Dead Tide E-Book

Fiona McIntosh

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

'The book that you do not want to end yet cannot wait to finish reading - all at the same time!'✰✰✰✰✰ Real reader review 'Exciting story, loved it' ✰✰✰✰✰ Real reader review 'Fantastic crime/police procedural'✰✰✰✰✰ Real reader review Newly promoted Detective Superintendent Jack Hawksworth has headed up three major serial operations in England and in each of these cases he has lost a part of himself. Then, while on sabbatical as guest lecturer in a London university, one of his female students dies under highly suspicious circumstances, and he finds himself drawn into a chilling new case that reaches across the world. Jack's investigations lead him to Australia, where he identifies a cynical international crime consortium that preys on the anguish of childless couples and vulnerable women. Together with local major crime officers, he follows his leads to a windswept coast, and becomes caught up in an intoxicating private drama. With his personal and professional business entangled once again, Jack must put his own life on the line to bring justice to those who are grieving.

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For the three McIntosh boys, reunited in Adelaide.

Great to have you home, Will, Jack and Jason.

1

London, April 2008

When would it stop? They’d said nothing about lingering pain, but these cramps forced her to hold her breath and count through them when they came; they were like something too big trying to squeeze through a small hole. Agonising while they lasted… and they were lasting increasingly longer, becoming more frequent.

Had they left something behind? Had they torn something?

The cramps were invisible. But the bloating… Amelia hoped she could somehow wing an excuse for wearing her raincoat indoors. She pretended to fuss inside her satchel, feigning distraction with files and notebooks so Mads wouldn’t ask what was wrong, but she knew it was futile. Mads missed nothing and the bright toothpaste white of her spanking new A-line waterproof rain jacket was like a beacon, demanding the question be asked.

The lecturer cast a glance out across his small class, who were studying crime and its definitions this semester. ‘Ah, Miss Peters. I see you’ve decided to rejoin us.’ From any of the other lecturers, the words may have cut deep enough to wound. But coming from Detective Superintendent Jack Hawksworth, with his warm tone and ghosting smile, it felt like a welcome. He followed it up – ‘Feeling better?’ – confirming to Amelia why he was her favourite tutor… probably everyone’s favourite this semester. Pity he wasn’t here permanently.

She blushed. ‘Bit of a sniffle,’ she lied. ‘I didn’t want to pass it around.’

‘For which we’re all grateful to you,’ Jack Hawksworth said, pulling files from a briefcase and placing them on the desk in a short stack. His grin widened. ‘You’re back just in time for the gruesome stuff. So I promised you all a summary of what a day in the life of a detective attending a post-mortem feels like.’

This won some murmured cheers of approval.

Her friend Madeleine – Mads – slid her an approving look, murmuring, ‘I like your raincoat.’

‘Not too clinical?’ Amelia replied quickly, hoping to joke her way through the oddity of still being dressed for outdoors.

Mads grinned. ‘No. It’s rather spectacular, actually. I’d like one in every colour.’

‘You can afford to,’ Amelia quipped.

‘Aren’t you warm?’

Amelia feigned a shiver as she felt the low but reaching tendrils of another cramp warning her of its impending arrival. ‘No. I think I’ve caught something.’

‘I thought you’d call,’ Mads whispered as Hawksworth turned his back to write something on the whiteboard.

‘I only got back yesterday morning,’ Amelia said under her breath, looking away from the handsome lecturer’s back.

‘And?’

‘Fine,’ she murmured, lying again. ‘Well, I am feeling a bit yuck, but that’s to be expected, apparently. I didn’t dare take any more time away from lectures, especially not his,’ she said, returning her gaze to the very senior detective, who had taken a sabbatical to teach this short course for university students.

‘In the UK we call this forensic pathology a post-mortem, while in America it’s known as an autopsy. It’s an identical process. The pathologist is establishing what exactly killed the person who is lying on their table, but out of that study will come a host of other valuable information that can add enormous assistance to the investigating team if the death is suspicious.’

Hawksworth wrote some bullet points on the whiteboard, his felt marker squeaking on the plastic surface.

‘Let me give you a good example of how a death that appeared rather straightforward turned out to be a lot more complicated and resulted in a conviction of murder…’

Mads persisted. ‘So when are you going to tell me how it all went down? Or is it still a big secret?’

‘No.’ Amelia frowned. ‘After class we can—’

‘Er, Miss Rundle?’

Both their gazes snapped to Hawksworth as he turned from the board to look directly at Mads. ‘Call me a narcissist, but I hate competing for attention. Both you and Miss Peters might benefit from tuning in to this if you plan to pass this semester.’

They murmured apologies in unified embarrassment.

Something about his amused expression told Amelia that in another setting, Hawksworth might have winked. He didn’t. Instead, he returned to his anecdote about a day when he was still a young detective constable and had attended his first ‘PM’, as he called it, and passed out in the city mortuary, banging his chin on one of the tables and requiring stitches. That soon had the whole class, including the two girls, smiling.

‘It’s true, and the least auspicious start I could have made, being sneered at by Dr Blood, as we knew him – one of the most senior and least empathetic pathologists that Scotland Yard had dealings with. The first day we all filed in, he slid a drawer from the mortuary fridge, removed a partially eaten sandwich, took a bite and put it back.’

The class gasped, some chuckling, and Hawksworth continued, with everyone now seemingly hanging on his words.

‘Then he slid out another drawer, this time with a corpse inside to reinforce the need for the tag on the toe, et cetera. He explained in great detail why we had to count the bodies in when we arrived and out when we left, and enter that figure into the book. And then he, casual as you please, began making an incision into a body from neck to navel. “Get that out of the way,” I think his words were, referring to me, pale and leaning against his fridge,’ Hawksworth said, bringing more laughter.

Amelia and Madeleine forgot their private conversation and focused on the lecture. Hawksworth went on to describe what initially appeared to be a clear-cut case of rape and murder but became far more complex as the pathologist discovered a sinister illness within the victim that was likely the cause of death, even though she’d been physically abused during a break-in.

Later, in the café, huddled in a corner to stay warm on the chilly spring day, Mads winkled the story out of Amelia about what was really going on with her.

‘To tell you the truth, there’s not really much to say. It was like a mini-break,’ she explained on the tail end of a mighty cramp that caused her to ball her fists beneath the table as she tried not to show too much in her expression. ‘There were three of us. One was from Birmingham, another from a place called Hassocks… and me.’ She found a smile.

