The public entrance to the Old Bailey is tailed back with visitors, all queuing for a seat at the high-profile murder trial that is going on in Court Two. I walk round the corner past the swarms of journalists and video crews to the lawyers’ entrance, where I show my ID and am directed through the glass doors inside. My bag is checked and I am patted down by security before I’m allowed to walk through the entrance and up the staircase into the imposing stone hallway of the Central Criminal Court. Above the marbled grey walls and lemon vaulted ceiling, sunlight is spilling through the glass of three magnificent muralled domes onto the polished mosaic floor below. As always, I am awed by the intricate collision of arches and slopes, by the sombre stillness that surrounds me.
Will is outside Court One in his wig and gown. He glances up from his brief when he sees me. ‘Good morning, Ms Kellerman. Is your client here?’
I shake my head. ‘Not yet. But we need to talk. I got you a coffee.’ I hand him a paper cup, take his arm, and steer him into one of the nearby alcoves. I pull a handful of sugar sachets and a wooden stirrer out of the zip-up pocket of my handbag and slide them across the table towards him. ‘So.’ I lower my voice. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’
Will screws up his face and picks up his coffee cup. ‘Don’t tell me – she’s not coming?’
‘No, no – it’s not that. She’s on her way.’ I hold up my phone to show him the text I’ve just received from Ellie. ‘And not only that, but she has a defence. A credible one.’
‘Really? What is it?’
‘She’s a hooker, not a hairdresser.’ I smile.
Will splutters a little and puts down his cup. ‘That’s her defence?’
‘Yes. And so... she was at work when Finn was injured, and again when he was poisoned. Her neighbour was babysitting.’
Will cocks his head to one side. ‘So is that the good news or the bad news?’
‘It’s both. I know. It’s a tricky one.’
Will scratches his head. ‘It won’t sit well with a jury, that’s for sure. But I suppose it explains why she didn’t mention anything to the police.’
I nod. ‘She knew how it would look. She didn’t want anyone to know.’
‘But we’re going to tell them, is that right?’
I put down my coffee and look him in the eye. ‘The thing is, Will, I think we have to. It’s the only angle we’ve got: Ellie didn’t do it because she wasn’t there. She’s going to get me a list of her bookings from the agency that she worked for, which will prove that she was out with clients on numerous occasions between the dates that the injuries first started to appear and Finn’s first hospitalisation in April. Most notably, she was away on an overseas trip with a client – a well-known politician, apparently – the week before Finn went into hospital and the medical exhibits were taken. She says she had no idea the injuries were that bad until she got home. And then she was arrested and Finn was taken away from her.’
Will nods, slowly, as he takes this in. ‘So who’s the babysitter?’
‘Her next-door neighbour, Marie.’
‘So Marie caused the injuries, is that what we’re saying?’
‘Her... or her boyfriend, Darren Webb. They both drink. He knocks her about. He threatened Ellie. He might have caused the injuries to Finn.’
‘Can we prove it?’
‘Not exactly. Marie won’t talk to us; Ellie’s tried. But we can prove that Ellie was at work, that someone else was looking after Finn. Enough to raise sufficient doubt, surely, especially if Ellie was abroad when the most serious injuries occurred?’
Will narrows his eyes playfully. ‘So, come on. Who’s the politician?’
‘I don’t know. To her credit, she didn’t tell me.’
Will smiles. ‘Ah, yes. Because that would be a breach of the Call Girl Codes of Conduct. But,’ he holds up one hand as I snigger into my coffee. ‘No, no – don’t laugh. It’s very admirable that she wishes to abide by the ethical standards of the...’ He taps his head. ‘No, sorry, I just can’t recall the name of her professional body. But you’re right. It would be career suicide. She doesn’t want to get struck off the... the Roll of Escorts and get found guilty of attempted murder.’
‘You want me to ask her?’ I say, still laughing.
Will grins. ‘Yeah. Go on. Let’s expose him.’
‘Well, the agency won’t tell. It would be career suicide for them. And anyway, whoever he is, he’ll deny it.’
Will smiles and folds his arms. ‘Then we’ll run the “Mandy Rice-Davies defence”.’
‘Which is?’
‘“He would say that, wouldn’t he?”’
