The Cinderella Plan E-Book

Abi Silver

• Herausgeber: Lightning Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

When the only thing worse than being found guilty...is being found not guilty 'Tense thriller wrought from a cutting-edge subject' - The Times James Salisbury, the owner of a British car manufacturer, ploughs his 'self-drive' vehicle into a young family, with deadly consequences. Will the car's 'black box' reveal what really happened or will the industry, poised to launch these products to an eager public, close ranks to cover things up? James himself faces a personal dilemma. If it's proved that he was driving the car, he may go to prison. But if he's found innocent, and the autonomous car is to blame, the business he has spent most of his life building, and his dream of safer transport for all, may collapse. Lawyers Judith Burton and Constance Lamb team up once again, this time to defend a man who may not want to go free, in a case that asks difficult questions about the speed at which technology is taking over our lives.

Leseprobe

Published in 2019

by Lightning Books Ltd

Imprint of EyeStorm Media

312 Uxbridge Road

Rickmansworth

Hertfordshire

WD3 8YL

www.lightning-books.com

ISBN: 9781785631276

Copyright © Abi Silver 2019

Cover by Shona Andrew

www.spikyshooz.com

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

For Dan

The public’s expectation of available explanations for how these systems make decisions is misguided. The core strength of a deep-learning system lies in its ability to draw very accurate conclusions from many diverse pieces of information. Fundamentally, it is not capable of providing simple explanations. In short, the concept of a simple explanation of these systems is a deception.

Dr Michael Fielding

Written evidence provided to the House of Commons Select Committee on Autonomous Vehicles

Contents

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

Acknowledgements

About the author

The Pinocchio Brief

The Aladdin Trial

PART ONE

10TH OCTOBER

1

BERTIE LAYTON, aged three years and one month, standing at the 65th percentile for height, maybe a touch more for weight (‘he is a good eater’ his grandmother would frequently comment when he finished off his sister’s unwanted scraps), was tired of waiting in the central reservation. He craved the Freddo chocolate bar Therese, his mother, had promised him ‘if he was good’ on the way home. He wanted to race his Hot Wheels car around the track his father had constructed for him the previous day and try, independently, to make it loop the loop; and, more than anything else, he was desperate to be able to move his arms and legs freely after spending most of the day confined indoors.

Sensing a momentary lapse in his mother’s attention and grip, he’d removed his hand from his mouth, where it had been languishing, and clutched the two vertical bars of the pram which contained his baby sister, Ruby. Next, he’d slipped his back foot from the shiny plate of the buggy board onto the ground and he used it now to propel himself and the pram forwards into the road.

It was partly a test, pushing the boundaries, as three-year-olds often do (and Bertie more than most). And although he would not have been able to articulate it, being such a little boy, Bertie wanted to feel, once more, that glorious surge of his heart in his chest that accompanied these improvised scooter rides, the adventure amplified by his father’s past whisperings that this was somehow a dangerous activity, the pounding only subsiding later. Sometimes he drifted off to sleep, imagining himself on a giant superhero skateboard, cavorting around the house, his sister in hot pursuit.

Georgia followed her brother, as best she could, with her mother’s arm restraining her. Even though she was older, Bertie was the bolder of the two. ‘He’s the one who encouraged her,’ Therese would complain, exasperated, to her husband, Neil, when another of Bertie’s schemes left Georgia in trouble, while he emerged unscathed. ‘He doesn’t see danger,’ Therese would lament, and Neil would smile proudly and shrug. ‘I don’t think you do when you’re three years old. I’d rather have him this way than timid and scared of his shadow.’

So, Bertie would lead the way across a fallen log, his speed and sheer willpower conveying him to the other side. Georgia, in contrast, would hesitate midway, wobble and then find herself pitched off into whatever water or mud the enticing trunk was straddling.

Even tame pastimes often ended in tears. Playing bowls in the garden, Bertie’s erratic throws would just as often miss as score a spectacular knock-out. But when a frustrated Georgia tried to up her game, she would hold the ball too long and it would plunge down onto her head or toe.

To be fair to Bertie, it wasn’t always his fault that Georgia got hurt; good fortune seemed to follow him around. Like the time he thrust his nose into a pink, rambling rose, drinking up its scent with a broad grin. When Georgia copied, she disturbed a queen bee and ended up being chased around the garden, screaming.

So, lively, luck-kissed Bertie, often-dirty Bertie and sometimes-flirty Bertie, after a snatched, sly glance at his mother, plunged himself and the baby into the road, with Georgia in pursuit.

Therese, behind the children, but scrambling to catch them, was clipped first by the right-hand side of the bumper of the large blue car. She was hit mid-way up her thigh, her body crumpling inwards and folding over the bonnet. Its momentum carried her up onto the windscreen, where her elbow struck the glass, shattering the bone before she thudded, limp and ragged at the roadside. As she lapsed into darkness, the blue of its bodywork triggered a distant memory of the curtains which had hung in her bedroom as a young girl.

Georgia, taller than Bertie, but light and feathery, with one hand outstretched to grab her brother, was knocked high up into the air and landed just short of the concrete barrier, her head hitting the pavement with a resounding ‘thwack’ which cleaved her skull in two. Bertie, keen to be first across the road was last to be hit, his left arm splintering before he creased over and fell beneath the wheels; two tons of high-tensile strength steel passing over his diminutive body, crushing out his life, his fingers still wet, as they rapped the pavement lightly once, before falling still.

The car came to a halt just short of where Georgia lay, its wheels twisted, its windscreen smashed, its former gleaming chrome grin now ragged and droopy. Its occupant, James Salisbury, aged fifty-nine years and three months, hovering just below the six-foot mark and, at twelve stone, carrying the same weight as he did at twenty-one, was first thrown forwards then back then forwards again, his brain shifting in the opposite direction to his body, in a textbook coup contre-coup, before coming to rest against the inflated airbag.

