Blood Pact E-Book

Fiona McIntosh

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

'I was immediately hooked on this story and the pages just flew by. It was over before I realised how deep into the book I was'⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Real reader review 'Exciting to the last pages'⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Real reader review Detective Superintendent Jack Hawksworth is seconded by counter-terrorism to investigate a spate of domestic events. First it was needles in strawberries, then tampering with lipstick samplers and baby formula. But when toxic mushrooms hit the supermarket shelves and a death occurs, a wave of panic is set to sweep the country. Breaking news of a possible serial killer only heightens the alarm. There are no leads, no DNA, no witnesses, no CCTV footage. Jack and his team must work on instinct to figure out why someone would want to harm innocent victims, each of them curiously linked to a single blood transfusion. Then a hospital bomb threat erupts, and it's up to Jack's team to prevent the inevitable bloodshed. But the clock is ticking, and no one is safe from the possibility of a tragedy on a catastrophic scale.

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To all the people who donate the gift of life – you are wonderful.

PROLOGUE

Bristol, December 2007

She hadn’t meant to kill anyone.

It was Liv’s first time. She was embarrassed that she’d left it this long. She could track who received it, but she wouldn’t. That would be creepy.

She grabbed her ID tag and slung it around her neck before putting on the olive-green Barbour-style coat she’d bought at Jigsaw. When she’d decided she needed this coat, there had been none left in the country; she’d finally found one in Northern Ireland, of all places. She had never regretted the ninety pounds or the postage.

Liv negotiated the myriad corridors of the sprawling rabbit warren, a single-storey building on an industrial estate, and once again counted her blessings for the purchase as she exited the facility’s revolving doors into the bitterly cold car park.

If she had a good run, she could be at the centre in about five minutes, and then if she allowed half an hour to lose her virginity – that thought made her smile – she could be back in time to grab a baked potato with trashy trimmings as her reward; it was today’s special in the canteen.

At the Blood Donor Centre the nurse welcomed her warmly, a contrast to the cold smells of antiseptic, plastic and metal that hit her on arrival. ‘Oh, ’ello, a brave soul. Come on in from the cold, my lover. You’re in luck. It’s just slowed down.’

Liv glanced around. The only other person she could see was a second nurse, packing plastic bags of blood: some a rich scarlet, others so dark they could be brown. ‘Is it just me?’

‘For now,’ the nurse said with a grin. Her badge said Gail P. ‘Run off our feet all morning and the last fella just left.’

‘Good to hear. How many?’

‘Lost count. Maybe nearing three dozen,’ the other nurse said, as Gail reached for Liv’s form.

‘Did you fill it in earlier?’

Liv nodded. ‘I’ve confessed all my sins, medical and lifestyle, and travel and, er… romantic, not that there’s been much of the latter.’

‘Right,’ Gail said, checking through the paperwork. ‘Sorry to make you repeat yourself, but you’ll get used to it. I need your full name, please, then your date of birth and your address.’

Liv dutifully recited all the information as George Michael sang about the previous Christmas on the radio they’d turned up full blast – probably because it was so slow they thought they were done with collections for the day. The other nurse was bopping along, and the tinsel wound around her name badge danced with her.

‘All right, my lover,’ Gail said in that familiar West Country way. She attached Liv’s form to a clipboard. ‘I see this is your first time?’

‘A virgin!’ the second nurse crowed.

‘Yes. I’m glad I’m finally doing this. Oh, you’re Gayle too,’ Liv said, noticing the name on the dancing woman’s badge.

‘Yes, spelt differently but there’s confusion, obviously, so we have Gail P and Gayle G.’

‘Have you stayed hydrated this morning?’ Gail asked, leading Liv over to a blue vinyl recliner chair.

‘Yes. Do I really have to drink another pint of water?’

‘Protocol, my love,’ she said, handing Liv an A4 folder. ‘And here’s your delightful reading material.’

Liv groaned.

‘I know. Go on, flick through it. It’s necessary. I’ll get your water while you read.’

Liv obediently turned the laminated pages of safety information, scanning but not really reading them. Gail returned with a plastic cup and Liv began to drink, closing the folder and looking around the room. A number of brightly coloured posters told her how many products could be made from her blood, how many people she might be helping today, how her donation was the gift of life, along with several testimonials from donors and recipients alike. Everyone on the posters was smiling. One suggested she consider becoming a tissue donor. Working at Filton’s massive blood centre, she was frequently reminded of just how brilliant blood donations were and how many people a single donation could help, yet it had taken her this long to finally do it. Oh well, she was here now.

‘Do we drink all this to replenish the liquid being taken?’ Liv asked as the nurse returned to take her cup.

Gail nodded. ‘It also stops you fainting afterwards.’

‘I’m going to faint?’ Liv repeated, sounding mortified.

Gail snorted. ‘No, love. It’s a precaution. We make sure you leave us feeling great, I promise.’ She snapped on a pair of fresh gloves. ‘Right, more questions. Are you feeling well today? Haven’t had any illness recently?’

Liv shook her head.

‘Have you been out of the country in the last six months?’

‘Nope. I wish.’

‘No lucky fellow in your life?’

Liv shrugged with a sad expression.

‘He’ll find you.’

‘Hope so. Sometimes I think I’m pathetic, but to be honest all I want is a quiet life and a nice man to settle down with and have a family.’

‘Why is that pathetic?’ Gail sounded astonished. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

‘Oh, these days I feel like every woman my age has to be striving for a career, the perfect lifestyle, a glamorous home, you know.’

Gail made a sound of disdain.

‘But I’ll be happy with someone who loves me and I love back.’

‘Stick to that plan. It’s all that matters,’ the older woman assured her. ‘So, we’re going to check name, date of birth and address again, please. I know it’s tedious, but it prevents any mishaps,’ she said.

Liv obliged with the details.

‘Thank you. So now the finger prick. Don’t be scared – you won’t feel a thing. You’re a leftie?’

Liv nodded.

‘Okay, we’ll use your right hand,’ she said and wiped Liv’s middle finger with an alcohol swab. She made a swift prick to Liv’s finger and squeezed a small drop of blood from the site, which she wiped away and then repeated to elicit a bright, richly scarlet droplet that she drew into a pipette.

Liv watched her drop the blood sample into one of two vials of coloured liquid. ‘What’s that solution you’re putting it into?’ She knew very well what it was from her work as a lab assistant, but she wanted to see how much the nurses knew about their routine. She was ready with an answer if asked: it would feel awkward now to mention Filton and face the inevitable question of why she hadn’t already donated.