When I don’t answer, Will peers at me. ‘You’re too young to remember that, aren’t you? It’s what Mandy-Rice Davies said, in the witness box, during the Profumo affair. She gives evidence that Lord Astor has been having an affair with her. He denies it. When the prosecutor puts it to her – his denial, that is – she says, “He would say that, wouldn’t he?” It made her famous.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘It was irreverent, for the times. The upper crust were still above scrutiny, protected by the class system, and here she was, an ordinary young woman – a call girl, according to the press – telling it like it was, in public. “Dissing him”, I think you’d say, these days.’
‘Good for her.’ I smile. ‘But Ellie’s not Mandy Rice-Davies, and she doesn’t want to be famous. So maybe we could just exhibit her passport instead? With the stamps to show she went in and out of the country at the relevant time.’
‘You are absolutely no fun whatsoever,’ Will reprimands me. ‘OK. Well, at least we’ve got something to work with now.’
‘Exactly,’ I agree. ‘It also gives us the opportunity to refute any suggestion that Ellie was holed up in a tiny flat with Finn all day, going stir crazy, unable to cope. Far from it. She was getting glammed up and dining out in swanky hotel restaurants, drinking expensive wine and taking compliments from rich men.’
Will raises his eyebrows. ‘Taking compliments? Is that a euphemism?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’ve never been in that line of work.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’d be very popular,’ Will replies, puckering his mouth to stifle a smile. ‘If you ever wanted a change of career, that is.’
I laugh. ‘Funny. That’s what Ellie said.’
Will’s face breaks into a grin. ‘Seriously? Well, she’s right. I’d be your number-one customer.’
‘You’re a legal aid lawyer,’ I say, thumping him on the arm. ‘You couldn’t afford me.’
‘No,’ he says, pensively, and sighs. ‘Ain’t that the truth.’ He glances at his watch. ‘OK, so, assuming we can show that Ellie left the baby with Marie, who was under the coercive control of her boyfriend... what about the sodium poisoning? Accusing Darren of getting drunk and thumping the child is one thing, but why would he want to poison him?’
‘Well, maybe he wouldn’t; not deliberately, anyway. There are lots of things that can cause hypernatraemia. Salty food, mistaking salt for sugar in feeds. Dehydration. It was hot in July. Maybe they didn’t give him enough to drink. And then there’s drugs.’
Will looks up. ‘Drugs?’
I nod. ‘Word is that Darren Webb is a drug dealer. Finn might have swallowed something.’ I reach into my bag and pull out my iPad. I locate the web page that I’ve bookmarked. ‘This is the most up-to-date medical report I can find on drug-induced hypernatraemia. It’s written by a committee commissioned by the LCP – the London College of Paediatrics – and I’ve compared it to the findings in the toxicology report. It says that there have been several reports of drug-induced electrolyte abnormalities and that they can eventually cause congestive heart, liver and renal failure. Failure to drink enough water can also elevate the sodium levels in the blood plasma. The combination can be lethal.’ I put down my iPad and look up at Will. ‘The whole poisoning thing... it may have been an accident.’
Will hesitates a moment before saying, ‘OK, that’s helpful.’
I frown. ‘Well it is, isn’t it? Or at least it will be if we can instruct an expert to say the same. Reasonable doubt is all we need, surely?’
‘A confession from your man Darren would be better.’ Will smiles. ‘And if you can get him to admit to pulling the dialysis line at the hospital while you’re at it, we’re home and dry.’
I look him in the eye. ‘You don’t think much of this as a defence?’
Will shrugs. ‘We’ll ask for the full prosecution toxicology report and run our own tests. But even if they show the presence of drugs, it doesn’t prove that it was anyone but Ellie who gave them to him. We’re going to need more evidence of Marie and Darren and their involvement if we want to run with it.’
‘Well, it’s all we’ve got at the moment,’ I tell him. ‘So it will have to do for now.’
‘All right.’ He stands up. ‘I’d better get into court. Let me know when she’s here.’
Ellie arrives ten minutes later. I collect her from security and show her to a seat in the alcove before slipping into the courtroom and passing a message to the usher for Will. When I get back Ellie is scrolling through her phone. ‘Look,’ she says. ‘I just got this from Marie.’
She reads the message out loud: Split up with Darren last night. Feel like shit. Call me?
‘Good,’ I tell her. ‘So, do you think she’ll talk to me now? About Darren?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll meet up with her later. I’ll find out.’
