Other Women

All men lie. To their mothers, to their wives, to their lovers. And they quickly learn that no lie stands alone. Its very existence requires the support of other lies, which, together with that first dishonest moment, shift the world towards a false reality. There can be no return from this disagreeable state other than through guilt, confession and disgrace.

Women also lie. Mostly to themselves.

From A Natural History of Lies by J. Clarke

Storm

Across the steep wooded slopes, at a point where the Western Weald meets the Hampshire Downs, the forest waits for daybreak. The air is thick. Dry. Suffocating. The dense cloud overhead seems determined to hold on to the night. But, at last, a patch of grey dawn breaks through, casting its shadows deep into the dry cracks that streak across the forest floor. Bracken and bramble are in crisis, their lowly roots denied sustenance by the giant thirsts rising all around them. But they will prevail, for the deluge, long-promised, is here. A burst of dry lightning heralds its arrival. Deep in the forest something cracks and falls. Then the rain. At first, tight and hardened by drought, the alkaline soil proves impervious to the few drops that find their way down through the ancient canopy of beech and yew, hornbeam, hazel, sweet chestnut and alder. But more is to follow. Much more. And soon the parched ground is awash, tiny rivulets running in all directions, gouging their way towards the dried bed of a river-in-waiting. Withered leaves and tree litter are carried along with the flow. The riverbank swells, begins to crumble, flooding dusty burrows, dislodging tiny underground stores of hazelnuts and acorns, uncovering a single antler, a badger skull, a rusted can. And, close beside it, the slim fingers still delicate, a pale hand emerges from its shallow woodland grave.

Hedgehog

There are few untrodden places in the ancient woods of the southern counties. Over the centuries, footsteps have penetrated into the deepest gullies, the most perilous slopes, the most inaccessible clearings, in search of food, shelter, solitude. However, today, Watkins is only seeking food. And a recently drenched woodland is sure to provide it. Not everybody knows how to feed off the land. The supermarket chains have stolen that knowledge and wrapped it in cling film and recycled plastic. But Watkins is a seasoned forager and he knows where to look. After such heavy rain, dry roots and dormant mycelia spring forth with new life, so there is every possibility that his favourite mushrooms will be taking the opportunity to pool their resources and spread their spores wide. He can hear the stream close by, its girth swollen by the storm. The clearing should be straight ahead. Then half a dozen paces towards the water’s edge. That’s where they’ve been every year for as long as he can remember. He can already taste the damp, nutty smell of fresh hedgehog fungi. And, yes, there they are. Right where he’s been expecting to find them. What he hasn’t been expecting to find is the girl’s body, lying on the bank, face down, mud streaked across her naked back, her legs awkward as if she’s been trying to slither down to the water to cleanse herself. Watkins pauses, considers running away. Then he pulls out his mobile phone. The signal is weak but he manages to get through. Tells the people that need to be told. Then he kneels down beside the mass of mushrooms and uses his razor-sharp knife to cut their stipes, carefully, so as not to deplete the underlying matrix.

Ants

‘DI Sam Barnes. NCA. You’re the Attending Officer? Sergeant Boakes?’

‘Yes, sir. DI James was here earlier.’

‘Is that the guy who found her?’

‘Yes. Leonard Watkins. He was foraging.’

‘Foraging?’

‘For mushrooms. He’s given a statement.’

‘Right. I gather the dogs are on the way. I suggest you get a wider area cordoned off, before the ramblers start hiking through with their lunch boxes. Who’s the pathologist?’

‘Dr Moran, James Moran.’

‘Ah, yes. James. How long does he think she’s been here?’

‘About two days. Possibly three. Just before the storm. Probably buried and uncovered by the rain.’

‘Right. How the hell did they get her here? It’s bloody impenetrable.’

‘They might have brought her along the riverbed. According to Watkins, it often runs dry in the summer. So, probably not much to be found now. There’s been some ant activity.’

‘Nice. Anything else?’

‘Yes, sir… the ant activity. It’s clustered around a large wound.’

‘A knife?’

‘Of sorts. Dr Moran believes it’s the result of… He believes the young woman was recently operated on to remove a child. A baby.’

‘Jesus, fuck! Don’t you just love this job? I’d better get over there and take a look.’

‘Better watch out, sir. One of the young officers is projectile vomiting.’

Body

‘James. Hi. How’s it going?’