Only the pram lay intact. When Bertie was struck, it had been sent into a violent spin. Now it rested, upright, part in the gutter, part clambering its way back up to normality, rocking gently forward and back, its occupant blinking her eyes once, twice, before letting out a tentative cry, which quickly became more persistent when no one came.

ONE MONTH EARLIER...

2

JAMES SALISBURY was on a roll. Three minutes into his ten-minute address to the House of Commons Select Committee, and the rapt faces of the audience confirmed his words were hitting home. It wasn’t easy, taking listeners from a place of ignorance to one of knowledge, and from sceptical to convinced. How had he done it? He had spoken from the heart. And as he paused and focused for a moment on the video screen, which was transmitting his briefing further afield, he allowed himself a rare moment of self-congratulation.

Sitting upright behind the glossy desk, in a new single-breasted, wool-mohair-mix suit, his shoes highly polished, his Gucci tie a fashionable shade between pale blue and turquoise, picked out by Martine, his wife, only the previous day from a selection at Selfridges, he was on top of the world.

‘Autonomous vehicles provide tremendous potential to drive change,’ James spoke confidently. ‘No more motorway pileups, no more traffic jams, no more uncertain journey times or wasted down time. No need to swelter on overcrowded public transport. Eliminate the negatives. And the ability to live in that house you’ve always desired because now your commute is a breeze, or just to travel independently for the first time. Embrace the positives.

‘This is no dream. This is reality. A new dawn heralding not just a new way of travelling; it’s a new way of living. A new way of life.’

Peter Mears, special adviser to Alan Tillinghurst, the Secretary of State for Transport, watched from the side of the hall. He was portly and bald, his stomach overhanging his tailored trousers, and he had a disconcerting habit of tapping his fingers on his belly when engaged in earnest conversation or when deep in thought. This was one of those occasions, and his index finger was striking his stomach over and again as James spoke. When James finished, to tumultuous applause, and stood, majestic, awaiting questions, Peter frowned and entered a quick reminder to himself into his phone.

‘Mr Salisbury. That was fascinating and I can see you are a man of great vision.’ David Morris, MP for Woking, vice-chair of the committee and a staunch supporter of the Autonomous Vehicles Bill, smiled broadly at James from the horseshoe of chairs facing him. ‘And SEDA should be proud to have you at its helm. We all appreciate you coming here today,’ he continued, ‘to talk to us at this advanced stage of the reading of the Bill. I will now open things up for questions, if you can spare us a few more minutes of your time.’

The first question came from a man to David Morris’ left.

‘I wanted to ask about the level of autonomy of your vehicles. Once the Bill is approved and your cars are sold to the public, will they be fully autonomous? And, if not, why not?’

James’ eyes sought out Peter, who had tucked his phone away and was focusing on the debate again.

‘SEDA’s cars will be level three autonomy. They will have a manual function too,’ James replied. ‘The fully autonomous vehicles, level five, should be available within two to three years.’

‘I see. And, given the numerous benefits you’ve mentioned, I’m interested in the reasoning for this marketing decision.’

‘That issue has been done to death in previous sessions. It’s not Mr Salisbury’s decision,’ Alan Tillinghurst, the Secretary of State for Transport, bearded and loud, boomed from centre right.

‘I’m still interested in hearing from James,’ the man continued. ‘He builds the things. Not from some academic or a politician. That’s why we asked him to come today, isn’t it?’

Alan withdrew. Everyone’s attention returned to James. He moistened his lips; beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. Peter stared at him intently.

‘While I believe in change and radical change,’ James began, ‘and I firmly believe in the capacity of the fully autonomous, level five vehicles to bring about that change, we have to take things in stages. And particularly with autonomous vehicles, there’s a nervousness, understandably, about the product. So, regardless of the other issues it creates, I…on balance, support introducing the level three car first.’

‘You mean people get to trust the car, knowing they have the option to take over if necessary.’

‘Exactly, yes. And, in time, once they see how safe autonomous mode is, they will use it all the time, and then bringing in level five will be uncontroversial, second nature.’

‘So, it’s a matter of public confidence only, not any problems with the cars?’

‘Yes.’

Now Alan looked over at Peter. Peter nodded his gratitude in return.

‘There have been times, Alan, though, when governments have decided they know better than the people they serve. We could take the choice away from the people; just give them fully autonomous vehicles straightaway and they have to lump it – if they are so much safer, that is,’ the man who had asked the question persisted.

‘Extensive research has been carried out,’ Alan replied, ‘and the majority of people surveyed said they would not feel safe in a fully autonomous level five vehicle.’

‘But we all know the vagaries of market research,’ a woman on the end of the row joined in. ‘Who did you ask? People shopping at Westfield at 2pm on a Monday?’

‘You wanted to hear from a manufacturer and James has answered the question,’ Alan said. ‘We can debate the issue after he and the others have given their addresses today. Let’s allow someone else to ask a question now, shall we?’

‘How can you be so sure that your vehicles won’t have accidents?’ a woman to Alan’s left piped up.

‘We have been trialling our cars in the UK for the past five years,’ James replied. ‘We have driven over 600,000 miles and never had one collision. What I can say with confidence is that once all vehicles in the UK are autonomous, and they are all linked, connected – we’ve talked about this before – essentially, “speaking the same language”, then there will be no more accidents.’

‘And when do you anticipate that will happen?’

‘It depends on when the Bill is passed. But, assuming it’s in this reading, which is very much what I should like to see then, if level five vehicles are out in two years, I would say ten years maximum. Of course, the government could hurry things along by outlawing manual vehicles before then, but that’s not a matter for me.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Peter muttered under his breath.

‘What about cost?’