‘All from universities?’

‘Two of us were. The girl from Hassocks was a barmaid, a bit older than us but not by that much. We all needed money.’ Amelia shrugged.

‘So, carry on. You went to the airport. Then what?’

‘They drove me to London City Airport and escorted me to the gate and onto a JAT Airways flight to Vilnius.’

‘Oh, posh. Now, where’s that again?’

‘Blimey, Mads, did you do any geography at school?’ The pain had passed again. She could be herself.

Her friend laughed. ‘Hated it.’

‘It’s the capital of Lithuania. The old quarter, as they call it, is lovely in its own way. Some parts of the city are a bit Cold War, but we weren’t in that section. It was very modern where we were taken.’ She sipped her coffee, remembering the excellent hot chocolates she had enjoyed at the old-style chocolate salons in the cobbled streets of Vilnius, while she waited for her body to do what it knew how to do. ‘The hotel was like any hotel,’ she remarked.

‘Oh, like you stay in them all the time, Millie,’ Mads sneered, but with mirth.

‘It was nothing special, but nothing bad about it. A room key, a bed, a bathroom, room service. It was a tiny modern apartment, like that one we stayed in at York when we visited.’

‘Oh, well, that’s disappointing. I was hoping you were going to come back with stories of something more Slavic.’

‘It’s not Slavic, you oaf. It’s a Baltic country.’

‘Russian, whatever.’

‘Old USSR,’ Amelia corrected. ‘The clinic…’ Her words trailed off and she gave a grimace, unable to hide it this time. The pain was unbearable again. She held her head against the palm of her hand.

‘What’s wrong?’

Amelia shook her head. ‘I really don’t feel that well.’ She knew she’d been ailing in a shallow way for days. Now it felt like she was sinking much deeper into whatever it was her body was fighting. She could feel her belly swelling, tightening against the elastic of her trackpants.

‘What sort of not well?’

‘I think I’m going to throw up.’

‘Come on, let’s get some air.’

Amelia allowed herself to be helped up from the table. Suddenly, even the sound of the coffee being ground was like a hammer in her mind. She leaned against the wall, trying to look inconspicuous while Mads paid.

Her friend returned. ‘Any better?’

‘No, worse, I think. Something’s wrong, Mads. My head feels like it’s going to explode, but so does my tummy.’

Mads supported her as they left the café, ostensibly cradling her shoulders but in all truth holding her up, Amelia realised.

Mads tried to reassure her. ‘It’s different food, different water. You only got back yesterday, so you’re jetlagged… and all those drugs you mentioned – they’ve got to be having some side effects,’ she rationalised. ‘Either that or you’ve got food poisoning.’ She tipped her friend a sympathetic grin.

Amelia wanted to believe it, but her instincts were saying otherwise. She let Mads lead her to a taxi rank.

‘Don’t make a fuss,’ Mads said. ‘It’s on me. You know how Dad insists on sending money each month.’

‘I’ll pay you back.’

‘Don’t be daft. Make me a chocolate cake or something. You know I can’t bake.’

The taxi ride back to the share house in Putney took an age. When they finally arrived, neither of Amelia’s flatmates were around. She struggled to get her key out of her bag.

‘Bloody hell, you’re useless. Let me,’ Mads said cheerfully. She pushed open the door and sighed. ‘I’m glad it’s the ground floor, Millie, ’cause I doubt I’d be able to carry you any further.’ She was trying to brighten her up; Amelia could hear it. ‘Sofa or bed?’

‘Bed,’ she said, with a groan.

Mads helped her to undress and change into a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms. ‘Do you mind me mentioning that your tummy looks swollen?’

‘I don’t know what’s happening,’ Amelia said, now struggling to speak because it hurt so much. ‘Painkillers.’ She pointed in the direction of her dressing table, the one she’d bought at a boot sale and painted a pistachio colour in the shabby chic style.

‘These are ibuprofen,’ Mads said, looking at the box. ‘I don’t think you should take any more of those until you see a doctor, which I’m going to organise next – and Mum, as she’ll bring a car over. Let me make some tea for you.’ She headed into the kitchen, where Amelia could hear her clanking about with a kettle and teapot.

She let herself sink deeper into her pillow. What was happening? They had warned that the drugs and all the stimulation they produced in her body could make her belly swell. So perhaps she was a textbook case in that regard. But the clinic had said nothing about pain. She needed relief. It was becoming too hard to wince through, as the sharp waves of each cramp crashed to shore. On the rim of her mind, she was aware of Mads calling for an ambulance, and then she phoned Amelia’s mum and her own.

All arrived too late. Amelia was dead by midnight.

2

Dubai

As an ambulance was hurtling towards Putney, and two startled mothers were dropping what they were doing and climbing into taxis, a man in his thirties had just taken his seat in Row 54 of an aircraft about to leave Dubai International Airport.

He was on the aisle, his preferred position, but hadn’t yet buckled in to seat 54C, presuming there would be other passengers needing to squeeze past. Like everyone in his situation, he began to daydream that they never arrived and he miraculously had the whole row to himself. His company really should be paying for business class, he thought. His role deserved it, but the company said economy made him less conspicuous and they couldn’t justify charging the client more.

Yeah, yeah. He hated being the grunt, with all the risk and no privilege. He snuck a peek down the aisle, hoping that the couple with the hideous matching tracksuits and excessive gold jewellery were not about to look over his head and say, ‘This is us.’ He could smell the woman’s perfume already, and the man’s backwards-facing cap, deliberately unshaven face and exaggerated strut told him plenty about this couple. Her name was going to be something like Sharlet or Shardae, and he would call her Shar or Shardy. His name would be Nicky or Nico.

He shook his head slightly. When did he get to be so mean? He liked his job, if he was honest with himself; he certainly loved the travel, enjoying the absence from home and the downtime in new cities. But with each subsequent journey he could feel the craving for more status. The pay was okay, but he was the one at the coalface, taking the risks, exposing himself to scrutiny. All he wanted was the chance to sit in the fancy airline lounges, drinking sparkling water from chilled glass bottles or ordering a glass of wine, and not have to mix with the herd.

