When Did You Last See Your Father? copyright © 2019 Jodi Taylor

Desiccated Water copyright © 2017 Jodi Taylorr

Markham and the Anal Probing copyright © 2017 Jodi Taylor

The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the Author of

the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published as part of Long Story Short, a short-story collection

by Jodi Taylor, in Great Britain in 2019 by

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

This collection first published in Great Britain in Ebook in 2019 by

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

1

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be

reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior

permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in

accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical figures – are

fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

eISBN 978 1 4722 6675 0

Cover design and illustration by zoedrawsthings.co.uk

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When Did You See Your Father?

‘Max, your father is here. He’s come to take Matthew away’

Have you ever wondered what would happen if Max’s husband met Max’s father? What would Leon do?

They’re normally a fairly amiable bunch, but this is the story of what to expect if St Mary’s doesn’t like someone. As in, really doesn’t like someone. Warning: contains a unit-wide criminal enterprise, a great deal of illegal activity and a sad misuse of public resources. All the things a father will do to protect his family.

It is also a story of revenge. Because this is payback – St Mary’s style.

Desiccated Water

Professor Rapson breaks astonishing new ground with his latest feat of scientific invention.

Markham and the Anal Probing

When Markham disappears in the middle of nowhere, Max jumps to the logical conclusion – alien abduction.

Jodi Taylor is the author of the bestselling Chronicles of St Mary’s series, the story of a bunch of disaster-prone historians who investigate major historical events in contemporary time. Do NOT call it time travel!

Born in Bristol and educated in Gloucester (facts both cities vigorously deny), she spent many years with her head somewhere else, much to the dismay of family, teachers and employers, before finally deciding to put all that daydreaming to good use and pick up a pen. She still has no idea what she wants to do when she grows up.

The Chronicles of St Mary’s series

Just One Damned Thing After Another

A Symphony of Echoes

A Second Chance

A Trail Through Time

No Time Like the Past

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Lies, Damned Lies, and History

And the Rest is History

An Argumentation of Historians

Hope for the Best

The Long and Short of It (short-story collection)

Long Story Short (short-story collection)

The Chronicles of St Mary’s digital shorts

When a Child is Born

Roman Holiday

Christmas Present

Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings

The Very First Damned Thing

The Great St Mary’s Day Out

My Name is Markham

A Perfect Storm

Christmas Past

Battersea Barricades

The Steam-Pump Jump

And Now For Something Completely Different

When Did You Last See Your Father?

Elizabeth Cage novels

White Silence

Dark Light

Frogmorton Farm Series

The Nothing Girl

The Something Girl

Little Donkey (digital short)

A Bachelor Establishment

Contents

Copyright

About the Book

About the Author

Also By

When did You Last See Your Father?

Dramatis Thingummy

Author’s note

Acknowledgements

Dessicated Water

Author’s Note

Markham and the Anal Probing

Author’s Note

DISCOVER MORE BOOKS BY JODI TAYLOR . . .

Dramatis Thingummy

Leon Farrell

Chief Technical Officer. Not just husband and hero but now criminal mastermind as well.

Dr Bairstow

Director of St Mary’s. Chief conspirator.

Mrs Partridge

PA to Dr Bairstow. The Muse of History. Whoever asked her to hold his coat made a big mistake. A big, big mistake.

Mr Markham

Head of the Security Section. Concerns he is losing his criminal touch are mercifully unfounded. In the happy position of legitimately being able to let his baser side run wild and free. Like turning a gnarled old warhorse out to pasture, according to Dr Peterson, adding that this might be the moment at which to hum the signature tune to Black Beauty.

Mr Dieter

Not really involved but couldn’t resist shoving his oar in. Naughty boy.

Dr Peterson

Resident urine expert and expecting full credit.

Polly Perkins

No, we still don’t get to meet her in person but she proves to be an all-round good egg just the same. Maybe next time.

John Maxwell

‘Eminent surgeon and utter bastard,’ Leon Farrell.

Dr Maxwell

Standing her ground. Confused and bemused, yes, but most importantly – avenged.

I don’t know how I came to write this. I know when I came to write it. That’s easy. I was climbing into bed one night, accompanied by all the usual paraphernalia – laptop, Kindle, box of tissues for my early morning nose – my nose will kill me one day – notebook and a couple of pens – because they all run out together – and a Terry Pratchett novel. The great man is probably most alarmed to find that death has not released him from the burden of having me take him to bed every night.

Anyway, it was a night just like any other. I arranged everything nicely, wandered off for the usual bathroom pit stop and threw my dressing gown on the floor just where I’ll trip over it when I lurch, crusty-eyed and wild-haired, on my way back to the bathroom the next morning.

I’m going to digress. I know bed hair is fashionable these days, but I have real bed hair. REAL bed hair, not the namby-pamby, girlie stuff you get from a jar. I’ve learned to perform my early morning ablutions with my eyes closed. Getting a brush through it is a waste of time – I just have to wait for gravity to kick in, which is normally around three in the afternoon.

I’ve lost the thread again. Bed. Yes. I was just at that stage where I was drifting off nicely and that’s when the idea hit me. And it wouldn’t go away. There was a really weird compulsion to write this one. I sat up and switched on the light, because there was no chance of sleep, and got stuck in. I only meant to make a few notes – just so I didn’t forget anything – but I had half the story down that night. I finished the whole thing in about a week and then made myself put it away for a while because it was a story I needed to read again from a distance.

And the idea?

What would happen if Max’s husband ever met Max’s father?

I knew what he’d want to do but what would he actually do? What could he do? Without making things even worse for Max or littering the place with corpses, I mean. Protecting Max would be his first instinct. And then I thought – would it? Because suppose it wasn’t Max her father wanted? Suppose it was Matthew. And after everything that’s happened to him, the last thing he needs is to meet his grandad.

So, there’s Leon – he lost his first family under tragic circumstances and now it looks as if it’s going to happen all over again. Leon’s family means everything to him.

What would he do?

I never knew my father. As far as I know he’s never seen me and I’m almost certain I’ve never seen him. I don’t know who he was, what he was, or what he’d done. I do remember a group of men – if there were women present I don’t remember them – sitting behind a long table, asking, ‘When did you last see your father?’ I was about three or four years old, I think, and they’d had to stand me on a box so I could see over the table.

I said nothing. There was nothing I could say. They asked the same question in a number of different ways. I said nothing in exactly the same way to all of them.

Eventually they went away. There were no threats or violence. No one ransacked the house. My mother was more angry than frightened. I never asked what it had been about and she never volunteered the information. They never came back and slowly the memory faded.

In fact, Maman never spoke of my father at all. I don’t know if it was because he died and she loved him so much that talking about him was too painful, or whether he was someone she was glad to be rid of and wasn’t going to pollute the rest of her life by thinking about him.

Maman was English and so am I. Her name was Grace and it suited her. Her height gave her an elegance even among the elegant Frenchwomen. We weren’t well off, but she always looked smart. In fact, I thought she always looked beautiful. It was only later I realised just how poor we had been. It didn’t take me long to realise that everything I asked for – new toys, new books and so on – must have entailed considerable sacrifice on her part. I made sure I didn’t ask for much.

My life these days is good. If I have any regrets at all, it’s that she didn’t live long enough for my happy ending. I have no idea what she would have made of Max – or Max of her. I like to think there’s a place somewhere, where she knows everything turned out well and that I’m grateful for what she did for me.

One day, every year, I go away somewhere quiet – so nowhere near St Mary’s, then – to a place I found some time ago. It was a mis-jump. They happen occasionally. All you can do is return to St Mary’s, re-check the coordinates and have another go.

On this occasion, I opened the door on to a landscape without colour. Blue-grey clouds bulged with rain, hanging so low they seemed to suck all sound and movement from the landscape. Blue-grey mountains rose up around me, jagged and steep, encircling an expanse of sullen, motionless water, which, in its turn, reflected the blue-grey sky.

I stared around.

Utter silence. Perfect peace. Nothing moved. No birds sang. There were no ripples in the water. A soundless, timeless landscape that had remained unchanged over the centuries. Moisture hung heavily in the still, warm air.

After everything that had happened to me, it was hard to believe this was part of the same world. That a place like this could exist in the world that had taken my family from me. A world in which Stevie’s pain-wracked sobs still echoed inside my head.

I hardly dared move, not wanting to disturb the peace of this strange place. Because there was something special about it. It wasn’t just a wet landscape – this was grief made tangible. The jagged pain of the mountains, the bottomless pool of misery, the heavy clouds of anguish.

I stood for a long time, silent and still, taking in every detail of the scene before me, breathing in the smell of clouds and water. Listening to the sound of silence and, if truth be told, struggling just a little bit.

And then, right in front of me, a small movement, vivid in this unchanging landscape, caught my attention. I looked down to the water at my feet. There must have been a sluggish current after all because a small, scarlet leaf floated serenely past me. And another. And another.

And then, around the bend floated a whole carpet of leaves, scarlet and crimson and orange and gold. The contrast to the brooding, blue-grey world in which I was standing took my breath away. I like to think that upstream, a whole forest must have dumped this year’s leaves into this river, just for me to witness as I stood there, at that very moment. I couldn’t drag my eyes away from this explosion of colour. A river of fire. No – a river of hope. That moment when grief moves on, leaving everything fresh and clean; all the pain and hurt is gently washed away and the world waits for you to lift your head again.

Sometimes I think I’ll take Max there. Something about the place calls to me and I think it would call to her, as well. She could paint it. The diagonal sky. The vertical mountains. The horizontal river. And in the foreground, a splash of brilliant colour as the leaves float by on their way to who knows where. She would be painting grief but she could make it wonderful, I know she could.

I go back every year. Sometimes the river is scarlet with hope and sometimes it isn’t because I’ve missed it. But that doesn’t matter. I know it was there. And will be there again. I always sit in the same spot, looking out over the water, and I take out my memories. I turn them over and smile at each one. Maman. And Alex. And Stevie. I’m not a religious man – as Max says, religion’s not easy when you see some of the things it’s done – but I firmly believe they’re all together somewhere, perhaps in a sunny kitchen, making jam tarts and having fun. The jam tarts of eternity.

Anyway – to continue. I did well at school. There were scholarships. And then I joined the army. I sent Maman as many pictures as I could manage. Every time I visited her there were more and more of them on the mantelpiece. I felt really sorry for anyone who dropped by for a coffee and a chat. She would start on the left-hand side and work her way down the line. Every single one was picked up, described, passed around and admired. I realise now how lonely she must have been while I was off around the world, building my career. I made a point of writing or calling her whenever I could and every time I returned from deployment there would be a whole raft of messages from her waiting for me.

Eventually, I was posted to a carrier. I can’t mention the name but it was huge. Like a small city. And it took nearly as long to get from one end to the other. I enjoyed it and the job went well. We worked hard and played hard. Well, I was young – it’s obligatory.

And then, I met a pilot. She was a recent posting and she’d bounced her aircraft on landing and made a bit of a mess of it.

I was on my back, frowning up at the damage, when I saw a pair of legs. With flying boots. This must be the pilot. I wriggled out and there she was, hands on hips, glaring at me.

We had one hell of an argument. I asked her what sort of useless pilot she was and she called me a bengo – which wasn’t very polite – and we spent twenty minutes yelling at each other while people and aircraft got around us as best they could. Eventually we took it into an equipment locker and the next minute our clothes were all over the floor and we were all over each other.

I was really embarrassed to have to ask her name afterwards.

‘Monique,’ she said, laughing. ‘Monique de Maupassant.’

It was an open secret, of course. We tried to keep it quiet but apparently, we were the only ones who didn’t know everyone else knew.

Eventually, I asked her to marry me. I was quite surprised when she said yes. She was a top pilot, pretty and petite – she only just scraped through the minimum height and weight requirements – and she was friendly and popular, and for some reason, she picked me of all people.

We were married as soon as possible, and it was wonderful. We spent a lot of time apart – we were both at the top of our careers – but our time together was spectacular and more than made up for that. For two years, everything was wonderful – glorious. When she laughed – and she often did – her eyes would sparkle and her entire face would light up. I thought it would all go on forever.

