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  ‘Other parts of Spain too, maybe,’ Ceri continued. ‘Or else Malta,’ she added. ‘Malta sounds OK.’

  ‘What on earth are we talking about?’ Sara asked.

  She raised the window. The car was quieter now, and she could hear a lighter flick next to Ceri’s mouthpiece; her friend was lighting a cigarette.

  ‘I only have a few years left before I retire,’ Ceri said as she exhaled smoke. ‘I used to think I’d want to stay here in Wales. But ever since that shit-storm we went through a coupla years ago, I’ve had second thoughts.’

  ‘You want to retire somewhere else?’

  ‘I’m considering it.’

  Ceri had always lived frugally. Sara knew she saved much of her salary and had invested it well. Ceri could afford to retire anywhere and be comfortable – at least for as long as her Marlboros let her live.

  ‘Well, Mallorca’s lovely,’ Sara said. ‘Have you ever been?’

  ‘I’ve barely ever left Wales,’ Ceri admitted. ‘But I have the next few years to explore.’

  Sara had always thought that Ceri, with her taste for country music, might well thrive in the American south-west. A Stetson and cowboy boots would be an easy fit for her. But maybe Spain was a good alternative – certainly, parts of it looked like Arizona.

  ‘Are you in?’ Ceri said.

  Sara hesitated. ‘In what?’

  ‘I’m going on holiday,’ Ceri reminded her. ‘To Mallorca. Do you want to come?’

  ‘Err – when?’

  ‘I haven’t booked yet, but soon. I’m thinking of a few days in Palma, then somewhere on the western side. Not Magaluf, though – too many drunken Brits. I’m bound to have arrested some of them.’

  ‘A holiday would be lovely,’ Sara admitted. ‘But I’ve already taken this week off work to get some things done.’

  Ceri grunted unhappily. ‘You’d let me go alone?’

  ‘You like being alone.’

  ‘I’d rather be with you.’

  ‘Next time, give me some warning,’ Sara said.

  There was a pause; Sara knew Ceri well enough to feel her taking a drag on her cigarette. ‘When I decide on the dates for Mallorca,’ Ceri said, ‘I’ll let you know. Look at your diary and tell me what you could do.’

  Sara agreed, making sure to sound realistically doubtful. She and Ceri said goodbye.

  Rounding the Oval cricket ground, Sara realised their conversation had made her feel better. Sometimes Ceri cast that kind of pleasant spell over her. Yet, Sara’s old friend could do nothing to ease her underlying problem. Angry Tim Wilson remained Client Number Four.

  And the throbbing in Sara’s neck suggested that bulk of tattooed fury would be harder to bring around than his three predecessors.

  Sara’s South London flat sat on the ground floor of a house near Brixton Hill. The neighbourhood, once largely working-class Jamaican, was becoming gentrified. One day, Sara’s street – at least, the portion not taken up by the large council block – would probably have become home only to professionals like herself. Sara hoped to be long gone by then. She enjoyed the variety of accents that still rang from the pavements. Living in such close quarters, residents tended to integrate aspects of each other’s dialects, melding them into what some called Multicultural London English. Sometimes Sara listened for, but had yet to hear, her own melodic Welsh lilt being factored into the mix.

  Sara lived with her partner, a handsome, copper-fringed ex-police inspector named Jamie Harding. When she got home, it was early afternoon, and Sara found Jamie’s Land Rover in their mutually favoured spot outside the house. She drove to a space further down the road, just outside a primary school. As Sara walked back, she noticed Jamie emerging from the house with a shorter man in a grey suit. The man noticed her too.

  ‘Sara, Sara, Sara!’ Andy Turner cried.

  Andy was a defence lobbyist whose consultancy still worked for the aerospace company Sara’s late brother had run. Andy had been fiercely loyal to Rhodri Jones, and when Rhodri died, he transferred his intense devotion to Sara. Andrew Turner & Associates sponsored Sara’s position at her mental health charity. Now, Andy skipped towards her with outstretched arms, an eager child in a five-thousand-pound suit. ‘I thought you’d be at work,’ he said as they embraced.

  ‘Week off,’ she replied. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Playing matchmaker,’ Andy said archly. He nodded towards Jamie, who had been joined by a tall, gaunt man Sara didn’t recognise.

