’t shown her those accounts, she wouldn’t have made enquiries about Merlin de Vere. The cold hand of guilt settled over Chris. Maybe he was to blame. William van Aardt. Merlin de Vere. Now Kate Taylor. Another murder dressed as a tragedy. And this time, he was involved.

Somehow, it just didn’t seem possible. It was only on Friday that she’d been made Deputy Chief Executive Officer, a title that made her seem more in control, more invincible than ever. And now this. As he sat,staring down at his desk, he began to realise how much reassurance he’d drawn from her – not only because she was his Personal Manager but also, and much more importantly, because he knew he could trust her. He had taken his fears to her. She had kept his confidences – she had kept faith. Today, right now, he needed her more than ever. As he sat, pondering over what had happened, and still in a state of shock and sadness, he wondered what he should do about his suspicions. If Kate had died of an insulin overdose, surely that would show up in a post-mortem? If someone had tampered with her medication, wouldn’t the police soon be round, asking questions? But then, they hadn’t been inclined to ask too many questions about Merlin de Vere. And what should he do about Mike Cullen? Didn’t he have the right to know what Elliott North was doing to his company?

When Charlotte appeared at his door, she didn’t need to ask if he had seen the note. Making her way over to him, she briefly squeezed his shoulder. ‘Like a coffee?’

‘Thanks.’

He looked up as she made her way out again. At the door she turned. ‘By the way, when you’re ready,’ she wore a sympathetic expression, ‘Elliott North was up here looking for you a few minutes ago. He’d like to see you in the Boardroom at nine.’

He didn’t know what to expect from North. Some kind of interrogation about his relationship with Judith? Or what he knew about her Starwear story? Or how much she’d dug up on Jacob Strauss? As he made his way upstairs, he felt weary. If North went off at the deep end again, he was tempted just to cut him short. Come right out with it and tell him that by the end of the week, his campaign of murder and deceit would be headline news. But he knew he had to keep quiet and endure. He must ride out the storm – for Judith’s sake, and Kate’s too.

North was on his mobile phone when he knocked on the Boardroom door and stepped in. Standing by the window, he gestured that Chris should sit down. He seemed to be discussing some planned outing with a friend to a West End cabaret – there were snide references to showgirls, and much laughter. Then, snapping the phone shut, he turned to Chris. ‘Mike would have been here too,’ he began, studiously rearranging his features from sly grin to a sombre expression. ‘He asked me to pass on his apologies. He’s upstairs at the moment,’ he gestured towards the penthouse, ‘inconsolable.’

Chris nodded.

North’s put-on sorrow lasted about five seconds as he sat down opposite Chris, placing his mobile on the table in front of them. Then, in a very different tone, he declared, ‘He wanted to join me in congratulating you.’ He was upbeat.

Chris was puzzled.

‘Project Silo really hit the mark,’ North thumped the Boardroom table with gusto, ‘really did it!’

This was crazy! Could North possibly be describing the same document he’d described only a couple of weeks ago as ‘a crock of shit’? The only difference had been one appendix.

Trying to find a voice, Chris asked, ‘You reckon the new stuff will be—’

‘The new stuff is great,’ beamed North. ‘Well briefed.’

Why was he bothering? They both knew who had told Kuczynski to dig through the personal lives of Bob Reid and Ed Snyder.

‘In fact, the whole report is going to form the cornerstone of future Starwear strategy.’

Chris stared at him, dumbstruck. Then he couldn’t resist saying, ‘I – I don’t know … last time we spoke about it, you said—’

‘Oh, that.’ North laughed mirthlessly. ‘Management technique.’

‘What?

‘Encourage peak performance. I really wanted to make sure you were giving your best.’

This conversation had turned into something from Alice in Wonderland. He couldn’t even begin to understand it right now. So he just said, ‘I see.’

‘So. How do you feel about the report now?’

It was the first time, Chris realised, that North had ever asked him for his views on anything.

‘Fine.’ He nodded once. ‘I think it’s fine. It will help position the brand—’

‘Exactly. Positioning.’ There was a pause before North said, ‘Mike thinks it’s a brilliant report too, by the way. So, in recognition of the great job you’ve done,’ he stared at his mobile phone as he began fiddling with it, ‘we’ve decided to reward your hard work.’ He glanced up at Chris abruptly. ‘Got a valid passport?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. You’ll be needing it. We’d like you to take a look at some of the Quantum Change factories in developing countries. First-hand experience. The idea is to develop a strategy on how best to present Quantum Change to the City. But let’s be honest, it’s a bit of a beano, too. You’ll get time to have some fun.’

‘Oh?’ Chris was surprised. ‘When did you have in mind?’

‘There’s a press tour arranged of Starwear’s Jaipur factory, which means you’d need to leave London the day after tomorrow.’

Chris raised his eyebrows.