And then, one day, right out of the blue, she said she wanted to have a child. In fact, she rather thought . . .

I was overjoyed. I thought it would be the icing on the cake. Alex was born a little early so she’d got her dates wrong, but he seemed fine. Right from the start, he was a quiet boy who liked to build things with his hands. He was never happier than with building blocks or some kind of construction toy.

And then along came Stevie. Another surprise. She laughed and said she really must read the instructions on the contraception packet more carefully.

Stevie was the complete opposite to Alex. Noisy, cheerful, always happy.

And then it happened. Nearly a year after Stevie’s birth, I came home and half the contents of the house had disappeared. I stood like an idiot, looking around the bare room thinking, ‘Where’s all the furniture gone?’

Before I could panic, our neighbour knocked at the door. Madame Benoit. She was our childminder and she had Stevie and Alex with her. I must have gawped at her like an idiot. She had a letter for me.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, not looking at me.

It only dawned on me much later that everyone must have known but me.

Anyway, Monique was gone. Her letter was full of stuff about how it was her fault not mine, and with just enough sincerity to make her feel good about herself. I didn’t have the luxury of feeling anything. I spent two months trying to juggle job and family and failing dismally at both.

I don’t know why I didn’t think of it immediately – it seemed so obvious when the idea occurred to me. I invited my mother to come and live with us. She was thrilled – the boys loved her – and suddenly the sun came out for all of us.

I went back to work and then I got a really good posting back to England. It was a new beginning and a new life. For all of us. Things settled down at once. The boys were much better behaved and hardly ever mentioned their mother. In fact, I wasn’t sure Stevie even remembered her. The house was suddenly full of toys, pictures on the fridge, school projects and the smell of cooking.

I remembered coming home from six weeks abroad to find them making jam tarts in the kitchen. Alex was standing on a chair and carefully cutting the pastry shapes, Maman was lining the tray, and Stevie, bless him, was dumping jam all over everything. Every surface was covered in jammy fingerprints and a light dusting of flour and after our hello hugs, so was I. Everyone was laughing and our lives were so happy.

A year later they were all dead.

There was a flu epidemic. As there often is, but this one was different. It started off normally enough and then picked up speed, erupting out of the Middle East and ripping across the Mediterranean, North Africa and Europe – all the way up to Scandinavia.

This one was a bitch – it took the old and the young. For some reason, those in between seemed unaffected. People said this was worse than the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918. Many said it was Nature’s way of keeping the population down. Others said it was end of the world. God’s punishment. Whatever it was, millions died.

Everything stopped. The country barely functioned. The government closed public buildings. Most shops were closed. People stayed at home. There was almost no travel. Certainly, no air travel. Those on the streets wore masks and hurried by without catching anyone’s eye or speaking. Friends ignored friends. A curfew was imposed.

And then, one day, Maman said she would have an early night. She was feeling tired. An hour later I was pleading with a doctor to call. An hour later she was in hospital. She died quietly. I think she knew me at the end. I like to think so, anyway.

Then the boys got it. Alex died as peacefully as his grandmother. He just seemed to go to sleep. Stevie suffered. There was nothing I could do for him. There was nothing anyone could do for him.

I donated armfuls of blood because there was talk of some sort of vaccine. It didn’t always work, they said, so don’t get your hopes up, but I’d have given anything. And everything. And then they told me my blood was no good. Because the boys weren’t mine. They didn’t even have the same father.

I buried them all on the same day. There was only me at the ceremony. I still had friends then. Good friends who don’t leave you to face this sort of thing by yourself, but I’d asked to be left alone and left alone I was.

The crematorium was like a conveyor belt, there were so many others waiting. I’m not even convinced the ashes I got back were theirs. I remember I just took what the harassed official offered and walked away, numb and unthinking. The pavements were wet. I walked for hours on that dreary November day. That was the last time we were all together.

Their mother didn’t come.

The world had turned upside down for me, but oddly, many things were now much clearer. The sympathetic neighbours. The conversations that died as I approached and started again when I’d passed. Everyone had known but me.

I went back to France. I searched for her high and low but I was never going to find her. I looked long and hard but she was still in the military and it was like banging my head against a wall. Everyone was very sympathetic and completely unhelpful. If the military don’t want you to find someone then you don’t. Which, given the emotions boiling inside me, was probably just as well. They still have the guillotine in France.

I began to drink. Well, I’d been drinking already but now I really put some effort into it. Anything to dull the red-hot pain in my head and my heart. The pain that wouldn’t go away. It helped at first, but by the time it stopped helping, it had become a habit. A habit I couldn’t be bothered to break because nothing mattered very much now. I became punchy. There were fights. Bad ones. People were hurt. Including me – not that I noticed at the time. I was warned. Then I was warned again. Then for the third time. Then I was out.

Not a problem, I thought, and settled down to drink myself to death. The police doctor had said I’d be dead in a year at this rate. I decided to try and do it in six months. Everyone should have an element of challenge in their lives.

I was in a French bar one night. I can’t remember its name. Or the location. At that stage I wasn’t even aware of my own name most of the time. I do remember it was bitterly cold. There was a kind of icy rain sleeting down. It was one of those nights where the cold could slice into your very bones. Hardly anyone was on the streets. Everyone else had more sense than to be out on a night like this.

I remember the bar’s blue neon sign reflected on the wet pavement and the sound of cars hissing past. I pushed open the door, found myself a table in a dark corner, ordered a drink and started down the well-worn path.

And then the door opened. I looked up because of the draught. One or two people muttered about shutting the door but most of us were too drunk to care. It was the sort of place where everyone sat at their own table, encased in their own shell of misery and oblivious to that of others. There was no music. No one spoke to anyone – we weren’t there for company. We were there for the stuff that not only insulated us against the world but if taken injudiciously and in suitable quantities would very soon ease our passage out of it. That sort of place.

I looked up and Edward Bairstow was coming towards me. Not that I knew him at the time. I barely knew myself. Nor did I want to.

I do know he was just the sort of person I never really had much time for. Tall, well-dressed, and with the typical I’m better than everyone else expression. You could see at a glance he’d never been poor. That he’d been born with all the advantages. That his life was just perfect. Which just goes to show what I knew.

His long face was made longer by receding hair. He was older than me – although he didn’t look it at the time – and he had a very bad limp.

He jostled me as he passed. It was his fault. Well, it couldn’t be anything else, really. I was sitting – well, sprawled – at a table and it’s quite hard to jostle anyone when you’re sitting down, even when as drunk as I was. And my table was in the corner so it’s not as if it was en-route to the literally shit-filled facilities at the back, but, of course, everyone felt sorry for him because of his walking stick and I got the blame.

He’d made me spill my drink. Aggrieved, I staggered to my feet, flapping my hand dry, and shouted at him. Everyone shouted back at me. I shouted back at them. Edward said nothing, just smiling a smile that everyone else probably thought was polite and I knew wasn’t, and so I went for him and then they threw me out.

I didn’t go quietly. For a start, I still had half a drink left. I wasn’t happy at all.

Edward followed me out and ten minutes later I was even less happy.

I went to hit him but he just wasn’t there. Yes, I was drunk, but I’d spent years in the military and I knew what I was doing, but he simply wasn’t there. I swung again. And missed again. I just couldn’t connect with him. I know I was drunk but even so . . .

A word of warning – drunk or not, don’t ever get into it with Edward Bairstow. He’s very good.

So good, in fact, that a few minutes later I was on my back in a piss-filled alleyway feeling the sleet on my face, while he casually leaned against a wheelie bin watching me bleed. The expression on his face set me off all over again. It was irrational and unreasonable, but somehow all the hate and rage I’d been carrying around was suddenly centred upon this one man who had appeared from nowhere and so far hadn’t even said one word.

Somehow, I managed to stagger to my feet. I rushed at him and woke up – although I didn’t know it at the time – in St Mary’s.

I don’t know how long I’d been there. I was hooked up to various machines all bleeping away to themselves. All I knew was that I desperately wanted a drink. I demanded a drink and rather to my surprise, they said yes, of course I could have a drink. Just a minute. Then they pumped me full of the evil stuff they give to people like me and gave me a drink, which I enjoyed for nearly four seconds before I went into some sort of violent spasm that would have dislocated every joint in my body if I hadn’t been very firmly strapped down.

I ignored that – because I still wanted a drink very badly and I thought it was just my body reacting to the punishment doled out by Edward Bairstow. They happily gave me another one and the next moment everything I’d ever eaten in my entire life was ejected from every orifice. I was convinced it was coming out of my ears.

And that was their treatment. A cruel, vicious circle. I would want a drink. They would give me one. And then I would wish I was dead. Then I would want a drink again. And, because I was a slow learner, this happened many, many times while I fought a terrible war between my craving and the consequences of that craving.

I survived – and not everyone does – but it was a very, very long time before I could go anywhere near alcohol again.

These days I like a beer with the football, or a glass of wine occasionally, with Max, but apart from major celebrations, that’s pretty much it. That’s not a path I ever want to go down again. I owe Edward my life, I suppose.

All this took more than a month or two and when I eventually emerged from my long, cold, sweaty, vomit-filled tunnel, I’d lost nearly a quarter of my body weight and it took me a long time to get it back on again.

Now that I was finally able to concentrate on the world once more, Edward was waiting for me. He explained where I was, who St Mary’s were, and what they did. Several times, actually, firstly because my mind still wasn’t working that well and secondly because I didn’t believe him. Somehow my fuddled mind thought it was all something to do with the Mars Project, but he persevered, patiently explaining over and over again, while I struggled to make sense of everything around me.

There was no sympathy or softness from him. He really doesn’t do that sort of thing, but he offered a kind of matter-of-fact understanding. Compassion, rather than pity.

‘It’s not time travel,’ he kept explaining. ‘We investigate major historical events in contemporary time.’

It took a tour in Hawking Hangar and an afternoon in the Technical Section to convince me.

I met most of the people at St Mary’s – my future colleagues. Complete nutters, all of them. I sometimes wondered what they made of me. And I met the Director, a bright-eyed, elderly man who greeted me politely and never, ever made any reference to the circumstances which had brought me to St Mary’s.

And then – they offered me a job. I had no life, said Edward – on whom you can always rely for brutal honesty – no family, no ties, no job and no prospects.

‘And no choice,’ I said nastily.

‘There is always a choice,’ he said calmly. ‘Some of the choices might be very unappealing but there is always a choice. The time has come for you to make yours. You are, at present, clean, sober and functioning. You will be discharged this afternoon. You must now decide between walking out of the gates and picking up where you left off, or choosing a different and far more dangerous path. You probably won’t survive but at least your death will mean something. Something more than choking on your own vomit in a French gutter. I shall leave you to think it over.’

It wasn’t really much of a choice. They’d cleaned me up well enough for me to be taking an interest in the world around me again. And to realise how close I’d come. Winter had passed and spring sunshine was flooding through the windows. I still wasn’t particularly bothered about what happened to me, but the French gutter had lost its appeal so I signed up.

The technical aspect was interesting enough. Very interesting, actually, but to be honest, I couldn’t see the attraction of the other stuff. As I tell my wife when I’m tired of living, the History side isn’t really that appealing, is it?

I divided my time between accompanying Edward on various assignments and working in the Technical Section, learning about pods and their maintenance.

I got to know Edward better as well, and one day, when we were both stuck in a blizzard awaiting rescue, we told each other our life stories to stay awake, and I realised I wasn’t the only person on the planet who had to deal with loss and betrayal. He even showed me the picture of Annie he carried around with him. He’s still got it. Not the original, of course, not after all this time. Before it became too creased and faded and fell apart, he handed it over to Dr Dowson who tidied it up and made copies. He keeps the original in his box. We all have a box at St Mary’s – or an envelope, or whatever. Probably because none of us owns very much, we’re careful about the things that are special to us. Everyone designates someone to dispose of the contents of their box after they’re dead. I’m Edward’s choice. Max is mine.

And then, one day, I was handed an assignment. A solo assignment, which was quite unusual. For safety’s sake, St Mary’s tends to travel at least in pairs. The unofficial explanation is so that there will always be someone to bring back the body.

