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social worker we’ve never seen want to section Mum?” Behind the question other questions were lining up. Why did their family doctor sign the section papers? And who was the second doctor involved whom Uncle Harold had never heard of?
    Harold shook his head again. “Didn’t have any idea. All our lawyer could say was that she was acting within the law. He did have the idea that she might not be a bona fide social worker; but when he checked, she was kosher. Working for some government department, too, quite high up.”
    “How long are they going to keep her there?”
    “I don’t know,” Harold said, “but Mr. Greeve said that under Section Two of the Mental Health Act, you can be detained for twenty-eight days.”
    “ Twenty-eight? That’s nearly a month!”
    “They can extend that to six months if they make another application; and they can make further applications after that, more or less indefinitely.”
    Em continued to stare at him, his mind working overtime. Eventually he said, “This all happened Tuesday? Three days ago? So this is the fourth day?” Harold nodded without saying anything and managed somehow to look vaguely guilty. “So we could visit her today?” Em suggested.
    “Bit late in the day now. Besides, I have stuff to do . . .” Uncle Harold protested.
    “It’s all right, Uncle Harold. I’ll go to see her on my own,” Em said carefully. He had a sudden, surprising surge of sympathy for his uncle. The man was weak, silly, and disorganized; but that was probably just the way he’d been born. Shouting at him now wouldn’t help. Em needed the exact address of the hospital, a quick shower, and a change of clothes, then he could go see his mother and find out properly what was going on. He was fairly sure he’d extracted as much information from his uncle as he was likely to get.
    “There’s something else,” Harold said.
    Em sat down again and waited.
    “The house was broken into again,” Harold said.

Chapter 14
    S aint Brendan’s wasn’t at all what Em had expected. It wasn’t a lunatic asylum for one thing—no high walls, no muscular orderlies carrying straitjackets—but a massive, redbrick general hospital . . . and a busy one to judge by the jam-packed car park and the high volume of traffic.
    Em walked through the main gates with a feeling of trepidation. He’d said nothing to Uncle Harold, but behind his shock and outrage there was a niggling part of his mind that wondered if his mother hadn’t brought this on herself.
    Except she didn’t seem to be in a mental institution. She seemed to be in a hospital, the sort of hospital where you got bones set and bleeding stopped and had operations.
    Em started moving again, walking slowly toward the main doors.
    The feeling of trepidation still hadn’t gone away by the time he reached the reception desk. A pretty girl in white gave him a tired smile and asked, “Can I help you?”
    “I’m here to see my mother,” Em said. “Mrs. Caroline Goverton.”
    “What ward is she in?”
    He should have asked Uncle Harold, but he hadn’t thought of it. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
    “Doesn’t matter.” The girl tapped keys on the computer beside her. After a moment she said, frowning, “When was she admitted?”
    “Four days ago, I think.” For some reason Em felt impelled to add, “I was in France.”
    “Lucky you,” the girl said. She turned back to the screen, and the frown returned. “Was it an emergency admission?”
    Em took a deep breath. “She was sectioned under the Mental Health Act.”
    To his surprise, the girl’s face brightened. “Oh, she’ll be in our Lydon Clinic; it has a separate reception and records.” She gestured. “Back the way you came, turn left outside the front door, follow the signs to A and E: Accident and Emergency; but when you get there, go around the side of the building and stay on the path until you see the sign Lydon Clinic.” She smiled. “It’s a bit small, so