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘His name’s Gerrit Vos,’ Andy stage-whispered. ‘You met him at Rhoddo’s funeral.’

  A small wave of queasiness washed through Sara. She couldn’t remember the skeletal figure they approached, but if he’d been at the funeral …

  ‘Don’t tell me he works for Thorndike Aerospace.’

  ‘Quite a bigwig, actually,’ Andy said. ‘Managing Director for Business Development.’

  Sara stopped and gripped Andy’s elbow. ‘Andy – please tell me you’re not trying to get Jamie a job at Thorndike.’

  ‘Not a job,’ Andy said coyly. ‘Just some pocket money. Every young go-getter needs that, no?’

  Sara cast her eyes towards Jamie. He radiated an edgy anticipation. From the other man, Sara gleaned a whisper of optimism about Jamie, rising from an older, deeper sadness.

  Sara sighed. ‘Andy, you’re very sweet,’ she said, ‘but Jamie doesn’t need help. Soon he’ll get his graduate diploma, and next September he’s starting a master’s degree in human rights law.’

  ‘This won’t interfere a bit,’ Andy assured her. ‘Just some consultancy. Jamie won’t be employed by Thorndike, he’ll work for me.’ He smiled naughtily. ‘I’ll just pimp him out to Thorndike.’

  ‘Oh, Andy …’

  ‘Jamie’s had so much experience with the Met,’ Andy went on. ‘It’d be a crime to waste it.’

  Sara shut her eyes. This was not the first time Andy had tried to hire Jamie. In Sara’s first year of living in Brixton, Jamie had been unemployed, and was considering, but had not yet committed to, studying law. While Sara had taken a job at the London Fields Support Service, and also worked with her special, private clients, Jamie had distracted himself, mostly by wandering aimlessly about London. Eventually even Andy noticed his lack of engagement, and had suggested to Sara that Thorndike would be eager to use Jamie’s talents. Sara had refused outright, and began to press Jamie to make a decision about his next move. Did he want to work in human rights law or didn’t he? Finally, Jamie had applied to a handful of universities, starting his studies the previous September.

  Sara had thought that would put an end to Andy’s interests in her partner. Clearly, it had only convinced him to approach Jamie directly this time. Arguing with Andy was impossible, anyway; he always defeated her with enthusiasm.

  She looked again at the tall man on her doorstep. Gerrit Vos looked to be in his mid-forties, with thinning hair and deep-set eyes. Despite the early-spring chill, he wore a summer-weight suit in dark cerulean blue. Vos loitered by the door as Jamie moved forward and gave Sara a peck on the cheek.

  As he did, she whispered, ‘What in bloody hell have you done?’

  ‘Andy called this morning,’ Jamie whispered back.

  At the sound of his name, Andy took Sara’s arm. ‘You lovebirds can rhubarb later,’ he murmured. ‘Now, just smile and say pretty things.’

  They approached the house. ‘Sara,’ he went on, ‘you remember Gerrit Vos?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sara lied. ‘You were so kind to come to Rhodri’s funeral.’

  Vos joined them on the pavement. ‘Came to the burial at Highgate too,’ he said in a deep baritone. ‘Didn’t get a chance to talk to you. Would’ve liked to express my condolences.’

  ‘It was an overwhelming day,’ Sara replied. ‘Did you know Rhodri well?’

  Vos frowned. ‘Wasn't high enough in the pecking order then. But I always respected him.’

  If you respected Rhodri, Sara thought, you
really didn’t know him.

  ‘Damned shame how he went.’ Vos shook his head. ‘That maniac at the Air Show tipped him right over the edge. Anyone would've gone stark raving mad.’

  ‘Yes, well … thank you.’

  Sensing her discomfort, Jamie cleared his throat. ‘I’ve invited Mr Vos and his partner over for dinner Wednesday evening.’

  ‘Nicole,’ Vos said. ‘Her name’s Nicole.’

  ‘I hope that’s OK,’ Jamie added.

  Sara agreed that dinner with Gerrit and Nicole would be delightful. After a few other pleasantries, Andy tried to shepherd Vos towards his Town Car. Vos restrained him with a raised hand. He turned back to Sara.