‘SEDA currently produces two models. The smaller Go! will retail at £18,000 and the larger WayWeGo! will be £32,000. That’s based on certain projected sales in year one. If we exceed those sales the prices could come down substantially in year two.’

‘Are there any technical issues that concern you, which we should know about?’

‘Absolutely none. Not only with my own product, but I attend regular meetings with all the other autonomous car manufacturers worldwide. Perhaps surprisingly, we are very collaborative as, like myself, everyone sees the fantastic potential to change lives which these vehicles bring.’

‘You’ve already said that,’ Peter mumbled louder than he had intended, and his neighbour frowned at him.

‘I understand that people have concerns, and maybe part of that is the misunderstanding that driving is somehow a skill; we pride ourselves, don’t we, on being “a good driver” or “a careful and experienced driver”,’ James said. ‘We need to accept that driving is really just a process like any other, getting from A to B safely without colliding with anything. It doesn’t require emotional intelligence or judgment. It’s the perfect task for a machine to carry out.’

Alan half rose from his seat and swivelled around to face the committee chairman.

‘We are running a little behind schedule and our next speaker is waiting. Can I suggest that we allow Mr Salisbury to go now, and that any further questions are channelled through my office, in writing.’

Outside the auditorium, Peter clasped James’ hand tightly.

‘Well done,’ he said.

‘Thank you. Do you think that did the trick?’

‘Who knows? They are notoriously unpredictable, this lot, and cautious. But you were confident and behind your product and they liked you. That should go a long way towards oiling the wheels.’

‘So what happens next?’ James asked.

‘Two more speakers now. You can tune in, if you like. Then we go into a closed session for further debate, probably finish up in a couple of hours.’

‘And will that be it?’

Peter raised his eyes to heaven.

‘God knows,’ he said, ‘but we are getting there.’

***

Toby Barnes, James’ second in command, was watching from a round table in the corner of James’ office, via the video link. He had written Embrace the positives. Eradicate the negatives. on the notepad in front of him, with a flourish.

As James exited the podium and the next speaker was introduced, Toby stood up and made a circuit of the room. He hopped on one leg, then the other, then back onto two feet. He perused the books on the shelf in the corner, pulling out one or two and then shoving them back into place. He straightened the picture on the wall, then he yawned noisily before sitting back down to view the rest of the debate.

3

THERESE LAYTON lifted Ruby from her basket and held her at arm’s length. The little girl sneezed twice and then hiccupped. Therese stared at her, sighed and then brought her close to her chest, tapping her back lightly. She paced the room, bouncing on the balls of her feet, humming gently. Ruby’s head nestled into Therese’s neck.

‘Oh dear!’ Therese said. ‘You’ve got hiccups?’ As she pronounced the word, she shifted her weight from one side to the other. ‘Hi-ccups,’ she repeated. Ruby gurgled.

Therese skipped across to the window and peered out. The rain striking their discoloured decking was light, but the grey sky suggested the bad weather was set in for a while. She sighed again. She had been hoping to get out of the house this morning. Walking distracted her from her thoughts, and it kept Ruby occupied too. And she sometimes bumped into another local mother, and they chatted and exchanged grievances as they walked. Otherwise the morning stretched out, long and lonely, each second expanding to fill a universe of isolation.

Ruby tugged at Therese’s hair. She disentangled her daughter’s fingers and headed downstairs, where she placed Ruby carefully down on her back on her playmat and shifted the colourful mobile over her body. Ruby hiccupped again.

‘Play with your toys,’ Therese told her. ‘Mummy needs a break.’

She caught a glimpse of her dishevelled self in the glass of the patio door and winced. She touched one hand up to her hair and smoothed it down, tucking it into her neck. Ruby groaned irritably. The hiccups frustrated her.

Therese ran both hands down over her belly. She really needed to get some exercise or she would never revert to her pre-pregnancy weight. She had managed with each of the other two children; somehow things seemed so much harder third time around. Then she noticed her nails, short and stubby; a manicure would be nice. But there was no point yet, that was what Neil had said, not while she was busy digging in their makeshift sandpit each afternoon – well, when the weather was dry, that was. Plenty of time for beauty treatments once things had settled down a bit.

Ruby’s complaint became a cry, progressively increasing in volume. Therese glanced over at her daughter and blinked heavily. She looked down at her wrist, remembering too late that she had discarded her watch the previous day because she had been repeatedly checking it at shorter and shorter intervals and it had become overwhelming.

Therese stood by the glass doors, with Ruby’s wailing drowning out most other noises. She watched the pouring rain rebounding off an upturned spoon she had missed and wondered what she could offer up to a long-neglected deity, in return for a clear sky when she had to collect the other two from school later on.

4

TOBY BARNES was alone in his flat, a pair of noise-cancelling headphones over his ears. He was sitting on the floor, leaning back against his sofa with a games console in both hands, rocking from side to side, muttering under his breath.

To his left lay a pizza box with a few remaining scraps of Hawaiian Special stuck fast. ‘You have to have pineapple on a pizza or it’s just not pizza,’ he would tell anyone who was prepared to listen. Next to it was an empty bottle of Corona and a second, half-full.

He detached his right hand from the console for a moment in order to scratch his head and push his glasses further up his nose. His tongue was firmly trapped between his teeth, his shoulders hunched, his brow knitted, as he focused on the game.

He knew everyone else was playing Fortnite, but he still loved good old GTA. He preferred the real-life scenarios, street scenes, recognisable goodies and baddies and, of course, lots of cars to steal. It didn’t matter that all the characters had American accents and were caricatures. That was part of the attraction; it was real life but not his real life. Anyone who said that playing these games normalised violence had clearly never played. Hours of Fortnite had not encouraged him to shoot anyone and GTA had not, at least so far, elicited from him a desire to hotwire anyone’s car, either.

