Fallen Angel E-Book

Paul Pilkington

• Herausgeber: Fast Paced Fiction
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Detective Paul Cullen Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 281

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Detective Paul Cullen returns in the second novel in the gripping mystery series.

Danger lurks underground...

When a young woman falls to her death in front of a tube train at London's Angel station, the authorities assume suicide.

They're wrong.

For Detective Chief Inspector Paul Cullen of the British Transport Police, the stakes couldn't be higher.

Can he uncover the truth, before more lives are lost?

The Detective Paul Cullen mysteries are perfect for fans of Peter James, Robert Galbraith and Harlan Coben.

Leseprobe

Fallen Angel

Detective Paul Cullen Mysteries Book 2

Paul Pilkington

Copyright © 2020 by Paul Pilkington

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

British English spelling and grammar used throughout.

Cover design by Jeanine Henning.

For my family and loyal readers

Also by Paul Pilkington

DCI Paul Cullen Mysteries:

Long Gone

Fallen Angel

Dead Ahead (pre-order)

Emma Holden Trilogy:

The One You Love

The One You Fear

The One You Trust

Standalone Novels:

Someone to Save You

I Heard You

For Your Own Protection

Contents

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part II

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part III

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Part IV

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Part I

1

He followed the pretty oriental-looking girl with the pink suitcase all the way from Paddington to Piccadilly Circus. He hadn’t intended to follow a girl today, but just the sight of her, her beauty, her exotic-ness, was irresistible. She wore a comfy black tracksuit, with gold trim, which hugged the curves of her body. Her dark silken hair was tied back into a playful ponytail that swung left and right as she walked, like a metronome.

She’d been making her way across the busy concourse at Paddington, first thing on Monday morning, looking every bit the new visitor, as the well-versed commuters hurried past, heads down in their phone screens.

She’d probably just arrived at Heathrow, after a long flight from Singapore, or China, or Malaysia. Maybe even Australia - they had a lot of oriental people there, he knew that. And yet she looked so good, despite what must have been a tiring journey. Long haul flights weren’t good for your health, so he’d read. They dried out the skin.

But she looked so fresh. And lovely. Good enough to eat.

She’d consulted her phone, before heading down the short staircase to the Underground, before passing through the barriers towards the Bakerloo Line. He followed closely, comforted that she would never suspect a thing, such was the number of people down here. The tube was the perfect place for him, with hundreds, thousands of human shields allowing him to service his desires undisturbed.

He watched as she stepped onto the longer escalator which took passengers down to the lower levels of the Bakerloo Line. With her suitcase, she took up the whole of the escalator, and a queue of mildly annoyed people quickly built up behind her on the left.

It must be her first time in London, he thought. She didn’t know about the protocol to stand on the right and leave the left-hand side clear for those in a hurry.

He watched as she realised, and shifted her case to the step directly in front of her.

You could tell a lot from people’s small actions; how they behaved, their mannerisms, the micro-expressions. It could reveal a whole hidden world, and he felt privileged to spend time getting to know these people; every single one of them.

How he would love to get to know her better.

As they reached the bottom of the escalator, he guessed which way she would be heading, and was correct when she headed right, southbound. He was only three people away from the girl, and as they emerged onto the platform they stood just a few metres apart. He ventured a sideways glance at her, taking in her beauty, as she tilted her beautiful head to read the train information board above them.

‘Your next train to Elephant and Castle is due to arrive in two minutes,’ the customer services host announced from just along the platform.

Two minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds. He could have gazed at this beautiful girl for the whole time, but he didn’t want to put himself at risk. There was a CCTV camera just off towards the left, and he was right in its sights. In the control room at Paddington, someone was watching, flanked by a bank of screens, monitoring the masses for any suspicious activity.

He’d been more careful since the police operation had begun.

The posters were impossible to miss, showing a shadowy figure among the crowds, warning off possible offenders with the threat of arrest and prosecution.

And the police were serious. He’d read in the paper about the arrests that they had made as part of Operation Archangel. Men who had touched women, taking advantage of their vulnerability in the crowded, confined space of the tube train carriage. Pressing their hands against the warm bodies, pretending the contact was accidental.

That wasn’t him. He wouldn’t do that. But there was always the chance that he might be innocently caught up in the police net.

‘Your train is about to arrive. Please stand behind the yellow line, for your own safety, and let the passengers off the train before boarding.’

He watched down the tunnel as the train appeared, its lights shining brightly in the gloom of London’s manmade subterranean world.