Will enters the alcove and pulls out a seat.
‘OK,’ he says, leaning forward and shaking Ellie’s hand. ‘We’ve got a bit more time.’ To me, he says, ‘Judge wants to hear the prosecution’s hearsay application today.’
‘Really?’
‘What does that mean?’ Ellie asks.
‘The police can’t find the nurse,’ he tells her. ‘Mary Ngombe, the one who says she saw you holding Finn shortly before his dialysis line was removed. She’s left the hospital and they’ve no idea where she’s gone. The prosecution are going to ask the judge if they can have the nurse’s statement read out at trial.’
Ellie’s face falls. ‘Can they do that?’
‘They can if the judge agrees.’
‘So the judge has waived notice?’ I ask him.
‘Yes. He’s put the application back to this afternoon to give us a bit of time. I couldn’t reasonably object and it’s probably in our interests to get this dealt with sooner rather than later, so that we know where we stand as regards Count Three.’
Ellie frowns. ‘What do you mean, where we stand?’
Will turns to her. ‘If the judge kicks the prosecution application into touch, then it might be hard for them to prove that you were the last person to have contact with Finn before his dialysis line was tampered with.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘Then the case against you is a lot stronger.’
Ellie’s eyes flicker between us. ‘So everything is riding on this?’
‘Not everything,’ I say, quickly, sensing her panic. ‘But if the nurse’s evidence goes in, we’ll have to work much harder to try and convince the jury that it wasn’t you.’
‘We need it out, ideally,’ says Will.
‘So what’s the basis of their application?’ I ask him.
‘They’re relying on subsection d,’ says Will, ‘that she can’t be found and they’ve taken all reasonable steps to find her.’
‘And have they?’
‘She’s left the nursing agency she worked for. It seems her UK sponsorship and working visa may have expired. They’ve concluded that she’s gone back to Africa. I expect that’ll be enough for the judge.’
‘So you think they’ll win?’ asks Ellie, aghast.
‘No, not necessarily. But I think the judge will have sympathy with their application, within the context of the case as a whole. Mary Ngombe names you as the person who picked up the baby. It’s a material piece of evidence in the prosecution case.’
‘The description is all wrong, though,’ Ellie protests. ‘She says I’m fifteen or sixteen and that I’m wearing a blue scarf. I don’t own a blue scarf. And I’m twenty. What, she thinks I had Finn when I was fifteen?’
‘It happens. And people aren’t always very good with ages,’ I tell her.
Will looks at her kindly. ‘The problem is that she names you. She says your name is “Ellie” and that she knows you as the baby’s mother.’
‘But she’s lying,’ Ellie insists. Her eyes widen and her mouth falls open. ‘I don’t remember her. I’ve never even spoken to her, and I never picked up Finn. Why would she say that I did?’
‘Well, that’s the million-dollar question,’ says Will. ‘And we aren’t going to be able to ask her that if she’s not here. But, we have a reasonable chance of kicking her statement out, OK?’
I ask him, ‘Is there anything I can do?’
Will chews on his bottom lip. ‘You could make enquiries with the agency and find out about the work visa and when it expired. And check her immigration status. If we can show that she’s overstayed or worked illegally then it may call into question the reliability of her evidence, her credibility as a witness.’ Will pushes his chair back and stands up. ‘Let’s reconvene at one o’clock. That will also give us time to complete the pre-trial forms and discuss your pleas.’
‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ Ellie says. ‘I’m pleading not guilty, all the way.’
Will smiles. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘We’ll talk at one. Don’t be late.’
*
I say goodbye to Ellie outside near the main entrance and walk down Ludgate Hill and onto Fleet Street, where the nursing agency is located. It’s a tall, modern building constructed of seamless black glass with uninviting privacy windows. Given its popular location, I’m expecting to enter a bustling office where no one really has the time or inclination to speak to me, but when I push open the glass door to the entrance, the office is small and virtually empty, apart from a woman with silver-grey hair, cut into a neat bob, who is wearing a yellow cashmere sweater. She is sitting at a desk in the corner of the room, peering at her computer screen, and doesn’t look up.