It would seem I was off to the Cretaceous period. I wasn’t particularly keen to go on this one. Slightly worryingly, there were no instructions on how to proceed when I got there. Just to present myself at a specific location and render whatever assistance was required. I remember I was somewhat grumpy about it which seems ungrateful now, because that assignment changed my life.

That was when I met my Max.

It’s all on record, somewhere – well, not all of it, I hope, because some of it was definitely adult-rated – so I don’t need to go into any details, but she saved me. I thought I was there to save her and she saved me instead. We had one day together and then, having exploded into my life – she left me.

I begged her. I begged her to abandon everything. We would run away together. We had a pod. No one would ever find us. I was desperate. I couldn’t stop. Over and over. Come away with me. Come away with me. She said no and she kept saying no. She was gentle and she was kind but she was adamant. Now, of course, I know why, but I didn’t take it well at the time.

She left the pod, taking my heart and soul with her. She stood at the edge of the clearing. I watched her watching me. I was certain – I was convinced – that she would change her mind. I waited and waited for her to change her mind. To give me some sort of sign. That yes, she would come away with me and we would be together forever. I was so sure she would, but the minutes ticked away and she never did. She just stood under that tree, watching me, and suddenly I couldn’t bear it any longer and I jumped away.

That was a hard time for me. I saw her eyes whenever I closed mine. I heard her voice in the silence of the night. It was only the knowledge that the cure was worse than the disease that kept me off the bottle again. And it was worse this time round because I’d been given a glimpse of hope, a chance of stepping into the sunshine again, and then had it snatched away from me.

I threw myself at my work. There were other assignments – strangely specific assignments – and Edward and I would joke that we were being groomed for something but the joke was on us because we were.

It was a bold plan – Edward was to jump back to found St Mary’s. I’d follow on when he’d laid the foundations and provide him with technical support. Together, we’d set up St Mary’s. We both spent months on research and familiarisation of that time period. They told us whatever they thought we needed to know – except for events that would unfold after the day we jumped. I mean, obviously we were aware of History in general, they couldn’t do anything about that, but personal events and specific details subsequent to our departure were off limits. I can see why, of course, but it was frustrating at the time.

We were given our new identities and then, suddenly, after weeks of preparation, the time had come.

Edward jumped one sunny afternoon. We walked down to Hawking together. He looked very unfamiliar in his civilian clothes. We didn’t say much. Not that there was much to say. We were both turning our backs on everything we’d ever known. We were both hoping our new life would be better than the old one, but there were no guarantees. We shook hands and I wished him luck.

He said, ‘See you in ten years, Leon,’ and I said, ‘See you tomorrow night, Edward’ – still getting used to our new names – and off he went. I think he was glad to go – like me, there was nothing for him here.

Twenty-four hours later it was my turn. I had a neat little pod – a single-seater, which was rare because there aren’t many of those. I’d more or less built this one from the ground up. I knew it inside out and I was fond of it.

‘You won’t need it,’ they’d said. ‘It’s really just an escape pod. For if things go badly wrong. Just find somewhere quiet to tuck it away and forget about it.’

That did not work out as expected.

Edward met me when I landed and gave me the first sight of my new home. Which was my old home but scruffier. It was dark, not many of the lights were working, the smell of plaster and wet concrete was overwhelming and bunches of wires hung everywhere.

Edward looked tired and had even less hair than before, but he certainly hadn’t been idle. He’d assembled an excellent team. Guthrie was a good man. Steady as a rock and slightly less chatty. We often took a glass together on a Friday night. Just the one, usually, because that wasn’t a road I wanted to go down again.

More people turned up – admin staff, wardrobe staff, eccentrics destined either for R&D or a stint of community care – not that there was much difference between either. The food was good – Theresa Mack saw to that. Looking at her and several others – I wasn’t the only one who had some healing to do.

Time passed before I knew it. I was rushed off my feet most of the time but I wasn’t unhappy and then . . . one day . . . one day . . . One day I picked up the phone and Edward said, ‘Leon – I thought you might like to know. She’s here.’

I don’t know how he could possibly know. I’d said almost nothing about the Cretaceous assignment. I’d done a quick report about rendering assistance to an historian in difficulties – no one ever followed up on it and I think I assumed no one had even read it.

More out of curiosity than hope, I stepped outside and walked around the building. I stared across the South Lawn, and there she was. Marching up the drive as if she intended to storm the place single-handedly. Which, I suppose, is exactly what did happen.

I stood for a moment, trying to collect my thoughts, and then raced back, through the hangar and down the Long Corridor, searching for and discarding various opening lines.

‘Nice to see you again.’ Cool, but pleasant. And definitely not giving the impression my whole life hung on this moment.

Or, ‘What took you so long?’ No, that sounded too judgemental.

Or, ‘Haven’t we met before?’ No, that made me sound like Markham, trying out his chat-up lines on the new nurse.

Actually, I moved so quickly I got to the Great Hall before her. Mr Strong was still signing her in when I arrived and I couldn’t stand around like a dummy so I walked slowly around the gallery, trying to time things so I’d be going down the stairs as she was coming up.

That didn’t work at all. Mrs De Winter was introducing her to everyone in sight so I had to go around again. And then she was with Professor Rapson and he invited her into R&D and I thought we’d lost her for good and so I had to go around for a third time. And then I thought I’d misjudged my timing so I had to break into a trot. And then I realised I was going to be too early and miss her so I had to stop and pretend to read a notice board. It was at this point that people were beginning to emerge from their offices for the sole purpose of giving me strange looks. Mrs Enderby in particular has a wonderful repertoire of stares.

Eventually, with much casual stopping and starting on my part, I contrived to be at the top of the stairs as she was at the bottom. Frowning heavily, as befitted an important person with weighty technical issues on his mind, I set off, and we met on the half-landing and once again, even though I was expecting it this time, my world went sideways.

For a moment she looked quite blank which was a little disconcerting and then I realised she didn’t know me. And she was so young. I realised, with a shock that I hoped didn’t show, that although I’d met her, she hadn’t yet met me.

She was staring at me. I wondered if she too was suffering a case of love at first sight.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘I was thinking about the Crimea.’

Well, that wasn’t disconcerting at all, was it, but at least it was an excuse to smile at her. ‘You should fit right in here.’

Mrs De Winter introduced us.

She said something. I said something.

Her red hair was catching the light from the lantern roof above our heads. It was one of the few times I ever saw her with short hair. I don’t know if she’d put that product stuff on it or whether it was natural, but it stuck out from her head in spiky clumps. Rather in the manner that would be made unfashionable by Markham in years to come, whenever he was undergoing treatment to rid himself of all the species he was currently offering five-star accommodation to.

And just as I was before – I was lost. She smiled up at me with those great golden eyes. Her hand was cold. She rarely has warm hands. And don’t get me started on where she puts her feet.

I know I said something inane about people calling me Chief. I don’t remember letting go of her hand but I expect Mrs De Winter extricated her safely.

And now she was at St Mary’s as well. I saw her every day. Not always to speak to – sometimes it was just passing her on the stairs, or catching the echo of her voice from the Library or Wardrobe, but it was enough for me. It took us a long time – I was cautious and she was wary – but eventually we got things together and the sun came out in my world again. A fairy-tale ending.

Until we went to Troy.

I still can’t talk about that.

And then she died. The shock nearly stopped my heart. I couldn’t believe it. That wasn’t how fairy tales were supposed to go. She didn’t even die on assignment. I think I could have accepted that. She died in her own office. A stupid, useless accident that tore the heart out of me. The past came roaring back and I knew I couldn’t do that again. I left St Mary’s.

It wasn’t easy. Both Edward and Guthrie did everything they could to dissuade me but I just couldn’t bear it. Every time I looked up to see a door closing, it was as if she had just left the room. I was convinced if I listened hard enough I would hear her voice. Or feel her touch. Every moment was painful to me. As if every nerve ending was exposed. Even my skin felt raw. I just couldn’t do it so I left.

I didn’t go far – just down to Rushford. I started a small business repairing small household items and electronics. I kept it small so I didn’t have to concentrate too hard. Just enough to keep body and what was left of my soul together. I think it’s fair to say that, physically, I let myself go a little. I know some people thought I was a bit weird, but as long as I could repair their kettle or their laptop and not charge them very much, they weren’t too bothered.

St Mary’s didn’t completely abandon me. Edward stayed in touch and Guthrie and Dieter came by occasionally.

And Max’s friend, Isabella.

I can’t talk about that, either. There was no excuse for me but sometimes . . . if I closed my eyes . . . I could pretend . . . There is nothing I can say in my own defence, but it eased the pain a little and kept some of my blacker thoughts at bay. And it meant I didn’t have to be alone at night with my memories.

And then she came back. Max, I mean, which would have been a moment of earth-shattering joy if I hadn’t mistaken her for Isabella Barclay. I’m still not sure how I survived that. I suspect if Max hadn’t found herself in the wrong universe and with a huge hole in her chest then I wouldn’t have. As it was, she very nearly did for me with a blue plastic dustpan and brush but I deserved it.

Obviously, after that, I had quite a lot of ground to make up, but as Max said afterwards, fortunately for me, the Time Police turned up and tried to kill us both, and by the time we’d managed to escape, she’d calmed down a little. Enough to let me live, anyway. We decided to seize our second chance and take things very slowly so as not to repeat any of our previous mistakes. Thirty seconds later she was in my arms and we’d broken some furniture.

And that was it for me. I’ve never been the same since. Although it hasn’t always been easy. Even aside from operational catastrophes, there have been the usual marital issues. Apparently, I don’t always put my boots away and watching football is not a sign of intelligence. On the other hand, the things she can do to a tube of toothpaste don’t bear close investigation. And she snores. Really snores. And she leaves the toilet seat down.

It’s been a bit of a roller coaster for both of us and I suspect it’s not over yet because I’m married to a woman who hurls herself up and down the timeline with no regard for her own safety and sometimes precious little regard for other people’s, either. She propels herself from one hazardous situation to the next. I frequently use the term ‘death wish’, having had some experience of that myself. I do know she makes real efforts to rein herself in – especially now we have our son, Matthew – and I know that Dr Stone – who is far from the idiot he’d like us to believe he is – has a quiet word with her occasionally over a cup of cocoa, but the sad truth is, I don’t think she can help it. She’s not even aware of it. If asked – and he did ask me once – I’d say it was the result of her upbringing. This self-destructive behaviour, I mean. Her father was an evil bastard and this is the way that she deals with what happened to her.

I’ve watched her come back off assignment with some terrible injuries and she seems to shrug it all off with a laugh and a careless joke and get straight back in the pod for more. It worries me. No, actually it terrifies me, but what can I do? Max often says there’s always a price to pay for everything and I think this is mine. If it is, I’m willing to pay it, so I can’t complain.

Once, when we were fleeing for our lives from the Time Police, when she was sick and exhausted, she did talk a little of her childhood. Not much, but enough to make me wish for a chance to meet this father of hers one day.

And then, one day, I got my wish.

Dieter and I were in Hawking Hangar, staring at the sad wreckage that had been Number Eight before the History Department had got their hands on it. We began by documenting the damage.

‘The toilet’s knackered,’ I said, trying not to sigh because, according to Max, that’s very annoying.

‘And two of the cupholders,’ he said, using his pen to poke something that fell to the floor with a clatter.

‘There are only two cupholders in this pod. We should congratulate them on their one hundred per cent score.’

‘I’m not too sure about this stain,’ said Dieter, gloomily, peering at something dubious on the wall.

‘We’ll get Mr Lindstrom to deal with that.’

‘What is that terrible smell?’

‘That’ll be Bashford. He’s on medication.’

‘It’s terrible. What is that English word I want? Begins with “P”?’

‘Pungent?’

‘Pongy. Yes, that’s it. Pongy. And the door control’s shorted out. Again.’

I felt a sigh was justified. ‘I’ve fixed it twice already this year and it’s only June.’

Dieter sighed too. You hear a lot of sighing from the Technical Section. ‘Why do we do this? There’s an entire Space Programme out there crying out for technicians like us.’