‘Please stand behind the yellow line,’ the customer service host repeated, as the passengers on the platform edged closer in anticipation of the train’s arrival.

He imagined, as he often did, launching himself onto the tracks just as the train was speeding into the station, almost feeling the imaginary high velocity impact of metal on skin and bone.

How would it feel? Would there be pain? Or just darkness?

One day he might find out.

He stepped onto the train right behind her, enjoying being so close yet so invisible. The carriage wasn’t too busy, so the girl managed to get a seat, keeping the suitcase close. He took a seat opposite, but not directly in her line of vision. He would be able to watch better at more of an angle, where the chance of her spotting his interest would be less.

His eyes did a quick sweep of the half-full carriage. None of these people - the big black guy, eyes closed wearing oversized headphones, the young mother with pushchair and smiling baby girl, the older gentlemen reading a book - looked like transport police, but that was the point of plain clothes officers, wasn’t it? He had to always assume that someone could be present, looking out.

He didn’t want to be caught up in something he didn’t deserve.

He stole several glances at the flawless girl, craving her, from across the carriage as the train rattled and squealed through the darkness of London’s underground.

She was scrolling on her phone - the distance was too great for him to see exactly what she was doing - but he wondered whether she was messaging a friend, maybe a boyfriend.

He wondered about her life.

Where had she come from?

Where was she going?

He was so engrossed in these questions that he nearly missed her standing as the train rushed into Piccadilly Circus station. He followed her off the train, through the bustling station, up the escalator and into the brightness of the day in the heart of London’s West End.

He stood at the side of the station entrance, the warmth of the early-morning sun on his face, as tourists meandered past him. There were plenty of pretty, young girls among the hordes, but he only had eyes for one.

The girl had paused about twenty metres away, consulting her phone again.

Maybe she was lost.

Maybe she was looking for a hotel.

He imagined her entering the hotel room, slipping off her jacket before throwing her body down on the bed, satin hair spreading out over the freshly laundered bed sheets, legs parted ever so slightly.

Waiting for him.

And then the girl burst to life as another girl, just as beautiful as his target, approached, arms outstretched, joy across her face. They embraced.

A friend.

The two girls kissed tenderly.

More than a friend...

He felt the anger smoulder deep inside him as he watched the two girls walk off, arms linked, shoulders touching. He traced their journey across the street, re-imagining the hotel scene with a sense of disgust and fury.

He let the girls disappear from view.

Let them have their fun.

He turned and headed away, as his fury morphed into a plan.

2

Detective Chief Inspector Paul Cullen of the British Transport Police stepped off the train at Wigan North Western railway station, gateway to his hometown, and looked along the platform. Sarah was waiting down near the small coffee shop, and the sight of his wife’s smile as she spotted him lifted his spirits. He’d spent the two and a half hours from London Euston thinking about their current situation, wondering if his wife’s decision to move back up north on a temporary basis was more than it seemed. But those doubts melted in their warm embrace.

She kissed him briefly but tenderly on the lips. ‘I missed you.’

‘Me too,’ he replied.

It was only a week since she had travelled up to Wigan, but it had felt longer.

‘You look tired,’ Sarah said, as she gazed into his emerald green eyes.

‘Thanks. You look good.’

She reached up his six foot three inch frame and nested her fingers into his short, dark hair. ‘Thank you, Detective, your powers of observation remain strong.’

They smiled at one another, before making their way down the stairs, hand in hand, to the car park.

‘You want me to drive?’ Cullen said. Sarah wasn’t keen on being behind the wheel, so he usually did the driving.

‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. You be the passenger for once.’

Cullen shrugged. In truth, he liked to be in control and was never good at letting someone else take the lead, whether that be motoring or otherwise. But he was tired after the journey.

‘So, I haven’t spoken to you properly about last week,’ Sarah said, as she eased the car out of the car park and onto the main road.

‘It was a long week,’ he said, watching out of the window as they approached and passed the area around Wigan’s famous pier. He’d spent many a summer’s day down by that canal.

‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

‘Later,’ he replied.

Sarah nodded, but wasn’t prepared to let it go. ‘I spoke to Amy about it,’ she revealed. ‘She tells me Natalie is doing okay.’

Natalie Long. Their daughter Amy’s friend, and university housemate, who had been the focus of Paul Cullen’s attention the previous week. Natalie had vanished in mysterious circumstances, and Paul (at Amy’s request) had taken it upon himself to conduct an unofficial investigation into her disappearance.