‘This is copper sulphate. The gals are green and the guys are blue. Don’t ask me to explain why – it’s all a bit technical.’

Liv laughed, the answer running through her head: women’s solution had a specific gravity of 1.053 and the men’s 1.055. ‘And why do we do that?’

‘We need your drop of blood to sink. If it fails to do that, I won’t be drawing blood from you today. I’m a little tired and caffeine-deprived to explain the complexity of this.’ She grinned and turned on a timer. ‘But let me try because you’re interested and we’re grateful for your gift. If the specific gravity of your blood is higher than the solution, which is what we want, it will sink and assure me that you have adequate levels of haemoglobin to safely donate.’ She tapped Liv’s arm gently. ‘Now we wait.’

Liv was impressed by Gail’s layman’s explanation.

It was an obedient drop of blood.

‘There we go,’ Gail said triumphantly. ‘So get comfy while I fetch what we need.’

The HemaFlow Scale, which would gently rock Liv’s blood to prevent it from coagulating, was already on the floor at her side. Gail returned with a plastic basket containing a blood donation pack, swabs, sample vials and assorted paraphernalia.

‘Do you know your blood type?’

Liv shook her head, unsure of why she was fibbing. Still, Gail, despite her fatigue, seemed to enjoy leading her through the process.

‘You’re A positive, for future reference. I hope you’ll become a regular. You and about half the population belong to the A group.’

‘A plus,’ Liv said. ‘I hope my parents are proud.’

Gail laughed and put the blood pack onto the scales. ‘I’ll just recline the seat and adjust this armrest. Comfortable?’

Liv nodded.

Gail wound a blood pressure cuff around Liv’s upper arm and pumped it up. ‘Make a fist for me,’ she said. ‘Open and close a couple of times.’ She studied Liv’s inner elbow. ‘Well, we have a lovely vein right here,’ she said, ripping open an alcohol swab and wiping the area. She picked up the 16-gauge retractable needle. ‘Sharp scratch,’ she warned, and inserted the needle as Liv looked away, barely feeling the expert intrusion. ‘All done,’ she said cheerfully, taping the attached tubes in place on Liv’s arm. ‘I’m just going to take some samples for testing,’ she said, snapping on and off various vials that she filled with Liv’s blood before attaching the bag. ‘Try to relax.’ She switched on the HemaFlow machine, and the first small stream of blood began to settle into the bag. ‘I’m just going to get everything checked and ready for sending – I’ll be back in a few, okay?’

Not quite five minutes later, the alarm on Liv’s machine sounded and the donation of nearly 500 millilitres of her blood was complete.

Gail switched off the alarm. ‘Feeling light-headed?’

‘No.’ Liv smiled with relief.

‘Good, but you need to sit for another fifteen minutes. Those are the rules,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you a hot cuppa. Do you take sugar?’

Liv nodded. ‘Half a spoon.’

‘Let me just get all this off you,’ Gail said, removing the needle and pressing a swab on the entry site. ‘Press on that for a couple of minutes.’ She removed the tape and bundled up the blood pack, then cleared away all the equipment before checking under Liv’s swab for bleeding. ‘All good. Are you allergic to plasters?’

‘No,’ Liv answered, and a large plaster was opened and applied to the tiny wound.

‘Keep this on for the rest of the day, eh?’ Gail advised before applying a small pressure dressing. ‘I’ll get that cuppa.’

She returned with a plastic cup of tea and a selection of snacks. ‘I’m sorry, it’s vending machine tea, but the Club Orange biscuits make up for it.’ She grinned. ‘Eat something now. It helps. And then here’s a safety information card with a helpline you can call if you feel unwell. You’ve got another ten minutes and then Gayle G will see you out – I’m about to go on a break. Thanks for your donation, especially at this time of year, and Merry Christmas to you.’

‘Thanks. Same to you.’

Gail turned as she was leaving. ‘Hope to see you in about four months… maybe wearing an engagement ring?’ she said, holding up her left hand.

The women shared a laugh.

As Liv left the donor centre, hoping there might still be some baked potatoes in the canteen, her parcel of A+ blood – which had the potential to save lives in 43 per cent of the population – was being carefully packaged up with the other donations for the day. They would be taken to Filton within the hour for processing and would be moving through her own lab by the time she finished eating.

She felt cheered by her first donation, unaware that her blood was already on its journey to killing someone.

Sally was on autopilot without realising it. It happened a lot, and not just to her – her colleagues at North London’s Barnet Hospital might not admit to it publicly but, between them, on these extra-long shifts, with many unpaid overtime hours, they understood the mind drifted and muscle memory often took over.

She’d not expected to do a double shift. The only reason she felt obliged to agree – apart from the short staffing and desperate need of the patients – was the extra money, plus the fact that both her children were staying with her parents this week for school holidays. They loved being spoiled by their grandparents, and she didn’t have to worry about not getting home as promised. Still, she did feel guilty about Rob missing out on their private time.

‘Aw, really?’ he whined when she rang. ‘You promised no more of these, sweetheart.’

‘I know, but it’s good money and they’re in trouble here. It’s shorter. Just six hours.’

‘Not short on top of the eight or nine hours you’ve already done.’

‘This is the last time. Means we can get Amy the birthday present she wants without having to argue about how much it costs.’

‘I know that’s how you look at it, but it’s robbing Peter to pay Paul, as my old dad used to say.’

‘Well,’ she said with a sigh, not relishing the hard yards ahead, ‘it’s the only way I can look at it. A happy daughter on her birthday, rather than one who feels she’s not as good as the others at school. No contest, right?’

‘If you say so.’

‘I’ll make it up to you.’

‘How?’

‘The only way I know, my love.’ She laughed.

‘Then hurry home!’

They rang off. And now here she was, five and a half hours into that final six-hour slog. The phrase Dead on my feet kept going through her head but she was so close now, ready to start the final round of the ward, when the urgent call came through from her colleague, Janine.

‘Sally? Oh, thank heavens. I was told you were pulling a long one.’

‘Why do you sound so relieved?’ She yawned silently.

‘We’ve got a group and hold in A&E. The surgeon was called and she’s ordered a transfusion.’

Shit! she thought silently, stifling another yawn. A group and hold meant a blood test to group the blood and have the supply readied in the lab. ‘Which patient?’