‘Ah, Sam. I thought I might be seeing your lot here sooner or later. Get fed up with cyberporn, did you?’

‘Couldn’t bear to spend any more of my life trolling around the rancid web. There’s a limit to how many freaks you can deal with in one lifetime. Although this might be turning into a joint exercise. So, what’s the story?’

‘Victim is a young woman who has recently undergone a C-section. Full-term or thereabouts. The wound was left open. Placenta and cord still partially adhering to the wall of the uterus. It’s a bit of a mess. You might like to wait until after the clean-up. Don’t want any more heaving around here. Contaminating the crime scene.’

‘I’m good. What do you think’s going on here?’

‘Well, the external incision is clean. Apart from the wildlife. Whoever did this probably considered completing the job and sewing her back up, but something went wrong. Can’t be sure, but it looks like the uterus ruptured during what might have been a natural birth. The incision is longitudinal so was probably done as an emergency to remove the child. I’ll be able to get a better picture back at the lab. The mess on her arm is probably the result of an attempt at transfusion, pulled out post-mortem. Death probably a result of hypovolemic shock. Judging from her colour, she bled out during the delivery.’

‘So, somebody fucked up a DIY Caesarean and buried the evidence? Any sign of the infant?’

‘Not as yet.’

Director

‘Ah, yes, the Downs body. Nasty business. Any further developments?’

‘Not much more than you already know, sir. SOCOs are still at the scene. And the dogs are on site sniffing around, but there’s not much hope of uncovering anything after all that rain. Forensics believe the body was transferred to the site prior to the storm and interred into a shallow grave. Quite near to where it was found. The bank of the river has fallen away along that stretch, so it will be difficult to pinpoint the exact location. Bloodied dressings have been found downstream. They’re checking the DNA with that of the woman… the girl: she can’t be much more than a child herself. As yet, there’s no identification. And nothing much to go on. Painted nails – nothing special. There’s a small heart-shaped tattoo on the left shoulder, so that can be checked for point of origin. And there are several piercings – all the usual places. The jewellery’s been removed. There’s still no sign of an infant. It might be worth investigating local antenatal records, although that would be a mammoth task. Sir, can I assume we’re linking this to the existing Hampshire investigation? The body, the pregnancy, would confirm practices way beyond mere sex trafficking, but…’

‘But you believe there’s a link?’

‘Yes, sir. We’re checking out a series of IP locations. In the Winchester and Guildford areas. Trying to establish links.’

‘Guildford? That’s conveniently close to your home territory, isn’t it, Barnes?’

‘Yes, sir, very conveniently close.’

‘And you are continuing to maintain your cover? The teaching post?’

‘For the time being, sir, yes. It’s as good a place as any to investigate cybercrime and sociopaths. And although, unsurprisingly, the movement of foreign staff and students into the UK has not proven to be the significant trafficking route anticipated by some amongst us, there is a healthy air of sedition to keep me occupied.’

‘Quite so. Well, Barnes, liaise with forensics and keep me informed. And keep as much of this out of the press as possible. Preferably all of it. Has the individual who discovered the body been briefed?’

‘Briefed and debriefed, sir.’

For everything there is a single truth but many non-truths. The phoney, the fabulist, to be successful, must recall with absolute certainty which of these non-truths has been substituted as truth. A liar with a poor memory is doomed to failure.

From A Natural History of Lies by J. Clarke

1

Sophie was happy with things the way they were. Mostly. But there was one exception. She wished there was a garden at the front of her house, an any-shaped outcrop of nature that distanced her from the world outside. But there was no such thing. Instead, Sophie’s front door opened directly onto the street, which, apart from denying her a garden, guaranteed a constant stream of daytime passers-by staring into her lounge as if her life was a display in a department store. And there were steps, two steps that led from her front door down onto the pavement. It was almost impossible to single-handedly manoeuvre the pram in and out of the house. And when Laura got a little older it would be a worry: the steps and the main road being that close. Sophie fretted about it, but Jonah was not that bothered, probably because men don’t concern themselves with such issues. They have other things to worry about; as far as Jonah was concerned, child safety fell within the mother’s domain.

In the early days, Sophie had made a few attempts at threshold horticulture: potted bay trees either side of the steps; snowdrops, crocus corms and thyme eased into the mean promises of soil between the bricks and paving stones. But, invariably, they had been vandalised. Even stolen. And, anyway, Jonah had disapproved of the scent of thyme and bay wafting in from the street and ravaging his home. Jonah had also disapproved of the scent of cinnamon, curry plant, garlic, cloves and cardamom, lavender, baby wipes, dishwasher tablets, peppermint and cabbage. But Sophie understood: people smell things differently. So that was that.

