‘Fuck,’ Magnus declared in his civil-service whisper when he switched on his phone again at Heathrow. He had missed a call from Detective Richie. After he rang Richie, he would travel directly to visit Florence at the clinic. Where was his beloved Florence in all of this? Magnus had been keeping her out. Keeping her safe. He had been protecting her in her moonscape. He was greedy for time with her. He wanted to get her out of the day clinic. Yes, it was time to press her to come out, he was sure. Magnus needed her at his side, just as a father had once needed his son to draw the heat and the chill from bloods.
He rang Richie before descending to the Tube station.
‘Detective Richie …’
‘Mr Sparling. I spoke with your father again.’
‘You’re going to tell me you learnt nothing useful for your investigation?’
‘He’s quite the gentleman, your father.’
‘You still like him?’
‘Yes. I still like him.’
‘And you’re allowed to say as much?’
‘No. I’m not.’
‘I suppose we’ll never know.’
‘There is nothing more for us here. The allegation remains on file.’
‘Well, that is the requirement. Thank you, Guard. Now, I must go.’
‘Of course. You’re a busy man. Goodbye, Mr Sparling.’
‘You’re not going to ask me about making any psychiatric referral?’
‘I am not.’
‘Thank you, Detective Richie.’