I grinned. Deep down, Mrs… Lieberman was a woman after my own heart.

I spent the afternoon with Ted Barlow, doing the boring stuff of checking back through all his records, making notes of ex-salesmen who'd been sacked, and learning exactly how a conservatory is installed. I glanced at the dashboard clock as I got back behind the wheel of my Nova. Just after seven. I figured I'd be quicker picking up the motorway than going home by the more direct crosstown route. A few minutes later, I was doing eighty in the middle lane, the Pet Shop Boys blasting out of all four speakers. The huge arc of Barton Bridge glittered against the sky, sweeping the motorway over the dark ribbon of the Manchester Ship Canal. As the bridge approached, I moved over to the inside lane, positioning myself to change motorways at the exit on the far side. I was singing 'Where the streets have no name' at full belt when I automatically registered a white Ford Transit coming up outside me in the middle lane.

I paid no attention to the van as it drew level then slightly ahead. Then, suddenly, his nose was turning in front of me. My brain tripped into slow motion. Everything seemed to last forever. All I could see out of the side of my car was the white side of the van, closing in on me fast. I could see the bottom edge of some logo or sign, but not enough to identify any of the letters. I could hear screaming, then I realized it was my own voice.

The nightmare was happening. The van swiped into me, crushing the door of my car against my right side. At the same time, the car skidded sideways into the crash barrier. I could hear the scream of metal on metal, I could feel the rise in temperature from the friction heat, I could see the barrier buckle, I could hear myself sobbing 'Don't break, bastard thing, don't break!'

The front of my car seemed to be sandwiched between the struts of the crash barrier. I was tilted forward at a crazy angle. Below me, I could see the lights twinkling on the black water of the Ship Canal. The cassette player was silent. So was the engine. All I could hear was the creaking of the stressed metal of the crash barrier. I tried to open the driver's door, but my right arm was clamped in place by the crushed door. I tried to wriggle round to open it with my left arm, but it was no use. I was trapped. I was hanging in space, a hundred feet above the empty depths of the canal. And the Ford Transit was long gone.

I came to a very important decision sitting in a cubicle in the casualty department of Manchester Royal Infirmary. Time for a yuppie phone. I mean, have you been in a casualty department lately? Because I was a road traffic accident, I was whizzed straight through the waiting area on a trolley and deposited in a cubicle. Not that that meant I was going to be attended to any more quickly, oh no. I realized pretty soon I was supposed to regard this as my very own personal waiting room. And me not even a private patient!

I stuck my head out of the curtains after about ten minutes and asked a passing nurse where I could find a phone. She barked back at me, 'Stay where you are, doctor will be with you as soon as she can.' I sometimes wonder if the words that people hear are the same ones that come out of my mouth.

I tried again a few minutes later. Different nurse. 'Excuse me, I was supposed to be meeting someone before I had this accident, and he'll be worried.' Not bloody likely, I thought. Not while we're in the same calendar month. 'I really need to phone him,' I pleaded. I didn't want sympathy, nor to allay his non-existent worries. I simply didn't feel up to walking the half-mile home or coping with a taxi. Yes, all right, I admit it, I was shaken up. To hell with the tough guy private eye image. I was trembling, my body felt like a 5' 3" bruise, and I just wanted to pull the covers over my head.

The second nurse had clearly graduated from the same charm school. 'Doctor is very busy. She doesn't have time to wait for you to come back from the phone.'

'But doctor isn't here,' I said. 'I'm not convinced that doctor is even in this hospital.'

'Please wait in the cubicle,' she ordered as she swept off. That was when I realized that my resistance to a mobile phone was a classic case of cutting off my nose to spite my face. Never mind that they always ring at the least convenient moment. Never mind that even the lightest ones are heavy enough to turn your handbag into an offensive weapon or wreck the line of your jacket. At least they can summon knights in shining armour. I'll rephrase that. At least they can summon rock journalists with customized hot pink Volkswagen Beetle convertibles.

They let me at a phone about an hour and a half later, when they'd finally got round to examining me, X-raying me and prodding all the most painful bits. The doctor informed me that I had deep bruising to my spine, ribs, right arm, and right leg, and some superficial cuts to my right hand, where the starburst from the driver's window had landed. Oh, and shock, of course. They gave me some pain killers and told me I'd be fine in a few days.

I went through to the waiting room, hoping Richard wouldn't be long. A uniformed constable walked over and sat down beside me. 'Miss Brannigan?' he said.

'That's right.' I was beyond surprise. The pain killers had started to work.

'It's about the accident. A few questions, I'm afraid.'

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. That was my first mistake. My ribs had decided to go off duty for the night and I ended up doubled over in a gasping cough. Of course, that was precisely the moment Richard chose to arrive. The first I knew of it was the yell. 'Oi, you, leave her alone! Jesus, don't you think she's been through enough tonight?' Then he was crouched in front of me, gazing up into my eyes, genuine fear and concern in his face. 'Brannigan,' he murmured. 'You're not fit to be let out on your own, you know that?'

If I hadn't feared it would kill me, I'd have laughed. This, from the man who gets to the corner shop and forgets what he went out for? All of a sudden, I felt very emotional. Must have been the combination of the shock and the drugs. I felt a hot tear trickle down my nose. 'Thanks for coming,' I said in a shaky voice.

Richard patted my shoulder softly, then straightened up. 'Can't you see she's in a state?' he demanded. I twisted my head round to look at the constable, a young lad who was scarlet with embarrassment. The rest of the waiting room were avidly following the drama, momentarily forgetting their own pain.

'I'm sorry, sir,' the cop mumbled. 'But I need to get some details of the accident from Miss Brannigan. So we can take appropriate action.'

Richard appeared to relax slightly. Uh-oh, I thought. 'And you can't wait till morning? You have to harass an innocent woman? What's your problem, pal? Got no real criminals out there in the naked city tonight?'

The constable looked hunted. His eyes flickered round the room, desperately seeking a Tardis. I took pity. 'Richard, leave it. Just take me home, please. If the constable needs some details, he can follow us there.'

Richard shrugged. 'OK, Brannigan. Let's roll.'

We were halfway to the door when the cop caught up with us. 'Em, excuse me, I don't actually have your address.'

Richard said 'Four', I said 'Two' then we chorused 'Coverley Close'. The copper looked completely bemused.

'Em, can I ask you to take me with you, sir? I'm afraid I haven't any transport here.' The poor lad looked mortified. He looked even more mortified folded into the back seat _{of Richard's Beetle, helmet on his knees.

By the time I had dragged my weary body up the path, I was seriously considering a Jacuzzi as well as a mobile phone. I certainly wasn't in the mood for a police interview. But I wanted to get it over with.