Sophie did have a small concrete garden at the back of her house. Its measly dimensions owed to the fact that, at some point in the distant past, priority had been given to the construction of a line of flat-roofed garages, which had reversed, windowless, into the existing row of Victorian properties, leaving their terraced residents with a diminishing display of disappointing rears. As always, Sophie had rallied. Despite this horticultural privation, she had accumulated a vast array of terracotta pots, which she had squashed into every opportunity in the vestige of backyard that nestled beyond her kitchen window. Throughout the year, she religiously cultivated a rich, potted, non-aromatic, shade-loving flora, supplemented in the summer months with a dozen or so tomato plants and a few etiolated sunflowers that cast even more shadow upon her dank little garden. Even at the height of summer, the damp cement, the terracotta pots, the sunflowers and the tomatoes encouraged the growth of moss and algae. Sophie loved the green and blue tenacity of these lowly plants, although Jonah always referred to their lush colonisation as mildew.

All things considered, Sophie hated the front of her house and, if the truth be known, she would have rather lived somewhere else. But all requests for relocation were denied. As far as Jonah was concerned, they could not move from their small, cramped, terraced house to a bigger house with a proper garden, where Laura would eventually be able to run and play, because they did not have enough money to better themselves after Sophie’s unplanned pregnancy. Sophie couldn’t really argue with that; she could have been more cautious. But some innate awareness of the proximity of her thirties, and of her declining reproductive opportunity, had encouraged laxity. The pregnancy was definitely her fault. So, that was that.

It was twelve thirty, early-August. With the washing loaded and Laura enjoying her morning nap, Sophie had just started tending her pots. She was engrossed in snipping axillary shoots from her tomato plants, when she heard the front door open and close. She stepped into the kitchen to investigate. Jonah was in the dark passageway, puffing and cursing and removing the large suitcase from the cupboard under the stairs. She kicked off her gardening shoes and approached him, the kitchen scissors in one hand and a posy of tomato shoots in the other. ‘Why are you home,’ she asked. ‘I thought you were in Bournemouth today. Are you going somewhere?’

He did not look up. ‘I’m leaving,’ he mumbled.

‘What do you mean, you’re leaving?’

‘I’ll come for the rest of my things tomorrow.’

‘What things? What are you talking about?’

He balanced the case upright and met her eyes. ‘There’s no way this is good for either of us.’

Sophie clenched and unclenched her hands, an activity which caused the tomato posy to disintegrate and the scissors to spin onto the floor and come to rest beneath a radiator. She grappled for words. ‘But, what about Laura?’

Jonah recoiled from the pungent smell of crushed tomato leaves, the cocktail of alkaloids loved by some, unloved by others and loathed by Jonah. ‘The longer this goes on the worse it will be for her. I’ll send money.’

Sophie fell back against the wall, wiped her hands down her jeans. ‘Money? I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s happened?’

Jonah turned away and started to haul the suitcase up the stairs, crashing it against the slim spindles with all the disregard of a person who no longer owned them. Sophie hurried after him.

‘Jonah, you’ll wake Laura. Tell me what’s happened. We can talk about it.’

They did not talk about it. Sophie asked him where he was going, if she would be able to contact him. What if something happened to Laura? Jonah said nothing. Sophie repeated her questions. Several times. But still Jonah said nothing. So, Sophie became silent, stunned, forced to stand and watch Jonah coldly and methodically arrange his clothes into the case: jeans, socks, shirts, boxers still in their presentation pack. The Arran jumper her mother had given him the Christmas before she died. Finally, he crushed three pairs of shoes, his library book and his phone charger into the top section, then tried to force the latches closed. That was never going to happen. So, he opened the case, pulled out the Arran jumper and, with this removed, secured the latches. Eyes down, he edged past Sophie into the en-suite and emerged moments later carrying his washbag, grabbed the handle of his case and made to leave.

Sophie threw herself in front of the door to prevent him doing so and, her voice trembling with suppressed tears, asked him again where he was going.

He paused before giving her an answer she’d never expected: ‘There’s somebody else.’

Sophie got out of the way.

