If I had known then what I know now, would I have deleted the email?

Nina’s hand reaches out for mine, and I feel her warm, dry grip, and her strong fingers tracing the lattice of scratches and cuts. ‘It’ll be OK,’ she says. But her voice is husky and we both know she is lying – lying because whatever happens with me and Lamarr and the rest of the investigation, this has gone far beyond the point where things could ever be OK again. Whether Clare recovers or not, whether they suspect me or not, James is dead.

‘H-how’s Flo?’ I say at last.

Nina chews her lip as if considering what to say, and then lets out a gust of breath. ‘Not … great. To tell the truth, I think she’s having a breakdown.’

‘Does she know about Clare?’

‘Yes. She wanted to see her, but we were told no visitors.’

‘Has anyone seen her? Clare, I mean.’

‘Her parents, I think.’

‘And …’ I swallow. I won’t stammer. I won’t. ‘And James’s parents? Have they been?’

‘I think so, yes. I believe they came yesterday and—’ She looks down at my hands, runs her finger gently across the longest scratch, ‘—and saw his body. They’ve gone home, as far as I know. We didn’t see them.’

I get a sudden, piercing memory of James’s mum as she was ten years ago, her long, curly hair caught up in a clip, her bangles chiming as she gesticulated and laughed to someone on the end of the phone, her scarves fluttering in the breeze from an open window. I remember her putting the phone to her shoulder as James introduced me: This is Leo. She’ll be coming round a lot. Get used to her face, and James’s mum laughing and saying, I know what that means. Let me show you where the fridge is, Leo. No one cooks in this house so if you want something to eat, forage.

It was so different from my house. No one was ever still. The door was always open, and they always had friends round, or students staying, and everyone was always arguing – laughing – kissing – drinking. There were no meal-times. No curfews. James and I lay on his bed in the flooding sunlight and no one came and knocked on the door and told us to stop whatever we were doing.

I remember James’s dad, with his full beard and his accordion. He lectured on Marxist theory at the local uni and was always on the brink of resigning or being fired. He used to run me home after dark in his battered car, swearing at the temperamental choke and regaling me with his awful puns.

James was their only child.

The thought of them both stricken down by grief – it’s almost unbearable.

‘Look,’ Nina gives my hand a final squeeze, ‘I’d better go. I only paid for an hour’s parking and it’s nearly gone.’

‘Thanks. Thanks for coming.’ I give her an awkward hug. ‘Listen, you didn’t happen to grab any of my clothes when you left the house, did you?’

Nina shakes her head. ‘No, I’m really sorry. They were really strict about what we could take. I’ve only got one change for myself. I could buy you some sweats, if you want?’

‘Thanks, that’d be great. I can pay you back.’

Nina makes a kind of derisory snort, and does a batting-away motion with her hand. ‘Psssh, shut up already. You’re a small, right? Any preferences?’

‘No, anything’s fine. Just … nothing too bright. You know me.’

‘OK. Tell you what, I’ll leave you this in the meantime.’ She peels off her cardigan, a navy blue knitted thing with small buttons in the shape of dark blue flowers. I’m shaking my head, but she drapes it around my shoulders. ‘There you go. At least you can open the window without freezing.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, huddling it around myself. I can’t believe how good it feels to be wearing something that’s not hospital-issue. Like I’ve got my personality back. Nina shrugs, kisses me, briskly this time, and then heads for the door.

‘Stay sane, Shaw. We can’t have two people going off the tracks on top of everything else.’

‘Flo? Is she really bad then?’

Nina just shrugs, but her face is sad. Then she turns to go. I watch her stalking off down the corridor, and something suddenly occurs to me. The police guard outside my door is gone.

24

IT’S MAYBE HALF an hour later when there comes another, brisker knock at the door and a nurse bustles in. For a minute I think it’s supper and my stomach growls and turns, but then I realise there’s no smell of industrial catering floating through the door.

‘We’ve got a young man here to see you,’ she says without preamble. ‘Name of Matt Ridout. Says he’d like to come and visit you if you’re up to it.’

I blink. I’ve never heard of him.

‘Is he a policeman?’

‘I don’t know, pet. He’s not in uniform.’

For a minute I think about sending her back out there to find out more, but she’s tapping her foot, plainly impatient and busy, and I realise it would be easier just to see him and get it over with.

‘Send him in,’ I say at last.

‘He can only have half an hour,’ she warns. ‘Visiting hours end at four.’

‘That’s OK.’ Good. That will provide an excuse to get rid of him if he proves awkward.

I sit up, gathering Nina’s cardie around myself and raking my hair off my face. I look like a car crash so I don’t really know why I’m bothering, but it feels important to my self-respect that I at least make a token effort.

I hear steps in the corridor, and there’s a hesitant, diffident knock.

‘Come in,’ I say, and a man walks into the room.

He’s about my age – maybe a few years older – and dressed in jeans and a faded T-shirt. His jacket is slung over his arm and he looks hot and uncomfortable in the hospital’s tropical atmosphere. He’s got a scrubby Hoxton-style beard and his hair is cropped close to his skull; not a buzz-cut, but something like a Roman soldier, short curls, flat against his head.

But the thing that I really notice is that he’s been crying.

For a minute I can’t think of anything to say, and neither can he. He stands in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, and he looks shocked to see me.

‘You’re not from the police,’ I say at last, stupidly. He rubs a hand through his hair.

‘I— my name is Matt. I’m – at least—’ He stops, and his lip curls into a grimace, and I know he’s fighting back some very strong emotion. He takes a deep breath, and begins again. ‘I was James’s best man.’

I say nothing. We only sit, staring at each other, me clutching Nina’s cardigan to my throat as if it’s a suit of armour, he rigid and tense in the doorway. And then, unbidden, a single tear runs down the side of his nose and he swipes at it furiously with his sleeve, and I say, simultaneously,

‘Come in. Come and sit down. Do you want a drink?’

‘Got whiskey?’ he says, and gives a short, shaky laugh. I try to laugh too, but it doesn’t sound like a laugh to me, more like a choke.

‘I wish. Hospital tea or coffee from the vending machine, or water.’ I point to the plastic jug. ‘On the whole I’d recommend the water.’

‘I’m OK,’ he says. He comes and sits in the plastic chair next to my bed. But he’s hardly sat down when he pushes himself to standing again. ‘Fuck, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come.’

‘No!’ I grab his wrist, and then look down at my hand holding his arm, astonished at myself. What the hell am I doing? I let go at once, as though his skin burns. ‘I — I’m sorry. But I just meant …’ I trail off. What did I mean? I have no idea. Only that I don’t want him to go. He is a link to James.

‘Please stay,’ I manage at last. He stays, standing, looking down at me, and then gives a short, curt nod and sits.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. ‘I wasn’t expecting … You look …’

I know what he means. I look like I’ve been beaten within an inch of my life and then patched up again. Badly.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ I say, and I surprise myself by managing a smile. ‘It’s mainly just scratches and bruising.’