‘That’s because they eat technicians over there.’

‘Do they?’

‘That’s what Dr Bairstow said last time I mentioned it.’

He sighed again. ‘I’ll make a start.’

‘Thank you. And I’ll . . .’ I stared around, trying to prioritise.

‘Yes?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Wander off somewhere and think about my life choices, perhaps. Do you ever think about an office job?’

‘Actually,’ he said, clutching the sad remains of a cupholder in one massive fist, ‘I always wanted to be a florist.’

I nodded. ‘Sensible choice. I’ve heard it pays well.’

‘Better than this, certainly.’

‘Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?’

He spun around. ‘There’s an elephant?’

His English is so good I sometimes forget he isn’t. ‘No, no. It’s just an expression. I’m talking about the scorch marks all over the console.’

He nodded. ‘They’ve blown the entire secondary board. How could that even happen? Where did they say they’d been?’

I flipped my clipboard to check. ‘Edwardian tea party.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s a gift.’

I shook mine. ‘It’s a curse.’

‘Quick cup of tea and then we’ll get cracking?’

‘Good idea.’

We were just exiting Number Eight when Dr Bairstow turned up. He doesn’t come down to Hawking very often. Dieter muttered something and disappeared to the other end of the hangar.

Edward didn’t waste any time. ‘We have a problem.’

I wasn’t too worried. St Mary’s having a problem is our default state.

‘And that problem is?’

‘Max’s father is here.’

I must have stared at him. ‘John Maxwell?’

I don’t know how many fathers I thought she had.

He nodded.

I looked over my shoulder but we were alone. ‘Are you quite sure it’s him?’

‘Oh yes. There can be no doubt.’

‘What does he want?’

‘I want you to stay calm. It will be you and me who have to sort this out. I want to keep Max out of it as much as possible.’

‘I’m calm.’

He said quietly, ‘He wants to see Matthew.’

I forced down the fear and said slowly, ‘For what reason?’

‘To assure himself of Matthew’s well-being. Not only is he citing Max’s turbulent childhood, her behavioural problems and her instability, he’s querying the strange nature of St Mary’s. According to him, this is not the sort of place in which he wants his grandson to grow up, and Max is not a fit mother.’

It was very important that I stay calm. ‘What about me?’

‘He didn’t mention you.’

I thought for a moment. ‘Is this a genuine concern, do you think? Or is he just out to make trouble? Does he want money?’

‘No, as far as I can see it is not money he’s after. You may not have heard of him, but he’s John Maxwell, the famous surgeon. Very big in his field. Surgeon in chief at a big hospital in the north of England. He sits on various charities and committees including the local social services and police committees. He’s a person of power and influence and, worryingly, he has the ear of some very important people.’

I said carefully, ‘From the very little that Max has told me, this . . . concern he is manifesting over Matthew is unlikely to be genuine.’

‘I quite agree. But, if you think about it, Leon, we still have a problem.’

I stood still while the implications sank in. Edward was right. We did have a problem. We had a very big problem.

The thing is, Matthew’s birth certificate clearly states he was born around eighteen months ago, but he was stolen from us as a baby and we didn’t get him back until he was a young boy. Because of this and the brutal treatment he endured, it’s hard to estimate his true age, but it’s definitely more than eighteen months, which could be very difficult to explain away. The last thing we could afford is any sort of official enquiry. And I suspected that simply refusing to cooperate wouldn’t do any good at all. The influential John Maxwell, pillar of his community, would turn up with a stream of police and social workers – all of them expecting to see an infant – and then the fun would really start. We’d have no protection. One of the conditions of our contract with the government is that under no circumstances do we ever call attention to what we do here. Such as producing an anomalous child some ten years older than he should be. We could have a very serious situation on our hands.

‘Can’t we just say he’s not here? Because he isn’t. Not at this moment.’

Edward shook his head. ‘Where do we tell him he is? Or where he’s been? It’s not an acceptable excuse, Leon, and certainly not in the long run. And even if we could account for the discrepancy in his age – which we can’t – even the most superficial medical examination will reveal clear signs of abuse in his earlier years.’

All true. Malnutrition, broken bones, burns, scars. The list is heartbreakingly long. And impossible to account for.

I said slowly, working things out, ‘How could John Maxwell know about Matthew? Not only does Max have no contact of any kind with her former life or anyone in it, she’s supposed to be dead. How could he know she’s here? We’re not on any official records. We’re exempt from the census. We’re not on the electoral roll. All our activities are masked by Thirsk.’

‘I suspect he was pointed in the right direction by someone we both know; after that, all he had to do was to rummage through the records at Somerset House.’

I was trying to think. ‘It would seem that Max’s father, knowingly or otherwise, has precipitated quite a crisis.’

‘Something that obviously runs in the family.’

I ignored that plainly inaccurate statement. ‘She’s not actually his real daughter. His daughter died. She’s another John Maxwell’s daughter. Suppose her DNA doesn’t quite match up? Yet another area that won’t stand up to close investigation.’

‘Yes,’ he said mildly. ‘We do have a lot to hide, don’t we?’

‘If I thought it would help,’ I said, ‘I’d grab her now and get her out of here right this moment, but it won’t.’

‘No. He’ll keep coming back. Ronan will see to that. And every time we don’t produce either Max or Matthew we’re storing up trouble for ourselves. We need to nip this situation in the bud. Preferably without having to . . . um . . . off John Maxwell and . . . er . . . conceal the stiff.’

I stared at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Did I get that expression wrong? Only I do feel it’s important to be current with modern terminology, don’t you?’

I’m almost certain he’s where Max gets it from.

‘Sir, I should tell you there are no circumstances under which I would permit Max’s father – or anyone – to take Matthew away. And on what grounds could he? Matthew has two living parents, both working and providing a stable environment. He’s receiving an excellent, if unconventional, education which yes, I know we can’t tell anyone about but . . .’

‘Leon, this is nothing to do with the suitability of you and Max as parents. It’s not even anything to do with Matthew himself. It’s Ronan and revenge. John Maxwell doesn’t know it but he’s just his tool.’

‘But a powerful one.’

‘As you say – a powerful one.’

I stared at the ground and thought. Yes – John Maxwell was a powerful man. With influence and authority. If he spoke – people would listen. That was the problem. And it might also be the solution.

‘Edward, I’ve had a brilliant idea.’

‘I am delighted to hear it.’

‘Where’s Max now?’

‘In her office. She doesn’t yet know he’s here. Are you suggesting we attempt to keep it from her?’

‘No, I think that would only result in our deaths and the subsequent destruction of everything within a five-mile radius. Where is John Maxwell at this moment?’

‘Being entertained by Mrs Partridge.’

‘Ah,’ I said, carefully.

‘A good PA is an invaluable tool,’ he said, serenely.

I’d been thinking. I had just the glimmerings of an idea but it would have to do. ‘Can you buy me some time?’

‘How much time?’

‘Not less than thirty minutes.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘I always enjoy a challenge. I shall give you an hour.’

About to stride away, I had a sudden thought. ‘I should see Max.’

He shook his head. ‘I do not think that is a luxury either of you can afford at this moment. There are other priorities. She will understand when I explain it to her.’

I must have looked unconvinced because he added, ‘Trust me to look after her, Leon.’

‘Don’t let her kill him.’

He seemed disappointed.

‘In fact, don’t let her speak at all.’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘Yes, sir, I know, but he will be looking to manipulate her, antagonise her, provoke her into doing something . . . unwise. None of that will be possible if you can persuade her just to sit silently and make no move at all. Tell her, please, I need her to keep all his attention on her while I fix things.’

‘And not kill him.’

‘But only because I have a much better idea.’ I turned away and opened my com. ‘Mr Markham, can you spare me a moment, please? It is rather urgent.’

Saying I had an idea might have been overstating things slightly but I did have a few vague thoughts and we could make up the rest as we went along. And people think it’s only the History Department that can improvise in a crisis.

I met Markham in the Great Hall. Everything there seemed normal – there was no shouting – well, no more than in our usual working day. No shouting was coming from Max’s office or screaming from Dr Bairstow’s.

I think Markham was all set for a cheery greeting and then he saw my face.

‘What can I do?’

We had a short conversation and then he disappeared and I went off to see Polly Perkins.

Fifty-five minutes later and five minutes ahead of schedule, he and I were pulling out through the gates. I was driving.

‘I’ll pull over outside the pub,’ I said. ‘We’ll wait there.’

We sat for a while in silence and then I said, ‘Tell me you wore gloves.’

He treated that remark with the contempt it deserved.

‘And that Polly did too.’

He sighed loudly. An underestimated hero, struggling against the many injustices of the world.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

We didn’t have to wait for long. A smartly understated black saloon purred past and disappeared out of the village. I pulled out after it.

‘Not too close,’ warned Markham. ‘He doesn’t know either of us but we can’t take any chances.’

I nodded. ‘Where are they?’

‘Glove compartment,’ he said, and pulled out three mobiles, still in their boxes. They didn’t seem something that the Security Section would normally possess, so God knows where he’d got them from. I was too grateful to ask.

‘You’re sure they’re untraceable?’

‘Absolutely guaranteed,’ he said confidently.

‘OK. Make the call.’

He dialled the number which must have been answered almost immediately.

‘Oh,’ he said, in a disconcertingly accurate impersonation of a nervous old lady. ‘I’m not sure if it’s you I want but there’s a car just gone past and I’m sure he’s drunk. He was all over the road. He nearly hit that child. You should do something about it . . . What? . . . Oh, on the Rushford road, just past the petrol garage. Big, black car. People like that shouldn’t be allowed to drive.’ He switched the phone off, removed the card and threw everything out of the window into the hedge. He picked up another phone, dialled and put it on speaker. ‘Your turn.’

A voice answered. I didn’t give it a chance to speak.

‘Listen, mate. I’m just outside Whittington and you want to do something about this. Bastard nearly hit me. Doing a ton and all over the shop. Pissed as a newt. Bound to be. Black car. One of them big jobs. He’s gonna kill someone before long. Heading for Rushford. You wanna stop him before he hits the ring road.’ And nodded to Markham to end the call.

‘Nice,’ said Markham admiringly. I don’t know why he thinks he’s the only one with criminal talents.

That phone went into the hedge, too.

We stayed well back, just catching a glimpse of his taillights every now and then.

‘Good job the road’s empty,’ said Markham, cheerfully, and I could only agree, because John Maxwell was travelling too fast and cornering too wide for my peace of mind. This was the weak spot in our plan. It was vital for everyone’s safety that John Maxwell was apprehended before he reached the ring road. It wasn’t part of my plan to put anyone’s life at risk.

Markham laughed, suddenly.

‘What?’

‘I was just thinking, if Max was here she’d be turning the air purple cursing our wonderful police force who turn up at the most inconvenient moments and yet aren’t anywhere in sight when you need them.’

The third phone rang. It was Edward.

‘Everything is in hand,’ I said. ‘How is Max?’

‘Exceeding expectations,’ was all he said, and rang off.

‘Wonder what that means,’ said Markham, curious.

‘Either she’s being astonishingly well behaved or she’s gone ahead and murdered him and disposed of the body and we’re wasting our time.’

‘Ah, well,’ he said comfortably. ‘Either is good.’

Indicating, I turned on to the ring road. The black car was about a hundred yards ahead of us and just beginning to speed up.

I was just doing the same myself when a police car, blue lights flashing, zipped past us in the fast lane. There was a brief blast of siren and the black car obediently pulled over.

‘What a solid citizen,’ said Markham in much the same tones that anyone else would say, ‘What a tosser.’

‘Not for long.’

The black car had halted and so did we, pulling up on to the hard shoulder about a hundred yards behind. Close, but not too close.

‘Just as a matter of interest,’ said Markham, ‘if this all goes tits up, do we have a Plan B?’

I thought of the gun under my seat. ‘Oh, I expect I’ll think of something.’

We’d stopped on a slight bend which kept us mainly out of sight unless you really looked. Ahead of us, the police officers were slowly climbing out of their car. Markham was fumbling with something.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Directional microphone, mate. Don’t you want to hear what’s happening?’