That said, he had to admit that, from time to time, when he was bored at work, and alone, he did find himself re-living some of the game’s better moments and mumbling ‘die motherfucker,’ under his breath. But this was much more a reflection of immersing himself in youth culture generally, he reflected, than of his time spent playing video games.

MISSION COMPLETED! The message flashed in capital letters across the screen.

Toby raised his right hand in a silent salute, then pulled off the headphones, stood up stiffly and bowed to the TV screen, turned around and bowed to the kitchen, then he seized his beer and his phone, sank back down on to the sofa and checked his messages. Finally, he dialled a number and held his phone to his ear. When it rang through to voicemail he quickly hung up. He had been trying his father for two days now, just to catch up, but Barnes senior was hard to locate.

Returning to his phone menu, he selected ‘videos’ and opened up the recent film of James addressing the House of Commons. Toby joined in where he could remember, copying James’ mannerisms, chanting ‘Eradicate the negatives. Embrace the positives’ over and over. Then he laughed uproariously and threw his phone face down onto the cushion.

He lifted the corner of the pizza box, but the remaining soggy slice, coated in congealed cheese, was distinctly unappealing. He wiped his fingers on his jeans. Then he pulled the headphones over his ears a second time, slipped back down onto the floor, grabbed the games console and loaded his next mission.

5

JAMES SALISBURY sat at the head of the shiny, mahogany table in the largest meeting room at his Essex headquarters. A Mont Blanc pen languished by his right hand; only for show, as he preferred to use his iPad these days to make his notes. And although the table behind him was groaning with finger food to cater to every taste, he had chosen only an expresso and a piece of peanut brittle to sustain him.

The room was spacious enough, the table seated ten comfortably and there were only four men present, positioned at regular intervals. James had planned it that way, subtle touches to discourage the attendees from taking certain places; a strategically placed bottle of water, an imperfectly closed blind and the saucer-like speaker phone deliberately hijacking another potential pew.

‘I am grateful to you for calling this meeting, James, especially as I know you’ve just returned from a week overseas, although it’s hard to find you in the country these days,’ Peter Mears began. ‘Perhaps SEDA runs itself now, just like its cars.’

James said nothing. He had learned he usually achieved the best results by letting Peter have his say, and he always pretended to appreciate Peter’s attempts at humour, even where others, less discerning than himself, might have viewed them as sarcasm.

‘Thank you. It seemed sensible to take stock of where we are,’ James replied, ‘post the select committee meeting.’

Peter was silent for once and awaited James’ introduction.

‘We have an agenda,’ James continued. ‘Does everyone have it to hand? If not it’s in the Cinderella dropbox, first item.’

Peter wiped his mouth and fingers on a paper napkin, scrunching it into a tight ball and depositing it on the edge of his still-groaning plate, indicating that he had finished eating. James winced. He abhorred food waste of any kind. Imogen, his former business partner, had said you could learn a lot from a man by the way he eats. Peter wouldn’t have impressed her, James reflected, although few people had.

Peter’s eyes circled the room, falling on each of the men for just long enough to make them feel under scrutiny. Then he shoved his plate away so roughly that the napkin rolled off and dropped through the hole in the centre of the table.

‘I have some things I need to say,’ Peter began, ‘on behalf of Alan, which don’t feature on the agenda and they won’t wait till “any other business”. They came up at the meeting, mostly in our closed session. Shall I kick off?’

‘Of course,’ James replied, although his relaxed comment belied his anxiety. He preferred to stick to his agenda. That was the whole point of producing one, and the implication of Peter’s words was clear; Alan Tillinghurst, the irascible minister, had more hoops for them to jump through.

‘Thank you, James. You two?’ Peter poured himself a cup of coffee and waited for a response from the room’s other inhabitants.

Will Maddox, a tall, skinny man sporting a ponytail, shrugged his agreement. In his day job he was a college lecturer in psychology, but he was present today in his capacity of chairman of UK Cyclists, a group with a burgeoning membership recently topping 1.2 million. The last man, Jeremy Fry, much shorter, at around five-foot six, grunted out what sounded like a ‘yes’. He could usually be called upon by James as an ally, canny and protective of his members’ interests, which often aligned with those of SEDA. An actuary by profession, he now led the Institute of Automobile Insurers, its three hundred UK members keen to be kept involved in the process of conversion to autonomous driving.

‘So,’ Peter continued, ‘the government has invested £2 billion in autonomous vehicles over the last five years. MPs have participated in focus groups, parliamentary commissions and there has already been twenty-two hours of formal debate on the matter, and hundreds of hours of discussion at various other levels, including in the select committee you attended last week.’

‘Yes. And it’s much appreciated, I can assure you,’ James responded, wondering how many more times he would have to sit through similar opening remarks from Peter.

‘We didn’t do any of this for you, James. We did it to save lives, to improve lives, for the good of the people of the United Kingdom.’

‘Absolutely. You know I’m in total agreement,’ James said. ‘That’s how I see it too.’

‘And to bring business to the UK,’ Will butted in.

‘All right. We don’t disagree with that addendum,’ Peter said, ‘and we don’t see any difficulty with it either, as long as there’s no conflict between those two objectives. Now for the things we need to get straight.’ Peter shuffled back in his chair. ‘Jeremy, if the statistics are to be believed, within five years your insurer members will be paying out billions less in claims than they are now. You will almost certainly be making “bumper profits”. No pun intended.’

‘That doesn’t mean we roll over on every point,’ Jeremy replied, clearly cross that he was being singled-out for Peter’s treatment. He aimed a swift glance at James, who returned it with a reassuring inclination of the head.

‘I’ve talked to Alan about your proposed list of “exclusions”, which your members are refusing to cover when the autonomous cars come in, and it won’t wash,’ Peter said, ignoring Jeremy’s petulant comeback. He picked at his front teeth with his fingernail, then curled his tongue over the surface to loosen some mashed-up food, lodged in his prominent gap.

