‘Casualty doctors?’

‘Doctors, lawyers, police officers, bank managers . . . they get funny ideas in their heads. Some of them start thinking logically.’

‘Is that bad?’

‘Thinking logically? Out here it’s dangerous. Very dangerous. It can lead intelligent people to do things they shouldn’t, like acting rationally and for the public good. Take it from me. Anywhere near the M25 is dangerous.’

‘Why don’t you leave?’

‘I will. First, there are things that need sorting out. I got myself involved in something rather foolish that I wasn’t really bargaining for . . .’

She stared at a wave advancing towards us. Exposed to the light, her face was pale but surprisingly strong, marked by tremors of doubt like those of an actress unable to understand her lines. When she saw me watching her she reached up to loosen her hair, but I held her wrists and pressed them to the table until she controlled herself.

‘Julia . . . take it easy.’

‘Right. I’ll join Médecins Sans Frontières. Go to somewhere in the third world where the beaches still smell of dead fish. I might even do some good.’

‘You’re doing good here,’ I told her. ‘Try believing in yourself.’

‘Impossible. Besides, the A&E thing is self-inflicted. Drunks, car crashes, brawling, fist fights. There’s a huge amount of street violence. People don’t know it, but they’re bored out of their minds. Sport is the big giveaway. Wherever sport plays a big part in people’s lives you can be sure they’re bored witless and just waiting to break up the furniture.’

‘You’ll have to move. Just one problem: wherever you go you’ll find nothing except a new kind of boredom.’

‘That sounds fun. We could go together. You invent the reality and afterwards I’ll put on the Band-Aids.’

I liked her, and was glad that she seemed to enjoy the banter. But she withdrew from me as soon as I tried to hold her eyes, watching the waves rather than face up to whatever she was concealing.

The terrace around us had filled with evening drinkers. Groups of middle-aged men and women, almost all wearing St George’s shirts, stood, glasses in hand, smoking and patting their midriffs. They spilled onto the pedestrian piazza outside the hotel entrance. The embroidered badges on their shirts showed that they were members of a Metro-Centre supporters’ club. They were loud but self-controlled, hailing new arrivals with friendly cheers.

‘Football supporters?’ I said to Julia Goodwin. ‘They seem amiable enough.’

‘Are you sure? I dare say I’ll be seeing some of them at A&E tonight.’

‘The match started at seven—they’ve missed the first half.’

‘These are not the sort of supporters who go to matches. They’re here for the punch-up.’

‘Hooligans?’

‘Definitely not. They’re well organized, practically local militias. Take a good look, and then keep out of their way.’

The drinkers downed their beers and left the terrace, forming into paunchy platoons each led by a marshal. They moved off to a chorus of ironic cheers, a woman member breaking ranks to dart into a nearby deli. But their marching was brisk and in step, and I guessed that Julia had arranged to meet me at the Holiday Inn so that I would get a glimpse of a darker side of Brooklands.

She pretended to fiddle with her handbag as smoke drifted across us from a dozen ashtrays. She knew what my next question would be, since she had made a point of giving me the local newspaper. A slow confession was emerging, as sluggish as the simulated wave.

‘Julia . . . before I forget. You testified at the magistrates’ court.’

‘I did, yes. So?’

‘Why, exactly?’

‘It was the public-spirited thing to do. Wouldn’t you?’

‘Probably. Did you really see Duncan Christie there? At the time you heard the shots?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘How far away was he?’

‘God knows. Ten or fifteen feet. I saw him clearly.’

‘In all that crush of people?’ I looked round, hoping that someone would switch off the wave machine. ‘You remembered this one face in the crowd?’

‘Yes!’ Julia leaned across the table, angry with me for being so obtuse. ‘I’ve often treated him. He’s always being attacked and beaten up.’

‘What was he doing in the Metro-Centre? He hates the place.’

‘I haven’t a bloody idea. He likes to keep an eye on it.’

‘Hard to believe. For that matter, what were you doing there? You hate the place as much as he does.’

‘I can’t remember. I happened to be passing.’

‘Like the other witnesses—his own psychiatrist who arranged to have him released that day from his mental hospital. And the head teacher who taught him at the local high school. And you. Three people who just happened to be there and thought of some shopping they needed to do. And you all arrive at the same time . . .’

‘Jesus Christ . . . !’ Julia drummed her fists on the table, bouncing my wineglass onto the tiled floor. ‘A lot of people in Brooklands know Duncan Christie. He’s the local character, almost the village idiot.’

‘Right. He used to be represented by Geoffrey Fairfax’s office. I saw you there the evening Christie was brought back to Brooklands.’

‘Geoffrey Fairfax? Sounds unlikely. You’ve been listening to too many garbled stories.’

‘Julia . . . for God’s sake.’ Impatient with her mock innocence, I raised my voice, hoping that I could jolt the truth from this likeable young doctor with her almost desperate denials. ‘You were sitting with your back to me in the conference room, hiding behind that wonderful hair. I take it the people you were with were the other witnesses?’

‘Yes . . .’ Julia stared at the broken wineglass at her feet. ‘They probably were.’

‘Don’t you think that’s odd? Christie had only just been arrested, but already the key witnesses were lined up, synchronizing their watches. The really strange thing is that I was supposed to see you—the witnesses in the conference room, Mrs Christie in reception, Sergeant Falconer heating the milk. It was laid on like the reconstruction of a crime. Why, Julia? What was it meant to tell me?’

‘Ask Geoffrey Fairfax.’ She straightened her jacket, ready to leave. ‘He might tell you.’

‘I doubt it. He’s mad, but he’s sly. On the outside, a very pukka, old-fashioned solicitor. On the inside, a raving, right-wing nutter. I wouldn’t expect either to pull out all the stops for this “shabby misfit”.’

A little weakly, Julia said: ‘People sympathize with Christie.’

‘For standing against the mall? Who exactly? Small shopkeepers, Thames Valley Poujadists?’

‘Not just the mall. All these retail parks look peaceful to you, but behind them something very nasty is going on. Christie and Geoffrey Fairfax saw this a long time ago.’

‘Did Christie kill my father?’

‘No!’ Julia stood up, driving the table into my elbows. She stared wildly at the approaching wave as if it were a tsunami about to climb the beach and overwhelm her. ‘I know Duncan Christie. I’ve stitched his scalp, I’ve set his fractures. He couldn’t . . .’

She was shaking, unable to control herself. I leapt up and held her shoulders, surprised by how frail she seemed.

‘Julia, you’re right. Someone else shot my father. I want you to help me find him. Forget about Duncan Christie and Fairfax . . .’

She let me steer her into her chair. For a few seconds she held tightly to my arms, then pushed me away with a grimace of irritation at her own weakness. She spoke calmly to the wave.

‘I’m sure I saw Christie near the entrance. At least, I think I saw him . . .’

‘THIS PLACE COULD DRIVE anyone completely sane.’ Julia Goodwin scraped a fragment of glass from her shoe. ‘Don’t tell me there aren’t any exits.’

‘I’ll give you a lift home. What happened to your car?’

‘It’s . . . being serviced.’