bell the world might change for ever.
The chimes played a tune Kate felt sure she should recognise but couldn't quite place. The door opened and Helen Archer looked out at her. She was a beautiful woman somewhere in her thirties, Kate guessed, with long blonde hair the colour of antique pine with threads of amber gold. Her eyes were startling, wide and doll-like. But Kate could see behind those painted eyes an innocence that had been betrayed long ago. A hurt that was beyond restoration. She had seen it before, in her own eyes.
'You must be Dr Walker.'
'It's Kate, please.'
The woman stepped back and gestured with her arm. 'Come in, Kate.'
Across the road Paul Archer rolled down his window and stared at the door as it closed behind the pair of them. He put a hand subconsciously to his nose.
There was nothing kind in his eyes.
Roger Yates was sitting behind his desk in a plush office. It was a partner's desk, green leather on the top with a rich patina on the wood which only comes after a few hundred years. There was nothing repro about the office. The paintings on the wall were originals and insured for many thousands of pounds. Roger believed that the outward expression of wealth was one of the main pleasures in life. What would be the point of being as rich as Croesus if poorer people weren't made aware of it? It would be like having a supermodel figure and wearing a burka, if you asked him. Sackcloth and ashes were all very well for the Jesuits and the Presbyterians but his shirts were made in Jermyn Street of silk, not hair, and he always turned left when boarding an aeroplane. Not that he wasn't a generous man. He gave more than most people's salaries to charity each year, and he always made a point of buying the
Maybe it was down to his good looks. He had always been a handsome man, six foot tall, a generous head of hair. Naturally perfect teeth housed in an effortless smile, and blue, honest eyes that held your gaze and commanded trust.
Roger was an accountant. He'd been to Harrow and Oxford and somehow felt he should have done something more glamorous as a career. But he came from old money, and the Yateses had been in finance in one way or another since the Great Fire of London; Roger's career had been mapped out for him long before his name had even gone down for prep school. In truth, he was secretly glad of the arrangement, not that he'd ever really admit it to himself, because Roger liked order in his life. He liked to know what the next day would bring, what the next week would bring, what the next year would bring. He liked to be in control. He liked discipline. Which is why the morning, which had started badly – he had had to cancel a golf tournament, something he had been looking forward to all year – had gone from bad to worse, and the reason for it, the one main thing in his life that Roger wasn't content with and seemed powerless to do anything about, was now standing, larger than life and twice as ugly, in front of his desk.
'Roger,' Delaney said.
'Jack, what the hell are you doing here?'
'I've been great thanks. How about yourself?'
Roger leaned back in his chair, his scowl deepening. 'Let me think about that for a moment. How have I been? Well, I'll tell you.' He held his hand out to count off on his fingers. 'Firstly I had to cancel a golf tournament this weekend. And that's because . . . Secondly my wife is coming out of hospital. My wife who was stabbed by a homicidal nut job that you brought round to my house.'
'I didn't bring him round.'
'And thirdly,' Roger Yates continued, pointing his fingers at Delaney, 'I have to take care of your
