Ed shrugged. “That’s all it is then.”

“I’m wondering why you feel like this about them.”

“Are you?”

Ed wanted to hit her. She never looked fazed, never looked mad, or upset or put out. She never looked anything other than relaxed and quite—pleasant, she supposed. Yes. Pleasant. Her face was pleasant. Her expression was pleasant. Polite. Pleasant.

She sat on her legs and waited. She knew what was coming. How did you get on with your mother? What was she like to you? What about your childhood, your sister, your dad, your dad dying, what’s your earliest memory, did you have lots of friends, were people unkind to you, were you abused, did, didn’t, was, wasn’t, why, when, how, why, why, why.

“Have you ever thought of what it feels like to a child? To be safe and happy, everything normal, and then to be dragged into a car by a stranger and taken away from that safe, familiar world. Have you ever imagined the feelings?”

These were not the questions. This was not the way it was meant to go.

Ed was angry.

“Have you imagined what a parent feels like when their child is taken? Or a sister or brother? Neighbours and friends? Grandparents? Take a minute to imagine it.”

She wanted to stuff her fingers in her ears and scream. She wanted to run out of the room. She wanted to hurl herself at the young woman in the pale blue T-shirt with the sparkly circle and the black jeans and claw at her face and eyes and grip her round the throat.

The fan hummed.

The face was the same. Pleasant. She waited. She did not write or even look at her notepad. She looked at Ed and waited. Pleasantly.

“Are you thinking about it?”

“No.”

“Do you think you ought to?”

“No.”

“Do you think you can? Or would that be too difficult, take too much nerve? Would it be very threatening?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Have you ever felt threatened?”

“What?”

“Not physically. Or perhaps, yes, perhaps that. But I really meant have you felt a threat to you, to Ed, to who you actually are inside yourself?”

“Yadda yadda yadda.”

“I’d like to give you a word to think about for next time. I’m going to ask you to take it into yourself and really study it c look at it from all round. Think what the word can mean. To you. To other people. To your family, maybe. To a child. Write things down if it helps you. Focus on it. Not all the time, obviously. Give yourself a few minutes here and there to focus on it, let it sink in. OK?”

Ed shrugged.

“Good. Ed, here’s the word then. ‘Love’.”

Forty

The heat shimmered above the ground. Cat Deerbon drove down Gas Street in the vain search for shade in which to park, but the shady side of the street was bumper to bumper.

A police vehicle came crawling down as she got out into the Turkish bath that was the world outside an air-conditioned car. It made her think of Simon. She had rung him twice, left a message on his mobile. He had not responded. Part of her decided he should be left to digest the home truths she had dealt out to him. Most of her was ashamed of herself. It was almost six o’clock. This was her last visit of the day. When she had made it, she decided to go round and see if her brother was in his flat.

Number 8 of the Old Ribbon Factory was one floor above Max Jameson’s apartment. She walked up the three flights of stairs and had to lean against the iron rail to get her breath, wondering why having three children and a job, a pony and a paddock full of chickens did not seem to have kept her fit.

The patient, a teenage boy with appendicitis, was swiftly dealt with and the ambulance called. Job done. Now for Si. She headed back down the stairs.

Max Jameson, unkempt, and looking spaced out, was coming out of his front door between two policemen.

“Max?”

He turned his head eagerly towards her.

“Afternoon, Doc.” The PC nodded to her.

“It’s about Lizzie,” Max said.

“Lizzie?”

Cat looked from him to the policeman, who hesitated.

“Max c”

“I saw Lizzie and she ran away from me. That’s all. I followed her.”

“OK, that’s it, sorry, Doc.” They chivvied him between them down the stairs.

Cat watched in concern, then ran towards her own car.

Now she had an even more pressing reason to call on Simon.

The home-going traffic had eased and she had a clear run through town and into the Cathedral Close. Here, there was shade to park under the wide, spreading trees. The choirboys were walking in file from the Song School towards the side door and evensong, deep red cassocks beneath white surplices. She hoped Felix might be a chorister. Sam had set his face firmly against the whole idea. Chris was against it too. The routine was punishing, he said, early mornings, every Sunday eaten up, evening practice as well, holidays often interrupted by visits to other cathedrals at home and abroad. Nevertheless, hearing Felix raise his own voice in tuneful imitation when she herself sang a bar here and there before a St Michael’s Singers practice encouraged Cat’s private ambitions.

She watched the boys disappear through the door into the cathedral, hesitating whether to go in and hear evensong rather than tackle her brother, but as she stood, dithering, Simon’s car came through the archway and flashed down the close towards the buildings at the end. She walked after him.

“Hi.”

Simon turned. “Ahha. Come to smoke the pipe of peace? Not sure if I’m ready for that.”

“No. I just came from a patient in the Old Ribbon Factory in time to see Max Jameson being taken away by two policemen.”

“Don’t know anything about that, sorry.”

“I do need to find out, Si. Obviously the PCs wouldn’t tell me but he’s in a bad way, I’m very concerned about him.”

“They’ll be on to that. The sergeant will send for the FMO and he’ll get the duty Psych if he thinks it necessary. You know how it works.”

“I ought to see him.”

Simon shook his head. “I’ll try and find out tomorrow.”

They stood in the shadow of the building, tension and anger still simmering between them with the stale heat of the day. Rows with Simon upset Cat more than anything else, perhaps even more than the very few she ever had with Chris, because Chris blew up, then forgot, Chris was reasonable, open, upfront. Simon was none of those things.

“He did commit a pretty serious offence when he held that young clergywoman captive.”

“She didn’t press charges.”

“No, but so far as we’re concerned it’s been noted.”

“He was out of it just now. He said he’d seen his dead wife.”

“It’s not in your hands. Just leave us to deal with it.”

“What’s wrongwith you? That didn’t sound like the brother I know.”

He turned away. “Perhaps because you don’t know your brother.”

Cat watched him open the front door, go through and let it close behind him. He did not ask her up. He did not look round.

She walked slowly back to her car in tears and phoned home.

“Cat?”

“I’m on my way. Got sidetracked.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing, I just had to call in on Simon to check something out.”

“Now what’s your bloody brother said? I’m sick of him upsetting you.”

“I’m not upset.”

“If you say so.”

“You know what he’s like.”

“Too bloody right I know. Just come home. We love you.”

“I’m worried about Max Jameson.”

“And you’re off duty. Leave it. Hannah got a gold star for neatness.”

“Hey!”

“I cooked the salmon. Hannah’s helping me do a potato salad.”

“Where’s Felix?”

“Watching Wimbledon.”

“Chris, you know you shouldn’t dump him in front of the television.”

“I didn’t, Sam did. They’re both in love with Miss Sharapova.”

Cat laughed.

“Good. Now come home to us.”