‘Er… his name is William Parker.’

Sally’s back was aching; the pinch of sciatica was surely just one more patient-lift away and then her days off would mean limping around awkwardly. ‘Janine,’ she said, using one hand to support herself against the wall, ‘I don’t have a William on my ward.’

‘I know. It’s the other children’s ward, not yours.’

‘Oh,’ she said, surprised. ‘Then why am I being asked?’

She heard her senior sigh. She was likely tired too. ‘Because I’ve never met another nurse in my time who draws blood from a child as ably as you do. This boy, seven, had his tonsillectomy a week ago but he presented at A&E yesterday, bleeding from one side. They got it all under control but the family’s back again tonight – more haemorrhaging, same side.’

‘Not unusual.’

‘Except he’s tachycardic and, worse, I’ve just heard back that his haemoglobin is at seventy. As I said, A&E contacted the paediatric surgeon – you know Emily Harley – and she’s placed an urgent order for a crossmatch. We’re taking all precautions.’

‘So do it in A&E.’ She didn’t mean to sound uncaring, but it seemed counterproductive not to follow the surgeon’s advice right away.

‘We already did.’

‘And?’ She yawned, trying not to open her mouth, which just made her eyes glisten with tears.

‘It clotted.’ Janine sounded dismayed.

‘Unusable?’

‘Yeah, I’m afraid so. It has to be done again and the little fellow was already traumatised to be back in A&E and all its chaos. He’s been taken up to the ward to settle down, perhaps even sleep, and so we need you to work your magic. The others don’t have your light touch. The mum’s given permission. Once we verify everything, the blood will be sent down and the night shift on that ward can do the transfusion.’

Sally gave a snort of disgust. ‘The others really should learn how to do it without frightening the little ones.’

‘I know. Please, Sally. This is a young life in danger, and I’m too tired to debate the inconvenience and unfairness… and I know you’re probably even more fatigued than I am. It’s probably faster to just go down the hallway and do it than argue.’

‘Right.’ She blew out a breath.

‘Let me give you the details again.’

‘No, I heard it the first time. William Parker. I’ll do it now. You know I’m nearly off a second shift?’ Sally looked at her watch. ‘In under twenty minutes, and I am not staying a second over.’

‘Nor do I expect you to. Five minutes is all you’ll need and then you can go. The others can cover you.’ The senior nurse thanked her profusely.

Sally checked at her station and told the other two nurses what she had been asked to do. They both made faces of sympathy. ‘It’s all quiet on ours,’ one assured her.

‘Back in a jiffy,’ Sally said, dragging her heavy feet down the corridor towards the other children’s ward.

Tonsillectomies weren’t so common any more. Sally’s mother, who had been a nurse in the 1960s and 70s, had told her they were done as a matter of course back then, the moment a child started to show a propensity for sore throats. Today it was only standard practice to remove tonsils and adenoids if there would otherwise be an unpleasant childhood of constant illness.

She stifled another deep yawn as she arrived at the nurse’s station. ‘What’s up?’ asked Annie, the rostered nurse. ‘Why are you here, Sally?’

‘Emergency crossmatch sample for your tonsillectomy.’

‘Oh. Okay, but which—’ But before she could finish, a colleague was calling her anxiously from the swinging doors.

‘Annie, can you help, please? I think we have a fainter.’

Annie looked back. ‘You okay, Sally? It’s all quiet in there. Do you need me to—’

‘No, you carry on. I’ll be in and out. Janine will call you shortly, okay?’

Annie nodded and hurried after her colleague.

Sally stepped quietly into the ward, dark other than a small night-light. Six children of varying ages were sleeping, and she could see two made-up cots, presumably for parents, both empty. She sighed. Just her luck. They were probably in the canteen or down the hall at the vending machine. Well, she couldn’t wait, and Emergency couldn’t either.

She saw the name William and tonsillectomy on the sign above one bed and, barely rousing the child, she worked her magic, drawing the blood sample swiftly and disappearing again in minutes.

Sally took the blood to the lab with the request form. ‘They need an urgent crossmatch transfusion,’ she said, writing down the ward. ‘I did the blood draw; all is correct.’ She signed the form.

The laboratory technician nodded. ‘Of course. They’re always urgent.’

‘No, really. Straight away, Alec,’ she said in a tired voice. ‘It’s a child.’

‘Doing it now, Sally,’ he said, mimicking her tone.

She returned to her own ward and rang Janine. ‘Right, it’s done, and the lab will send the blood down immediately. You’d better get them all organised now for the transfusion.’

‘I’ll ring Jess and Annie now. Night-night, Sally, and thanks. You’ve just saved another life and my arse.’

Sally smiled, just so glad to be going home.

Except she hadn’t just saved a life.

She’d just killed seven-year-old Billy Parker, who had returned twice to the hospital for unusual bleeding and was now showing physiological signs of stress. William Smithson, meanwhile, was in normal post-op care for a tonsillectomy.

William Smithson was blood type A positive.

William Parker was blood type B negative.

The bag of A positive was retrieved. It had been donated by Liv – the virgin blood donor – on 23 December.

Janine had duly called Annie. ‘Blood’s on its way for William Parker. Get it into him immediately. The surgeon is also on her way in, but she’s about an hour away; do not wait.’

They didn’t. At his bedside, they checked paperwork that the blood was drawn and crossmatched for William Parker. No blood type was mentioned; all that detail was held at the lab with Alec. The blood was transfused into Billy’s arm while his anxious mother watched.

‘Why does he need this?’ she asked.

‘It’s been ordered by Billy’s surgeon and it’s just a precaution.’ Annie smiled. ‘Billy’s doing well; the bleeding has been subsiding since he came on the ward.’

‘I was told before the op that Will might need one too,’ the other mother in the ward said softly. ‘I think it’s just a top-up if they’re bleeding a bit much.’

Billy’s mother looked reassured. ‘He’s been so lethargic up until now, but I agree he’s looking brighter.’

Billy grinned back at her, tearing his fascinated gaze from the tube in his arm.

‘He’ll really perk up after this,’ Annie said, smiling. ‘He’ll be home tomorrow and kicking a ball around next week, won’t you, matey?’

Billy looked at his mum. ‘Will you tell Dad how brave I’ve been?’

‘Of course,’ she said, and all three women chuckled at his sweetness. ‘He’s going to be so proud of you. I’ll phone him as soon as we finish.’