‘Yes, she’s getting support from the local force over in Bristol.’

Thankfully the case had been resolved satisfactorily, but not without Paul jeopardising his career by going against orders from the Chief Superintendent.

‘And you’re okay?’ Sarah glanced across. ‘You’re safe in your job?’

‘For now.’

‘I thought you said Maggie Ferguson was as unforgiving as she was formidable?’

‘I did say something like that, didn’t I?’ he smiled mischievously.

‘Maybe she has a soft spot for you,’ Sarah teased.

‘Maybe,’ Paul teased back.

‘Either that, or she knows an excellent DCI when she sees one, and she doesn’t want to lose you.’

‘She had every right to throw the book at me.’

‘But instead she’s given you the week off.’

‘A non-negotiable week off. In Wigan.’

‘Still...it’s with me, so it can’t be that bad.’

Cullen chuckled. He’d missed their banter the previous week.

Their discussion had diverted his attention, and only now did he realise that Sarah had not taken the usual turning towards her brother’s house, the place where she was currently staying. They were now heading away.

Sarah seemed to notice that Cullen had realised something wasn’t right, throwing a quick glance across at him.

‘We’re going to see Philip,’ she said, pre-empting his question.

Cullen tensed. ‘Can’t we go back to the house first?’

‘He’s asking for you.’

Cullen was shocked. ‘Asking for me? But he hasn’t spoken in nearly twelve months.’

‘He’s been asking for you, Paul. As much as you might not want to, you need to see him, now.’

‘So, he said my name?’

‘I got a call from the carers, to tell me that Philip had spoken. He said the word “Paul”.

‘Are you sure?’

They were en route to Acorn House, the residential care home in the rural outskirts of the town, where Sarah’s brother Philip had resided for the past two years. Four years ago, the sporty, strong rugby league playing Philip had been diagnosed with early-onset dementia.

‘I dashed over there straight away,’ Sarah explained, as she negotiated a roundabout, pulling out in front of a coach closer than Cullen would have liked. ‘To be honest, I expected to be disappointed, that I’d get there and he would be silent again. At first, he was. I did wonder myself whether the carers had imagined it. But then I heard it for myself, crystal clear - he looked right at me and said “Paul”. And the look he had, I just knew he was asking for you.’

‘I can’t believe it.’

The signs that something was seriously wrong with Philip had been there for a few years before - forgetting things, but putting it down to being busy. Then he couldn’t remember names of even the closest of friends and relatives. A keen runner, he started to go missing for hours at a time, not taking his mobile, only to return without any recollection of where he had been. And most worryingly, he started leaving on the gas hob after cooking.

His deterioration had been spectacular and shocking.

Philip was the reason why Sarah had last week moved back up to their hometown of Wigan. Her brother’s descent had accelerated, and he was in recent weeks becoming abusive to the carers in Acorn House.

And at six foot three, like Paul Cullen himself, he was not a man to be messed with.

There had been talk of possibly moving him out to a more secure environment, but Sarah was desperate to avoid that if at all possible. She had decided that more regular, daily contact with her might help to settle him down, maybe even improve his memory function, but at least keep his place in what was one of the best care homes for dementia in North West England.

‘Are you okay?’ Sarah asked, as they pulled up in a parking space at Acorn House.

Cullen nodded.

‘You’re mad at me, for forcing you to come here.’

Cullen shook his head. ‘I’m mad at myself,’ he admitted. ‘For not coming here sooner.’

Sarah placed a hand on his. ‘I understand, Paul. It’s not easy, seeing your best friend the way he is.’

The guilt was like an uncomfortable lump in his throat. ‘I should have been there for him.’

Sarah kept her hand in place. It felt warm and comforting, as was her kind smile. ‘You’re here now.’

3

Cullen and Sarah reported to reception, who informed them that Philip was in the main lounge and then they made their way up to the first floor. Acorn House was a modern, purpose built complex designed specifically for the needs of people with dementia. It followed the latest evidence, that placing people in environments that they felt comfortable in, and remembered, really helped.

For many of the residents, who were in their senior years, this meant references back to the 1960’s and 1970’s, which was why there was a juke box playing the Beatles’ Ticket to Ride as they passed the nostalgically-styled cafe area. Several elderly residents were sitting hunched around tables draped with red and white checked linen, with cups of tea and biscuits on china plates.

‘You okay?’ Sarah asked.