‘Your first request, for the government to pick up the tab for accidents involving the first autonomous vehicles, isn’t acceptable,’ Peter droned on. ‘Individual car owners will need to retain their own personal insurance for when they drive in manual mode. And once cars are fully autonomous, it will cease to have any relevance. All insurance will be linked to the vehicle instead, which, naturally, your members will cover.’

‘But accidents involving these vehicles will most likely be complex, much more so than now,’ Jeremy complained. ‘We don’t have the resources to investigate them. We’ll end up paying out without a clue what really happened.’

‘Isn’t that what happens now, anyway?’ Will mumbled. ‘Most of the time, when there’s anything tricky you give “knock for knock”, as far as I can see.’

Peter held up his hand.

‘I put all your points to Alan and the rest of the committee, and there is no way they will change their minds. The government is not going to pay, even at the beginning.’

‘My members won’t be happy.’ Jeremy peeled an apple, paring the skin back, sliver by sliver, the blade of his knife all the time pointing provocatively in Peter’s direction.

‘I see that. But, given the safety statistics James has provided, accidents will be incredibly rare, even at this interim stage of deployment, so, unpalatable as this may seem to you in principle, this should make little real difference to insurers’ profits.’

Jeremy sliced a large section off his apple and put it in his mouth. When he had finished chewing, he laid the knife down across his plate.

‘Thank you, Peter,’ he said. ‘Just making sure I’ve understood you, then. To sum up, the government has rejected our members’ reasonable and considered request for help during this transitional period. Instead, you’re insisting we keep on insuring drivers of manual cars in the conventional way. For the new cars, you demand that we insure the vehicle and that we pay up, without investigation, regardless of who is to blame for any accident. This debate appears to be all one-way traffic so far,’ he said. ‘Excuse my pun.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Peter replied, ‘and you know it. It’s up to you how you choose to investigate, like Will says. And Alan wanted to impose a cap on premiums. Naturally, they should fall dramatically with the reduced risk of accident. But I managed to persuade him to put this off for the foreseeable future. That is likely to be worth more to your members than anything they will pay out in claims. There is one further area, though, where we might be prepared to accommodate you.’

Peter paused and waited for the full attention of everyone around the table before continuing.

‘We’ve previously discussed the importance of keeping the software in these vehicles up to date. Alan can see that it is crucial, especially in the early days, that vehicle owners update their software regularly. In terms of a proposal to your members, Jeremy, it goes like this.

‘If the software is not properly maintained by the vehicle owner, we will agree to pay for any resulting losses, at least over the first two years; we’ll create a fund to meet any liabilities. It will be strict liability, though. If you haven’t updated your software, your insurance will be automatically vitiated. Alan would appreciate some advice on a quick and easy mechanism for checking if the software is up to date. Subject to that box being ticked, the Department is prepared to support and help the insurance industry in the way I have proposed, if the other provisions can be agreed now.’

Jeremy poured himself a glass of orange juice and proceeded to drink it down in one gulp.

‘You’re not saying anything?’ Peter said.

‘What would you like me to say?’

‘“Thank you” might be in order.’

‘It seems a fair compromise to me,’ Will mumbled, clearing the last mini quiche off his plate and turning around to see what further tasty treats remained. ‘You couldn’t seriously have expected them to pick up the cost of the other stuff, could you? I mean, that’s what insurance is for.’

Jeremy opened his mouth and then closed it again.

‘I have a feeling you have more demands to communicate, Peter,’ James said. ‘Why don’t we hear everything and then maybe we can comment on the whole package?’

‘I think “demands” is a little strong, and I am merely the mouthpiece. All right,’ Peter said. ‘To move on – Will. You continue to support us and the autonomous car bill, without making any waves, including agreeing to two TV appearances per week at the relevant time, and there’ll be a guaranteed additional £5 million per year invested in cycle superhighways.’

‘Where?’

‘Your choice. You send me your ideas for the most needed places and, while I won’t promise it will be exactly as you want, you will be consulted at every step.’

‘What about lorries in central London?’

‘By 2025 they won’t be allowed in at all, except between 10pm and 6am.’

Will rose again and combed the food table for anything interesting he had not yet sampled. He selected a satsuma and a bunch of grapes.

‘Even autonomous ones?’ he asked, popping a grape into his mouth.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh no!’ James protested. ‘Why ban autonomous lorries? They won’t be able to hit cyclists. It’s not in their DNA. It’s unnecessary, just pandering to public hysteria.’

‘DNA!’ Will feigned choking on his fruit haul. ‘How many cyclists have to be crushed before you understand that we can’t share the road with these lumbering vehicles any more and we shouldn’t have to?’

‘So you’re in, then?’ Peter asked.

Will sat down heavily. ‘What’s the catch?’ he said.

‘No catch. Alan simply expects your continued support.’

‘I’ll wait to hear what else you have to say to the others, like James said.’

Peter turned towards James.

‘All right. The last piece of the puzzle. We had some discussion last time about manufacturers working together so that their vehicles can communicate effectively. I know your IT man spoke subsequently to our IT team. Clearly that is crucial, but not without enormous difficulties in terms of data protection and susceptibility to hacking.’

‘I’ve told you, it’s all in hand,’ James said. ‘I’ve been to the sessions you set up on communication and cyber security. Now it’s a simple matter of cooperation and, given that it will be to everyone’s benefit, it’s a total non-issue. The critical first step is the government’s publication of the list of approved manufacturers, which will accompany the Bill. Then we will all know where we stand. No one will put his head above the parapet and agree to get into bed with another manufacturer unless he knows who is government-approved. It’s simple. Five years, Peter. The Minister, in various incarnations, has been prevaricating for five years!’

