The ambulance had double-parked beside Nick’s black Porsche, and two crew-members were already out on the road, equipment extracted, heavy doors thudding closed, as the men headed toward the house. Just make it thirty quid, ay? His voice was gruff with sympathy. He sounded awkward, as if he felt embarrassed asking for payment in the circumstances.
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Then the driver shook himself back to business. Tom’s stomach was a tight writhing ball of dread. The front door, wide open the police car outside. Tom and the taxi driver stared out for uncomfortable seconds at the obvious signs of crisis surrounding the house. But maybe it was as well he was in no state to make split-second judgments. People driving home from the shops.Īll the way from Greenwich, sitting impotently in the back of the cab as it hit traffic snarl-up after snarl-up, Tom had cursed the fact that he hadn’t brought his bike to the shoot. Tom’s hastily arranged cab arrived at Catriona’s Clapham townhouse, seconds behind an ambulance that had clearly struggled to get there too. Tom squeezed his eyes tight shut, until he saw sparkles behind his straining lids.ĭon’t say it. Have you called an ambulance?Ĭhrist, Tom, of course I have! Please. Tom drew in a sharp breath through his nose. Nick’s unwanted voice again, worming in his ear. Two gulls, startling white against startling blue, wheeling and crying over the river.
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The gorgeous photographer Tom had been idly chatting-up when he answered his phone, breaking down his gear a few yards away.Īn assistant waiting for Tom by a fold-up table, holding a bottle of makeup remover in one bored hand. Grand, white colonnades, bleached render, yellowing grass, scorching July sunlight-Greenwich Riverside-with the glass and metal towers of Canary Wharf looming across the Thames. His stunned gaze skittered over his surroundings, trying to clutch on to normality. She really is.īut…I saw her yesterday, Tom insisted. Choked and shaky, at the other end of a poor phone line. Dead? Come on, that’s…of course she’s not dead.