‘For Brooklands . . . ?’ I bent down and retrieved his keys, then handed them to him, conscious of the rolled-up newspaper and the bandage around his right wrist. ‘Tell me, Mr—?’

‘Kumar. Nihal Kumar. I’m resident here for many years.’

‘Good. It’s a pleasant little backwater. We’ve met before, Mr Kumar. No . . . ?’

‘It’s not likely.’ Kumar pumped his doorbell, too confused to use his keys. ‘Perhaps when your father . . . ?’

‘A few days ago. I left the door of the flat open. You probably thought a burglar had broken in. I still have your medical journal. You are a doctor?’

‘Definitely not.’ He gestured wearily. ‘My professional background is in engineering. I’m the manager of Motorola’s research laboratory in Brooklands. My wife is a doctor.’

‘A paediatrician? That makes sense.’ I was still puzzled by his extreme unease with me, and tried to shake his hand. ‘I should have been more careful. My father’s death, I was on edge.’

‘It’s to be expected.’ Kumar seemed to relax a little, reassured that I was not about to harm him. ‘It’s best to keep your door locked. At all times.’

‘Thanks for the tip. There’s a lot of crime here?’

‘Crime, certainly. And violence.’

‘I’ve noticed that. These towns along the M25. There’s something in the air. I take it there are right-wing groups here?’

‘Many. They create real fear.’ Kumar pressed his bell again, impatient to enter his flat. ‘The Asian community is deeply concerned. In the old days there were organized attacks, but they were predictable. Now we see violence for its own sake.’

‘These so-called sports clubs?’

‘Sports? Just one sport. Beating people up.’

‘Asians, mostly?’

‘Asians, Kosovans, Bosnians. Far too many sports clubs. The police should stop them.’

‘I think my father belonged to one.’ When Kumar made no reply, I said: ‘You knew my father?’

‘Lately, not so well. When we first came to Brooklands he was very charming to my wife. He made us feel at home. Later . . .’

‘He changed?’

‘His new friends . . . sometimes they were here. They frightened my wife.’

‘My father wasn’t violent?’

‘Your father was a gentleman. But the atmosphere was different . . . everywhere the red crosses, not to help people but to hurt them.’

‘I’m sorry. Tell me, Mr Kumar, all this violence—where do you think it’s coming from?’

‘The Metro-Centre? It’s possible.’

‘How? It’s just a large shop.’

‘It’s more than a shop, Mr Pearson. It’s an incubator. People go in there and they wake up, they see their lives are empty. So they look for a new dream . . .’

He reached for the bell, but his front door opened quietly. An elegant Asian woman in her fifties with a high forehead and severe face stared out at us. I assumed that Dr Kumar had been listening to everything we said. Her eyes followed me up the stairs, waiting until I was safely out of sight before she stepped aside to admit her husband.

THE WAITING ROOM in the Accident & Emergency department at Brooklands Hospital was almost empty when I sat down. A teenager with a bruised cheek fiddled with a broken mobile phone. A mildly hysterical woman argued endlessly about a traffic intersection with her passive husband. An elderly man with a damp tissue to his eyes waited for news of his wife. Lastly, there was myself, more uncertain about my father than I had been when I first arrived. Together we were a collection of the ill-equipped and unsaved—a playground brawl, a wrong right turn, a heart too weary to embark on its next beat, and an assassin’s bullet had brought us together.

Dr Julia Goodwin, who had treated my father when he was driven from the Metro-Centre, would see me shortly, according to one of the nurses. But the clock on the wall disagreed, and as usual overruled her. I tried to read the local newspaper, smiled as comfortingly as I could at the elderly man, and watched the TV set.

It was tuned to the Metro-Centre cable channel, and showed an afternoon discussion programme transmitted from the mezzanine studio. The suntanned face of David Cruise dominated everything, and covered the proceedings like a cheap but over-bright lacquer. He was smiling and affable, but faintly hostile, like a bullying valet. Perhaps people in the motorway towns liked to be shouted at.

‘Mr Pearson?’ The nurse positioned her broad hips in front of the set. ‘Dr Goodwin will see you. For a few minutes . . . she’s very busy.’

‘Fine. How lucky to be busy . . .’

DR JULIA GOODWINwas standing with her back to me in the small office, slamming the metal drawers of a filing cabinet as if playing an arcade pin-table. When she glanced at me through her defensive fringe I recognized the young woman at the Golders Green crematorium, watching me in a morose way as her friend fiddled with the ignition keys. There was the same evasive gaze, and I sensed that she was aware of something about me that I had yet to learn. She was attractive, but had been tired for too long, still trying to scrape a little compassion for her patients from the bottom of a long-exhausted barrel.

After introducing myself, I said: ‘It’s kind of you to see me. You were one of the last people to be with my father. It helps to keep him alive.’

‘Good . . . I’m glad.’ She placed her worn hands on the desk, like a blackjack dealer laying out the last two cards. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. Sometimes you try to pull off a miracle and end up making a complete balls of things, but I did my best for him. A horrible business. That awful mall . . .’

‘The Metro-Centre?’

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it?’ She unbuttoned her white coat, revealing a cashmere sweater of stylish cut. ‘That huge atrium, all those people shopping themselves out of their little minds. If you ask me, a standing temptation to any madman with a grudge. Sadly, your father got in the way.’

‘Was he conscious at all? When you saw him?’

‘No. The bullet . . .’ She touched the mass of dark hair above her left ear and traced a line to the back of her neck, an almost erotic transit that exposed the silky whiteness of her scalp. ‘He felt nothing. Getting him to the Royal Free was his only hope. But . . .’

‘You tried, and I’m grateful. You’d met him before?’

She stared at me, then tilted her hands so that she could read her palms. ‘Not as far as I know.’

‘You came to the funeral. I remember seeing you there.’

She sat back, ready to end our chat, and her gaze drifted over my shoulder. She was uncomfortable with my presence, but wanted to keep me in her office. I had the sense that she had been briefed about me, and knew more of my background than might have been expected of a busy casualty doctor.

‘Yes. I drove up to Golders Green with a friend. A hell of a long way, and a lousy service. Who on earth writes those ghastly scripts? You can see why death isn’t exactly popular. They ought to play a little Cole Porter and pass around the canapés.’ She smiled boldly, waving away her little duplicity. ‘He seemed a decent old boy, so I thought I’d go. After all, Brooklands killed him.’

‘You felt guilty?’

‘In a way. No. What tripe! Do I really believe that? It’s amazing the nonsense that can pop out of your mouth if you aren’t careful.’

‘When he was brought in, was he wearing his clothes?’

‘As far as I know. You sound like a detective.’

‘Brooklands does that to you. Can you remember what he had on?’

‘Haven’t a clue.’ She turned and slammed a metal drawer sticking into her back. ‘Is that important?’

‘It might be. Was he wearing a St George’s shirt? You know, the red cross—’

‘Of course I know!’ She grimaced and turned to the pedal bin, ready to spit into it. ‘I hate those bloody shirts. I’m sure he wasn’t wearing one. Does it matter? Death doesn’t have a dress code.’