‘Nearly done,’ Annie said. ‘You go to sleep now, Billy. You’ve had a big day and we’ll see you when you wake up. Mrs Parker, you should rest too. Call me if you need me. Mrs Smithson, would you like a cuppa?’

The nurse and the other mother left the ward as Billy’s mother closed her eyes next to her dozing son.

Within ten minutes of the transfusion beginning, Billy’s blood pressure began to drop precipitously. He was unresponsive after sixteen minutes, and as frightened emergency buttons were pressed and alarms sounded, Billy, already weakened from surgery, suffered cardiac arrest and could not be resuscitated.

1

Venice, January 2011

As Lou widened her eyes with mischievous pleasure and blew him a kiss over the heads of other customers in the gelato bar, Jack smiled at her delight. It had been a very good holiday, despite its brevity, and the building warmth of their relationship had more than countered the chilly weather.

They’d spent four days in Venice, with its misty mornings and damp days, roaming its narrow cobbled lanes. He loved this city in winter; its ancient buildings became even more muted and the Grand Canal looked like a watercolour painting.

They were now so used to traversing the maze of the old city that they could get back to St Mark’s Square without any assistance, and from any corner of the city – even if it appeared unfamiliar. He had to resist giving too much of a history lesson, but then Lou had studied art history and loved it. They were combining both of their loves with this trip – and, really, with this relationship, which had moved quickly from the first flush of meeting to something that felt solid, full of substance and potential.

Jack felt slightly scared when he looked at Lou. He kept thinking about how much he didn’t want to lose her – to an operation he was involved in, to some criminal who might decide to make his personal life a misery or, perhaps more predictably, to the long and demanding hours of his job. It was no nine to five. And it wasn’t friendly. He couldn’t discuss much of it with her, and wouldn’t anyway, not after her reaction, just over a year earlier, when Operation Stonecrop had brought fear and danger into her life through him.

Meeting Lou had been a chance occurrence: he’d been holding up her drunk, semiconscious flatmate at the door of their apartment building as she skipped down the stairs in pyjamas, her hair looped up in a bun with a pencil, and a warm smile on her face. She didn’t seem to care that he’d caught her so informally, and her casual friendliness, with a promise of cheekiness, had taken him by surprise. He now knew that his handsomely suited, but dishevelled, look that night had caught her unawares, too. Jack, even now, could feel the intensity of that first moment, its scorching pleasure, and he hoped that would never change. The last time he’d felt anything to match such a powerful desire for someone was six or seven years earlier, and he didn’t want to remember that time.

It was full of pain.

But this was full of fun.

Long may it reign, he thought as she edged another couple of people closer to the front of the queue. He was lurking at the back of the gelato bar; they’d been told not to miss this ice cream on any account so he would remain patient. He wandered out of the shadows into the sunshine of a Venetian winter, and caught his reflection in the shop window: the thin rays highlighted the tiny brushstrokes of grey at his ears. Not a lot, but enough that he realised he wasn’t getting enough times like these; life was all work and no play. He needed to do something about that. He raked long, blunt fingers through his dark hair, thinking about the trim he would need before he next walked into the office.

Another wave of people surged past him, speaking in various languages. What had happened to seasonal travel? He felt just a little churlish at discovering there were so many people on the move in one of his favourite cities. He was in their way. Another big group were just pushing through, following a woman with a red umbrella and looking longingly at the gelato bar, despite it being winter.

Tour groups gave him hives, but he understood the attraction. How else were holidaymakers to get their culture fix and be able to say yes, we saw this, and here’s the photo to prove it, while leaving time for what they really wanted to do on holiday – relax, eat, sleep long and lazily, and be in a new and exotic destination that didn’t resemble their daily grind.

He was certainly appreciating it, after months of working cold cases. After the adrenaline-pumping ops of the past, he was glad of the almost dull routine of these older cases, the bonus being that they had more friendly hours and he could spend more time with Lou. She deserved as much spoiling as he could give. And it was lovely to be kitted out in jeans and sweatshirts, with a casual jacket, rather than the obligatory suit or sports jacket with neat chinos and collared shirt. He could get used to this.

There she was… at last!

‘I hope it’s worth it.’ He grinned.

‘I’ve already licked yours.’ She laughed, flicking back a long tail of golden hair that had come loose from its clip and fallen across her face. It gave her a wanton look he liked. Lou, oblivious to his yearning, handed him a cone with a scoop of green gelato the colour of artichoke. He hoped it was a different flavour. ‘It will blow your mind,’ she promised with an arch expression. ‘The world’s best pistachio.’

‘And your flavour?’

‘Tangerine,’ she said. ‘It’s like you, Mr Hawksworth… all fresh and spritzy.’

He laughed aloud. ‘I look like tangerine gelato?’

‘I didn’t say that. I would have bought mint chocolate chip in that case, to go with your minty sweatshirt and dark hair. No, this gelato tastes the way you make me feel.’

‘Fresh and spritzy… I’ll take that.’ He put his arm around her shoulders. With or without the extraordinary pistachio gelato – she hadn’t lied – he couldn’t think of a moment in the past few years when he’d been happier. ‘I was thinking of lunch on the top of the Hotel Cipriani.’

She cut him a dubious look. ‘Really?’

‘Do you have a better idea?’

‘Yeah, walk down a random alley and sit down at the first restaurant that doesn’t look touristy or dodgy.’

He shrugged. ‘They’re all touristy.’

‘I don’t want anywhere posh. I want to hold your hand and steal spaghetti off your plate, and not feel embarrassed to order an outrageous dessert.’

He laughed. ‘Another reason to love you.’

‘That you don’t need to impress me with fancy places?’

Jack hugged her closer. ‘No, that you want to hold my hand while you eat.’ He leaned down and kissed her, knowing he would annoy the approaching tour group but to hell with it. Life felt good. He was in love.

His phone rang. He gave Lou an apologetic glance as he pulled it from his pocket. Carol Rowland. His heart sank momentarily but he didn’t answer, let it ring out.

‘Not important?’ Lou asked.

‘They know I’m on leave.’

‘Who was it?’

‘My boss.’

‘I think you should have answered it,’ she said as they broke into the glorious square of St Mark’s, where two small string quartets were vying to attract customers to their respective grand cafés. Pigeons lifted and resettled constantly in a madly moving flock.