The A380 had a lot more space than the triple sevens, and he was relieved it was the flight to Sydney and not the direct to Adelaide this time, which had been a regular route for the past three journeys. He far preferred this aircraft, which didn’t service South Australia. Even though he had to transfer to Adelaide first, it was easier and quicker to get out of Adelaide Airport; there were fewer passengers and now, with e-passports, he and the other wily passengers from the lower deck could rush past the gang of rich boomers on their way back from Europe. Achy joints and dithering minds would give them cause to deliberate whether to pause in the Duty Free or just keep going, juggling passports, searching for the spectacles they’d already taken the precaution of putting on their heads or tucking into pockets.

His mother regularly waggled a finger at him when he made these amusing observations. ‘One day, Greg, you’ll be our age and your children will give you that not-very-well disguised sneer when you are taking longer than them to do something. And you’ll remember this moment that will come back to haunt you.’ She’d said it playfully and they’d laughed, but he still felt far too young to be caught dead wondering where his glasses were or which queue to join.

He made an effort to appear unassuming in his job, remaining as unmemorable as possible, as the company requested. He was neatly but casually dressed in a soft grey hoodie and long-sleeved T-shirt over worn-in jeans and leather sneakers. Only the sneakers shouted their brand – everything else he wore noted its brand only with modest, tiny logos.

As a middle-aged couple arrived for the two spare seats beside him, he politely moved to the aisle and did not show his disappointment at not having the row to himself. Instead, he smiled at them, even helping to store their hand luggage, fussing to get it to fit alongside his rather large backpack.

‘Thank you,’ the woman said. ‘Now, I’ve got everything out that I think I might need,’ she added unnecessarily, and he didn’t break his smile as she got settled next to the window, pushing her things into the seat pocket.

The man who accompanied her remained standing, aware others were coming behind. He had a sharper tone in his voice as he spoke. ‘Be sure, love, because we don’t want to be pests.’ He glanced at their neighbour. ‘Hi, I’m Pete, and this is my wife, Sue,’ he said, slipping into the row next to his wife.

‘Greg,’ he replied, pressing himself up against the seats so a family carrying a young child with red and watery eyes could move through.

The men’s eyes met. ‘Let’s hope he sleeps,’ Pete said, sounding wearied already.

‘I hope I won’t need to bother you, Greg,’ Sue said, peeping around her husband standing in front of the middle seat. She was holding her iPad, touching the glasses that were held on a shiny rope around her neck and checking again that a toiletries bag was at her feet. Two passports and a pen were tucked into the seat pocket in case they were needed, as well as her husband’s paperback.

‘Charger?’ Greg offered. ‘It’s a long flight between here and Sydney.’

‘Charger!’ she exclaimed. ‘Thank you.’ And they had to get down her hand luggage once again, Pete rolling his eyes. ‘I’ll scream if I run out of power for my iPad,’ she explained.

‘Sorry about this, mate,’ Pete said.

Greg shook his head kindly as if it really was trifling, despite inwardly screaming at the tedium of it all.

‘Right, settled?’ Pete said, eyeing Sue. He took his seat in the middle.

‘All sorted,’ his wife said.

‘Don’t worry, just let me know if you need anything,’ Greg said, taking the bag and replacing it overhead, checking once again that his backpack was flush against the side of the luggage compartment and had not been disturbed. He finally sat.

Across the aisle, a much younger man with gingery blond dreadlocks, joshing with his mate who was seated and chewing gum, heaved a bag carelessly into the same compartment.

‘Hey, be careful,’ Greg said, his tone changing for the first time. He stood up again.

‘Sorry, mate. You’ve got loads of room in there.’

‘Fine, but don’t fling stuff around.’

‘I didn’t fling,’ the dreadlocked fellow said, sounding indignant.

Greg could see the green gum at the corner of the younger man’s mouth. A waft of peppermint sat between them.

‘Can I help?’ the flight attendant asked, his cologne swirling towards them before he did as he sensed a problem and arrived into the tension. The cologne mixed with peppermint created a strange aroma that was sickening at two o’clock in the morning.

‘Nah, all good,’ Greg said. ‘Just sorting out space.’

‘Is that fragile?’ The attendant, who was Filipino, Greg thought, wore a badge that denoted him as Benjie. He nodded towards Greg’s backpack. He wore a bright, white smile that he’d obviously practised a lot.

Greg gave a shrug. ‘Well, not fragile, but I don’t really want other stuff thrown against it.’ He knew he sounded petulant, and he watched the dreadlocked man from 54E roll his eyes. Benjie, meanwhile, schooled his features to neutral, but Greg could tell that behind his even expression he wanted to do the same.

Pete and Sue were watching him too, Sue casting him a reassuring nod of sympathy, as though she agreed that people had lost their manners in modern air travel. He half-expected her to say to anyone who might listen, ‘Gone are the days of dressing for travel. This tracksuit laziness shouldn’t be allowed!’ but she didn’t; instead, she began fiddling with the articulated folds of her iPad’s leather cover and keyboard, which seemed to baffle her momentarily.

‘There’s plenty of room,’ Benjie confirmed, pointing to yawning bins elsewhere that had little in them. ‘It’s not a full flight tonight.’ His look suggested that Dreadlocks could make the standoff disappear if he would only move his gear. Another flight attendant excused herself as she pushed past them all and whispered something. Benjie gave the air a kiss in her direction to make her laugh.

‘S’okay, mate. I can use that one,’ Dreadlocks said, bringing everyone relief.

‘Thanks,’ Greg said calmly, inwardly relieved.

‘No worries,’ Dreadlocks breezed and he winked at his mate in 54D, who grinned back, mouthing something cheeky.

Greg finally settled himself back into seat 54C but his mind was churning. He could lipread and had just caught what the man in the seat opposite had said: Let’s hope it’s not a bomb in that backpack!

On the other side of the world, in metropolitan South Australia, a woman in her early thirties accepted the encouraging smile of her husband and felt the squeeze of his hand while they waited.

‘We did the right thing,’ Simon said, as if able to listen in and answer the question that had been bouncing around her mind for months.

She nodded. They’d talked it over so many times. Her nerves felt stretched so tight they were like cling film over a vessel; she was convinced her mind would make a drumming sound if it were tapped. Her treacherous eyes began to leak helpless tears.

‘Anna, you do want this, right?’

‘Of course,’ she ground out through the emotion choking her throat. ‘I want this more than anything but…’

‘But what? We can still pull—’

‘No, no, that’s not what I mean. I just wish they were mine… ours. From both of us.’

His expression crumpled. Simon wasn’t prone to tears but his eyes became moist as he nodded. ‘In a perfect world,’ he murmured. ‘But this is the only way, Anna.’