‘The time hasn’t been wasted. Your vehicles are far safer as a result.’

‘But we can’t go on like this. None of us, not just SEDA. I need to sell my cars in this country. If I can’t sell them soon, I’ll have to consider closing the factory and shifting my focus overseas. If that is what you want, then you should make it clear and we’ll move on. Tell Alan when the list comes out, there’ll be no “homegrown” vehicles on it.’

‘If it were my decision alone, you know things would be different,’ Peter said. ‘Be patient. We have so many different groups to keep on side, you know that, including the anti-terrorist lobby. Immediately after you presented to the Committee, Dr Fielding gave his views. Did you hear him?’

‘He’s an old woman and you shouldn’t have invited him.’

‘He is well-respected and, I accept, cautious, but the committee wanted to hear from a wide range of people, and they listened to the warnings he gave on a number of issues.’

‘The sooner you publish the list and SEDA can sell its cars in the UK, the sooner we can all work together and this “hacking” theory can be consigned to the dustbin.’ James picked up his pen and rolled it around in his fingers.

Peter took a deep breath. He knew his next request was likely to be incendiary.

‘Alan feels strongly that, in order to allay any fears of hacking or other data breaches, we should have immediate access to information about the security of your systems and that of the other autonomous car manufacturers who want to sell in the UK. Without it, how can we comply with our national security agenda?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Access to information about the security of your systems.’

‘I go to all the cybersecurity events and work closely with the team the government set up.’

‘It’s not enough.’

‘So, what, now you want us and Tesla and Google and all the others to allow you access to our most secret information? You’re not serious,’ James muttered through clenched teeth.

‘Not me. Alan. And the PM. I am afraid I was not as convincing this time in my pleas on your behalf, although I will continue to try. But at the moment they are deadly serious,’ Peter said. ‘And, in all honesty, I really don’t see what the fuss is all about. It’s just the processes they…we want to oversee. I can tell you, without naming names, that at least two other manufacturers have already agreed to be audited in this way.’

‘And the list?’

‘Assuming we are satisfied with the security of your systems, we are looking at a few weeks only for publication of the list of approved manufacturers; October I would say. And there is no reason, for the time being, to think that SEDA would not be on the list.’

‘October this year?’

‘Yes.’

‘For the Bill to pass and the list to be published?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank the Lord.’

‘Well there’s no need to be rude.’

‘Is that it?’

‘No.’

‘I didn’t think so.’

‘I would love another cup of coffee, but you know I like it piping hot. Could you see if someone can bring a fresh pot?’

6

IT WAS TUESDAY and that meant it was Neil Layton’s day to assume responsibility for the morning routine. For the first month, when Ruby was tiny, he had been in charge of breakfast for their other two children every day, but they had now settled into this routine, where he was boss on Tuesdays and Thursdays and Therese managed the rest of the week.

This morning he was feeling particularly perky as Therese had only disturbed him once, around 2am, when she had fed Ruby. He had even slept soundly enough to dream, although it was a weird mash-up of wailing babies, fleeing something large and frightening and having his face licked by a large, slobbering dog.

Breakfast was challenging when he had to orchestrate it one-handed, but if he used the sling for Ruby he had learned that he could work twice as fast. Of course, that meant that he had to postpone his own breakfast, either that or risk dripping it all over his baby daughter, but that was a small price to pay for relative normality in the kitchen. And it was worth a few minutes of discomfort for the look of relief on Therese’s face when he took Ruby from her arms and shepherded Bertie and Georgia down the stairs.

Today Bertie demanded his Coco Pops warmed up. Neil placed Bertie’s bowl in the microwave for twenty-five seconds, just how he liked it and, as he had anticipated, when Georgia saw him serve Bertie, she asked for hers to be heated too.

‘Look. Turns the milk brown,’ Bertie declared proudly. ‘Can I show Ruby, dad?’

‘You can try. She’s a bit muffled up in here, but I’ll turn her head for you.’

So Neil had manoeuvred his way over to perch next to his son and Ruby had patiently endured Bertie prodding her cheek and pointing out his breakfast. And she had hardly flinched when Bertie attempted to prise her eyelids open, ever so gently, just to ensure she really could see.

The microwave pinged and Neil took the opportunity to leap away and collect Georgia’s cereal. But, in his haste, he must have pressed the wrong combination of buttons. The bowl was staggeringly hot. He dropped it back onto the worktop with a shriek, sloshing soggy Coco Pops and brown milk all over and raced to the sink where he ran his hand under the cold tap, swearing under his breath. Ruby smacked her lips. Bertie laughed hysterically. Georgia began to cry.

‘Just one minute, Georgie. Daddy just needs one minute to save his fingers. Not sure there’s a plastic surgeon on hand today, so I need to sort this out myself. Then I’ll get you a fresh bowl. Are you sure you want them warm? It turns the milk brown you know?’

Georgia’s face was screwed up tightly and her sobs were wracking her entire frame, but Neil believed he detected a shallow nod among the shudders. As a parent you had to be able to develop a whole new set of observation skills. Switching off the tap earlier than the recommended two minutes and kissing the top of Ruby’s head for no reason other than relief that she, at least, was not demanding anything of him, he lifted a clean bowl down from the cupboard, shovelled some Coco Pops in and tried, once more, to feed his elder daughter.

This time he watched the seconds tick down on the microwave, tested the temperature with a teaspoon and then set the bowl down ceremoniously in front of Georgia. Her face was so awash with tears and snot that he could hardly tell if she was happy or not. He tugged at some kitchen roll and wiped her down.

‘Thank you, Daddy,’ she croaked.

Neil was dying for a cup of coffee, but Therese wouldn’t allow him hot drinks around the children, and certainly not when he had the youngest strapped to his chest. Staring out of the window at next door’s cat oozing its way along the fence distracted him for now.