‘If she calls again, I’ll answer,’ he said. He didn’t want to ruin this romantic time, but if Carol was ringing, knowing he was away, then something was up. She would definitely ring again… and soon. ‘Now, do you want to try somewhere in San Marco?’ he asked, sweeping his hand in an arc.

‘No, Jack, this really is for the tourists, although I admit the music is delightful. But look at the queues. I swear Venice becomes more crowded each time I visit.’

They strolled to the opposite corner and ducked down a familiar lane, but then deliberately took unfamiliar turns until they found a streetside restaurant where a couple was vacating a table.

‘Here,’ Lou said, squeezing in with her back to the window. ‘Perfect.’

They were near a heater too. The house specialty, risi e bisi, was delicious, and just as they began sharing a tiramisu, his phone rang again.

‘Sorry,’ he mouthed.

‘Take it. The rest of this is mine, though,’ she warned.

He laughed and swung away from the table to talk. ‘Hawksworth.’

‘Jack.’

‘Ma’am.’

‘I apologise for interrupting your break.’

‘It must be important.’

‘It is. When are you back?’

‘Two more nights. Back Friday.’ He heard her give a soft hiss. ‘Do I need to change my flights?’

‘No,’ she said, after a pause. She sounded emphatic, as though she was trying to convince herself. ‘Enjoy your time. I’ll see you Saturday, then?’

‘Of course. I’m guessing I’m not going back to cold cases?’

‘No. I had a drink with the Deputy Assistant Commissioner at CTC,’ she said. ‘And I’ve offered you up to him.’

He blinked. Counter Terrorism Command? ‘All right. Why?’

‘Don’t worry about that now. Get on with your holiday, and I’ll brief you when you get in. Bye, Jack.’

He stared at the phone after Carol rang off.

‘Everything okay?’ Lou asked, dramatically spooning the last mouthful of tiramisu into her mouth without a shred of guilt in her expression.

He shook his head. ‘Not sure.’ Then he looked down at the empty plate and gave a wicked smile. ‘What I am sure about is that you’re going to have to pay for that selfish gluttony.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, I’m going to take you back to the hotel and—’

‘Coffee?’ the waiter interrupted. He began to expertly clear the dishes.

‘Yes, please. Two,’ Lou said, laughing at Jack’s face as he dis-guised his next words by clearing his throat. ‘And Jack…’ she began, waiting for the young man to depart. ‘I’m too full to pay my debt. You’ll have to wait.’

‘I can’t help it if you’re a glutton.’

She tipped her head back and laughed joyously.

‘But it’s another reason to love you.’

‘How I love my food, you mean?’ she asked.

He nodded.

‘So that’s two reasons to love me that you’ve mentioned this afternoon.’ A playful tension suddenly wrapped around them. ‘Is three the charm?’

He studied her, thoughts swirling. Just before the silence became awkward, he smiled tenderly. ‘No, I love everything about you. They don’t need to be numbered.’

She nodded. ‘Good. So… ?’ Playful turned to more serious. She covered his hand with hers. ‘You know about my past relationships, and you’ve told me about yours.’

‘Very grown-up, aren’t we?’ He laughed but she didn’t. ‘And?’ Now he frowned.

‘I don’t want to be just another one in the line. I’m thirty-five, too old now to invest in the wrong guy. You feel like the very best fit I’ve ever met, but maybe you’re someone who can’t imagine beyond the first year or two.’ She waited. ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Jack. I just want to be honest. So here it is. I’m crazy about you, and I don’t get crazy about people. I prefer animals, to be frank, but I’m frightened to let myself go any deeper with you in case you don’t feel the same way.’ He opened his mouth to speak but she continued before he could. ‘And I’m not suggesting you have to be in love with me, but I am with you. I don’t want to become a casualty if you’re reluctant to look too far ahead. I’d rather you had the space right now to say so, because I’m in a dangerous quicksand.’

The coffees arrived before he could respond, creating a momentary brittle silence.

Lou sighed. ‘Talk about a mood buster. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—’

‘No, no, I’m glad you’ve said what you have. And you’re right, I’m nervous to speak of love because I’ve had my fair share of disasters.’

She leaned forward with an earnest expression. ‘Hey, irrespective of me, it’s probably time you accepted that what happened with Anne was never your fault, if I’ve listened correctly. She marked you and deliberately pretended to be someone else.’

He nodded thoughtfully. That wound was only just healing… scar tissue covering it.

‘I’m being very selfish, but I have to protect myself. I’m not a kid and being someone’s date or holiday companion isn’t enough. You’ve changed my world, and I can see a life with you in it, but I can’t go for years wondering about a future. Now—’

‘Marry me,’ he said quietly, cutting across her words.

‘What?’ She said it far too loudly, her voice taut with shock. She sat back, looking perplexed. ‘I didn’t mean for you—’

‘I know. Will you marry me, Lou?’ He got off his chair to kneel, smiling at her.

‘Stop!’ she said, looking around wildly as people began to stare and point excitedly, realising what was happening.

‘Is that a no?’ He looked wounded. ‘Don’t break my heart.’

‘And you won’t break mine?’ she all but whispered.

He shook his head slowly, skewering her with his gaze to emphasise his sincerity.

‘Then yes. Yes, a thousand times over!’

He made a show of struggling up from his knees, to laughter all around, and then bent to kiss her tenderly. ‘I love you with all my heart… all of me.’ Then he whispered, ‘As I’ll show you later when your tonne of tiramisu has settled.’

She gurgled laughter through her tears. ‘I love you back, Jack… almost as much as that tiramisu. It’s a tight contest.’

He kissed her again to applause all around, and when they parted he murmured, ‘Let’s go find a ring in Venice.’

‘Well, you look very…’

Jack waited for his boss to find the right word. She was in one of her favoured silk shirts, of which she had an endless supply. Today it was a soft lilac. Her new softer, shaggier haircut suited her too, as did the lighter colour; it made her appear younger. He would’ve liked to say so but didn’t think it would be appropriate.

‘Er, glowy,’ Rowland finished. ‘Venice suited, obviously.’

‘It did,’ he replied. ‘It even had me proposing to my girlfriend.’

She stared at him in astonishment. ‘Wow, not much shocks me, Jack, but I had you down for a permanent bachelor. And the lucky lady’s name is…?’

‘Lou. Louise Barclay.’

‘My sincere congratulations.’

‘Thank you. I must admit I also thought marriage might pass me by. But… I know she’s the one.’