‘Bear with,’ she says, as she finishes tapping her keyboard. A small smile plays on her lips when I let out a snicker of laughter at her parody of upper-class Tilly, one of my favourite Miranda TV characters. She finishes typing and looks up. ‘Done. Fabulasmic.’ She removes her half-rim spectacles and beams at me. ‘I’m Allison. How can I help?’
‘Ah. Allison Davies?’ I ask hopefully.
She blinks. ‘Yes?’
‘Just the person.’
I had been expecting a whole bundle of data protection red tape, but when I show her my identity card and my copy of the statement she’s made to the police on behalf of the agency, Allison simply nods, gives me a brisk handshake, and offers me a seat. She tugs at a gold eyeglass-chain around her neck and props her spectacles back onto her nose before tapping at the keyboard again and bringing up Mary Ngombe’s file on her computer screen.
‘Miss Ngombe,’ she says. ‘I remember her well.’
‘You do?’
Allison contorts her mouth in an exaggerated manner and bites her lip. ‘I’m not saying it’s right – because it’s not,’ she explains, ‘but there just aren’t many experienced black specialist nurses, working in paediatric intensive care. When she came onto our books, she stood out. But she was good. A hard worker. Reliable. The reports back from the hospitals were generally excellent.’
My heart sinks. Hard-working. Reliable. This isn’t looking promising. We needed Mary Ngombe to be unreliable and untrustworthy, her evidence dubious at the very least.
Allison peers at the computer screen. ‘She has a tier-two general visa – three years, term unexpired, but drawing close to the deadline for extension.’
‘So, is that maybe why she’s disappeared?’
‘Well, possibly, although she can apply to extend it for a further two years – more in some circumstances. Her sponsorship has ended, but she’s registered with the NMC, and PIC nursing qualifies her to work independently for up to twenty hours per week.’ She takes her spectacles off her nose and looks up at me. ‘It’s a shortage occupation.’
‘I see. So... she’s in demand.’
‘Quite.’
‘And, as far as you’re aware, she’s not overstayed or worked illegally at any time?’
Allison shakes her head. ‘No. We vet our nurses very carefully. That wouldn’t be allowed to happen.’
‘So I wonder why she hasn’t come back to you for work?’ I ask.
Allison raises her eyes and squints, pensively. ‘It was all quite odd, really. Her contract at Southwark St Martin’s was due to finish on the Friday, but they wanted to renew, and she’d indicated her intention to do so. Then, out of the blue, she phoned and said that she was leaving us.’
‘And she didn’t say why?’
‘Nope.’ Allison shakes her head. ‘She just said that her plans had changed. Of course, it’s possible that she got a better offer via another agency, but she may have just decided to return home to Ghana. That would be my guess. Possibly she couldn’t afford the visa renewal fee.’
‘You’d have thought she could have been sponsored again.’
‘You’d have thought,’ Allison repeats, but it’s clear she knows no more than this.
‘Who was her first sponsor?’ I ask.
‘St Bartholomew’s. The PICU there. Do you want a name?’
I consider this for a moment. ‘Yes. Yes please.’
Allison nods, then turns back to her computer screen, clicks on a link and scrolls down a little, before scribbling a name on a piece of paper and handing it to me. I fold the paper and put it into the zip pocket of my handbag, then reach out and shake her hand.
‘Thanks, Allison. You’ve been extremely helpful.’
‘No problemo,’ she replies. ‘Ciao for now.’
Outside on the street, I look at the clock on my phone. It’s half past eleven. There’s still an hour and a half before I have to be back at court and I’d noticed signs to St Bart’s on the corner next to the Old Bailey, which would mean that it was probably only a short walk away and a matter of minutes back to court again afterwards. It might be cutting it fine, but I have nothing else to do between now and one o’clock, and if I can get any sort of lead on Mary Ngombe’s whereabouts, that will at least give Will an argument to present to the judge this afternoon.
As I walk back past the court building, I spot Will on the corner of the street, smoking a cigarette. He has his wig on and his back to me, but I can tell it’s him. One of his legs is propped up against the wall outside the building, and I can see a bright green sock protruding, which makes me smile. He turns as I approach him.
‘You’re not wearing your lucky socks,’ I accuse him.
He looks down at his feet and smiles. ‘Not today,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to wear them out.’ He takes a last puff of his cigarette and squashes it against the railing. ‘So where have you been?’
‘To the agency.’
‘And?’