She squeezed his hand back to get his full attention. ‘I’m just feeling nervous and it’s making me go over old ground. We’ve talked this over and over and we wouldn’t be here right now if we both didn’t believe this was the way – something we both want.’ She sniffed, starting to get on top of the crush of anxiety. ‘I love that we at least have you in all of this. I feel jealous that we don’t have me, that’s all.’

‘We do though,’ he pressed, his tone earnest and full of reason. ‘After today it’s all about you. You alone can make this happen.’ He bent closer to ensure she understood. ‘I love you, Anna. Today we start our family.’

‘What if it doesn’t—?’

‘Shhh.’ He covered her lips with his fingertips. ‘It will.’

The door opened and the gynaecologist bustled in. Anna could tell he was smiling behind his mask. ‘Ready, Anna? Simon?’ he asked, sounding bright, full of optimism. They’d met so many times, had him commiserate so often, that they greeted each other like friends. He seated himself on a stool between Anna’s bent legs. Her feet were in stirrups, and he now pushed her gown halfway up her thighs. He too was fully gowned, his thatch of blond hair, which Anna had previously noted was just beginning to show silvery flecks at the temple, caught up in a hat that looked like an old-fashioned shower cap. His eyes smiled at her behind the lenses of his clear glasses. ‘Feeling powerful, Anna?’

‘I’m ready,’ she said, her voice almost cracking on the surge of anticipation she was sure they were all feeling.

‘Believe, okay?’ He waited for her nod. ‘Right, now relax all your muscles for me.’

So easy for a bloke to say that. It wasn’t his vagina. He didn’t even have one to know how wretched the process felt. She felt the cool of the speculum enter her body and curve up before she heard the horrible ratcheting noise of the screw being turned to open the walls of her vagina. She was used to it. Didn’t stop her hating it, of course, just like every other woman on the planet who had experienced a pelvic examination or pap smear. For Anna, though, it was just another uncomfortable, sometimes painful, hurdle to get over that took her closer to the finish line.

‘Inserting the tube now. Relax for me, Anna,’ he said again, sounding more commanding. ‘I know that’s counterintuitive but everything now is about you losing all the tension in your body. Be ready to greet your embryos. Make it feel welcoming, not hard and hostile.’

‘Trying,’ she panted, wanting to add, you bastard. But he was simply doing his best by her, she knew that.

‘I know, I know. All my patients wish I could be a woman for just one day and have this done to me.’

At least he understood that much. She tried to smile but only managed to nod through tears, then watched him reach towards the hatch in the wall where a masked clinician – she couldn’t tell whether it was a man or woman – also fully robed, reached through to hand the doctor a tiny syringe. My future, she thought. Please, babies. Please… one of you hang on for me.

‘Thanks,’ the doctor said and quickly inserted the syringe into the thin, flexible tube already in place in the opening of her cervix. ‘Here we go, Anna and Simon. We are putting in two beautiful embryos that you’ve created.’

It was kind of him to say it that way. Both she and Simon knew the magic had happened in a laboratory. It was Simon’s sperm, but not her egg. They’d chosen the donor from a catalogue and although she’d tried to put it out of her mind and she’d certainly not aired the notion, it had felt like shopping. At first it had been fun, and she’d felt full of excitement as she stared deep into the faces of the women who were prepared to donate their eggs.

They were all young in the section that Anna and Simon had chosen from. All fertile twenty-somethings and, in this group, all Caucasian. Anna was blonde and Simon was dark-haired, so a child with their genes would likely be dark too; she felt lucky that any of the donors would be suitable in this respect. She and Simon were both blue-eyed, so that cut down the choices to the donors with blue, green or grey eyes. Anna didn’t want to think of herself as shallow enough to be drawn to the women whose features sat together in a way she considered pretty; it seemed ludicrous that in her situation of being so desperate to have a baby she would let the looks of the donor be important… and still they were. Somewhere in her desperation of not being able to use her own genetic material, she wanted the child to possess some of her physical attributes. They wouldn’t have her personality or character traits but she could live with that, as the child would share some of Simon’s, and he was the loveliest man next to her father who walked the earth, she was sure. She adored Simon, so she would adore his child, assuming she could carry it to full term. But it still grated that these women were fulfilling her role, that it was eggs from one of their ovaries that would make her baby. If the child’s looks echoed her own somehow, it would help make sure she was never tempted to think of her child as anything but hers.

They’d whittled the catalogue of potentials down to two donors. No names or addresses were shown. The two they’d chosen were ‘A from UK’ or ‘C from Denmark’. Both were blonde, blue-eyed. One was pretty in a girl-next-door sort of way. The other was more classically pretty with elfin features and a dreamy expression. Simon liked the Dane. But Anna felt herself drawn to the British girl. She looked normal, down to earth, and while none of the photos showed the girls smiling – they were all like passport photos – the UK donor looked like she was suppressing a smile.

Anna liked that because she knew at one time, before babies became the single topic on which her thoughts turned, she’d been like that, full of secret smiles about everything from the man she was falling in love with to her career as a children’s book illustrator. It suggested the donor was giving her eggs with joy… a gift of pleasure. Sure, she was being paid for her DNA material, not that the catalogue mentioned the ugly business of money. Instead, it emphasised how much these young women wanted to help others to have children. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe it. But somewhere over the course of her years of trying for a baby, with the miscarriages and failed IVF cycles, she had fallen into a state of cynicism. For a start, A from UK didn’t look old enough to be in the years of motherhood, so her supposed desire to help others experience the joy of being a parent felt insincere. But Anna didn’t care. She was glad to have access to A from UK for the gift of her healthy young eggs. She already knew A’s eggs had accepted Simon’s sperm – a fact that somehow, ridiculously, made her feel a pang of jealousy, but deeply grateful at the same time.

‘Watch the screen, you two…’ The gynaecologist paused dramatically. ‘And a flash…’ he said. ‘Did you see it?’

They both murmured into the silence that they had. Anna felt Simon squeeze her shoulder.

‘That was both embryos going in. And we’re done,’ he said, sounding triumphant. ‘Now you take over, Anna. You and Mother Nature are going to work this out.’

She felt the withdrawal of the equipment from her body and the slight soreness left behind; she was probably bleeding slightly. It meant stinging when she urinated for a day or so, and there would definitely be no sex. All that counted now was the two embryos that had begun to divide and show their potential, to make themselves comfy within. She just prayed that they kept dividing, kept growing.