‘Where did you get that?’

‘Came out of one of the pods.’

I resolved to have a word with Mr Lindstrom later.

‘Here we go,’ said Markham. ‘Did you bring popcorn?’

Two policemen were approaching the black car. We could hear their footsteps quite clearly.

‘Good quality sound, isn’t it?’ said Markham.

‘The best money can buy and not designed for this purpose.’

‘Do you want me to nip back and replace it?’

The police officers had arrived at the car. ‘Could you turn the engine off, please, sir?’

‘Good afternoon, officers.’

‘For all the world as if he hasn’t got a thing to hide,’ said Markham.

‘Good afternoon, sir. Is this your car?’

‘Yes, it is.’

We could hear some rummaging around. Presumably he was looking for the paperwork.

‘And your licence, sir?’

More breathing and fumbling.

‘The sound really is very good,’ said Markham admiringly.

‘Dr Maxwell?’

‘Well, Mr Maxwell, actually. I’m a surgeon at the Royal Free Hospital just outside Manchester. Is there a problem?’

‘Talking too much,’ said the expert beside me. ‘Never volunteer information.’

‘Have you been drinking, sir?’

‘Have a heart, officer. I haven’t had lunch yet.’

‘So, you haven’t been drinking, sir?’

‘Absolutely not. I’m scheduled for theatre this afternoon so definitely not.’

‘Only we’ve had several reports of erratic driving. Big, black car. Just like this one.’

‘Well, it can’t have been me. I’m just coming from a meeting and I’m on my way home. As I say, I’m in theatre at four o’clock so I’d better get a move on.’

We could hear footsteps crunching and I watched one of them wander around the car.

‘They really are buggers, aren’t they,’ said Markham amiably. ‘They work on the principle that everyone’s guilty of something and if they stare at you long enough you’ll break down and tell them everything they want to know.’

‘Any minute now,’ I said.

‘Any minute now, what?’

‘She’ll find the broken rear light.’

‘Which broken rear light?’

‘The one Dieter prepared earlier.’

‘There was no need, you know. They’ve stopped him on suspicion of drink driving. They don’t need a pretence to search him or his car.’

‘No, in Dieter’s case, I think it was just mindless vandalism. He was bored.’

‘That’s all right, then.’

‘Could you step out of the car, please, sir?’

‘Look, officer, this is ridiculous. I haven’t been drinking and I have a long journey ahead of me. I can’t afford to hang around with this nonsense.’

He might as well not have bothered.

‘If you could step out of the car, please, sir.’

There was some sort of exasperated grunt and then the driver’s door was opening and we had our first glimpse of John Maxwell.

He was a big, bulky man, made bigger and bulkier by his driving coat. ‘Bet he’s the sort of pillock who wears a yachting cap,’ said Markham, on no grounds whatsoever.

His dark hair was only slightly streaked with grey. Annoyingly, I had more grey hair than he did. ‘He probably dyes it,’ said Markham, who, on top of everything else, is obviously telepathic. ‘Wonder where Max gets her red hair from.’

John Maxwell heaved himself out of the car and staggered slightly. Markham gave the contented sigh of one who has witnessed a difficult task well achieved.

‘Steady on, sir,’ said the policeman.

‘Don’t read too much into it, officer. I caught my foot in the sheat belt.’

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘Slurring his speech,’ said Markham with satisfaction. ‘That always allays suspicion and puts people’s minds at rest. And here comes Mr Breathalyser. Do we know what Mrs Partridge put in his tea? Is it likely to prove fatal?’

‘It was in the milk,’ I said, ‘because neither Max nor Dr Bairstow takes milk and it was important they drank the tea, too. And I’ve no idea what it was. I know R&D knocked it up in about three minutes flat, so your guess is as good as mine. He might begin to glow green at any moment now.’

Back at the car there was some argument but the traffic zipping past on the bypass meant we couldn’t always hear as well as we would like. The body language was clear enough, though. John Maxwell was displaying all the indignation of a man unjustly accused of having a couple of drinks with a lunch he hadn’t even had yet and the police had adopted the world-weary stance of those who’d heard it all before.

‘I’m not normally in favour of the police not believing a word you say,’ said Markham, thoughtfully. ‘Suspicious bastards that they are, but in this case . . .’

‘Suspicious enough to find it, I hope.’ I let go of the steering wheel and wiped my suddenly sweaty palms. Because if this didn’t work I couldn’t even begin to imagine what our future would be like. If Max lost Matthew again . . .

‘Trust me,’ said Markham with confidence. ‘They’re like bloodhounds. Not very bright, but very, very tenacious.’

‘Far be it from me to question your canine expertise,’ I said, glad of the distraction, ‘but I think you mean bulldogs.’

‘Are they the ones who never let go?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then yes, I mean bulldogs.’

We sat in silence, watching the drama unfold.

John Maxwell, unjustly accused citizen, secure in the knowledge he hadn’t been drinking, seemed to be offering to stand on one leg.

‘Don’t do it, mate,’ advised Markham. ‘I can only stand on one leg when I have been drinking.’

We watched.

‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ said Markham. ‘Do you think he’ll have the sense to stand still, shut up and demand his solicitor?’

‘He knows he hasn’t been drinking,’ I said. ‘He knows he’s done nothing wrong. I’m betting he’ll take the test, and then when he fails, make matters considerably worse either by abusing them and their equipment or trying to bribe them.’

‘Oh, not the old trick of passing over your licence with a couple of twenties wrapped round it. Trust me – that never works.’

‘Would you mind blowing into this, sir?’

‘Officer, this is ricid . . . ridiculous. I swear I haven’t been drinking. In fact, I’ve been in a meeting all morning with the history people at St Mary’s.’

‘Well, that’s just added twenty years to his sentence,’ murmured Markham. ‘They won’t have forgotten having to get Bashford down from that church tower last year. Bloke’s an idiot.’

Whether he was referring to Bashford or John Maxwell was unclear.

Back at the car again, John Maxwell had stopped protesting long enough to blow into the breathalyser. Everyone peered at the readout and we didn’t need Markham’s directional microphone to hear John Maxwell’s bellow of rage. His attempt to get back into his car was not appreciated. There was a brief struggle with an inevitable outcome. A roaring John Maxwell was face down on his own bonnet while his hands were handcuffed behind his back. Passing traffic was slowing down for a good look.

‘We oughtn’t to stay much longer,’ warned Markham. ‘They’ll call for backup and a low-loader and it’s rather going to complicate the issue if you’re found here, and if I’m found here, there’ll be shit and fans in all directions.’

‘I want to be sure they don’t miss it,’ I said. ‘Polly Perkins put a lot of work into that. I don’t want to go back and tell her she’s wasted her morning.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Outer pocket of his driving coat. Silly sod gave his coat to Mrs Partridge to look after. Seemed to think she’d been put on this earth for the sole purpose of holding his coat.’

He sighed. ‘Death’s too good for some people.’

They hauled the former pillar of the community off the bonnet. He was swaying on his feet.

‘They’ll search him now,’ said Markham. ‘And the car.’ And indeed, the more senior officer was asking him if he had anything dangerous concealed in his pockets. ‘Told you we should have brought popcorn.’

I sat up. This was it. This was what everything had been leading up to. The important bit.

We waited. I gripped the steering wheel, feeling the rough plastic grind into my palms. A moment’s carelessness and they’d miss it . . . Or suppose one of them did accept the old money wrapped around the licence thing . . . Or they found it but just didn’t care . . . So much could go wrong . . .

The senior officer, carefully rummaging through John Maxwell’s pockets, held up a data stick. Just a generic data stick. One that could be bought anywhere. Not one of ours. Even we’re not that dim.

‘Is this yours, sir?’

There was a moment’s stillness. John Maxwell didn’t know it yet but these were the last moments of his life as he had known it and never would again.

He threw it a contemptuous glance. ‘Of course not. Never seen it before in my life.’

‘Are you sure, sir?’

‘Of course I am. What are you planting on me now?’

‘You’ve no idea how this got into your pocket, sir?’

‘I told you. No. I don’t know who your Chief Conshtable is here, but let me tell you, I know mine rather well and he’sh going to raise hell over the way I’ve been treated today.’

He might as well have spared his breath.

‘Is the laptop on the back seat yours, sir?’

‘Of course. It’s my work laptop.’

‘What’s on the data stick?’ whispered Markham, although they couldn’t possibly have heard us.

‘The results of Polly trawling around the Dark Net for thirty-five minutes this morning. There’s some rather nasty stuff out there and now some of it is on that data stick.’

‘Excellent. And what’s on the laptop?’

‘Not a browser history he’ll be familiar with, but the police will find it very interesting, nevertheless.’

And they would. Drink driving’s stupid but recoverable from. If you’re rich enough you can employ someone to do your driving for you for the length of your ban and life carries on much the same. But not after what they’d find on his browser. And definitely not after what they’d find on that data stick. John Maxwell didn’t know it yet, but his life was circling the drain. Even these days there’s some behaviour that is still unacceptable. Poetic justice.

He made a huge effort. ‘Offishersh, I swear. There must be some . . . mishtake. Let me explain.’

‘He’s beginning to slur quite badly,’ said Markham. ‘Bloody good job they stopped him when they did.’

That had been my one fear. That he’d be zipping around the Rushford ring road under the influence of Mr Swanson’s little cocktail, fully convinced he was Fangio and leaving a trail of destruction behind him – and trust me, John Maxwell had been leaving trails of destruction behind him for far too long. Time for him to pay the price for lives ruined. And one life in particular.

They were searching the car. ‘Are these the keys to the boot, sir?’

‘It’s empty. Just my toolkit and the spare wheel.’

We watched them peer into the boot. Markham was humming his happy song.

‘What?’ I said, twisting to look at him. ‘Are they going to find something?’

‘Carpet soaked in urine.’

‘Why?’

‘Hard to explain pee in a car boot. Doesn’t conjure up good pictures, does it?’

‘For God’s sake,’ I said. ‘Whose? Don’t tell me it’s Peterson’s.’

‘No one from St Mary’s.’

‘Where did you get it from, then?’

‘R&D. They’ve got vats of the stuff up there. A lot of it from the horses.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Well, you try explaining away horse pee in your boot.’

‘Good God, talk about over-egging the pudding. Is there anything we haven’t fitted him up with?’

Back at the car, one of the officers finished talking on her radio. John Maxwell was on his feet, protesting ignorance and innocence in equal measure. Both officers, blank-faced and solid, were saying nothing. Nothing at all.

‘Well, Tonto,’ said Markham, as I started the car. ‘Our work here is done.’

I indicated, waited for a gap in the traffic and pulled out. I caught one last glimpse of John Maxwell, red-faced and desperate, shouting, furious and frightened, and then he leaned over suddenly. The police officers stepped back, but too late, and he was violently sick over their boots.

‘Good job,’ said Markham in great satisfaction.

I watched in the rear-view mirror as the tableau grew smaller and smaller – frozen forever in my mind – and then we took the next exit and they were gone.

Now I just wanted to see Max.

We pulled up outside the front doors.

‘Want me to park it for you?’ said Markham, cheerfully.

‘Thank you.’ I opened the door.

‘Don’t forget your gun,’ he said, staring straight ahead. ‘You know, the one under the seat.’

I pulled it out and shoved it in my pocket. ‘Does Hunter know you’ve been out on your own?’

‘I had my grandad with me,’ he said, shunting over and putting the car in gear.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘For everything.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he said sunnily, and pulled away.

Inside, everything was pretty normal, in that the History Department was wasting a great deal of time and effort arguing about something that happened five hundred years ago. Stops them playing with matches, I suppose. Although actually, given what I’d just been up to that morning, I was hardly in a position to judge.

I took the stairs two at a time. Peterson was on the gallery, looking through a file with Mrs Shaw.

‘Still in with Dr Bairstow,’ he said, without looking up.

‘Did you pee in John Maxwell’s car?’

‘No, but mine was the idea and my agent will demand I get full credit.’