‘D’you have a problem?’

‘I don’t suppose—’

‘Good. You’ll need to get down to the Indian High Commission a.s.a.p. to sort out a visa. In fact, I suggest you get over there right away.’ He was standing up and making his way to the Boardroom door. ‘Mike really liked the report,’ he repeated on his way out, ‘really liked it.’

North returned to his office, took out the Swiss Army knife he always carried in his pocket, and began peeling an apple. He’d spoken to Treiger in the Boardroom because he hadn’t wanted anyone else to tune in; no one else to listen to him grovelling to that little shit. Especially after learning that Treiger had spent Friday evening in the company of none other than Judith Laing.

He’d been radioed with the news first thing on Saturday and had gone ballistic. Apparently the two of them had spent half the evening shaking off Sol’s boys before going for an intimate stroll in Chelsea. Then, first thing this morning, he gets a call from that shithead Carter; the call he’d been half-expecting ever since he discovered that Judith Laing was a lying little bitch. The only difference was, the call was a lot worse than he’d expected.

She’d dug up the lot: India; William van Aardt and Merlin de Vere; Mark Hunter’s cock-up; Jay’s past business problems. It couldn’t get any worse. Carter had come on the line, throwing toys out of the cot and demanding an explanation. An explanation?! Their ‘understanding’ was all very well when it came to presentational issues, he’d started out in high dudgeon, but as City Editor of The Herald he could not collude in the cover-up of a major international scandal. Jesus Christ, the way the fat ass was carrying on, you’d have thought it was someone else’s spoilt brats they were packing off to Gordonstoun; someone else they’d paid to go on luxury holidays in five-star hotels; someone else for whom they arranged to have the use of a box at the Royal Albert Hall to entertain his blue-blooded friends.

Carter got an explanation all right. North had explained that if Carter ran a single negative story about Starwear, it would be his last as the City Editor of a national paper. Receipts relating to every single ‘hospitality’ benefit he’d ever received from Starwear had been meticulously filed. They would be shown, without hesitation, not only to Carter’s boss, but to his City Editor rivals at all the other papers. In twenty-four hours Carter’s career would be blown. North had slammed down the phone on him.

That had knocked the crap out of him. Gone were all the demands and bluster. Next time he called, Carter was bleating, all sackcloth and ashes, all woe is me and what’s to be done. Deciding he was in a more receptive frame of mind, North had told him exactly what was to be done and when it was to be done by. At the other end, Carter had listened, without even the mildest of protestations, though North could almost hear the pips squeaking.

He’d enjoyed it, thought North, enjoyed showing Carter just who had the leverage in the relationship, who had the power and who was calling the shots. But his pleasure was short-lived. His mobile went off again and it was Jay. They’d already spoken to each other half a dozen times this morning, and it hadn’t been easy.

‘So, what’s news?’

‘I fixed Carter all right. You know all the shit he was giving me? Well, I sorted him out. Made him see who’s boss. And I’ve just seen Treiger—’

‘I didn’t mean that stuff. I expect you to have sorted it. I’m talking about tonight.’

‘Tonight,’ North repeated, frowning.

‘It’s been over a week.’

‘Jay, I just don’t think—’

‘You’re like a broken fucking record. “I just don’t think”,’ he mimicked, ‘“I just don’t think”. I just don’t care what you “just don’t think”! Talking of who’s boss, I don’t pay you for your advice, right? I pay you to fix things.’

‘I know, Jay,’ he whined.

‘And I’m telling you to fix it for tonight.’

‘You know what’s been going on. Things are just so hot at the moment …’

There was a pause before, at the other end, Strauss said, ‘What’s the problem? Don’t you like working for me any more?’

North fumed in silence.

‘Well?’

‘OK, OK. I’ll see what I can do.’

He slammed shut the phone with a bitter expression. The time was coming, and pretty soon, when the show would be over, and he’d be unhitching his wagon from the international travelling circus that was Jacob Strauss. But there would be no unhitching before some bargaining took place. He’d come a long way from that roach-infested tenement in Brooklyn, and he wasn’t about to throw it all up, not for anyone. He planned to continue living in the style to which he’d become accustomed. And Jay Strauss was going to continue to pay for it.

He’d had ample opportunity over the years to assemble his evidence. Plenty of time to work out his plan so that if he gave the order, or if anything happened to him, Jay would be sunk. One well-directed missile and it would all be over. He would only ask for ten million. Peanuts, to someone like Jay. Christ, he went through more than that in a year. Ten mill to keep his trap shut for ever. A small price to pay.

North thought he’d spend his first summer in Greece.

One thing she’d grown to love about London were the parks. Hyde Park especially. It wasn’t far from where they lived, and she loved to stroll along the Serpentine in the evening. She found real peace and tranquillity there – especially among the late-autumn colours. The burnished golds and mellow reds offered a soothing haven away from the confines of her home and her disastrous marriage. By the end of each visit, after an hour of communing with nature, things didn’t seem so bad.