  ‘Forgive me, Sara,’ he said, ‘but something’s been nagging at me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He looked at her unwaveringly. ‘I’m afraid it’s personal.’

  Jamie and Andy waited, still with expectation.

  ‘That’s intriguing,’ Sara said. ‘Please go ahead.’

  Vos squinted at a spot below her chin. ‘I’m just wondering … what in hell happened to your neck?’

  Sara started, and placed a hand to her throat. Her skin was sore to the touch. Jamie twitched into alertness. ‘Oh my God,’ he gasped. ‘Look at that! Sara, what did happen?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sara said, faltering. ‘Err … please give me a moment.’

  She scurried up the path and into the hall that led to their flat. Looking into a mirror, Sara saw four livid marks where Tim Wilson had grasped her. Panic made her nerves pulse. She did not want to have to explain this. Thinking fast, Sara strolled back to the pavement.

  ‘I didn’t know they were so obvious,’ she said with a dismissive chuckle. ‘I work in a mental health clinic.’

  Her vague explanation didn’t satisfy Vos. He waited for more.

  ‘A client grabbed me,’ she explained, as if it happened every day. ‘Big fellow. Bit of a temper.’

  ‘This was in your clinic?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘There were people everywhere,’ Sara said. ‘I was never in danger.’

  Thorndike's Director for Business Development hesitated. Finally, he squinted again at Sara’s neck. ‘Looks painful,’ he said.

  Sara shook her head. ‘All part of the job.’

  After another moment's contemplation, Vos shrugged.

  ‘And here I was, thinking I had a dangerous line of work,’ he said.

  TWO

  While Jamie walked his guests to Andy’s car, Sara went into their living room and fell onto the leather sofa. Immediately, her elderly Burmese cat, Ego, plopped into her lap. The pressure on Sara’s legs made her trembling even more apparent. It wasn’t yet mid-afternoon, and this Monday had already wreaked several days’ worth of bad luck.

  Sara sighed, and looked up at the ceiling, contemplating a brown water stain from the neighbour’s bathroom above. Sometimes, when she was feeling down, this cramped flat could drive her spirits even lower. It had once been Jamie's alone, and although Sara had done her best to decorate – covering the walls with some of her favourite Aboriginal paintings and African tribal masks – the place still radiated a sad bachelor aura. Once in a while, she found herself missing the cosy Pimlico flat she had lived in, alone.

  A few minutes later, Jamie came in and sank into the leather chair next to her. He dropped his chin to his chest and exhaled slowly, looking overwhelmed. ‘Well, that’s a first,’ he said. ‘No one’s ever come up to me out of the blue, told me my experience was invaluable, and then offered me a load of money.’

  Welcome to Andy Turner’s world, Sara thought. ‘How did this all come about?’ she asked.

  ‘Andy messaged me this morning,’ Jamie replied. ‘He just asked whether I’d be home.’

  ‘And then showed up with the Thorndike guy?’

  ‘Yeah – Mr Vos. He’s really high up in the company.

  Reports directly to the Chief Executive.’

  Sara nodded shallowly. Absently, she stroked Ego's patchy fur. Chief Executive had been Rhodri's old job title. It was so like Jamie to be oblivious to the effect this turn of events might have on her. Her brother's old friend wants to hire her partner to work at her brother's old company, for a man who reports to her brother's old position.

  On top of that incestuous cluster, there was the fact that Sara had always harboured a distaste for the arms industry. Rhodri’s involvement had been one of many things she had overlooked in her brother’s life. And even to this day, Andy Turner – an artillery enthusiast to his khaki-coloured core – remained a fixture in Sara’s world. That required her to keep certain feelings under wraps.

  But Jamie’s involvement might just be an entanglement too far.

  ‘Are you going to take up Andy’s offer?’ she asked cautiously.

  Jamie looked at her speculatively, and Sara didn’t need to be psychic to read his thoughts. He was worried about her reaction if he were to say yes.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘We’ll have him to dinner. See what he wants me to do for Andy’s cash.’

  ‘If you’re in any doubt,’ Sara warned, ‘I’d advise against.’

  Jamie nodded slowly, a pantomime of equanimity. This only convinced Sara that he’d decided to take the job.

  ‘Let’s both reserve judgement,’ Jamie suggested. Angling his head, he added, ‘You have to admit, though … he’s pretty sharp.’