‘No go.’ I shake my head. ‘Mary Ngombe is a reliable, hard-working paediatric specialist nurse, with a full working visa and a UK sponsor, who I’m just on my way to talk to.’
‘Crap. Who’s the sponsor?’
‘St Bart’s ICU. I have a name.’ I fumble for the zip of my bag and pull out the piece of paper. ‘Mark Greenhalgh,’ I say. ‘Head of Paediatrics.’
Will nods. ‘Good work, Ms Kellerman. Worth talking to him, if you’ve time.’
‘Do you want to come with me?’ I venture.
Will shakes his head. ‘I’ve got another mention in Court Eight before lunch. Judge is just out reading the papers. I’d better get back.’
*
My trip to St Bart’s paediatrics department is unfruitful. Mark Greenhalgh, it seems, has left the department and moved on to the John Radcliffe Hospital at Oxford to combine his clinical work with a teaching post at the university’s Department of Medicine. I’m given a number to call, but it rings out for several moments before eventually diverting to the voicemail of a secretary that I can’t be sure is his. Attempts to get through to him via the main switchboard are equally futile and I spend a good forty-five minutes on the phone being passed from department to department and having to start all over again with my explanation as to why I need to find Dr Greenhalgh today, rather than tomorrow. Eventually I extract a promise from a helpful assistant to a consultant in the outpatients department that she will track down Dr Greenhalgh and have him call me back as soon as she can.
It seems that Will should have worn his lucky socks after all because on my return to court, and after a twenty-minute hearing – during which Ellie becomes increasingly agitated at the prosecutor’s assertions against her – the judge finds that Mary Ngombe’s statement should be admitted in evidence as ‘a reliable account from an independent medical professional’ which, if excluded, would result in considerable unfairness to the prosecution.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Ellie proclaims loudly as he delivers his judgment.
‘My Lord,’ Will leaps up. ‘The probative value of this statement, as weighed up against the prejudice to the defendant—’
‘Any prejudice to the defendant,’ interrupts Judge Collins, who is suntanned and irritable, no doubt wishing himself still on his holiday in Malta, ‘can be dealt with by way of a direction to the jury. They’ll be made fully aware of the circumstances behind the statement’s admission and the weight that should attached.’
‘But, My Lord—’
Judge Collins simultaneously lifts one hand and takes off his glasses with the other. He rubs hard at each eye in turn, before putting his glasses back on. ‘I’m satisfied that it’s in the interests of justice to admit this statement, Mr Gaskin. I’m persuaded as to its importance in the context of the case as a whole and by the fact that it’s a statement made immediately after the event by an independent professional witness. I’ve given my judgment.’
‘Yes, My Lord.’ Will sits down.
The judge continues. ‘Ms Stephens has entered her pleas and directions have been made. The trial will begin on the fifth of February next year. It will be listed for five days. Any issues that are likely to affect trial readiness are to be notified to the Court a fortnight before the opening of the prosecution case. Court rise.’
‘It wasn’t me!’ Ellie yells as the judge exits the courtroom. ‘It wasn’t me,’ she yells again at the prosecutor as the usher lets her out of the dock. Carmel simply blinks at Ellie and continues to gather her papers and pack them into a flight case at her feet. She turns to talk to Will as he approaches her.
I take Ellie’s elbow and steer her out of the courtroom. ‘It’s a setback,’ I tell her. ‘But it’s not fatal to your case. As the judge said, the jury will be warned that her evidence has not been tested. Challenged, you know? And they’ll be told to bear that in mind.’
‘No,’ Ellie says, flinging her handbag over her shoulder and flicking back her hair angrily. Her voice echoes around the hallway, breaking the silent stillness of the air. ‘No, what he said is that she’s a nurse, an upstanding member of society, and I’m just a scumbag whore. He’s made his mind up already who to believe.’
‘When it comes to the making up of minds about you, it’s not his decision, Ellie, it’s the jury’s,’ I tell her. ‘And no one knows about that yet...’
‘Yeah, great,’ says Ellie, her lip curling up. ‘So, if this is how things are playing out now, what with a piece of paper – written by a copper and supposedly signed by a nurse that nobody can find – being more important than a real person, whose life is in the balance, then what are they going to say when they find that out about me?’