Normally, Edward lives behind his desk. It’s an arrangement with which everyone is comfortable. Everyone knows where they are. Or where he is, which is the important thing. Every now and then, however, on well-published occasions, he walks around the building, carefully adhering to the schedule. He calls in at each department, silently surveys the extraordinarily tidy rooms, watches his staff addressing each other politely – albeit through gritted teeth – and not remarking in any way on the smell of burning.

Occasionally, however, some demon of mischief enters his brain, he expresses a desire to see how his people are spending their working day, and off he goes, zigzagging around the building with no fixed route or purpose. He moves slowly but silently, materialising at just the wrong moment and observing the suddenly frozen tableau in front of him before sighing and moving on. Thank God he doesn’t do that very often because believe me – it takes its toll on everyone. But mostly he lives safely behind his desk.

Some years ago, following on from some sort of seminar the University of Thirsk compelled him to attend, he installed two armchairs on the other side of the room because they had told him a more informal environment would foster employee/employer relations. Tellingly, they’re about as far from his desk as possible while still remaining in his office and, as far as I know, virtually unused. I’m sure they’re very comfortable, but as an aid to sympathetic employer/employee chats – a bit of a dead loss. Max frequently extols the benefits of having the protection of several feet of polished desk between her and him. They have been referred to as The Armchairs of Doom.

Today, she and Dr Bairstow were sitting in the armchairs. She looked up as I came through the door.

The good news was that there was no blood on the walls. The bad news was that she was wearing a look I’d hoped never to see again.

I nodded to Edward, to show him all was well. He immediately stood up. ‘I can only put it down to the somewhat impromptu nature of this morning’s events, but I appear to have forgotten an urgent appointment with Dr Peterson. How extraordinary.’

He limped from the room.

She wouldn’t look at me. She stared at nothing in particular and said, ‘He still uses the same aftershave.’

I picked up her hand. It was ice cold and slightly clammy. ‘I left you. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right. I understand.’

‘How are you?’ And waited to hear, ‘Absolutely fine.’ It didn’t happen.

Without looking at me, she said, ‘If I fall apart now, Leon, I’ll never get myself back together again. Give me good news.’

I took both her hands. ‘I can give you very good news. It’s all over. He’s finished. And thank you for keeping him occupied while we sorted things out.’

‘Actually, my main thought throughout was where the bloody hell is Leon? He’s going to get a right ear-bashing when he gets back for leaving me like this.’

‘I didn’t leave you, Lucy.’

‘I know, but I needed the anger.’

‘I need you to tell me what happened here – just in case there are any loose ends for me to tidy up. Was it very bad?’

‘He hadn’t actually changed very much. A little more grey in his hair but not very much. A little thicker around the waist, perhaps, but otherwise much the same. He’s ageing well.’ She sighed. ‘Not like me.’

I could have said, ‘You’re ageing beautifully,’ and on any other occasion I would, but this was not that occasion.

‘Well,’ I said, checking carefully for anything portable that could be thrown. ‘Don’t despair. When you’re not covered in mud or blood or attacking someone with a hair pin, you’re not too bad at all. In fact, stick you under the shower, find a dress and put some makeup on you, and you’re quite passable.’

For a very brief moment I thought one of The Armchairs of Doom was coming my way at head height. Which was reassuring. ‘Feeling better now?’

She scowled and stared at the floor. I should get her to talk to me. She’s a great one for bottling things up.

‘Tell me what happened.’

She shook her head. I know she’s ashamed. Not of what happened to her but that she was unable to prevent it.

I sharpened my voice a little. ‘Max. Report.’

She sighed and came back to me. ‘He came to my office.’

‘Who? John Maxwell?’

‘No, of course not. Dr Bairstow. He just stood there and Rosie Lee was out of the door before he even sat down. I wish I knew how he did that.’

She was deflecting.

‘And?’

‘And it was weird. He sat in front of me and said, “When did you last see your father?”’

I had to make a conscious effort not to let the memories flood back. ‘And what did you say?’

‘I said, “Years. Years and years. Not since I went to Thirsk. Why do you ask?” and he said, “Max, your father is here and wants to see you.”’

Her hands turned cold again. I held them more tightly even though I knew nothing I could do would warm them.

‘Did he say why?’

‘He said he was here to see Matthew. Maybe even to take him away. I . . . I couldn’t take it in to begin with. He was talking to me. I knew that because I could see his lips moving. And I knew he was saying something, but it just wasn’t going in and I really should concentrate because it was so important.’

She swallowed. ‘When I could focus, he was saying he thought there might be a problem because he thought my father could make an excellent case for guardianship. Because he was a wealthy and important man. That he sat on committees and on the boards of several local businesses. That people would listen to him. I was angry. Because I was frightened. I always get angry when I’m frightened. I said that I would fight him to the death over Matthew because he’s loved and well cared for and there were no grounds.’

I said as gently as I could, ‘Max, we can’t afford a fight we would certainly lose. Even if we can gloss over Matthew being considerably older than he should be, he can barely read or write. His knowledge of this world is very small. And no matter how loved he is now, nothing can erase the signs of the terrible treatment he received as a small child.’

‘I know. I know. That was when I really panicked. I kept thinking, why was he doing this? He doesn’t want Matthew.’ She dragged her hand across her eyes and her voice shook. ‘Believe me – he really doesn’t like children.’

I lowered my voice. Make her concentrate on me. ‘Sweetheart, I want you to stay calm. I don’t think he did want him. I don’t think this is anything to do with Matthew. I think that knowingly or unknowingly, John Maxwell was being used by someone else to make mischief. So, what happened next?’

‘Well, I was doing my best to stay calm because it was important to think all this through properly, but all I could think was that I was going to lose Matthew. Dr Bairstow said I wasn’t to worry. That you were fixing everything and all I had to do was keep him occupied while you did it.’

‘I was.’

‘I thought you’d gone off to take Matthew somewhere safe.’

‘That was Plan C.’

‘Dr Bairstow said I was to say nothing. Do nothing. That that was part of the plan. I didn’t want to see him at all, and he must have noticed I was reluctant, because he said of course I didn’t have to see my father if I didn’t want to. That he could deal with everything – but that didn’t seem right, so I said I would.’

Edward is not a stupid man.

‘So, you did see him?’

She nodded. ‘I did. Dr Bairstow said he was in rather a hurry to get back because he’d left him being entertained by Mrs Partridge, so he felt he really should return to his office as soon as possible. He said it would be a good idea to wait in my office until I felt I was ready to face things, so of course, I went with him.’

She stopped. I waited, because childhood terrors are very strong. I thought of Bear 2.0 upstairs, sitting on the windowsill, smiling at the world. Then I thought of the original Bear and how he was lost and I rather wished I’d gone with Plan B after all.

‘Was he still with Mrs Partridge?’

‘Yes. She was bringing him tea.’ She sat up indignantly. ‘As if he was welcome here.’

‘I can assure you the tea was very important. Go on.’

‘He told Dr Bairstow he wanted to see me privately – that he had family matters to discuss, and Dr Bairstow said we all knew that was never going to happen, but if it made him feel more comfortable he could go over there and pretend to read a file. John Maxwell said he was offended to think I thought I needed protection from him and the Boss said au contraire, he was there to protect John Maxwell from me, and he really didn’t know how to take that. Then he and Mrs Partridge sat at his briefing table and opened a file.’

She was beginning to talk more freely.

‘Did he tell you what he wanted? To your face?’

‘Oh yes. He wanted Matthew. He cited my childhood. He said I was vicious and unbalanced.’ Her voice trembled. ‘He said I was promiscuous. That I’d been in trouble with the police. That I couldn’t be trusted with an infant and that if I surrendered Matthew quietly, now, he would see to it there would be no prosecution.’

I got up, walked to the window and looked out. And then I walked to the other window and looked out. And then I walked back again. I picked her up and sat down with her on my lap. The Armchair of Doom creaked a little but was equal to the burden. Which was a relief. It didn’t seem likely that Edward would have taken load-bearing capacity into account when purchasing them. Not many people sit on each other’s laps in his office.

‘What did you reply?’

She seemed surprised.

‘Nothing. You said to say nothing so I said nothing.’

‘Finally . . . finally you appear to be grasping the first principles of the wifely obedience so essential to a successful marriage.’

She thumped me on the arm. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘Shall I stop doing it?’

She laid her head on my shoulder. ‘No.’

‘So, what happened next?’

‘Well, it was a good thought. Me not saying anything, I mean. I just sat and smiled at him and I don’t think he quite knew what to do.’

‘People hate it when you smile at them.’

‘That’s why I do it.’

‘So, you’re sitting there, doing nothing, saying nothing and yet still managing to get on his nerves?’

‘I think I was because then he smiled as well,’ she swallowed, ‘and suggested I might not want to defy him on this because, as I was aware, that never ended well, did it? and Mrs Partridge got up and poured him another cup of tea.’

‘As I said, the tea’s important. Then what?’

‘Then he wondered whether my colleagues were aware of my past, and I was very conscious that Dr Bairstow and Mrs Partridge were only feet away and . . .’

‘Trust me, they’re both aware of your past and it hasn’t made the slightest difference to anything – except they dislike your father as much as I do, I expect.’

She shivered. ‘He kept smiling at me. And looking at me. As if he was recalling . . .’ She stopped.

‘Please tell me you didn’t shoot him, hit him, kick him, knife him, bludgeon him or even give him a hard stare. Nothing that would leave any marks that he might have to account for to the police, anyway.’

‘No, I smiled back at him. We were both at it. I’m surprised the varnish on Dr Bairstow’s desk didn’t blister. And then the Boss stood up and said if that was all then Dr Maxwell – his Dr Maxwell – had an urgent meeting elsewhere and if he wanted to take this matter any further then he should contact my solicitor.’ She paused. ‘Do I have a solicitor?’

‘I suspect you do now, but it won’t come to that.’

‘Won’t it? Why not?’

‘I’ll tell you in a minute but finish your bit first.’

‘Well, it was a bit odd, actually. He got up to go and Mrs Partridge said oh, wait a moment, is that your flask and we all looked down and there was one of those silver hip flasks under his chair. He said no, he didn’t have one, and she said how strange and could he pick it up for her because she couldn’t bend down as well as she used to.’

I must have blinked a little at this because Max said, ‘I know. I was a bit surprised myself to hear her say that. Well – actually I was quite gobsmacked – but he bent down and picked it up for her and she said was he sure it wasn’t his and he turned it over and said no, but it was a very nice one. She had his coat in her hands so she asked him to put it on the desk for her and she’d track down the owner later on. She didn’t actually say so but she certainly gave the impression that people here were forever scattering their belongings to the four winds if she wasn’t here to keep an eye on us.’

‘You and I must buy her a massive bunch of flowers.’

‘If you say so, but why?’

‘Because somewhere, safely in her office, there’s a hip flask full of something extremely alcoholic and with John Maxwell’s fingerprints all over it.’

She thought about that. ‘Ah. I have a glimmering.’

‘Exactly. Go on.’

‘Dr Bairstow saw him out. I stood at the window just in time to see your car disappearing out through the gates.’

‘Did you think I was running away?’

‘For about half a second and then I knew you must have had a brilliant idea so I just sat down and waited for you to come back.’ She drew a breath. ‘Which was a little bit difficult.’

‘I’m here now,’ I said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

‘So, while I was engaging with the enemy, you were . . .’

‘I was being amazingly, stupendously, spectacularly wonderful. And so were a lot of other people.’

‘I kept thinking I was on my own. All on my own.’

‘No,’ I said quietly, because it was important she knew this. ‘You were never on your own. Not for one single second.’

‘Why? What did you organise?’

‘It was a wonderful example of St Mary’s teamwork. Just for once, we all got our acts together. Edward will be very proud.’

‘If he’s not bailing us all out of prison.’

‘Trust me to do better than that.’

‘All right – amaze me.’

‘Well, as I said, a team effort. Professor Rapson and Mr Swanson knocked up a little something in their lab. I don’t know what it was, but it had to replicate the effects of drinking five or six large brandies in less than fifteen minutes.’

‘Wow. I could do with some of that. It sounds amazing.’