There was a loud plop behind him, followed by a scream from Georgia. He turned abruptly to find that someone, presumably Bertie, had lobbed a spoon into Georgia’s bowl and it had landed with a titanic splash, sending half the contents spilling out over Georgia’s face, clothes and the table.

‘Bertie!’ he yelled, then remembered that Therese had told him not to shout at Bertie.

Bertie giggled.

‘Georgie looks funny.’ He pointed at his Thomas the Tank Engine toy, which he had smuggled onto the table. ‘It wasn’t me, Daddy,’ he said.

‘What? Thomas used his special springboard to launch a missile at Princess Georgia’s breakfast?’ Neil was no longer shouting.

Georgia screamed again.

‘Neil?’ Therese was calling from the top of the stairs. He heard the creaking of the floorboards, as she manoeuvred herself around in bed.

Neil swore for the second time that morning, this time more audibly than the last. Bertie clapped his hand over his mouth and Georgia stopped crying.

‘It’s OK,’ Neil called back into the upstairs void. ‘Thomas the Tank Engine had a little accident. I’m just cleaning him up.’ He put his finger to his lips. ‘Shh,’ he said. Both children laughed.

He dabbed at Georgia’s face with the soft hand towel and cleaned the spilled milk off the table. Then he examined her t-shirt. It was khaki-coloured anyway and only spattered around the neck. She sometimes came home from school dirty, so Therese would never know, as long as they could escape from the house without her scrutiny.

‘Georgia, sweetie. Finish up your Coco Pops and then I’ll just dry your t-shirt with some tissue.’

She nodded obediently. As he yanked another paper sheet off the roll, she leaned forward and planted a kiss on the back of his hand. ‘Thank you, Daddy. I don’t agree with Grandma. I think you’re a very good daddy,’ she said.

7

JAMES WAS standing at the wash basin in his ensuite bathroom at 2am. He was not a vain man, but there were definitely two additional lines radiating out from his left eye, which he had not noticed before and, following his jaw line down, he questioned if that was the beginning of a double chin. He stepped onto the scales and squinted at the reading. No. Still exactly twelve stone. That didn’t necessarily mean everything was precisely the same, though. He knew that he might have lost some muscle tone recently and it could easily have been replaced by body fat.

He opened the top drawer of the bathroom cabinet and surveyed the array of beauty products which Martine utilised on a daily basis. There was an entire row of nail polish, with white at one end, black at the other and every imaginable colour in between. Her lipsticks were less varied, around twenty different shades of red. Then the creams and ointments began; moisturisers, toners, scrubs, cleansers. He ran his fingers along the tubes and jars but balked at opening any. And he certainly couldn’t ask Martine for advice, even though he knew she would be delighted to provide it – not after the many occasions on which he had teased her for buying the products in the first place. He would ask Jane at work instead. She was nearer his age and very discreet.

Settling back down underneath the covers, he let out a deep sigh.

‘What is it?’ Martine asked, her hair splayed out across her copper-infused pillow, her latest aid to clean sleeping.

‘Nothing. Just can’t switch off,’ James replied, gazing at the ceiling.

Martine turned over, shuffled her body in closer and ran her fingers down his arm.

‘What are you so worried about? Are the others causing trouble?’

‘They’re all after what they can get for themselves.’ James leaned back against the velvet headboard. ‘Jeremy, he’s the insurance guy. He’s going to be allowed to make a killing by keeping premiums at current rates when no one will ever have an accident, but he wants more. Will, he’s the cyclist, he gets big investment in cycling lanes, but he’s still not satisfied. He wants all lorries banned during daylight hours. Alan, he’s the minister, he must love it when Peter reports back. Divide and conquer. He doesn’t even have to try. We do it for him.’

‘And what is it you want?’

‘What I’ve always wanted. To sell my cars. To improve people’s lives.’

‘So why aren’t they all on your side? What you want will benefit millions of people,’ Martine said.

‘Alan doesn’t see it that way, apparently. I could sense he wasn’t happy when I spoke at that committee meeting at the House of Commons last week. Oh, there was lots of effusive thanks and “We love you for taking all these risks and having a vision”, but then some counter-terrorist idiot spoke after me and convinced them all that autonomous vehicles were awful, because they could be hacked and taken over and that people’s personal data could be stolen. Now Alan wants to send someone to vet our data controls. God, Peter sounded just like Tony Blair today, going on about “national security”. Spineless, they are. No trust. No imagination. No vision.’

‘Well, no one could compare with you.’

‘You might just be my only fan at the moment.’ He stroked her arm. ‘If only we could have some progress, something tangible, anything, rather than all this delay. There was a moment, at the government meeting, when I thought I had them. I thought they felt it too. Embrace the positives. Eradicate the negatives. The whole room was rising with me. But as soon as I left and the next guy came and talked “terror” and “opaque systems” it was all washed away. I might as well have never existed.

‘You know, I feel like one of those hamsters on a treadmill, running, running, running, but never getting anywhere. In the end I think my heart will burst and I’ll fall down dead and then another hamster will take my place and no one will notice that it has a black splodge behind its ear when I don’t.’

Martine laughed. ‘No one could take your place. Can you imagine Toby trying? What did you tell me he asked the other day? Oh yes. He thought someone was joking when they said a cow gave off as much pollution as a car. He never knew they farted methane.’

‘He’s young. He’ll learn.’

‘You think? By his age I had two regional titles and I was running my own business.’

‘You were very…advanced. And you weren’t born with a silver spoon.’

‘You shouldn’t let them push you around so much,’ Martine said. ‘Peter and the others.’

‘I shouldn’t shoot the messenger, either. I know it’s not Peter’s fault. He’s very supportive, if a little annoying. It’s Alan who’s pulling the strings.’