3

London

Jack looked out into the class as his students got settled. It was the penultimate tutorial he would hold before returning to his old life as a detective, and as much as he knew it was time to get back into the saddle, he wondered if he was ready. Maybe he should accept the offer of another semester at the university. It was tempting, and would please the Dean.

Lecturing was certainly a change in pace and perspective from life working an op. And after the last one, which had involved so much death and despair – not to mention a hospital bed – he had welcomed the absorbing distraction of working alongside seemingly carefree university students. Officially he was still convalescing, but soon he’d have to notify his boss about returning to work. He’d already decided it was going to be a desk job for a while.

He was still seeing Lauren Starling, but he had sensibly kept this lovely woman at a distance. Not so far as to be insulting but just enough so that neither of them got carried away with notions of permanency. He suspected Lauren’s ambition would take care of that soon anyway, and for now it was a comfortable and affectionate romance. There had been honesty from before the first kiss; he’d warned her not to get in too deep, although he’d said it as much for himself because Lauren was the type of woman one could fall over the cliff for and never want to land. She had it all going on. She was a catch. She was a joy. She was texting.

Jack glanced at his phone, on silent, and clicked the message.

News! Tell you tonight. That could only mean one thing: the promotion to editor of the New York weekend magazine. Well, good, he supposed. She would now be moving to a new city and that meant the decision had been made for them. They’d become the best of friends, who just happened to have dated.

He looked up from his phone, waved it and spoke to the class. ‘Everyone in?’ He scanned the room. ‘How about phones onto silent, everyone?’

The class obeyed, although he heard one text message ping its arrival somewhere, and as they busied themselves with sorting out their phones, he felt a private pang of regret regarding Lauren, which he knew was of no use to either of them.

‘You always ask so nicely,’ one of the female students remarked as she slung her phone back into her bag.

Jack grinned, put his phone into his pocket and let the thought of losing Lauren go. It had always been the plan. ‘Well, in my day they used to throw chalk at us to get our attention. And Mr Lovejoy, who regularly defied his name, used to throw the wooden blackboard cleaners at us. Those hurt. I’m afraid that’s not allowed any more. I figure good manners work, right?’

The student smiled back at him. There was promise in that smile and he held his breath momentarily, taken aback by the raw sexuality on display in some of these youngsters. He felt old and looked away deliberately to let her know there was absolutely no chance of that, then scanned the room again.

‘Miss Rundle? Where is your friend, Miss Peters? Surely not sick again.’

The student’s face crumpled and she began to cry. Others noticed and Jack’s expression fell to mortified as he stepped around his desk and moved towards the teary student. More than a dozen gazes followed him; he sensed they knew something, if his instincts were serving him. ‘Madeleine, isn’t it?’

She nodded. ‘Maddie.’

Jack cleared his throat. ‘Okay, everyone, go over Chapter Six, will you? You need to know that procedure off by heart. We’ll tackle that next lesson and you’ve all still got your papers due by tomorrow, so why not take some time in class to finesse those.’

A collective groan sounded, though it had no heat, but Jack was already looking back at his tearful charge.

‘Come with me, Maddie, please.’

While the class began flicking through their books to find the chapter, Jack escorted Maddie outside the classroom and closed the door, frowning. He dug into his pocket for a handkerchief. ‘Here.’

She took it, sniffing, and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Smells of you.’

‘Does it?’ He drew away slightly. These girls were all so direct. ‘What’s happened to your friend, er, Amelia? That is her name, isn’t it?’

‘She preferred Millie, always called me Mads,’ she said, opening up the handkerchief to its full square and covering her face with it momentarily. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come into class – I just didn’t know what to do when you asked about her. I thought… I thought you knew.’

‘Don’t be sorry. Hang on – what should I know?’ he asked.

Maddie’s expression folded in on itself again. ‘That she died. Her funeral is tomorrow,’ she said, and her bluntness felt like he’d been clubbed; it made him hold his breath. ‘Her brother just sent me a text message about it as you asked us to put our phones on silent.’

Jack’s mind instantly reverberated with a sound similar to the steady, single tone of the test card he remembered on the BBC before twenty-four-hour television existed. Its piercing tone, akin to tinnitus he was sure, drowned out thought for a few heartbeats as he stood there, mouth slightly ajar, trying to make sense of what Maddie had just uttered. He hated to be so predictable and obvious when words finally arrived. ‘Funeral? Madeleine, how did she die?’

Maddie shrugged, looking lost. ‘After our last lesson with you she started to feel dizzy and sick. I helped her to get home but she became really ill, sicker by the moment, and we got her into an ambulance but she’d lost consciousness and was hospitalised. Her parents believed she was probably dehydrated or had caught a virus on her holiday, and we all just presumed in a couple of days with the right care, she’d be…’ Maddie dissolved into tears again.

The college likely knew but hadn’t yet advised him as he wasn’t in daily. ‘Listen, Maddie. Um, let me just sort the class out and I’ll organise to get you home with someone, okay?’

She looked up at him. ‘Thanks. I don’t think I can face going back in.’

He nodded. ‘Give me a couple of minutes, okay?’ He led her to a bench outside the building. ‘Stay here and take a few breaths. I’ll be back.’

He was as good as his word, moving out of earshot from Maddie and ringing the university admin to explain what had transpired, fielding their apology for being tardy with relevant information and answering questions as best he could. ‘I don’t have any detail but yes someone from the college should go. Apparently she found out via a text message from Amelia’s brother just a minute or two ago. I guess we’ll discover more in due course.’ No one, it seemed, was available to accompany Maddie home. ‘Well, I’m not sending her off alone,’ Jack said in answer to the excuses that came down the phone. He moved back to Maddie, offered an arm, and began to walk her out of the campus to the main entrance. ‘And while it’s not preferred protocol, I am still a Detective Superintendent and she’s clearly and understandably upset, so I’ll take her. And can someone please let my class know they’ve got an early mark but they’d better know Chapter Six backwards for next time.’ He listened and then answered, ‘No, they’ll understand.’

In a blink he’d hailed a taxi and was bundling Maddie in while he continued his conversation with the college office. ‘No, can you ring Madeleine’s parents, please? I don’t want them having a nasty surprise.’ He paused. ‘Er, yes, Kathy, I do mean right now – we’re already on our way. We should make sure someone’s at home so I don’t have to leave her alone,’ he urged. ‘No, the class is fine but you may need to contact the college counsellors. Okay, thanks.’

