He lifted the bloody rock and brought it down hard on the skull, shattering it. He struck repeatedly until Charlie’s head was nothing more than a mass of bone and blood, white splinters of skull ranged around and amongst a dark, sticky liquid. Were they globs of brain material splattered up the side of the wheel hub?

Charlie’s bruised and bloodied face looked like a grotesque gargoyle, the kind of creature one might find on one of the exterior walls of a grand medieval cathedral.

That was funny, he thought. He’d always wanted to go to Chartres, Orleans or Rheims. Or perhaps Canterbury, England, where he could make his own particular sort of pilgrimage. When this was over perhaps he’d treat himself to a trip there.

15

The Beverly Hills Fertility Clinic looked like a large white cube, more like an art gallery than a medical practice. Built in the mid-Fifties by a follower of Richard Neutra for Dan Zinnerman, a top Hollywood agent, it occupied a prime slice of real estate, an expanse of lawn sandwiched between Maple and Elm Drives. After the death of Zinnerman the house became subject to a legal order; apparently Zinnerman had been living beyond his means for years and had died a couple of million dollars in debt. His three sons were in dispute about what should happen to the house and the case spent years in the California court system. The house lay empty for years, its clean white lines becoming soiled by age and neglect. Finally, when the judgement was settled and the house was sold most of the money went to pay the huge legal bill.

The property was bought by a developer – a former actor who specialised in obtaining mid-twentieth century modern houses – who then quickly sold it, untouched, to a conglomerate of medics. The doctors wanted to create a high-end gynaecological clinic, offering a first class service to rich Hollywood wives, but soon they realised that there was more money to be made from assisted fertility. The medics borrowed from the banks to restore the house – the lead practitioner, Dr Tom Cruger, was an architectural freak who lived in a Frank Lloyd Wright designed home in the Hollywood hills – and so today it stood as a symbol of clean, efficient modernity.

As Kate and Cassie stepped out of the car and into the parking lot of the clinic they could hear the flow of traffic on Sunset and Santa Monica Boulevards, but the trickle of innumerable water fountains helped disguise the sound. The garden was immaculate with its shaped beds full of bird of paradise flowers and blood red hibiscus plants, its grove of orange and lemon trees and its driveway of palms.

‘Would you mind if I stayed out here in the garden while you went inside for your appointment?’ asked Cassie.

Kate looked over as the police car turned into the parking space next to her.

‘I guess it’s okay, as long as you stay within sight of the cops. And I suppose I won’t be long.’

‘Great. Will you walk me over to a space beneath a tree and near that – what is it I can smell? – yes, near to the jasmine.’

Kate took Cassie’s arm and started to walk slowly around the garden, searching out the plant until she found its tendrils snaking along a pergola, its white flowers emanating a sickly sweet smell.

‘I always found jasmine a little overwhelming, but I think I need a bit of sensory overload today,’ she said, laughing. ‘Take my mind off other things.’

Kate smiled. ‘Okay, now why don’t you sit here,’ she said, gesturing to a space on the lawn, before realising that Cassie could not see her. She blushed slightly at her own stupidity. ‘I’ll help you down onto the grass. But promise me you won’t move from here. The sergeant can see you from his car, and before I go in I’ll make sure he keeps you in sight. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Cassie, lowering herself down onto the lawn. ‘What’s the tree here above me? I can hear the wind in its leaves. But I think they’re quite small and fine, almost slithers of leaves.’

Kate looked up. ‘I think it’s a jacaranda, but it’s not in bloom.’

The vibrant blue flower of the jacaranda tree was her father’s favourite colour. When she was a child each May they would take a driving tour of the jacarandas in the neighbourhood, before coming back to the beach house to enjoy a picnic lunch under their own tall tree on the terrace. ‘It’s the greatest colour in the whole of LA, don’t you think?’ her father would say and she would have to agree.

‘Okay, I’ll leave you here,’ said Kate, forcing the memory from her mind. ‘You’ll be fine?’

‘Sure. Now go. Don’t be late.’

Kate walked across the grass and on to the gravel path that led up towards the entrance. As she stepped into the double height room she was bathed in a gentle white light that streamed in through the side windows. The whiteness of the interior was blinding and, for a moment, she felt as though she had just entered an operating theatre, and that she was a patient about to undergo surgery.

‘Hello, Miss Cramer,’ said a middle-aged blonde, looking up from her computer screen.

‘Hi, Frances,’ said Kate, approaching the chrome and glass desk.

‘Are you here to see Dr Cruger?’

‘That’s right. Back again, I’m afraid.’

Frances smiled with the disinterest of the professional. ‘Let’s see. That’s right. I’ve got you down here for an appointment at 11:30. If you want to take a seat, I’ll let him know you’re here.’ She picked up the telephone on her desk and quietly spoke into it.

Kate sat in a Le Courbusier-style chrome and black leather cube chair as she waited for the phone on the secretary’s desk to flash, the signal that the doctor was ready to see her. Her previous visits to the clinic had always been invested with an odd mix of emotions – sadness, expectation, anxiety, anger, jealousy, the possibility of joy. But never, until today, had she felt suspicious. She wasn’t proud of the way she was feeling, and she wished the cloud of doubt would lift from her. But what other explanation was there? How else could somebody have discovered that she was pregnant? Most bizarrely, how had a stranger found out before her?

She looked at Frances with eyes poisoned by suspicion. She knew by her very presence at the clinic that Kate was trying for a child. And, of course, she would have had access to her files. But there was no way she could have known that the cluster of cells implanted into her on January 3 would have resulted in pregnancy. After all, although the success rate of the clinic was one of the best in the country, for women in her age group it was still only 36 per cent. As Kate tried to blink the distrust away the light on Frances’ phone flashed. The doctor was ready to see her. As she stood up Kate still did not have a clue about what she was going to say.