Cullen nodded, but was uncharacteristically nervous.

He followed Sarah through towards the lounge, taking her lead through the building like a man walking to the gallows.

To his shame, it was only the second time he had been here in the years since Philip had arrived, so he didn’t really know his way around.

The main lounge area was mocked up to resemble a private living room, with fireplace, mantelpiece, sofas and a large, flat-screen television over in the corner. Again, it was designed to put the residents at ease, to soothe their minds.

Philip was sitting bolt upright over on one of the individual chairs, looking blankly at the bay of windows, his large hands planted firmly on his knees.

‘Hi, Philip,’ Sarah said, as they approached. ‘I’ve brought someone to see you.’ She smiled lovingly and placed a kiss on his right cheek. ‘Someone you’ve been asking about.’

Cullen moved into shot and watched for any sign of recognition. But Philip didn’t flinch. He looked so out of place in many ways, this well-built, smartly dressed man in his mid-forties, surrounded by people who were nearly double his age. But in other ways, to Cullen’s continued horror, he fitted right in. He was the shell of his best friend. A ghost.

Except that he wasn’t a ghost - he was still Philip, living and breathing.

He was still the man Cullen had met over thirty years previously, on that first night of junior rugby training. The boy with the cheeky smile and sense of mischief to go with it. The boy who would soon introduce him to Sarah, the shy young little sister who would later become Cullen’s childhood sweetheart.

‘Philip,’ Cullen said, ‘how are things?’

It was a stupid question, and Cullen chastised himself for it.

How are things?!

But what else was he to say?

As a police officer, Cullen was a master of communication. He could chat as happily and easily with all walks of society; crooks and cops, victims and villains. And yet when it came to his poor, damaged best friend, he was at a loss for words.

As Cullen searched for the next sentence, Sarah pulled across chairs for them both.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been to visit in a while, mate,’ Cullen managed, as he took the seat. He gazed into Philip’s eyes for some response, but the stare was unwavering, the eyes like they were unseeing. ‘I’m really sorry,’ Cullen added, emotion catching in his throat as he started to choke up.

I haven’t been to visit because I’m scared.

But I’ve really wanted to see you, many times...

‘I told Paul you’ve been asking for him,’ Sarah prompted, touching the side of his arm. ‘You’ve been saying his name, haven’t you?’

Still no response.

Cullen looked over to Sarah in a silent request for guidance. She gestured for him to continue talking.

‘You look well,’ he said. Again, he regretted the words, lamenting his inability to communicate. The polite conversation, it just wasn’t them. He remembered the banter that they would engage in down the pubs and clubs in the centre of town on a Thursday night. ‘Actually, mate, to be honest, I’ve seen you looking better.’

Sarah glanced across, surprised at the sudden change of tone, but Cullen continued.

‘I still remember that length of the field try you scored against Sydney Roosters, in the World Club Challenge, to win the game in the final minute. I think that was your career highlight, right?’

Philip had reached the top of rugby league, playing over three hundred times for the world famous Wigan Warriors, as a fearsome second row forward. He had devastating speed off the mark and could knock over the biggest of opponents.

Those hundreds of big hits, had it led to the dementia? It was a question they’d discussed with doctors at the time of Philip’s diagnosis, but there was no definitive answer despite the growing evidence linking head injuries to degenerative brain disease.

Cullen had, selfishly he couldn’t help feeling, pondered on more than one occasion whether this might be his future, given the fact that he had played the same game, taken similar hits, up until his early twenties.

‘That try just blew me away, mate. I’ll never forget it. Do you remember?’

The dementia came just a couple of years after Philip’s retirement from the sport, and curtailed a promising coaching career, which had seen him take over as head of the youth team at Wigan.

‘I’m sure you must remember it, don’t you?’

Still Philip failed to respond.

‘Deep in there, mate, in that head of yours, there must be something left, memories of it all, or some of it.’

Cullen felt a single tear escape and trickle down his face. Surprised, not known for displaying his emotions, he brushed it away with a manly hand.

Sarah watched on intently.

‘You’re still my best friend, Phil, and I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you for so long, I’m so sorry.’

Just as Cullen thought that there would be nothing back, Philip turned his head towards him, and his mouth opened.

‘Yes?’ Cullen asked expectantly. ‘You want to say something, mate?’

‘You look like a kind man,’ his best friend whispered.

Cullen bit down hard on his emotions and fled the room.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said, wrapping an arm around Cullen as he was sitting in the back office of Philip’s house. Cullen had been in there for the past ten minutes, ever since they’d returned from the residential home.