Jack slipped the phone back into his pocket and got into the car. ‘What’s your address?’ Maddie murmured it. He directed the driver, then sat back and turned to Maddie. ‘Where did you say she’d been?’

‘Um… Lithuania. The old part of Vilnius, she said.’

‘On her own?’ He noted Maddie’s lips pursing and leapt to the logical next question. ‘Boyfriend?’

She shook her head. ‘She’s getting over Tim. Hasn’t seen anyone properly since their break-up about six months ago. It’s why she’s in a share house now… or was.’ She began tearing up again.

‘Okay.’ Jack frowned, considering what Maddie wasn’t telling him. ‘Was it a holiday?’

‘Just a mini-break.’ Maddie sniffed. ‘Three days.’

‘In the middle of term?’ He frowned.

Maddie shrugged. ‘She’s smart. She always catches up.’ She covered her mouth again as fresh tears arrived. ‘Caught up. Millie was a good student.’

‘Yes, she was,’ he agreed. ‘Why Lithuania?’

She swallowed. ‘I can’t. It’s a secret.’

‘Right.’ He didn’t let her hear the sigh, kept it to himself.

‘And I’m sorry about your hanky,’ she said, noting some mascara had stained it.

‘Don’t be. Keep it.’

‘She’d be so jealous of me.’

‘Millie would?’

‘Here in a taxi with you holding my hand, using your hanky… She was so fond of you. We all are. You’re the favourite lecturer in the college.’

He smiled to hide how awkward that suddenly made him feel. ‘And you’re my favourite class,’ he said carefully, wishing he could extricate his hand from the twenty-year-old’s grip. What had felt avuncular, protective, suddenly felt vaguely uncomfortable following her admission.

‘It’s just around this corner and then second left,’ Maddie said, sitting forward to direct the driver.

Jack took his chance to remove his hand. ‘Maddie, this secret visit to Lithuania. Could it have hurt Amelia? Was it the reason she might have become so ill?’

She surprised him by nodding; he had presumed she’d deny it immediately. Instead, she seemed glad he’d persisted, eager to unburden herself. ‘She needed the money. They all did.’

He blinked as the taxi began to slow. ‘All?’ The detective in him kicked in and his tone remained neutral.

‘A barmaid from Hassocks and another girl from uni.’

‘Here we go,’ the driver said, flicking off the meter.

‘Can you wait, please? I’ll be heading back.’

‘Sure, guv.’ The driver began fiddling with his phone.

Before Jack could refocus on Maddie, a woman had emerged from the front door and was crunching onto the gravel drive. It was an impressive three-storey Victorian house in Battersea that spoke of wealth and comfort.

‘Darling?’ The woman, presumably Maddie’s mother, looked worried. She hugged her child but looked at Jack as he stepped out of the car.

‘Mrs Rundle?’ The woman nodded and her sharply cut bob, a perfect auburn that reflected the sun, swung with the gesture. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Jack Hawksworth, on sabbatical from the normal role. I’m one of Madeleine’s lecturers. She was in my class when she got the news about Amelia’s funeral.’

She held out a hand to shake his. Despite being in bodyhugging training gear and sneakers that looked new, she wore a tasteful set of sparkling rings and a tennis bracelet that shimmered its row of diamonds. Hardly activewear, Jack thought, but he could see from whom Maddie derived her attractiveness.

‘Yes, the college just contacted me… I didn’t think it was such a good idea but Maddie was determined to go in today.’

Maddie looked at him from her mother’s embrace. ‘You can leave a message for me at the college if you need help or want to say any more about Millie’s trip,’ he encouraged.

Maddie shook her head. ‘Thanks for bringing me home.’

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Hawksworth, that’s very decent of you. Maddie’s mentioned how much she enjoys your class.’

He smiled. ‘Bye, Maddie.’

On the journey back he wondered why it was that Amelia and two other women had gone to Lithuania… it had to be over four hours in flight time. That was a long way to go to earn some money. Three days, Maddie said. A long way for a short stay, too. In what way had Amelia been earning that money?

4

Adelaide

Greg’s journey had been mercifully seamless: no hold-ups in Sydney, clearing customs and immigration with ease before he loped to the domestic terminal and took a Qantas flight that met its departure time. He was in desperate need of a shower and was holding off the other major ablution until he reached private facilities.

It had been twenty hours since he’d left his hotel in Dubai. With his constant travel, he’d learned how to limit his food intake before and during flights to stave off jetlag and reduce trips to the toilets, often skipping breakfast when everyone else was woken by the sulphurous smell of eggs, usually presented as rubbery omelettes in economy. Despite eating only hours before, those around him seemed to eagerly greet the distraction of another tray of plastic-covered food to fiddle with, sad fruit and stale croissants, but Greg could forego it all to give his bowel a fighting chance of making it back to his unit in Adelaide, where he’d have his own bathroom and could take his time. ‘Always make time for your bowel, Greg,’ his grandmother used to say.

It made him smile to think of her. He wished he could hug his grandparents again, both gone now but living large in his memory. They were proud of him, had said it often enough, both impressed that he dashed across the world the way he did.

‘I’m really just a courier,’ he’d assured them. ‘But I like the travel and I often get a few days off in an interesting city to explore.’

His father was not so impressed. ‘When are you going to use that degree you’re still paying off?’

Greg didn’t want to be an accountant. Never had. He’d only completed the undergraduate course to please a father who could never be pleased. ‘Soon, Dad. Just seeing the world first.’

He dutifully lined up for a taxi at Adelaide Airport, where the attendant was far more cheerful and polite than the ones in Sydney usually were, and as much as he yearned to give the address of his own unit, he gave the address for where he was required to make his delivery. The driver was listening to what Greg thought was Hindi music; it was on low. And his conversation, definitely in Hindi, via a mobile headphone speaker that he pulled close to his mouth, was also being murmured as he navigated the traffic speeding away from the airport.

Greg wondered how the person on the other end could hear. None of his business. He put his head back against the headrest and watched the familiar landscape of Sir Donald Bradman Drive whiz past. They weren’t catching any lights either; he was going to make good time to the lab and arrive well within the prescribed time parameters.

On the other side of the world, Jack’s tall frame paused at security and he flashed his warrant.

‘Going to the Sharpe retirement bash, sir?’ the guard asked in a thick Australian accent as he took the warrant to scrutinise it properly.