‘So talk to Alan, then. Ignore Peter. He can’t be so terrifying.’

‘It’s not as simple as that. You don’t understand. There’s a protocol. Oh it’s just so…pathetic! I’ve played by all the rules. They’ve had the royal visit, the business plan, five years of collaboration and strategic thinking and they’re still too scared to publish the list. God if I have to sit through another one of those endless meetings with obstacles being thrown in my path again and again…’

‘Maybe you could ask Alan to come to the office. He’s never been, has he? I could organise some lunch.’

‘I doubt a lunch, however enticing, is going to change Alan’s mind, and I’m trying to keep them out, not invite them in! I’ll have to talk to the other manufacturers. I’m seeing them next week. Maybe if we all fight it, they’ll realise they have to drop it. I’m not sure it’s legal anyway. I’ll ask Bruce. Must be against some data privacy rules. They’re just all so weak, these politicians, that’s the real problem. And the lawyers make them nervous. No one wants to go down in history as the person who got it spectacularly wrong. You’d think we were talking about “weapons of mass destruction” not autonomous cars.’

‘So is that what you’re going to do? Fight it? Fight the government?’

James laughed. ‘You make it sound very dramatic,’ he said. ‘Maybe Peter has brought Alan around already. He did hint that he would try again. Then there won’t need to be any fight.’

Martine turned her back on James and plumped her pillow. James was right that something needed to happen to shake things up. She understood his frustration at being undervalued in this way, after all his years of hard work. Every time he capitulated, he was asked for more and more, the goalposts constantly shifting.

She drew her knees up to her chest – her thinking position – and listened to James muttering to himself as he finally drifted off to sleep.

8

JUAN HERRERA sat at his computer screen in the technology lab at SEDA’s Essex factory, concentrating hard. He had connected first to one of their test vehicles, which was stuck in traffic in Islington. It was dull watching how SEDA’s cars behaved in the rush hour, but important, too. One thing he had already noted to report to James was that the other drivers were clearly nervous at how close behind them the SEDAs regularly travelled. That wouldn’t be a problem once every car was autonomous, but the last thing James would want was any bad publicity at this crucial testing stage, so Juan would mention it at the next opportunity. In any event, the driver was keeping his own log and was scheduled to come into the lab for a debrief tomorrow, so they could compare notes on his driving experience.

Juan looked at the road ahead, to anticipate any particular obstacles the car would need to navigate. Now the SEDA car was first in line at the traffic lights. The lights changed, the two lanes of traffic immediately to the SEDA’s left began to move, but the SEDA was stuck in its blocks. Had it stalled? Juan urged it on. Then he saw why it was waiting.

Just as the lights turned to green, a cyclist with a death wish crossed the junction from left to right. None of the other cars could see her, as she was hidden, until the last minute, by a vehicle which had not completely cleared the junction. Each of the regular vehicles slammed on their brakes and swerved to miss the cyclist who, miraculously, emerged unscathed and pedalled off intact. Only the SEDA had remained stationary, anticipating her approach. Once the cyclist had escaped, the SEDA moved smoothly off.

Juan switched on his left-hand screen, which provided him with the view of the road the car itself could ‘see’, via its combination of sensors. The images appeared as coloured shapes against a black background, each car was represented by an orange square, although all SEDA cars were green to help distinguish them easily, pedestrians were purple rectangles and other obstacles covered the spectrum from red to blue, according to their status. He rewound a few screens and then he understood what had happened.

‘Perfecto!’ he mouthed as he watched the cyclist, a yellow circle, appear at the far left of the screen twenty seconds earlier. None of the human drivers could see her, but the SEDA knew she was there, its sensors turning through 360 degrees, those high frequency radio waves bouncing off her, even at a distance of some thirty-five metres. This was the kind of snapshot the public would love; James could spin it as his cars exhibiting some kind of ‘sixth sense’. He made a careful note of the vehicle ID and the precise reference for the footage before sitting back and rubbing his eyes. Then he pulled out a bag from under the desk and extracted a crumpled white t-shirt, a pair of boxer shorts and a toothbrush. He was just heading for the toilets when Toby walked in.

‘Hi Juan. Why’re you in so early?’ Toby asked.

Juan shrugged and folded his hands behind his back, so as to hide his clothes. ‘Lots to do on the new project. Thought I’d get a head start.’

‘New project?’

‘Well the new initiative. I suppose it’s all still part of Connect, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it is, yes.’

‘When does James need my report?’

‘I’m to see it first,’ Toby said a little too quickly, ‘and I’d love an update.’

‘OK. I could get you something by Friday, just in outline. I’m waiting to hear back from one of the big US guys. I think it would be best to do that before I write it up.’

‘Sure,’ Toby said. ‘Oh, did you see there’s going to be a new James Bond movie, after all. Do you get James Bond in Mexico?’ he continued.

‘I think James Bond gets most places,’ Juan said, ‘and before I came here, I was in the US for five years, and he definitely gets there.’ Juan smiled and a dimple hollowed out his right cheek.

Toby’s nose twitched. Then he marched over to the recycling bin in the corner and opened it up. A pungent mix of turmeric and coriander wafted its way through the holes in the top of a small cardboard box.

‘Were you here late too?’

‘There’s a lot to do. I’m not just evaluating our own vehicles. I need to review all the systems the other car manufacturers are using, compare them with ours. Then I can assess compatibility.’

Toby took in Juan’s red eyes and dishevelled appearance.

‘Have you been here all night?’ he asked.

Juan leaned back against his desk and scratched at the beginning of a beard. His t-shirt was clinging to him in all the wrong places and he really wanted to go and clean up but, evidently, Toby wanted to chat.

‘I got kicked out of my flat,’ he said. ‘Crazy landlord came in shouting, said I had to leave immediately.’