‘Yes. If St Mary’s is ever in desperate need of cash, we could certainly market it. Mrs Partridge put it in his milk – because it might be important in the future if you and Dr Bairstow have to testify that we couldn’t possibly have drugged him because you all drank the tea with no ill-effects.’

She was bewildered. ‘Why?’

‘It’s just possible there might be a court case.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. And then Mrs Partridge did the business with the hip flask. And then while you were keeping him occupied, Markham, playing to his strengths, broke into his car. That took him about four seconds. He was worried he might have lost his touch but it turned out he hadn’t.’

I left it at that. Make her ask.

‘Why?’

‘He stole his laptop,’ I said vaguely.

‘What for?’

‘So that Polly Perkins could . . . enhance . . . his browser history and then download some truly repulsive and horribly illegal stuff on to a data stick for Mrs Partridge to drop into his coat pocket.’

She was looking quite stunned at this point. It is the duty of every husband to rock his wife’s world. Although my usual means of rocking my wife’s world are usually slightly more private and slightly less illegal. In most countries, anyway. Time to distract her again.

‘Oh, and Dieter broke his rear light.’

‘Why?’

‘I think he just wanted to be involved. Then you kept him talking while Markham got everything back into the car. Mr Lindstrom appropriated the directional microphone from Number Five – about which I shall be chatting to him later on – and Peterson suggested filling the boot of his car with horse urine. I’m not sure what that was all about but he’s insisting on full credit and who am I to argue. The Security Section provided the burner phones – I’ve been instructed not to ask where from – and off we went to frame an eminent surgeon and utter bastard.’

She sat up straight and looked at me. I can never get enough of that look. ‘And you pulled everything together and made it work.’

‘Yes,’ I said modestly. ‘Yes, I did. And off he went, only to be pulled over on the Rushford ring road. He was slurring quite badly by that time.’

‘But he hadn’t been drinking.’

‘So, he kept protesting, despite the evidence of the breathalyser. And both Dr Bairstow and Mrs Partridge are prepared to swear he was in a bad way when he left here. Apparently they tried to dissuade him from driving but he wasn’t having any of it. And then he dropped his flask on his way out, which Mrs Partridge has been keeping safe – and is it evidence, officer?’

She took a moment to think. ‘What will happen to him?’

‘Well, he could still get away with it, of course. His lawyer could argue he had just discovered the nature of the contents of the laptop and data stick, was properly horrified and actually on his way to hand it in to the police when stopped. His subsequent behaviour could be accounted for by drink . . .’ I assumed a plummy barrister voice. ‘. . . But my client is a busy man with many pressures upon him which, regrettably, he sometimes alleviates with alcohol. He apologises profusely to the court and is willing to accept any punishment the court deems fit. Of the other charges, my lord/your honour/whoever, he is obviously completely innocent. No one blames the police for the zeal in which they acted. My client is the first to admit he did not present himself in the best light and throws himself upon the mercy of the court.’

I resumed a normal voice. ‘And so on. But the whole point is, Max, guilty or not, his credibility is shot. No one is ever going to listen to anything he has to say ever again. And certainly not about us. Or Matthew. He may or may not go to prison but the important thing is that he’s been neutralised. His reputation is ruined. He can’t hurt you or Matthew ever again and that was my priority.’

‘Leon, I’m not his daughter. Matthew isn’t his grandson.’

‘Doesn’t matter, Max. This is all Ronan-instigated. Your father didn’t want Matthew. The whole point was to cause trouble for us. Whoever they decided he was, Matthew would probably have ended up in care, and the abuse he suffered as a child would be laid at our door. And, of course, we’d be unable to produce the infant everyone expected to see. Some of us would have landed in prison and there would have been a massive scandal.’

‘And now, thanks to you . . .’

I smiled at her. ‘While I’m eager to bask in your unfamiliar approval and respect – it was a team effort. We should do something nice for Polly, as well. As if her job isn’t bad enough having to tip toast crumbs out of your laptop twice a week, she waded through some pretty grim stuff today.’

‘Weekend for two at a spa hotel,’ she said.

‘For us or for her?’

‘Well, now you come to mention it . . .’

She trailed away and a silence fell. My guess was that only now was the full impact dawning on her. What could have happened. Because of that bastard John Maxwell . . .

I . . . get . . . quite . . . angry . . . when I think about what he did. Because he was her father and he’d betrayed her. I’ve seen little girls and their daddies. There’s a magic there. John Maxwell was her daddy. It was his job to love her and protect her from the bad things in this world. Not be one of them. He should have guided her and kept her safe and praised her and been proud of her. Because he was her daddy.

She said sadly, ‘Was I so very bad that my parents hated me so much?’

I swallowed hard. ‘Yes, I expect you were. And you haven’t changed a bit, have you?’

She laughed shakily and gently rubbed my arm. ‘Well, I discovered quite early on that if I sat in the front garden eating the stale bread put out for the birds then people would give me sweets over the fence.’

I couldn’t help laughing, too. ‘We’re a precious pair, aren’t we? I don’t know who’s comforting who.’

‘I don’t think that matters, does it? And it’s whom.’

‘Lucy, I promise you – he can’t do you harm ever again.’

‘Because you’ve fixed it.’

I nodded. ‘It’s what I do. Broken pods or broken lives – sooner or later, everything comes to fear my fixing powers.’ I deepened my voice, uttering portentously, ‘I am The Fixer.’

It’s probably a good job the door opened at that moment to reveal Mrs Partridge with a tray, bringing tea and biscuits in much the same way they brought the good news from Aix to Ghent. As you see, Max is not the only one who can make historical references.

‘No milk,’ she said, hastily, scrambling off my lap.

I had a sudden nasty thought. ‘Mrs Partridge, where’s the milk jug? Our police force is disconcertingly thorough. I hope it’s had an unfortunate accident and the remains been disposed of.’

‘Good heavens, no,’ she said serenely. ‘It’s part of a set and Mrs Mack would be most displeased. I’ve always found hiding in plain sight to be most effective. The milk jug in question, along with five or six of its fellows, is currently in R&D being utilised in the collection and retention of a number of dubious fluids. One is holding a quantity of urine; another is full of something radioactive – although not tremendously so, they reassure me; for reasons that were not made clear to me, another contains six fluid ounces of neat alcohol; one contains something that requires the protection of a bell jar; and the last is giving off worrying amounts of toxic smoke. Worrying to normal people, anyway. I suspect that should our milk jug be discovered, the fact that it might contain traces of a chemical substance will not seem unusual at all. In fact, and I’m sure you will agree with me, in this establishment, a milk jug actually containing milk would certainly give rise to some comment.’

The tea set was Dr Bairstow’s best. She began to arrange cups, saucers and the sugar bowl on the low table, continuing calmly, ‘I can confirm that all traces of Miss Perkins’ activities have been destroyed and the appropriate hard drive is in the furnace. As are all the gloves and equipment used. Should the police appear to follow up Mr Maxwell’s inevitable accusations against us, the hip flask in question is in a sealed plastic bag locked in the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet. I can also confirm that Dr Bairstow and I suspected Mr Maxwell had been drinking when he first arrived here. Especially after he dropped his fingerprint-covered flask under his chair. He denied it was his property, however, and departed, determined to drive despite our best efforts to prevent it.’

Cutlery and crockery arranged to her satisfaction, she headed towards the door. ‘Will there be anything else, Chief Farrell?’

I shook my head. I know when I’m outclassed.

She frowned at Max. ‘Drink your tea, Dr Maxwell.’

Max nodded obediently. ‘Yes, Mrs Partridge.’

She regarded us sternly for a moment and then withdrew, closing the door quietly behind her.

I pulled Max back down again. ‘You’ll have to pour the tea,’ I said. ‘There’s something heavy on my lap.’

I watched her as she poured. The first one was for herself because she likes it weak and the second – something that had a bit more body – was for me.

The sun picked out the gold in her hair exactly as it had done that moment we met on the stairs. I sometimes wonder if, somehow, somewhere, there isn’t a staircase with two figures, forever clasping each other’s hands, smiling at each other, frozen in the moment, perpetually on the brink of something wonderful.

She passed me my tea. I asked her why she hadn’t stirred it – just to facilitate her path to recovery – and she shot me a look.

‘You’ll suffer for that later, Farrell.’

‘How short-lived is an historian’s gratitude,’ I said, and sipped away, thinking again of that tiny tableau at the side of the road and wondering what was happening to John Maxwell at this very moment. I rather hoped it involved rubber gloves.

He was finished. Even if he didn’t go to prison, there are always those harpies who maintain there’s no smoke without fire and certainly wouldn’t ever let a lack of facts get in their way.

And if he did go to prison – well, they don’t call it the criminal justice system for nothing.

And even if none of that happened, even if John Maxwell’s name and connections were enough to clear him, Clive Ronan wasn’t the sort to regard failure with sympathetic understanding.

Revenge is sweet.

THE END

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to Phil Dawson of Risk Management Operations Ltd for his invaluable advice on police procedures.

Author's Note

I should be working. I should actually be researching Persian female apparel circa 300BC. I should be absorbed in textiles and patterns and styles and not in any way thinking about Professor Rapson. I shouldn’t be imagining putting my feet up and drinking wine with Peterson. I certainly shouldn’t be staring out of the window listening to an imaginary conversation between Max and Professor Rapson. I’m never going to be a proper author at this rate.

I was on my way to Peterson’s office for our Friday afternoon meeting. The one where he opens a bottle of wine, I get out the glasses and we both put our feet up and have a huge moan about the previous week. Sometimes the meetings are quite long.

Anyway, I was making my way around the gallery, juggling the half dozen or so files I’d brought with me as camouflage – because it doesn’t do the other ranks any good at all to see a couple of senior officers setting a bad example – although, to be fair, most people were outside watching the Security and Technical Sections eviscerate each other in the name of sport – when Professor Rapson erupted, literally, from his lab shouting, ‘Eureka!’

He was fully clothed. Trust me – it was the first thing I checked.

I said, ‘Good afternoon, professor,’ because that’s how Markham would do it. Apparently now he’s Head of Security, standards must be maintained. What sort of standards of course, he never says.

‘Ah, Max. Good news. I’ve done it.’

‘So I gathered, professor. Jolly well done.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I know it’s been a while, but we got there in the end.’

‘Excellent news, professor,’ I said, trying to ignore the glass-of-wine-shaped hole in my life and failing dismally. ‘I look forward to reading your report.’

‘No, no, you don’t understand, Max. I’ve really done it.’

I stopped thinking about wine and concentrated. This was Professor Rapson, after all. I asked the question I should have led with. ‘Exactly what have you done, professor?’

‘Well, as you know, Max, water is very heavy.’

I stared at him. He looked comparatively normal. His hair was standing on end. He had a huge acid burn on one sleeve of his lab coat, of which he appeared completely oblivious, and was wearing one brown and one black shoe. So, as I said – normal. He was, however, waving around a beaker of clear fluid. I stepped back because it could be anything. The Elixir of Life. Cerebral brain fluid – although if it was his, it would probably be a little murkier. An untraceable deadly poison that would kill us all in seconds. Anything, really. He raised the beaker to his lips and drank deeply. I braced myself but nothing dreadful seemed to happen to him.

‘Water, Max. Water. I’ve done it.’ He raised the empty beaker. I half expected a flash of lightning and shouts of ‘It’s alive! It’s alive!’ but that usually relates to Markham.

‘What were you expecting, professor?’

‘Well, water, obviously, Max.’

Never had a glass of wine seemed so far away.

‘Professor, please tell me – what is the project you’ve been working on?’

‘Oh yes, of course. Well, as I said, Max, water is heavy. Leon’s always complaining about the weight of the tanks and how that messes up his calculations and he’s right, so I thought I’d have a go.’

‘At what, professor?’

‘Desiccated water.’

Oh, God . . .

‘What?’

‘Desiccated water, Max. Powdered water. The answer to all our problems. We reduce water down to a fine powder, bag it up in plastic and hey presto! Portable water. No more tanks, no more heavy water bottles – just stick a couple of packs in your supplies and away you go. Small packs for your pocket. Something larger if you want a bath. Simple. Quick. Easy. Convenient.’

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That’s brilliant, professor. Well done.’