He’d been looking at the walls. They were full of memories, times when his friend was at the height of his rugby league career. Photographs of Philip bursting through tackles, celebrating victories with overjoyed teammates, one of him diving over the try-line, the ball clamped safely under his arm, his face ablaze with delight.

‘You’ve got no need to apologise,’ Cullen said, turning with a sad smile. ‘It should be me, saying sorry to you. And to Phil.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t have pushed you into that. I should have let it happen in its own time, when you were ready.’

Cullen laughed. ‘I don’t think I’d ever have been ready. Then was as good a time as any. I just wish I’d handled it better.’

Cullen hadn’t returned to the room after his swift departure. Sarah had come looking for him almost immediately, and they had decided it was best if they came back another day.

‘It will get easier,’ Sarah said. ‘The more you see Philip, the easier it will get.’

Cullen searched her eyes. ‘I’m not sure it will.’

‘Talk to me about it,’ she replied. ‘Why do you find it so hard?’

Cullen looked around the room again, searching for the right words. They’d never properly talked about the situation, even when Sarah had announced that she was moving back up to Wigan to be near her brother. Cullen’s unwillingness to visit, or even discuss Philip, had been an unspoken topic over the past two years.

‘I thought it was because I was scared,’ he said.

‘Scared?’

‘Scared that what’s happening to Phil might also happen to me.’

‘Because of the rugby?’

He nodded. That is something they had talked about, in those early days. ‘I was also worried the same might happen to you.’

‘Me?’

That was something he hadn’t dared to discuss with Sarah before now. It had been just too frightening. ‘We know it can run in families.’

‘We can never know what fate has in store for us,’ Sarah dismissed.

‘I guess not.’

‘You said you’d thought it was because you were scared,’ she said. ‘Is that not what you think now?’

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘The real reason is worse than that.’

4

5

There was one thing that Detective Constable Tony Beswick hated more than shopping.

And that was shopping for his wife.

Brenda’s fiftieth birthday was on Tuesday. Today was Monday. He’d deliberately left it late, to shorten the duration of the pain. But now, as he tramped around the stores of Oxford Street, he was beginning to regret his tardiness.

He was sure she’d mentioned something a few months’ ago that she was keen to have...clothing? Jewellery?

He couldn’t for the life of him remember.

As he stood on the ground floor of the John Lewis department store, surrounded by items that may or may not have been suitable, he felt like screaming.

It wasn’t that Brenda was difficult to buy for. He would have been the same with anyone. When it came to present buying, he had zero imagination and zero empathy.

It was such a painful experience.

The only good thing about this misadventure, now nearing three hours, was that it had taken his mind off the dull chest pain he’d been bothered by since early morning.

Probably indigestion...

‘Can I help you, Sir?’ one of the assistants asked him, with what sounded like a note of pity. She was probably well-used to coming to the aid of hapless men who were floundering in the aisles, all with that same pained expression.

‘I wish,’ Tony replied. ‘I’m shopping for my wife’s fiftieth.’

She nodded, seemingly up for the challenge. ‘Does your wife have a favourite perfume?’

‘Not sure,’ he replied, slightly embarrassed.

‘We have a wide range,’ she said, undeterred. ‘All the major brands.’ She led him over to a nearby counter. ‘This is new in this month. Been very popular among ladies of a certain age. I can say that, because I’m in that category,’ she laughed.

She sprayed the perfume onto a small piece of card and handed it to him. He took a sniff.

Whoa!

‘Not to your taste?’ she enquired.

He let out a rasping cough. ‘No...not...too much.’

The smell was so pungent, it would probably knock down flies.

‘Maybe another one then, a more subtle fragrance.’ She moved across to another table as he followed obediently, like a dog hoping for a treat from their master.

‘This is probably more to your liking,’ she proclaimed with what Tony felt sure would prove to be misplaced confidence. ‘If you’re not used to those strong bouquets...’

Flowers? What did bouquets have to do with it?

‘...Then it’s likely your wife wears something more delicate, something like this.’

Again, she sprayed a card and handed it to him.

With more than a little reticence, he sniffed at the card.

He could hardly smell anything.

Maybe the spray nozzle hadn’t worked. Although he was sure he had seen the mist.

He looked at the bottle.

‘How much is it?’

Her face brightened. ‘This one? Sixty-five pounds.’

He gulped.

