filtered as it was through the fumes and filth of the city, but the haze was like a blanket piled on bed sheets that were already too thick for the season. There was no natural breeze in Philip’s garden. There was no breeze anywhere. Philip, though, had created one. He and Lucia sat under a parasol on his weedless flagstone terrace, on teak furniture that had recently been oiled, with a fan directed at each of them. Lucia had scolded her host for the extravagance when she had arrived but she was relishing his resourcefulness now. For the first time in what seemed like weeks, she felt no compulsion to take a shower, to change her clothes, to shave the hair from her head. She felt comfortable. She felt comfortable and she felt ever so slightly drunk.
‘You’ll stay for lunch.’
Lucia shook her head. ‘I can’t. I have to work.’
‘You have to decide, you mean.’
‘Same thing,’ Lucia said. She finished the last of her wine.
‘You’ll have another drink at least.’ He reached for the bottle.
‘Don’t you have any coffee?’
Philip made to raise his cigarette to his lips. He caught himself, scowled at the unlit tip. ‘Who wants to drink coffee in weather like this? Here.’ He let the bottle drip into the ice bucket for a moment before offering it across the table.
Lucia placed her hand across the rim of her glass. ‘Really. No more. It’s not even twelve o’clock.’
‘You should get up earlier. On Philip time, it’s already the middle of the afternoon.’
‘I should be going. I’m sorry. You know, for calling so out of the blue. For dropping by like this.’
‘Lucia dear. You’re no fun any more. No cigarettes, no alcohol before midday. I mean, really. Is this what they’ve been teaching you in the Met?’
Lucia stood. ‘Your house is lovely. Your garden is lovely.’
‘Lucia,’ said Philip. He had placed his cigarette in his mouth and was frisking his clothes for a light. He found one. With a guilty shrug aimed at his guest, he struck a match and filled his lungs. ‘Lucia, sit down for a moment.’ He tilted his head as he exhaled but the fan behind him blew the smoke towards Lucia as though she were drawing it from the air herself.
Lucia sat, breathed in.
‘You asked me for my opinion. My professional opinion.’
Lucia nodded. ‘And you’ve given it.’
‘Yes but allow me a closing statement. There is no case, Lucia. The CPS won’t buy it. Your DCI won’t buy it. The pain you would cause would be for nothing, other than to make yourself look like a fool. Which,’ he added, flapping at the smoke with his hand, ‘is a secret that only you and I know.’
‘You’re telling me to keep my mouth shut.’
‘Au contraire. I wouldn’t dream of telling you anything. I’m wondering, that’s all.’
‘What are you wondering, Philip?’ She folded her arms.
‘I’m wondering, Lucia, whether this is about what you think it’s about. Whether in fact it’s about something else.’
‘Like what? What else would it be about?’
‘Like I don’t know. Like maybe you had a dog called Samuel when you were a child. Like maybe you feel some connection with this monster – this man, sorry – just because you read the same books.’
Lucia uncrossed her arms. She dropped her hands into her lap, then tucked them under her armpits once again. ‘That’s ridiculous. I’m doing it – I’m considering it – because it’s my job, that’s all. This is my job.’
‘Your job, surely, is to do what that boss of yours tells you.’
‘You don’t think that. I know you don’t think that.’
Philip shrugged. ‘Maybe not. But I do think you should let this one go.’
Lucia rose once more from her chair. ‘Probably I will. I have to think about it but probably I will. Thanks. For the wine and for the advice. I’d better get going.’
As Philip escorted Lucia to the door, he asked after David. Lucia was surprised it had taken him so long. ‘He’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’d imagine that he’s fine. I’m certain of it, in fact.’
Philip tutted, put his arm round Lucia’s shoulder. ‘There’s someone else though. Tell me that there’s somebody else.’
‘Why does there need to be somebody else?’
‘Because you’re too young to be alone.’
‘I stopped being young when I turned thirty.’
‘Then you’re getting too old to be alone.’
‘You’re old. You’re alone.’
‘How dare you. I’m not even sixty. Besides, I’m young at heart. And I’m only alone when I choose to be.’
Lucia stopped, kissed her host on the cheek. ‘Shame on you, Philip. Corrupting all those young boys.’
‘They’re solicitors, darling. Barristers. As you so charmingly alluded, they’re going to hell as it is.’
It was late in the day when she reached the hospital but earlier than she had planned it to be. From Turnham Green she had taken the tube across London and picked up her car at her flat. She had driven to the school and pulled to the side of the road and for an hour at least she had sat. On her way home again she had stopped at the McDonald’s on the Bow Road and ordered French fries and a milkshake at the drive-through. She had parked in the car park and thought about eating but could not. Later, on her way to the hospital, the car had smelt of chip fat, which had made her nauseous but hungry too. She had chewed some chewing gum – soft, flavourless, warm from her pocket – while her stomach had pleaded its case for proper sustenance.
At the door to Elliot’s ward, she wished she had accepted Philip’s invitation to stay for lunch. She imagined salmon and salads and something with strawberries for dessert. They might still be seated on his terrace, three bottles down, a feverish city sunset tinting their reminiscences with sentiment. But at some point Philip would again have asked about David, and Lucia would have had to relive things she did not have the detachment yet to relive. That and the wine would have turned nostalgia into melancholy and when she thought about that she was glad she had not stayed. She wished instead that she had drunk the chocolate milkshake, maybe eaten a few of the chips.
The security glass was cold against her cheek. She could see Elliot in his bed, sitting upright but with his head bowed. There was a woman perched next to him and she too was staring at her hands. The woman looked like Elliot. No, that was not quite accurate. The woman had the same colour hair as Elliot did. That, and their bearing, was what made them seem so alike. The two of them might have been praying. Perhaps, thought Lucia, that was what they were doing.
She should go, she told herself, but she did not move. She watched the boy. She watched his mouth, as resolutely closed as it had been on the previous occasion that Lucia had visited. They might have stitched it shut when they sealed his wound.
The woman was saying something, Lucia realised. She heard her voice but not her words. Someone else came into view – a pair of shoulders, the back of a head, on Lucia’s side of the bed – and Lucia pulled back, out of sight. She should go.
‘Detective Inspector May, isn’t it?’
She stepped away from the door. ‘Doctor,’ she said. ‘Dr Stein.’
‘You’re back,’ the doctor said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you back.’
‘No, I… Yes. I’m back.’
‘This is his last day, you know. He’ll be leaving us in the morning.’ The doctor reached past her. ‘After you,’ he said and as the door opened and Lucia edged forwards, Elliot’s family turned to look.
‘Really, I don’t want to disturb anyone,’ Lucia said. She lingered. She directed a nod into the room. She smiled.
‘I’d rather you disturbed my patients during visiting hours. Please.’ The doctor gestured her inside. He overtook Lucia as they crossed the room. He was speaking, sounding upbeat, sounding competent, and though Elliot’s parents responded to his enquiries, it was Lucia they watched.
She stopped several paces from Elliot’s bed. She had meant her expression to seem apologetic, to convey kindness and concern and to let them know she had no desire to intrude but the longer she stood there with her