‘Then I’m even sorrier to burst that happy bubble by dragging you in today.’

He shook his head to say it was all right. ‘What’s going on, ma’am?’

She pushed a file across the desk and reached for her cup of coffee. He noted a new machine in her office. She’d upgraded to pod coffee since they’d last sat down like this. At least it smelled like real coffee.

Rowland began to talk him through the information. ‘There have been curious, isolated crimes, mostly in the middle of the country, but they have stretched to the south coast. It began in August 2009 with needles in strawberries.’

‘I remember this – it raged for a while, and then stopped. All over the news.’

‘Mmm, yes, strange and cruel. At first the police thought it was Tesco being targeted, but then Sainsbury’s and Waitrose suffered the same.’

Jack frowned. ‘From Somerset to Sussex, am I right?’

‘Correct. No leads. No CCTV footage, no witnesses of any kind. To be honest, no one was putting the incidents together to begin with. And then it all stopped almost as soon as it began. Internally it was considered to have been some nutjob with a grievance. We didn’t have the tech at that time to be across all the events. And fortunately no one was hurt, though a lot of people were scared and the strawberry growers were in limbo for a few months.’

He nodded. They’d come a long way with computer technology since 2009.

‘Anyway, it ended after four incidents. Then just over a year ago, women noticed that their lips were blistering. Most thought it must be herpes – cold sores, you know – and went to the chemist to find ointment. It was a canny chemist at Boots, who happened to be the relief chemist for different branches, who began to notice a higher-than-normal incidence of the problem. She was the one who contacted police and suggested they should be looking at the make-up counter; it was her idea to check lipsticks. An internal investigation showed that the lipstick testers of their house brand had been tampered with.’

Jack shook his head in dismay. ‘How hideous.’

‘Nasty, but not life-threatening… just a bloody nuisance to stir vexation in the part of the population who wear that brand of lipstick. The time lag meant the strawberries weren’t popping into the collective mind to link them with this new nuisance crime. The lipstick scare stopped once Boots had recalled all testers and put out new ones nationally.’

Jack flicked a page in the file and sighed. ‘I’m reading baby formula here.’

Rowland nodded. ‘Nearly a year ago. Now it gets more twisted. An infant became ill in Hounslow – again, nothing life-threatening but she was unwell enough to go to hospital – and, although tests were not conclusive, it is strongly believed that her formula was laced with something. The can had been punctured. The parents were cleared of all wrongdoing, especially as the contamination was found in another three cans in the same branch of the chemist. Only the top quarter of the formula had been contaminated, so the sampling was tiny. Nevertheless, all cans were removed nationally. And they didn’t find another from all those removed that had the same puncture hole. Some sort of syringe with a needle, they thought. Some sort of herbicide – it’s all in the file.’

Jack frowned, turning the page. ‘And then mushrooms?’

Carol nodded. ‘They were three months ago, in Gloucester. A couple got quite ill from eating poisonous mushrooms. And a few days earlier, two friends at a casual dinner in a small place called Hotwells, in Bristol, became sick and one died. The one who died had eaten poisonous mushrooms.’

‘Shit.’

Rowland grimaced. ‘Yes, that sums it up.’

‘Did they connect the two events?’

‘Nothing connects them other than toxic mushrooms that have no place at the dinner table. Both households were counties apart, and both claim they bought their mushrooms at local shops.’

‘The same sort of poisonous mushroom?’ Jack asked.

‘Yes. One from a well-known supermarket. The other from a local greengrocer.’

‘So there are some who believe it’s the same person planting them and others aren’t so sure.’

‘Precisely. No one’s sure of anything.’

Jack shook his head. ‘I can understand both points of view.’

She shrugged. ‘So can I, but Jack, what if they’re all linked? The strawberries, the lipstick, the formula and the mushrooms? What if it’s one perpetrator?’

He watched Carol carefully. She seemed to be waiting for an answer. ‘Then it’s domestic terrorism over a long time and on a national scale.’ He could understand now why she was having him absorbed into Counter Terrorism Command.

She nodded. ‘And no one wants to make such a sweeping conclusion but, for argument’s sake, if this is one party, then it feels as though they’ve been testing themselves and Britain’s ability to respond.’

‘Or waiting to see if we’re joining the dots?’

‘That’s my fear… that we haven’t.’

He rolled the theory around in his mind. ‘If it is the same perpetrator, they’re escalating the level of harm.’

Carol didn’t answer but gave a grateful sigh; he’d grasped the gravity of the situation.

‘How can I help, ma’am?’

‘I want you to lead a taskforce to first establish whether this could be the work of one perpetrator and, if so, to hunt them down. Because like you, the head of CTC and I believe it’s escalating. We are under pressure to produce this perpetrator. What began as mischief has morphed into fear-mongering, but if death is now acceptable to this person, then I suspect we’re looking at an even larger scale. We don’t even know how big the stakes might be.’

Jack nodded. ‘When do I start?’

‘As soon as possible. The head of CTC will expect you. Find this bastard, Jack, please, and quickly.’ She made it sound so straightforward.

He stood and gave her a nod of confidence before moving to the door.

‘And, um,’ she added, ‘I do hope I am invited to the wedding?’

He smiled. ‘Of course, ma’am.’

2

Gospel Oak area, November 2010

The pain was now centralised. It lived within. To everyone else Hannah looked normal and acted normal – if normal meant not breaking down into gulping sobs without warning, or thinking of the simplest, least gory way to join Billy.

People around her probably thought she’d ‘got over it’. Even her parents, who used to watch her every move with darting eyes and worried expressions, were increasingly cheerful around her, willing her to look to the future. That said, her brother Ben had expressed more fury than even Jonathan. While her husband had turned quiet, seemingly focused on ‘supporting her through the ordeal of grief’, as her father had succinctly put it, it was her brother who had matched her rage and even her despair. He was one of those men born to be a father and the way he was with his children – funny, gentle but firm, affectionate yet rough-and-tumble when the children wanted to wrestle or ride on his shoulders – attracted adoring looks from other mums, who perhaps watched their husbands gathering with the other fathers to talk about the FA Cup or work. When Ben was with his children, he was one hundred per cent present, Hannah believed, and even though his response to her son’s death was perhaps not what was required, she had wished on occasion that Jonathan had showed more of his pain, rather than bottling it up in some sort of protective role towards her.