She propped herself against the doorframe and watched Jonah bumping the case back downstairs, this time holding on to the banister and gouging channels into the wall opposite. She needed to do something, took a moment to rush in and check that Laura was still asleep, then hurried down behind him. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs Jonah was already dragging the case down the two doorsteps. In her haste, she wrenched her ankle as she stepped off the bottom stair and saved herself from falling only by catching hold of the scratchy newel post. She sagged against it, trying to make sense of what was happening. But there was no sense to be had. No sense at all. Through the doorframe she could see Jonah balancing his case as he rearranged the boot of his BMW, which was parked immediately outside on the double yellow lines. The driver’s door was hanging open, obstructing much of the pavement. She limped forward.

Clearly, Sophie was painfully ill-prepared for this situation. It was not that she was a particularly naïve person, it was just that she had always trusted Jonah; trusted him in a way that caused her never to have suspected adultery. As she pursued her abandoning partner, she became so overwhelmed by the mix of revelation and emotion that she was barely capable of functioning and as she hurried, shoeless, down the two doorsteps and across the pavement towards him, she felt her twisted ankle fail her. Pointlessly, she grasped the air ahead of her, tripped and stumbled forward. Unable to cancel her increasing momentum, she tumbled down the kerb towards Jonah, the whole weight of her small frame impacting his shoulder. Jonah spun round to push her away but was thrown off balance by the weight of his suitcase as it pivoted back against his elbow. As Sophie’s arms folded around his chest and his hands flailed around her, lifting her and hugging her in an attempt to pull himself back, he too began to tumble. Trapped in their inappropriate embrace, they both fell heavily backwards towards the traffic and dangerously close to the path of an oncoming petrol tanker. The dismayed driver overreacted, swerved, narrowly missed an oncoming cab and came to a standstill just by the traffic lights. His frantic reaction caused a sequence of insurance-worthy bumper collisions, a bruised cyclist and a buckled bicycle wheel, but it had guaranteed a safe distance between the wheels of his tanker and the plummeting couple.

Unfortunately, though they were saved from a crushing end, all was not well. With Sophie’s weight added to his own, Jonah’s trajectory towards the ground had been harsh and unstoppable and all that had prevented his head striking the unforgiving road surface was the sharp corner of his toolbox, which he had removed from the boot and placed behind him to make room for his case. Sophie both heard and felt Jonah’s skull break as she landed on top of him. Automatically, she pushed away from him and felt herself roll off and down towards the gutter just as Jonah’s suitcase landed beside the toolbox, burst open and emptied its contents over Jonah’s unconscious body. A young woman on the pavement screamed and fell back onto Sophie’s steps. Horns sounded. Someone yelled.

Sophie lay still. She could smell the warm, dirty tar of the road beneath her cheek. She could hear shouting and car alarms. She tried to remember what was happening. Pulled herself up. She didn’t think she was hurt. Just her ankle. Jonah was lying a short distance away. His head was covered in shirts and socks but she knew it was him. He wasn’t moving. Somebody touched her hand and told her not to move. She glanced up to see the driver of the tanker leap down from his cab and hurry over. He threw himself onto his knees, started to pull away the contents of the case to investigate Jonah, uncovered his head and instantly vomited over Jonah’s outstretched arm. With the shroud removed, Sophie could see a thick pool of blood collecting beneath Jonah’s neck and running with the camber of the road towards her. His face was turned away from her but she could make out one of his ears with an attached patch of scalp lying on the road just beyond his head. She felt a numbing wave rise through her, felt someone’s arm around her encouraging her to turn away. She tried to resist but she was made of nothing. ‘Is he all right?’ she asked the arm that was holding her.

‘There’s an ambulance on its way,’ said someone.

‘He’s still breathing,’ said someone else.

Moments passed. Sophie watched Jonah from her sitting position. He continued to not move. The pool of blood stopped getting bigger and started to seep into the dry road surface. Blood that ought to have been inside Jonah. A police car arrived and parked in front of the BMW. One of the police officers pulled out a blanket and arranged it over Jonah’s legs. Another officer led the distressed lorry driver to the patrol car, radioed for assistance, then hurried over to deal with the traffic that was building up on both sides of the road.

Sirens drew closer then stopped abruptly as an ambulance manoeuvred its way into the space behind the truck. Yellow-clad people leapt out and ran to investigate. One yellow man assessed Sophie then joined the others who were tending to Jonah. She couldn’t see what they were doing to him. A policeman squatted beside her, took down details: ‘Jonah Royston… 39… 76 Tanner Street… Sophie… will he be all right?’