It made Jack smile. He’d heard his sister’s accent begin to change slightly, apparently without her knowing. She’d laughed it off when he mentioned it, but it had been years now that she’d lived and loved life in Sydney. Why wouldn’t Australia rub a bit of that posh grammar school edge off her English accent and replace it with a twang of its own to claim her properly? She’d begun to end sentences with an upward intonation to make them sound like questions – not all the time, but it was creeping into their phone calls and he thought it was fun.

His niece and nephew were going to be Aussies through and through, no doubt enjoying that strange football code and becoming cricket-mad, sun-loving, surfing kids. It might seem like a cliché but they were living it; both of them were sporty, bronzed and certainly not the types to fear school camp or spiders. He’d caught sight of a huntsman only once in his sister’s home and it had been more than enough to make him hold his breath in shock at its leg span. He’d not had to exaggerate its size either when retelling the experience to his colleagues over work drinks to christen a new building, enjoying watching Kate Carter, a DCI since their last operation together, give a shudder. He’d be seeing her again tonight.

‘What’s an Aussie doing in downtown Broadway, London?’ he asked the guard, grinning.

‘Blame the wife. She’s a doctor finishing some medical training over here. Me, I’m just happy to get some shifts for the time being. I’m an insurance investigator in my other life. But we haven’t been here long enough for me to establish myself.’

‘Good luck to you both,’ Jack said, accepting the return of his warrant.

The security guard tipped him a salute. ‘Fifth floor.’

Jack nodded and headed to the lifts in the tower block that faced Broadway’s underground station. He suspected the event would be a tame affair and not at all like on Prime Suspect; the TV series would have people believe that retirement parties were full of drunks and strippers. He was joined by several senior people he knew vaguely, but the last person to scurry into the lift on a pair of scarlet heels was the wonderful Joan Field, who greeted the others like friends but saved her most enthusiastic welcome for him.

‘Jack! You’re back!’

She leaned in and he kissed her with genuine affection on both cheeks. ‘I am. Another scar to add to my battle wounds,’ he said with another grin. ‘I know it’s a while ago, but thanks again for visiting at the hospital.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t miss the opportunity to see you in a hospital gown. I wanted to make you a casserole and bring it over but frankly I don’t know where you live these days,’ she admonished him.

‘Sometimes neither do I,’ he quipped. ‘I will settle in somewhere soon, but I’m spending a couple of months helping Lauren out by taking a sub-lease on her flat.’

Joan obviously knew they were no longer together from the way her eyes shadowed momentarily. Was there nothing in his life that Joan didn’t know about? Instead of pursuing the obvious she made a clicking sound with her tongue. ‘And I can imagine that’s no slum.’

He chuckled but didn’t give an inch. ‘Is this a sad day?’ he whispered instead, leaning close to her ear.

‘Probably, but we mustn’t let him know we think so,’ she murmured in reply. ‘It’s a changing of the guard, isn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘Always wise to leave on a high.’

‘That’s what I told him when he began to make the inevitable groaning sounds about retirement. He didn’t want this get-together either. But tonight’s actually for Mary and the boys to appreciate just what a brilliant career the grumpy old man has enjoyed.’

As the bell dinged to signal their arrival, the men in front parted to let Joan walk through the open door first and she neatly eased past them on her stilettos. Jack was always impressed by the effortless, old-style glamour she brought to the corridors around New Scotland Yard. Stepping out, he heard the cheerful babble emanating from the restaurant that acted as a carvery during weekdays for the officers. Tonight the adjacent canteen had been opened up as a function room to take the one hundred or so attendees there to thank Martin Sharpe and celebrate his stellar career, which had left no cases out in the cold. All the brass inside would be in civvies because drinking in uniform, even politely, should never happen.

Jack glanced at his watch: twenty to seven. Drinks were in full swing, but he’d timed his arrival well. By seven, the master of ceremonies would call the happy group to order and speeches would follow. Jack escorted Joan in on his arm but they parted as they were greeted by others. He saw only relief on the face of Kate.

‘I thought you’d never arrive,’ she said, giving him a snake-eyed glare.

He kissed her on each cheek, inhaling her perfume, recognising the familiar warm floral heart as Shalimar, which he knew would have filled the immediate surrounds with a chilly citrus vapour upon its first spray. This scent suited Kate because, like her, it ran cold and hot.

‘Fashionably late, I think Joan would say,’ he replied. ‘You smell lovely.’

She smiled at the compliment. ‘How does she always manage to look so amazing?’

‘Well, you look pretty amazing yourself.’

She lightly slapped his chest with the back of her hand. ‘Don’t flirt, Jack. It’s confusing.’

‘I’m not,’ he said, offering her first choice from the tray of drinks that had suddenly arrived in front of them, courtesy of a young waitress. She took a flute of sparkling wine and he followed suit. ‘Just being honest. So how’s life in Vice?’

She tipped her head one way and then back. ‘Interesting. What about you? You’re lecturing at the moment?’

‘Yes, that’s right. And enjoying myself.’

‘Really? I heard about…’

‘About Lauren and me?’

She nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m sorry. I figured you two were a match.’

He smiled. ‘No. We talked about it. My career is not conducive to settling down and hers was set to take off again. We had no intention of getting in each other’s way.’

‘That sounds so mature.’

He laughed. ‘It is.’

‘I can’t imagine either of you were happy to say farewell.’ It seemed Kate could see through the sensible excuse.

Jack nodded; he knew he should be honest with his friend and colleague. ‘It was hard, Kate. I liked her a lot and it wouldn’t have taken much to make her knock back New York, but that would have been a whole load of guilt and I carry enough of that around.’

‘Is she doing okay?’

‘Do you worry about her?’ He grinned, trying to lighten the awkwardness.

‘All night long,’ she admitted in a dry tone. ‘So long as you’re fine.’

He squeezed her wrist. ‘I am.’

Her smile all but said ‘on the market again?’ but he let it pass. They would always have this thing between them, he knew.

‘So, a college lecturer now. Phew, all those young heartstrings being stretched,’ she teased.

He shook his head with dismay. ‘Bloody hell, they are young. And so forward.’

She laughed. ‘To Sir, with Love? Be careful, Jack.’

‘I am… very.’

‘What’s next for you? Surely you’re not going to stay at the uni full time?’

‘No, in fact I’ll finish up this semester.’

‘And?’

He shrugged. ‘Desk job. I want the quiet life for a while. No operation, no thrill-seeking at all.’