Ever since she’d first met him, her husband had been surrounded by kids. Little boys in particular looked up to him. He was their hero – always arranging adventures for them, like trips to football games, gymnastics, motor racing. And he was constantly fixing for them to have the things that little boys so liked to have – the latest trainers, tracksuits and trendy golf peaks.

For a long time she had seen nothing untoward in it. In fact, it had been one of the things she’d found most attractive about him when they’d met. Many men didn’t much notice children, too wrapped up in their own worldly concerns of money and power. But he’d been different. They were both different – that’s what she used to think in the early days, when she still used to believe his PR. They were the golden couple, embarked on a glamorous adventure, he with his entrepreneurial business career, she there to support him, to bear his children and ensure the future of the dynasty. Silly fool that she was.

The physical side of their relationship had never really been what she’d hoped for. It certainly hadn’t been anything like what his many fans probably fantasised about. She had been disappointed, of course; despite being hugely energetic in other areas of his life, when it came to the bedroom he just didn’t seem to have the drive or the interest. But she’d tried to be practical about things. Sex was only one dimension out of the many that made up marriage, she’d told herself. When all the others were going so well, why get hung up on it?

She had thought it strange when she’d found him, just after their fourth anniversary, helping a ten-year-old boy into a Starwear tracksuit he’d just given him. The kid was stark naked and her husband had had his hands round the front as he pulled up the pants. It had had her worried the moment she saw it. The boy was quite old enough to be capable of pulling on a tracksuit. But when she mentioned it afterwards, he’d just laughed. The kid was a bit clumsy, physically, he explained. He’d been having problems with the knot.

She supposed she’d rationalised it away. It wasn’t something she’d even wanted to think about, but she hadn’t been able to avoid doing so.

It had been undeniable the time she’d come home from a date unexpectedly. The friend she was due to meet for lunch had been struck down with a migraine. She’d walked into the games room which he’d fitted out with all the latest computer games and electronic toys. This time, they were both naked and he had the boy under him. There could be no mistaking what he was doing.

She’d gone upstairs immediately, packing her bags and those of their two children. She’d stormed out, picked the kids up from school, and spent the night with her parents in a state of deep shock. She hadn’t been able to tell them – especially not them – or anyone else, what had happened. She’d questioned the children closely about their father – but he didn’t seem to have interfered at all with them, thank heavens.

He’d pursued her, arriving on her doorstep and pleading with her to come back. When she had calmed down enough to speak to him, he didn’t try to deny what had happened or where his urges lay. But he said he didn’t want to wreck what they had. He would go for counselling. He would change.

It was the oldest come-back line in the book, and, even sillier fool that she was, she’d gone back to him. For the sake of giving the kids a family life. For the sake of appearances. But things had never been the same between them again. He’d made a great show to her of going for counselling. But he also spent increasing amounts of time away on business. Their lives had become more and more separate, and she didn’t question what went on when he was away. She couldn’t take his lies, but she feared the truth even more. Over time, she’d made up her mind to leave. She was only staying for the two girls, now. Once they were finished at school she would move out. That, at any rate, was her plan.

All the same, there were times when the light, which she tried to persuade herself was at the end of the tunnel, seemed all but extinguished. Times when she couldn’t avoid being reminded of the dark side of her husband’s nature – and became deeply unsettled. Right now she was going through one of those periods. It had been sparked off by an article she’d read in the papers about the disappearance of a young boy, Dale Nesbitt, from St Stephen’s Children’s Home. St Stephen’s wasn’t far from where they lived – she had driven past the school grounds, always filled with boys in their instantly recognisable purple and gold uniform.

She knew that her husband had been involved in corporate donations to the Home. She knew too that when a St Stephen’s boy had disappeared before, he’d later been found dead, his sexually abused body concealed in the undergrowth beside a railway line, like some discarded toy.

Of course there was nothing at all to link her husband either to that event, or to the more recent disappearance. Even the prospect of it was too horrifying to contemplate. But, no matter how she tried to suppress it, she couldn’t help thinking the unthinkable, driving herself mad with worry. She’d been to the doctor about her agitation – though hadn’t dared to hint at the cause. He’d prescribed her pills and told her to come back in a month if she wasn’t feeling calmer.

But either the pills weren’t working, or her deepest fears were just too hideous to be blocked out by drugs. If anything, in the past few days she’d felt under even greater pressure, the dread of it colouring everything else in her life, so that her whole world was miserable with foreboding. As Hyde Park sank slowly into twilight, and a chill wind swept a flurry of leaves off the branches, she paused for a moment among the ancient trees: one of these days, she felt, she was just going to crack apart.