Ben had been initially so enraged and had talked about how to punish the people responsible, echoing her own thoughts of justice, but his passion had cooled and dissipated. He seemed to have got past his nephew’s death. Suddenly family Christmas was back on the agenda. Her brother and sister returned to talking openly about their children rather than hiding their milestones or accomplishments. Ben had even found a six-bedroom house in Cornwall for rent, which was being mooted for the return to the annual family getaway in the spring.

Getting on with life.

Moving forward.

One step at a time.

Starting again.

All those placations that were reassuring for the person saying them, but not for the sufferer. To her, nothing was the same or ever would be. Her life had irrevocably changed from light to dark. It might never move forward. Or it had felt that way for so long that she’d presumed it would never restart.

But that unhelpful adage that Time heals held some truth. Recently she had discovered herself behaving differently. It was subtle, but she’d noticed it. Not looking into his room each day, not losing hours and hours to memories of life with Billy, working full-time again, feeling like cooking again.

Small steps.

Nothing could change the fact that the life she’d created for herself, which she had loved, had been yanked away. Starting again meant being a new version of herself, which intrinsically meant no longer being a mother… although she could never consider herself as not being a mother, she was now without her child… without her own flesh. Half of herself missing.

You can have more children.

That was her most hated placation. How dare anyone suggest she bear up and have a replacement. And anyway, with whom? Jonathan was gone. Besides, no new baby would be Billy, her sweet-natured, giggling son with his pink-cheeked face and eyes that lovely shade of greyish green like his father’s, which she had also loved deeply. Her child had trusted her, and she had let him down.

And his father had moved on too.

Not dead, but he might as well be.

Billy’s passing had killed their marriage as effectively as the wrong blood had killed Billy, sweeping through and gathering him up. She wished it had taken her with him. She had not been on Death’s list, though, more’s the pity, but then neither had Billy. It was an accident alone that had claimed him. Death had simply answered Fate’s call and become the obliging collector. ‘Just doing my job, madam,’ she could imagine Death saying with an apologetic shrug.

It wasn’t fate, though. Billy had died due to human error.

That human’s name was Sally. And Sally was a nurse, although not any more. A nurse’s job was to protect life and care for those who were sick. But Sally, like many in the medical profession, had been overworked and, on that particular day three years ago, had been on the end of a double shift. Tired and expected to be in several places at once, as she claimed in her testimony in the coronial inquiry, she had been asked to help prepare a crossmatch transfusion for a child.

According to the coroner’s findings, Sally had observed all the correct protocols – well done, Sally – except she had made one tiny, catastrophic error. She’d crossmatched the wrong child.

I hate you, Sally!

That single mistake had cost Billy his future, which might have included a loving partner, children… a long life.

The coroner might have found that error and acknowledged its result – how gracious – but it wouldn’t bring seven-year-old Billy back. Where did that leave two broken parents?

I know you’re sorry, Sally, but fuck you!

I know the hospital was deeply apologetic and claimed new systems would be put in place. Fuck all of you!

I know children are dying all over the world for all sorts of reasons, but this was my only child… my precious son. Don’t compare his death with others.

The coronial explanation was meant to somehow give closure to their son’s senseless death, and she and Jonathan had gone home and packed up Billy’s room, and their marriage along with it. Neither of them could face grieving together any longer. Grieving alone, as selfish as it was, seemed easier, Hannah thought, especially contemplating her own death, as she had once. Looking after each other and trying to remain positive became too burdensome on top of Billy’s absence, who had filled their life with so much joy.

Jonathan’s time in the army may have helped him stay strong for her but she wanted nothing and no one if she couldn’t have Billy; her husband’s love was not enough. And so Jonathan had moved out. It seemed to her he had also moved on from the darkness, glimpsing some sort of chance for life after death, while she refused to leave her pool of grief.

The last she’d heard, Jonathan was living with a woman called Shelley McPherson in Scotland. He’d had the grace to visit and explain in person. She probably shouldn’t have been surprised; Jonathan had always been a thoughtful, sensitive guy. It’s why she’d loved him, and Billy had inherited much of that sensitivity.

Her husband looked different on that visit; he’d been lean and muscled during their time together, with a moustache, but now sported a clean-shaven look. Shelley must have insisted. He’d lost a lot of weight following Billy’s death – all that angry running and cycling – but now looked better for the few extra kilos he’d put on.

‘Do you still do those triathlons?’ she’d asked.

He shook his head with a grimace. ‘No, I don’t do that any more. I needed to then, as it kept my mind empty. Although Shelley is encouraging me to take up trail running. I’m not interested in competition… just the personal challenge. I do a lot of weights now instead.’

‘It shows,’ she said, trying to muster a smile. She couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘Well, I’m happy to see you, Jon.’

He nodded, looking self-conscious. Why was it that he seemed awkward with the one person he’d always been comfortable around? ‘I felt it was time we saw each other and, I suppose, that we said goodbye properly. Last time was so…’

‘I know,’ she said, ‘although this is an odd goodbye, with you talking about your new passions.’ She’d hoped it would be delivered more lightly, to lift the moment, but it came out sounding accusatory.

‘I… it wasn’t my plan. I didn’t expect to find someone else, to be honest, Han.’

She simply nodded. ‘It’s certainly not in my plans to replace you.’

‘I haven’t replaced you! But there’s no point in us going through the rest of our lives miserable and lonely. No one benefits from that. And Billy wouldn’t w—’

‘Fair enough,’ she cut in. ‘In truth, I do feel I’m emerging from the deepest, maddest, angriest grief. I’m definitely better, Jon, so you don’t have to worry about me as you did before.’

He regarded her carefully. ‘Are you still looking for revenge?’

She shook her head. She wished she could tell him the whole truth, but she couldn’t bear how he might think of her. ‘Revenge, I’ve realised, will not bring me peace.’

‘No?’

‘I know it’s all I used to talk about. But I just don’t know who takes the blame… the nurse who drew the blood, the lab guy who chose the blood, the nurse who did the transfusion… or the national health system for being so tight it can’t pay enough people to do their shifts awake and alert. Do I blame the blood bank for sending that blood… the person who donated it?’

He was shaking his head as though he didn’t know what to say.

Hannah continued. ‘I think we both agreed a long time ago that we blame everyone, don’t we? I blame the surgeon for ordering the transfusion. I even blame our GP for referring us to a surgeon to look at Billy’s tonsils.’

‘Hannah. She was doing her job, taking the right precaution for our son.’