  ‘This Vos character? How?’

  ‘He’s observant.’

  Sara’s hand brushed against her throat. She felt the tenderness once again. Vos had noticed the bruising on her neck when Jamie, the ex-detective, had not. A splinter of guilt pricked Sara as she realised she wasn’t even surprised. Since their moving in together, she had come to expect so little of her partner. After witnessing Jamie’s successful stint in the Met, it was hard for her to accept him as a mature student. And, for that matter, as a house husband. Over the past year, Sara had often thought she was watching Jamie’s passion and interests wilt before her eyes.

  So then, maybe this aerospace job would be a good thing, she told herself.

  Sara had to keep reminding herself that Jamie Harding was no intellectual lightweight. He held an undergraduate degree in Criminology, and one day he would be awarded a master’s in law. If Jamie exasperated her every now and then, it was her problem, not his. There were simply things Sara could not share with her partner – such as the psychic powers she’d developed in Wales, and the way they led to occasional, sickening visions of murder. Sometimes, the pressure of keeping such horrors to herself would burst through, suddenly and unexpectedly. Then Sara would shudder so fiercely it felt like hot tar was oozing through her body. Still – it wasn’t Jamie’s fault she’d journeyed into lands so dark he couldn’t see them.

  ‘I’m sorry I made things awkward with Andy and Mr Vos,’ she said. ‘If I’d known about the bruising I would have covered it up.’

  Jamie shifted in his seat. ‘How did that happen, anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said haltingly, ‘but when?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s just … you were off work today.’

  Sara hesitated. ‘So?’

  ‘Those bruises are fresh.’

  Sara felt herself flush. ‘No, they’re not,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Sara, you’re a doctor and I was a cop. We both know about bruising. Day One, red. Day Two, purple. Then green and yellow. Those bruises are red.’

  He waited.

  ‘Which means, today,’ he emphasised.

  Sara grounded herself and smiled reassuringly. ‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ she said, and pressed ahead with a necessary untruth. ‘I went to the clinic this morning.’

  ‘They called you in?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘To see this client.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The client who strangled you.’

  Sara sighed. ‘Look, Jamie, I told you, I was
never in danger …’

  Jamie interrupted. ‘Were you alone with this guy? Did they ring the police?’

  Sara closed her eyes. ‘None of that matters. He was out of my office in seconds.’

  Jamie was a good partner, she reminded herself. As much as Sara wished he would let this go, he was showing genuine care and concern. ‘You can’t worry about me every time I go to work,’ she told him.

  Jamie shifted from the chair to the sofa. Ego stood and stretched with a quiver. ‘I do worry. Constantly.’ He put an arm around her. ‘I just wish there were more I could do.’

  Sara laid her head on his shoulder. ‘That’s sweet,’ she said. ‘And if you really mean it, there is one thing.’

  ‘Name it,’ he said eagerly.

  ‘You can get up, take a pizza out of the freezer, and put it in the oven. I’m hungry.’

  Later that afternoon, Sara said she’d agreed to meet her colleagues for after-work drinks. She hadn’t, but Jamie knew about the clinic’s Monday afternoon pub ritual. He assumed that Sara’s boss, Jo, would want to talk to her about the abuse she’d suffered from their deranged client.

  In a sense, Jamie was closer to the truth than he knew. Although Sara had not told her co-workers about her plan to attend, she did intend to go there. And it was because of Tim Wilson. Since this morning’s altercation with the rage-filled hipster, Sara had developed a niggling fear that the young man might lodge a complaint against her. If he did, Sara would have to justify showing up at a stranger’s house uninvited, in a professional capacity, and trying to coerce him into taking unwanted therapy.

  That would make for an awkward conversation with Jo. Sara cursed herself for having given Wilson her business card. Without it, he wouldn’t have known where she worked.

  A few minutes after six p.m., Sara entered the large pub in London Fields, just around the corner from her office. Arranging the silk scarf she’d placed around her neck to cover the bruising, Sara joined three of her colleagues in a corner of the cavernous room. The draughty spot had been made more intimate by the artful placing of an ornate screen and a cosy cluster of sofas and chairs. Her co-workers expressed both pleasure and surprise at her coming during her time off, and someone got Sara a large glass of house white.