I glance at Will, who has appeared behind us. ‘I’m sorry, Ellie,’ he says. ‘I know you’re disappointed. I am too.’
Ellie looks at him for a moment. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she says, calming down a little. ‘You did a good job. Thank you.’
Will says, ‘Let’s meet again in a week or two and, in the meantime, see if you can get Marie on board.’
‘OK.’ Ellie nods. She heaves a sigh and taps my arm. ‘I’ll see you, Sarah.’
Will and I watch as she strides off across the hallway and disappears down the staircase.
I heave a sigh. ‘You can’t blame her for being upset.’
‘At least she’s talking to us now,’ Will says. ‘I don’t know what you’ve done to get through to her, but the angry, involved Ellie is a damned sight more useful to us than the sullen, silent one.’
‘Hmm. Well my next job is to try and take a statement from Marie before she goes and makes up with the indomitable Darren.’
Will puts his hand on my arm. ‘OK. But first, let me buy you a drink.’
I shake my head. ‘I should get back to the office.’
Will frowns.
‘They’re on my case a bit,’ I add.
‘Really?’
‘Don’t ask.’
Will looks disappointed. ‘I was just going to suggest we finish up our conference over a nice bottle of Sauvignon at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese off Shoe Lane. It’s where I do all my best thinking.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Another time. So what happened in there...’ I nod my head towards the courtroom. ‘Is it appealable?’
Will shakes his head. ‘Probably not. I think we’re just going to have to suck this one up.’
‘Unless...’
Will rolls his eyes. ‘No. Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.’
I bite my lip and try to stop myself from smirking.
Will gives in and smiles.
‘OK,’ I tell him. ‘What would you say if I could find the nurse?’
‘You want to find the nurse?’
‘Sure I do. If I find the nurse, then subsection d doesn’t apply. She’s no longer missing. They’d have to rescind their application...’
‘And call her to give evidence, during which she might make a positive identification of Ellie!’
‘She might not. What if she doesn’t?’
‘What if she does?’
‘What if she doesn’t?’
Will sighs. ‘So you’re going to go looking for her? How are you going to do that?’
I shrug. ‘Dunno yet. So what do you think?’
Will narrows his eyes. ‘I think she’s a prosecution witness.’
‘An independent one, as Judge Collins kept reminding us.’
‘I think you’ll be playing with fire.’
‘What’s the alternative? Let Ellie get convicted on the basis of hearsay and circumstance? Because, you and I both know that that will be the outcome unless we find out what really happened.’
Will looks me in the eye. ‘Unless what really happened is that Ellie tried to kill her baby.’
‘But what if she didn’t?’
‘Then who did?’
‘I don’t know. But if Ellie’s telling the truth, then it points to one of two things: either the police have missed someone going on or off the ward – or it was one of the nurses. Someone who was already working on the ward that night.’
‘An angel of mercy? Of death? Is that what you’re suggesting?’ Will frowns. ‘Some kind of crazy nurse?’
I shrug. ‘Possibly. Or maybe it was an accident. Look, we need the CCTV. We need to view it for ourselves. We need to ask around at the hospital, find out who else was working on the ward that night, if anyone saw anything that could help us. We need to find Mary Ngombe, ask her some questions, scrutinise her account. Don’t you think it’s even a tiny bit weird that she disappeared so suddenly, so soon after what happened to Finn?’
Will regards me in silence for a moment, his face inscrutable. ‘So, will the legal aid fund pay for you to hunt down the nurse?’ he says finally.
‘I’ll do it on my own time.’
Will shakes his head. ‘Don’t you have enough going on in your life, Ms Kellerman?’
‘Yeah, well...’ I smile. ‘You know what they say: if you want something done, ask a busy person.’ I look up at him. ‘So you’re in?’
‘OK.’ Will nods. He takes off his glasses and studies my face. ‘But only because I don’t think you’ll find her.’
I look him in the eye and bite my lip. ‘Care to make this interesting?’
Will’s eyes widen. ‘You want to place a bet with me?’
I hold out my hand. ‘A bottle of Sauvignon at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese says I can find the nurse.’
Will looks at me for a moment, poker-faced, before taking my hand. ‘A bottle of Sauvignon it is.’
‘May the best man – or woman – win,’ I add.
The corners of Will’s mouth twitch. ‘I certainly hope so,’ he says.