She turned away. ‘As if I need reminding. No, I’m just trying to explain the breadth of the accountability that I once allowed to roam free. It’s not reasonable, I see that now, but, hey, if I could blow up that fucking hospital I would.’ She breathed out in an effort to calm herself and smiled – for him. ‘Sorry. I just wish I could be at the stage you’re at. You’ve found some level of peace. I need to get there too, and maybe, after all of this time of hate and despair, I’m on my way. I am teaching myself to put one foot in front of the other, to stay busy and distracted, to engage with others and life in general. It’s hard… but it works.’

Jon nodded, eyes sad. ‘I loved him as much as you did. And I loved you as much as him.’

‘I know. I miss us – the three of us – and how we used to be.’

‘So do I. But you won’t let us have what’s left any more.’

‘Jon, you’ve accepted a new life,’ she said, hating the accusing tone. She hadn’t wanted to make him feel guilty and yet couldn’t help herself.

His eyes flashed with anger. ‘You made me find one. Shelley came into my life unexpectedly and it felt good to actually feel something again. I’ve been so numb. I don’t think I realised how I’d begun to disappear – I’m sure you know what I mean.’

‘I do.’ She really did understand; she didn’t blame him. Her voice softened. ‘You need to know that I’m pleased one of us has made it out of the grave.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘You’re right, I shouldn’t. That’s how I used to feel – that I might as well be shrivelling up next to him – but I don’t want to die any more. I don’t want to make anyone pay any more. I just want change so it never happens to any other parents.’

He nodded. ‘Good, Han. There’s nothing to be gained by living years in total misery. I didn’t go looking for it, but when Shelley offered me a chance at laughter and happiness again, I grabbed it. But it doesn’t mean I will ever forget us… or him. He’s my boy, you’re my girl, and always will be.’

He reached for her, and she briefly wept in his arms, for the last time.

‘Go be happy, Jon… for both of us.’

He searched her face. ‘Do you mean that?’

Hannah nodded, but with a desperately sad smile. ‘Of course I do. I am going to use you as my inspiration and try to repair the broken pieces of my life. It won’t look or feel the same, but I’ll find some glue to hold it. We aren’t bad people. Neither of us deserved to lose him, lose each other.’

‘Maybe I was bad in another life.’

She pushed gently away from him, and shook her head. ‘Not you. Me, maybe. Let me carry all the poison, Jon. You go off and live for all of us.’

Jon kissed the top of her head. ‘You’d like her, you know – Shelley.’

‘I’m sure I would… if she wasn’t with my husband.’ She held up a hand. ‘Don’t. You needn’t justify anything. The problem is mine… I just have to teach myself how to be Hannah alone again.’

‘If I could fix it somehow – no matter what it cost me – I would.’

‘I know,’ she said, touching his face briefly.

‘Just stay open to people – new people coming into your life. Promise me.’

‘Someone might have, but…’

His expression brightened and then he frowned in soft confusion. ‘That’s great, Han. Just having a companion is healing: someone to have dinner with, go to the movies with. It doesn’t have to turn serious too fast… or at all.’

She nodded. ‘I don’t respond very often, or at all at times.’

‘He knows about…?’

She nodded.

‘Then he’s giving you space. That’s so good. I’m glad you told me.’

Hannah gave a wry smile. ‘Does it make your heart feel lighter that maybe I won’t be all alone?’

‘It does,’ he answered. ‘I don’t like to think of you sitting here alone, with grief as your only company. Billy’s in my mind every day, but Shelley, a different job, a new life in Scotland… it helps. There are still days when I need to be alone – that’s when trail running helps and I can let Billy back in fully.’

She laid a hand on his chest. ‘I’m glad he’s still with you.’

He covered her hand with his. ‘Always. As you will be. But I am uplifted to hear about…?’

‘Tom.’

Jon nodded. ‘Give him every chance, Han. So long as he understands – and he seems to – that this is a burden for life.’

She nodded. ‘Well, good luck to you and Shelley.’

He leaned in to kiss her cheek. ‘I’ll ring you now and then… if that’s still okay?’

She smiled. ‘I want you to. You look good, Jonathan Parker. Don’t feel guilty.’

‘Thanks. Even in grief you’re still beautiful.’ He kissed her again, lingering slightly to hug her. ‘Bye, Han.’

‘Take care, you.’

And as she waved goodbye, she tried not to think of the secret she was hiding from the man she loved, or the fact that Tom did not exist.

Hannah’s thoughts had roamed to Shelley – what did she look like? She probably had blonde hair… Jonathan was a sucker for a pretty blonde – but were interrupted by a sad chuckle from the group. She dragged her attention back to the room.

She was at her regular support group, which connected parents who had lost children. She used to attend frequently but she was now turning up once a month. That was enough. It was hard grieving alone, but seeing other grieving mothers tended to enhance her torment. And those who appeared to be coming to terms with the loss were borderline irritating, what with their compassion and sympathetic smiles of understanding…

If only they knew how she had tried to help herself. Every time she thought about it, she steered her thoughts away again, horrified. That was the past. This was Hannah on the mend. It was gruelling. It required her to follow routine, day after day, and realise another week had passed, another month, and Christmas had come and gone… again.

Time healed. She had to trust that. Maybe some luck had been thrown her way, out of pity for taking her son, and that was why no one had discovered her secret. No one who could make her pay, anyway.

She looked around the circle. There were a couple of newbies today. A woman had introduced herself and spoken briefly, breaking down almost as soon as she began and excusing herself. Another parent, a father this time, had just begun. She wasn’t really concentrating but she gathered he’d lost two babies to SIDS. She tuned out again, unsure that she could keep coming to these meetings. The regular members encouraged everyone to keep supporting each other but she didn’t think she had enough will to look after others.

She stood to make herself a cup of coffee, mostly to get away from the circle. She would slip out as soon as she could. She boiled the kettle, giving an apologetic smile for the noise it made, and then turned her back on the group. She didn’t even want it, but it gave her something to do while she edged closer to the exit.

By the time she’d stirred in some milk, the guy had finished speaking. She decided to add sugar, tearing the top off a small packet. She sighed. She could probably slip away now, as others began talking and were fully distracted.

‘Hi,’ a voice murmured.

She looked around, surprised to have company. It was the father who had been speaking.

‘Oh, hi. You were brave,’ she whispered. It seemed like the right thing to say.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know why I’m here. It won’t change anything.’ He had an accent, she noted.