Passers-by had congregated. Some of them were now managing to divert their attention away from the carnage and were taking the opportunity to glance in through Sophie’s open door, others were peering in through her lounge window. Some responsible parents overcame their desire to look and pulled their children away.

Assisted by the gentle breeze, some of the lighter items of Jonah’s clothing were now dispersing themselves across the carriageway. Sophie could see Jonah’s green corduroy jeans emerging from under an ambulance wheel. His library book had flapped open and the slip of paper that was marking his place was spiralling away towards the traffic lights. A second police car arrived. Two more officers, one man, one woman. Sophie felt herself being helped to her feet, encouraged towards her front door. She resisted. The female officer squeezed her hand. ‘They’ll take care of him. We need to get you inside.’

Sophie turned. Jonah was on a stretcher. He was being lifted into the ambulance. She checked the ground around the toolbox to make sure they hadn’t overlooked his ear and his tuft of hair. Jonah had always been very vain about his thick, black hair.

‘Why can’t I go with him?’

‘They’ll be working… helping him en route to A&E. We’ll follow on after,’ said the policeman. ‘Let’s get you some shoes first, shall we? Have you injured your foot?’

‘I twisted my ankle.’

‘Are you alone in the house?’ said the policewoman.

‘Yes. I want to go with him.’

They walked towards Sophie’s front door, Sophie between the two officers, slowly to accommodate her ankle. The crowd fell back, silent. The young woman who’d screamed was still sitting on Sophie’s top step, rubbing her eyes repeatedly, as if she was trying to suck the images back out of her mind along the same route that they had entered. She jumped up as they approached, pushed her dark hair away from her face. ‘The suitcase fell on them and pushed them over,’ she said.

‘Did you see that happen?’ said the policeman.

‘Yes.’ She handed him a scribbled-on business card. ‘That’s my mobile number.’ Her hand was shaking. She looked at Sophie. ‘Can I do anything? Make tea or something?’

Sophie allowed herself to be led up into her hallway and on into the kitchen, watched the woman from the step filling the kettle, the female officer fetching her shoes. The other officer stepped back into the street to see if anyone else had witnessed the incident, but apart from the tanker driver who was already making a statement, nobody had seen what happened other than the woman from the step, because these things happen so fast. So, he organised the recovery of Jonah’s belongings and the removal of his car from the double yellow lines then stepped back inside to make a few calls. Sophie tried to hear what he was saying, but her head was still full of car alarms and the sound of Jonah’s skull imploding.

‘I’m Sally Browning,’ said the policewoman. ‘Sophie, is there anyone that could accompany you to the hospital? A friend? A family member? Is there a neighbour I could fetch?’

Sophie tried to think. She wanted her mother, but she was gone. ‘My sister, Josie, lives in Cork. I could phone my friend, Katie, but she’ll be at work. And Mrs Davies next door is on holiday. All month. The other side is students, but they’ve gone home for the summer.’

‘What about your husband’s family?’

‘He doesn’t have any family. And… we’re not married.’

‘I could come with you,’ interrupted the woman from the step. She offered Sophie a mug of tea. ‘I’m Suzie… Kay.’

Sophie opened her mouth to reply just as a high-pitched scream came reverberating through the hallway. Officer Browning glanced towards the stairs. ‘Is there a…?’

2

‘Laura!’ Sophie leapt up, pushed the mug away, causing dollops of tea to explode upwards, and ran into the hallway but, just through the door, her ankle failed her yet again. The already-startled police officer turned from looking up the stairs, dropped his phone and caught Sophie as she stumbled towards him. He lowered her onto the floor as his colleague hurried to help.

‘I’ll go up, Pete,’ said Officer Browning. ‘Sophie, let Officer Clark take you back to your chair. Shall I bring Laura downstairs?’

‘Yes. Please.’

Suzie Kay hurried into the hallway clutching a tea towel. ‘There’s a baby?’

‘I forgot about her.’ Her eyes wide with desperation, Sophie watched Officer Browning disappearing up the stairs, Officer Clark checking his phone and retrieving her gardening scissors from beneath the radiator. ‘Suzie, I forgot about her.’

‘No, you… You’ve had a bad shock.’ Suzie helped lead Sophie back to her chair.

‘I’d get them to look at that ankle,’ said Officer Clark, returning to the hall to communicate this latest development.