‘But you do get a complimentary travel bag,’ she added, gesturing to the sparkly gold bag at the counter.

Tony wasn’t sure it was Brenda’s style. He couldn’t remember whether she had use for such bags.

But he was looking for a container for his spare nuts and bolts. Maybe that would fit the bill.

How much was he willing to pay to end this day, here and now?

But sixty five pounds...

‘I’m sure your wife will love it.’

Tony wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t even confident that Brenda actually wore perfume, now he came to think about it.

‘I’ll take it.’

He felt the ache again at the till point, just as he was reaching for his wallet.

Could be a pulled muscle...

He shook off the fears that he had left unvoiced that morning, and paid for the perfume, which the assistant had gift-wrapped beautifully.

All he had to do was write a message on the tag.

And get a birthday card...

He’d forgotten about the card!

That would surely be an easier task. Although even with that, there were a lot of decisions to be made - funny or serious, age specific or not, glitter or no glitter, maybe one with a badge?

Too much choice!

The ache pulsed again as he made his way back out onto Oxford Street. There must be plenty of card shops. And there was always WH Smiths.

He could pick up a snack there too. Maybe his favourite - Cadbury’s with hazelnut.

Although he really shouldn’t. He’d promised Brenda, himself, and Paul that he would try and lose a few pounds.

But one little bar couldn’t hurt.

He was still thinking of that chocolate bar when he heard the shout.

‘Hey, he’s got my bag!’

Tony turned just as a young boy came sprinting towards him. It was just too soon to be able to react, and the youth, bag in hand, flashed past him with a super reactive side-step.

The lady came next, with a miserable effort to retrieve the stolen property. She could hardly move past walking pace and stopped before she got past the off-duty officer.

‘Don’t worry,’ Tony found himself saying to her, ‘I’m police. Stay here. I’ll get your bag back.’

He turned and set off after the boy, forgetting for a minute that he was carrying the perfume, which swung hard against his knee.

He dodged and weaved through the shoppers, trying to keep his target in sight.

But the youth had already gone.

And he felt awful. There was no way he was going to catch him. His pulse throbbed in his neck, and his left arm ached terribly.

He slowed to a stop and reached out for the nearby bus stop, panting.

‘You okay?’ someone asked from the queue.

‘I...think...so,’ he managed, now gasping for breath.

But even as he said it, it sounded ludicrous.

Surely, he wasn’t that out of shape?

He’d run for a matter of metres, and now he couldn’t breathe...

‘You don’t look okay,’ the person pressed. ‘Maybe you need an ambulance?’

Tony actually laughed through the pain and shook his head.

‘I’m just a little...’

And then he slumped to the ground.

6

The call came through just before eight on the Monday evening. Cullen was settled on the sofa with Sarah, her feet tucked up beside him, as they watched one of the popular cookery programmes.

After the previous week, it was good to enjoy a bit of normality, and being back with Sarah - even if it was in someone else’s home - felt amazing and right.

‘I’m sorry things have been so difficult,’ he said, as he stroked a hand up and down her back. ‘I feel like I haven’t done enough recently.’

She raised her head. ‘It’s been hard for you too. With Amy especially.’

They had supported their daughter Amy through a traumatic period over the past few years. Indeed, Amy’s intense and deep battles with the anxiety that had attacked her during the final years of her schooling, leading her to the brink of self-destruction, had tested Cullen and Sarah’s marriage to its limit. And it had taken a longer-term toll on their relationship.

How could it not?

‘I could have handled it better,’ he admitted.

‘Maybe. But then again, so could I.’

Their deep love for Amy had stirred strong emotions and reactions when it came to how to help her. They had fought. They had pushed one another away at times. And even though Amy was now in a much better place, the wounds to Cullen and Sarah’s marriage were still healing.

‘Look,’ Sarah said, shifting to a proper sitting position and facing Cullen head on. ‘We’ve all been through a lot. But we’re still together.’ She smiled. ‘This could have broken us, but it hasn’t. So now we move on and get on with the rest of our lives.’

Cullen nodded. He hesitated before saying what he instinctively wanted to say, wondering whether it was wise to bring this up. But it felt like the right time to finally clear the air. ‘My job,’ he said. ‘The move to London. I know that’s been part of the problem. Maybe a larger part that we want to admit.’

Sarah too caught herself before reacting. She seemed more reticent to engage with this now but decided too it was time.

‘It has been hard,’ she admitted. She smiled sadly. ‘Harder than I ever expected.’