noise and movement from the crowd. They
turned to see a car approaching at speed from the north, sounding its
horn to clear pedestrians out of the way. It was a brand-new Jaguar
XJR with tinted windows. Craig could just make out a man behind
the wheel and a woman in the passenger seat.
A policeman stepped into the road and raised his hand. For a
moment it looked as though the driver would ignore him. Onlookers
gasped, fearing another tragedy, but the Jaguar braked sharply and
stopped just in time. There were a few jeers, and shouts of, 'Send him
back.'
The driver's window opened. The officer walked round and they
conferred in low tones. The photographers moved closer, raising their
cameras. Just before they blocked his view, Craig saw who was in the car.
'That's George Matheson.'
'Ah. I wondered if he'd be putting in an appearance.'
Craig was surprised she knew who he was, until he remembered
her comment about his father's campaign.
'Lucky he wasn't here this morning.'
'Very lucky,' Abby echoed, with perhaps a trace of sarcasm. 'But
then they have several homes. Villas in Nice and Antigua, and a town
house in Knightsbridge, I believe?'
It sounded like she was fishing, but Craig wasn't going to bite. 'You
know more about him than I do.'
The shouts from the crowd increased as the police officer stepped
away and the Jaguar jerked forward, probing a path through the
photographers. George Matheson's gaze was set straight ahead, while
his wife, cloaked in sunglasses and a headscarf, raised a hand to
cover her face. They turned into Chilton Way and increased speed.
'One rule for the rich . . .' Abby said, only partly in jest.
'Tell me something I don't know,' said Craig.
Thirteen
George Matheson had become a master at denial. Bit by bit his life
was falling apart, yet here he was, still functioning. Still pretending
none of it was happening. He stared through the windscreen and
allowed his world to shrink to just the road ahead, but even his wellconstructed
emotional forcefield couldn't suppress a twinge of fear at
the prospect of what he was driving into.
If Vanessa was troubled by the shouts and catcalls, she gave no sign
of it. He couldn't even tell if her eyes were open. She had barely said
a word on the drive from London, so maybe she was asleep. The
medication often knocked her out.
He would never forget his first sight of the village. Normally so
serene, it had been transformed into something resembling a war zone
or a refugee camp after a huge natural disaster. What seemed like
dozens of police cars and ambulances were parked along the High
Street. Everywhere he looked he could see armed police, doctors and
paramedics, grim-faced search teams and forensic officers in white
suits.
There was another roadblock outside the village store. George gave
his name and waited while the officer consulted a list on a clipboard.
His eye was caught by a man unloading something from a van.
Bodybags, made of heavy-duty vinyl, folded and stacked on the village
green.
'They're waiting for you at the manor,' the officer said. 'Watch how
you go.'
As he set off again he glanced at Vanessa, hoping she was asleep
and wouldn't have to witness this. But she was staring, transfixed, her
hand cupped over her mouth as if to hold in her shock. He wanted
to offer some comfort, but had no idea what to say.
He drove slowly, stopping to let an ambulance get past a Royal Mail
van. There was a tent set up behind the van; George glimpsed a man's
leg and a pool of dried blood on the road. A group of emergency
workers stood nearby, drinking from Styrofoam cups and stamping their
feet to keep warm. They all turned and stared as the big Jaguar glided
past, and something in their blank unwavering gazes seemed to transmit
a sense of the carnage they had encountered. He shivered.
Hurst Lane provided a brief respite. For a few seconds it was almost
possible to believe this was just a terrible dream. Then he reached
the fork in the road and took the
turned to see a car approaching at speed from the north, sounding its
horn to clear pedestrians out of the way. It was a brand-new Jaguar
XJR with tinted windows. Craig could just make out a man behind
the wheel and a woman in the passenger seat.
A policeman stepped into the road and raised his hand. For a
moment it looked as though the driver would ignore him. Onlookers
gasped, fearing another tragedy, but the Jaguar braked sharply and
stopped just in time. There were a few jeers, and shouts of, 'Send him
back.'
The driver's window opened. The officer walked round and they
conferred in low tones. The photographers moved closer, raising their
cameras. Just before they blocked his view, Craig saw who was in the car.
'That's George Matheson.'
'Ah. I wondered if he'd be putting in an appearance.'
Craig was surprised she knew who he was, until he remembered
her comment about his father's campaign.
'Lucky he wasn't here this morning.'
'Very lucky,' Abby echoed, with perhaps a trace of sarcasm. 'But
then they have several homes. Villas in Nice and Antigua, and a town
house in Knightsbridge, I believe?'
It sounded like she was fishing, but Craig wasn't going to bite. 'You
know more about him than I do.'
The shouts from the crowd increased as the police officer stepped
away and the Jaguar jerked forward, probing a path through the
photographers. George Matheson's gaze was set straight ahead, while
his wife, cloaked in sunglasses and a headscarf, raised a hand to
cover her face. They turned into Chilton Way and increased speed.
'One rule for the rich . . .' Abby said, only partly in jest.
'Tell me something I don't know,' said Craig.
Thirteen
George Matheson had become a master at denial. Bit by bit his life
was falling apart, yet here he was, still functioning. Still pretending
none of it was happening. He stared through the windscreen and
allowed his world to shrink to just the road ahead, but even his wellconstructed
emotional forcefield couldn't suppress a twinge of fear at
the prospect of what he was driving into.
If Vanessa was troubled by the shouts and catcalls, she gave no sign
of it. He couldn't even tell if her eyes were open. She had barely said
a word on the drive from London, so maybe she was asleep. The
medication often knocked her out.
He would never forget his first sight of the village. Normally so
serene, it had been transformed into something resembling a war zone
or a refugee camp after a huge natural disaster. What seemed like
dozens of police cars and ambulances were parked along the High
Street. Everywhere he looked he could see armed police, doctors and
paramedics, grim-faced search teams and forensic officers in white
suits.
There was another roadblock outside the village store. George gave
his name and waited while the officer consulted a list on a clipboard.
His eye was caught by a man unloading something from a van.
Bodybags, made of heavy-duty vinyl, folded and stacked on the village
green.
'They're waiting for you at the manor,' the officer said. 'Watch how
you go.'
As he set off again he glanced at Vanessa, hoping she was asleep
and wouldn't have to witness this. But she was staring, transfixed, her
hand cupped over her mouth as if to hold in her shock. He wanted
to offer some comfort, but had no idea what to say.
He drove slowly, stopping to let an ambulance get past a Royal Mail
van. There was a tent set up behind the van; George glimpsed a man's
leg and a pool of dried blood on the road. A group of emergency
workers stood nearby, drinking from Styrofoam cups and stamping their
feet to keep warm. They all turned and stared as the big Jaguar glided
past, and something in their blank unwavering gazes seemed to transmit
a sense of the carnage they had encountered. He shivered.
Hurst Lane provided a brief respite. For a few seconds it was almost
possible to believe this was just a terrible dream. Then he reached
the fork in the road and took the
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