Sophie clutched at her stomach. ‘What if I’d gone in the ambulance and she’d been left on her own?’

Suzie Kay crouched down and took Sophie’s hands in hers. ‘You mustn’t think such things. She’s called Laura, right? What a lovely name. How old is she?’

‘Eleven months.’ Sophie took a deep breath. ‘Jonah wanted her to be called Laura. It was his mother’s name.’ She could feel Suzie Kay’s fingers touching hers. Clean and soft. Her own fingers were still covered in a film of pulped tomato leaves. ‘She needs her lunch. My hands are filthy.’

‘I’ll get a cloth. Are you still feeding her?’

‘Only before bedtime.’

Suzie Kay fetched a damp cloth, waited as Sophie wiped her hands and exchanged it for some kitchen towel.

Sophie looked up into Suzie’s dark brown eyes. ‘Jonah was leaving me,’ she said. ‘When will I know what’s happening?’

‘They’ll let you know.’

‘What about his ear? It was lying in the road. And some of his hair.’

‘Yes, I… They can stick ears back on. It’s just skin and cartilage.’

‘Are you a nurse?’ said Sophie, grasping at the possibility of things returning to the way they were.

‘No. But my mum had a dog with a stitched-on ear.’ An abrupt, nervous laugh. ‘I work in a travel company. In Guildford. This is my day off.’ She glanced up. ‘Here comes Officer Browning with your baby.’

With Suzie Kay’s help, Laura was lunched and settled in her playpen in the lounge. The two officers stepped in to join them. ‘Mr Royston has been transferred to Southampton General,’ explained Constable Clark. ‘He’s being taken straight to theatre. Transport is being arranged, Ms…?’

‘Denham. Sophie Denham.’

He nodded. ‘I’ve explained that there’s a young infant involved. Do you have a child’s car seat that can be transferred? Social Services are unable to supply one at such short notice.’ He handed her Jonah’s car keys. ‘Mr Royston’s car has been parked in the back road. In the correct permit zone. There doesn’t appear to be a child seat inside.’

‘Perhaps you have another car?’ suggested Officer Browning.

‘I don’t drive. Jonah always removes her seat in case he has to pick up equipment. It’s in the kitchen.’

Constable Clark turned his attention to Suzie Kay. ‘Ms Kay, if you would be so good as to provide a statement, you can be on your way.’

Suzie Kay disappeared into the kitchen with the two officers, and for the first time since Jonah’s disastrous exit, Sophie was alone with her daughter. She watched the little girl chewing her sock, oblivious to the unfolding crisis. Only this morning she had been living her normal life, with her ordinary parents living together, like ordinary parents do. And now this. She had no way of understanding the changes this day had forced upon her innocent world. Even if they mended Jonah’s skull, sewed his ear back on and he made a complete recovery, he’d decided to leave them. He’d found someone else. They must have been meeting up for weeks – maybe months – Jonah and this other woman. Spending carnal lunchtimes at her place. Sweaty hotels. Then coming home as if everything was normal. Admittedly, he’d complained about her reduced libido since Laura’s birth, about her getting up in the middle of the night to check Laura was still breathing, but things had been better lately. At least she’d thought they had. She glanced up as Suzie Kay stepped into the room.

‘Sophie, would you like me to come to the hospital with you?’

Sophie longed to say yes, but this poor woman had already been exposed to enough of her catastrophe. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll phone my friend. She lives in Portsmouth. She’ll probably drive over. But, thanks for everything.’

‘Glad I could help. Look, this is my mobile number.’ She handed Sophie a business card: Horizon Luxury Travel Services. Suzannah Kay – Consultant. An additional telephone number was scribbled along the bottom. ‘Call me if you need to talk, OK?’

The two officers confirmed that Sophie’s transport would arrive within the hour, then left to confront another of those aberrant things that the police spend their days dealing with. Sophie thanked Suzie once again then hobbled to the front door to watch her cross the road and disappear into the everyday crowd. Things outside seemed to have returned to normal. The petrol tanker was gone and the traffic lights were executing their usual routine, directing cars whose drivers knew nothing of the events barely two hours before. There was nothing that might indicate Jonah’s exit and subsequent misfortune other than some pieces of broken headlight and a few sweepings of sand, cleared into the gutter along with any remaining traces of Jonah’s blood and lorry driver’s vomit, waiting for time to wash it all away. Sophie experienced a stultifying wave of