She nodded, more serious now. ‘How are you?’

Jack sighed. He could always be honest with Kate. ‘Still aches a bit.’ He touched the site of the stab wound, almost without realising he had.

‘Your heart or your wound?’ She was not jesting.

‘Both. I can’t shake the sadness that our old foe went the way she did, and I’ve arrived at the conclusion that I’ll never shake the sensation of that knife going in.’

Kate shuddered. ‘Can’t blame you. But perhaps Anne McEvoy’s in a better place.’

He nodded, thinking of the promise he’d made. He’d discovered her child was living in Yorkshire, with a couple who worshipped her. They’d adopted a son before her and so now she had a solid, loving family to grow up within. Her new mother was generous, happy to privately keep in touch with Jack. He asked nothing more. ‘We’ll call you Uncle Jack, an old friend from schooldays, okay?’ she’d said after sharing a coffee one bright afternoon in Leeds.

‘Pay attention, children,’ Joan said, sidling up to them both and refocusing Jack on the proceedings.

Someone had rigged up a microphone and was calling everyone to order. Jack tuned out until one of Sharpe’s oldest colleagues took the microphone and settled down the cheers, wolf whistles and clapping. Jack smiled as the old policeman began to recount some prime cases that he and Sharpe had been involved with. He began to reference Martin’s idiosyncrasies, including his fiery temper, which brought smiles all round, and then shared some amusing anecdotes before he became more serious and mentioned two bravery awards and Sharpe’s outstanding service.

Then it was Sharpe’s turn to step up to the microphone and Jack grinned at how uncomfortable he looked receiving all this attention. He was predictably humble in his response as he gave thanks to his colleagues, leaving out no one he had worked with over the years. ‘… standing over there, trying to be modest.’

Kate nudged Jack as they watched Sharpe give a thumbs up.

‘To you, Jack. Thanks for being one of my most reliable colleagues…’ Jack looked down while the praise came thick and fast from the man he respected most in his work and indeed his life. Sharpe had been mentor and friend, sometimes father. He was relieved when the speech was over and a special gift of an engraved crystal decanter was presented with flowers for the long-suffering Mary. Jack was more than aware of how difficult it likely was being married to any dedicated member of the police force, but particularly one as senior and committed as Sharpe.

It was nearing eight-thirty and although everyone would start dispersing by nine, Jack was keen to be gone and strolled up to make his farewells. He apologised for interrupting Martin, who was chatting amiably to someone who could only be a few years younger. ‘Thanks for the thanks,’ Jack said and didn’t feel embarrassed to hug his old friend.

‘Bloody hell, I hate speeches and couldn’t believe how choked up I got.’

‘I don’t think you left anyone out, sir,’ Jack said, falling back on old habits of gentle ribbing. ‘Not even your heart surgeon.’

Even Sharpe had to laugh. ‘Mary insisted I included everyone down to the ruddy postman. It’s just Martin now, by the way,’ he said, waggling a finger. ‘Now, Jack, let me introduce you to Bill Davies. Bill and I go back a long way. He’s one of the top guys in the Australian police, based in Sydney.’

Jack shook hands with a man who was built square like a shed. He wore a roomy double-breasted suit with braces, and Jack noted he was drinking a mineral water, which seemed to fly in the face of the idea of a typical Aussie bloke. ‘Pleasure to meet you, sir,’ Jack said. ‘I have a sister who lives in Sydney.’

‘Lucky girl,’ Bill said with a wink. ‘Visit much?’

Jack nodded. ‘Often. Last year in fact, and I’ve got a hankering to get back, maybe the end of this year or early next. I’ve got a niece and nephew growing up on the other side of the world and they’re my only family.’

Davies nodded. ‘Why don’t you come and do a stint?’

‘Work, you mean?’

Davies shrugged. ‘Why not? A working holiday… Kill two birds and all that.’

‘Tempting.’ Jack chuckled. ‘I… er, I’m taking a bit of a break right now, actually.’

The Australian nodded. ‘Martin mentioned.’

Jack slid his old boss a glance and Sharpe held a hand up in surrender. ‘Just talk, Jack. Everyone’s impressed with your last op and how quickly you brought it to a close.’

‘At a high cost, sir.’

Sharpe nodded. ‘But it doesn’t hurt to broaden your networks.’

Davies agreed. ‘Reach me via Australia House. I’m staying in London for a few months on long service leave, doing the family rounds. I’ve been promising my wife a holiday for so long that our children have grown up, married and are having children of their own, so we’re about to get trapped in grandparenting duties.’

‘Now or never?’ Jack asked.

‘Exactly.’ Davies dipped into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a card. ‘Call me. I think the more we share specialties the better.’

‘Thanks,’ Jack said and shook hands with him again. He gave Martin a soft smile just as Mary arrived.

‘Leaving already, Jack?’

He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Thank you for inviting me this evening.’

‘Well, come and visit soon. Martin can take you out on the little sailboat our family has given him for his retirement.’

Jack glanced at Martin. ‘So the deck shoes came in handy, sir?’

Martin grimaced. ‘I know you can sail, Jack. We’ll go out and chew the cud.’

Jack smiled. ‘That’s a promise.’

‘I was sorry to hear about you and Lauren,’ Mary said, giving a moue of maternal despair. ‘No lovely woman on the horizon?’

‘Taking a break from romance, Mary,’ he said and kissed her cheek. ‘I promise to visit and keep the old rogue entertained.’

‘Keep that promise,’ she warned.

Jack headed for the door but hadn’t escaped Kate’s notice, it seemed. She caught up with him.

‘Are you leaving me here alone, you treacherous sod?’

He laughed. ‘Walk me down?’

She gave him a gentle backslap against his arm. ‘Sure.’

He pressed the button for the lift, which was mercifully already at their floor and the doors opened. Inside, descending, he cut her a look. ‘Anyone in your life right now?’

‘I am seeing someone. It’s new. He’s… well, he’s nice.’ She laughed. ‘He’s a schoolteacher.’

Jack’s smile was all warmth. ‘Brilliant.’

She nodded, looking oddly shy. ‘Never saw myself with someone so…’ He waited for her to find the right words. ‘Well, so everyday. He cooks for me. He likes to go for walks or drives in the countryside. At the weekend and especially if I’m working, he’s an English Heritage guide.’ She gave a sound of soft but not displeasurable despair. ‘He’s tame, quiet, makes me feel safe.’