‘Thank you,’ he said modestly. ‘I’m just off to show Chief Farrell.’

‘He’ll be thrilled,’ I said, happily sacrificing Leon’s Friday afternoon, but wine deprivation can do that to a girl. ‘You must give him a complete demonstration. Several, in fact.’

‘I will,’ Professor Rapson said, hair standing even more on end as he prepared to depart at top speed.

‘Just one question, professor.’

‘Mm?’

‘How do you reconstitute the powder?’

‘What?’

‘The powder. How exactly do you reconstitute desiccated water?’

‘Oh, that’s easy.’

‘Yes?’

He regarded me as an idiot.

‘You just add water.’

Author's Note

I can’t remember what I should have been working on when I wrote this snippet. I know I should have been concentrating on something less Markham’s bottom-centric because this was in my Accent Press days and they were never that happy when I wandered off-piste. I mean, yes, I still got the Accent Press designated ten-minute window time – that was in my contract – but if they weren’t happy with your weekly word count then they wouldn’t actually open the window, so you just stood gasping like a dying goldfish at this tantalising glimpse of the outside world and fresh air.

I called it Markham and the Anal Probing because I never thought it would make it into print and I just wanted to give my editor something to worry about. A bit of a shock now it looks as if the public are about to get their hands on it. I shall plead oxygen deprivation . . .

And then there was the day when Markham managed to get himself snatched by aliens – or so we thought at the time. I was summoned to Dr Bairstow’s office to find Markham and Peterson already present. We looked at each other.

‘Any clues?’ I asked.

They shrugged.

‘You can go in now,’ said Mrs Partridge, so in we went.

Dr Bairstow looked up from his desk. ‘There you are.’

We agreed that yes, here we were.

He gestured at his briefing table on which reposed several archive boxes and a fat folder. ‘The County Archivist has been good enough to make available various documents requested by Dr Dowson. A condition was that we do not expose them to the hazards of a random delivery service.’

It was not clear whether it was the company or its delivery that was random, but we nodded anyway.

‘And so, I would like you, personally, to return these valuable documents with my compliments and thanks.’ He handed Peterson an envelope.

‘Of course, sir.’

‘This afternoon, if you please.’

Peterson glanced at his watch. ‘It’s already afternoon, sir.’

‘How quickly you grasp my meaning.’

‘I do my best, sir.’

‘I have assured the County Archivist that my best people are on the job. They being unavailable, however, I have therefore designated my Chief Operations Officer, my Head of Security and my Deputy Director to fulfil this simple task.’

His Deputy Director, Head of Security and Chief Operations Officer assembled their best air of cool professionalism – which in our case consisted of standing a little straighter and not picking our noses. I don’t think he was impressed, staring at us bleakly for a few seconds and then demanding to know why we were still here. Since Peterson was burdened with the envelope, Markham and I seized the boxes and we left with all speed.

‘Right,’ said Peterson, ‘I shall assume full control of this mission.’

Markham made a rude noise.

‘Get changed and meet in the car park in ten minutes. That’s ten minutes, Max. No wafting around in front of mirrors trying on dresses.’

Now I made a rude noise.

We met in the car park, shoving Markham and the boxes in the back, and departed.

‘A nice afternoon out,’ said a voice from behind the boxes, and we agreed.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. I can hear exactly what you’re thinking, so I will say now that the boxes were delivered on time and to the correct destination. The County Archivist herself took delivery so God knows what was in them. Peterson, after a series of nudges from me, remembered to hand over Dr Bairstow’s letter of thanks and they gave us a cup of tea. They were lovely people. I wish I worked there.

We set off for the return trip, hoping to be back in time for tea, and things started to go wrong almost immediately. Peterson caught my eye. I always think that sounds as if you’ve been indulging in a quick game of eyeball tossing, but I knew what he meant.

‘So,’ he said, almost casually, negotiating the last roundabout out of town and accelerating away. ‘How are things with you and Hunter?’

‘OK,’ said Markham vaguely. ‘I think.’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Well, it’s hard to tell sometimes, but I always think if she’s not coming at me with a kidney bowl then, you know, things aren’t too bad.’

‘Why would she come at you with a kidney bowl?’

‘Because she can’t find a bedpan.’

Peterson tried again. ‘So – got any celebrations planned then?’

‘What for?’

‘Well, you have an anniversary coming up.’

‘What anniversary?’

‘Wedding. You know. You and Hunter.’

There was a long silence from the back. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

‘I worked it out,’ said Peterson in his best ‘I’m Peterson and I’m brilliant’ voice. ‘I’m looking at Hunter these days and she’s looking very well, isn’t she? Blooming, almost. And she’s a very moral girl is our Hunter. Well, she has to be since you don’t have a single moral to your name, so I reckon you had the ceremony just before or just after the Battle of St Mary’s, which means there’s an anniversary coming up.’

There was a lot more silence from the back.

‘Oh, come on,’ said Peterson. ‘Admit I’m right and then the two of us can buy you a celebratory drink in the bar.’

More silence.

‘I’m right, aren’t I? Go on – say I’m right.’

Even more silence.

‘I don’t know why you won’t admit it,’ Peterson said, slightly exasperated. ‘Are you ashamed of something? Wait until I tell Hunter you’re ashamed of her.’

He paused, hopefully. Nothing but silence. I pulled down the passenger’s sun flap and looked at the mirror. Markham was sitting with his arms folded and a stupid grin on his face.

‘I reckon,’ said Peterson, ‘the two of you snuck into the Register Office without telling anyone but I’m going to make you tell me just the same.’

Silence.

‘Right,’ Peterson said. ‘You asked for it. Hold on tight, Max.’

We swerved off the road into a field, skidding to a halt in a shower of dust, stones and indignant birds.

‘What are we doing here?’ said Markham, picking himself up off the back seat and peering out of the window.

‘We’re staying here until you tell us.’ Peterson switched off the engine and folded his arms. ‘Not another yard until you tell us the truth.’

Markham folded his arms. ‘Never.’

I began to make plans for spending the rest of my life in a field. The silence dragged on, only to be broken by the sounds of Markham getting out.

‘Where are you going?’ I said, in some alarm. ‘We’re still not supposed to go anywhere alone.’

‘Well, I’m not staying here with you two maniacs. If you want to sit in a field, you can do it on your own. I’m off.’

We watched him walk across the field and out of the gate.

‘Bollocks,’ said Peterson.

‘Well, that worked, didn’t it?’

‘Bollocks,’ he said again.

‘Look, why don’t you just check the records at Somerset House? It’s a simple enough process.’

‘That’s not the point. I want him to tell me.’

I surveyed the vast, empty field. ‘How’s that working out for you?’

Peterson cursed again and switched on the engine. Markham was a couple of hundred yards up the road. We passed his plodding figure with a merry toot of the horn.

‘It’s four miles back to St Mary’s,’ I said, watching him recede in the wing mirror.

‘Do him good.’

‘Ronan,’ I said warningly. ‘We shouldn’t leave him alone.’

‘No,’ Peterson said reluctantly. ‘You’re right. We shouldn’t.’

We pulled into a lay-by and waited.

He never came.

We waited some more.

‘For crying out loud,’ said Peterson. ‘I know he’s Security Section, but surely even he can’t have got lost between there and here.’

I sighed. ‘I’ll go and look for him. He might just be taking a rest.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ he said, getting out. ‘No one should be alone, remember?’

‘Markham,’ I said accusingly. ‘We left him alone.’

‘He doesn’t count.’

We walked to the bend and looked. The road was empty. We could see for miles. No Markham. Not anywhere.

‘Shit,’ I said. We rotated slowly. Where could he be?

‘He’s cut across the fields,’ said Peterson. ‘Hang on.’ He climbed on to the car roof and surveyed the flat countryside. The flat, empty countryside.

‘Shit,’ I said again, beginning to panic. ‘We’ve lost him.’

‘We can’t have,’ he said, climbing down.

‘Then where is he? Oh my God, we’ve lost Markham.’

‘Look,’ he said. ‘The little sod’s in a ditch somewhere. Either he fell in and hurt himself – perfectly possible – or he’s hiding under a hedge to teach us a lesson. We’ll go and find him, kick the living shit out of him for frightening us like this and then he can buy us a drink afterwards.’

I looked up. It was the only direction left. ‘Do you think he’s been snatched by aliens?’

‘Always a possibility,’ Peterson said, locking the car. ‘Although, if so, they’ll be returning him in a hurry any minute now.’

‘No, seriously,’ I said as we set off, him on one side of the narrow lane and me on the other. I peered into ditches and looked under hedges. ‘It’s the only explanation. You hear about this sort of thing all the time. You know – anal probing.’

‘For God’s sake, Max, get a grip. Why on earth would super intelligent beings cross the vastness of space just to firkle around in Markham’s bottom area? Would you?’

‘God, no.’

‘Well, there you are, then. Anything your side?’

‘Nothing. Where could he be?’

‘I don’t know, but it’s four miles back to St Mary’s.’

It was at that moment we heard the car start up. We stood paralysed for a second and then Peterson screamed, ‘Bastard,’ and set off at a run. I pounded along behind him and we raced back around the bend just in time to see Markham pull out of the lay-by. He waved, gave us a merry toot and sped away out of sight.

We skidded to a halt.

‘Didn’t you lock it?’ I said accusingly.

‘Of course I did, but it’s bloody Markham, isn’t it? He could hot-wire a rock.’

‘It’s four miles back to St Mary’s.’

‘He’ll stop around the next bend,’ said Peterson, reassuringly. ‘He’s just teaching us a lesson.’

He was and he didn’t. Four bloody miles. With Peterson vowing grim retribution with every step. And we missed tea.

We hope you enjoyed the St Mary’s escapades.

Read on for a preview of Jodi Taylor’s brand-new

TIME POLICE series, an irresistible spinoff from the much-loved

CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S …

A Brief History of the Time Wars

A long time ago in the future, the secret of time travel became available to all. Naturally, everyone wanted it and because the implications were imperfectly understood, the world nearly ended.

Old wars were fought and refought as world leaders continually pressed ‘Reset’ hoping for a more favourable outcome this time around.

New nations emerged, flickered briefly and then disappeared. The Confederate States of America, for example, arose from the wreckage of North America, was defeated, emerged again and refused all attempts to dismantle it. The subsequent long, bitter and bloody struggle so distorted the timeline that, for a dangerously long time, the Confederacy and the Union existed side by side, playing out their own histories simultaneously.

All over the world, people lived, died, then lived again.

Events happened. Then didn’t happen. Had never happened. Then happened again but differently. Some moments vital to the development of the human race never happened at all. Some happened more than once.

Everyone wanted to change the past for the better, but what was better for A was not necessarily better for B. Not surprisingly, whole new wars broke out.

Many, whose minds could not encompass the many versions of the same events, went mad. History was written and rewritten so many times that the fabric of reality began to wear thin. The world began to spiral downwards to destruction.

At the last moment, when it was almost too late, the Time Police were formed. It was an international effort. Personnel were drawn from the military, from the police, and even a few from a tiny organisation known as the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory, situated outside Rushford in England, where they would explain, at enormous length, that they definitely didn’t do time travel – they investigated major historical events in contemporary time, and they’d been doing this for some time without anyone being any the wiser and that all of this was nothing to do with them.

A series of international laws were passed to deal with the situation. The punishment for time travel was death. Anyone caught indulging in time travel faced summary execution – together with everyone else involved. Or even those unfortunate enough to be standing nearby. No one ever bothered with a trial.

Every citizen was required to cooperate fully and completely with the Time Police. Failure to do so was death.

Armed with these powers, the Time Police set about their task of saving the world from its own stupidity.

Thus began what were known as the Time Wars. The Time Police’s remit was simple: to shut down time travel everywhere. No matter what it took – shut it down. With extreme prejudice if necessary. Just shut it down and get the situation back under control. They answered to no one. No one nation had overall control. Their reputation was fearful. Word soon got around. If the Time Police turned up, then things were not going to end well. Not for anyone within a five-mile radius, anyway.

It was bloody and brutal for a long time. A lot of people died. And not just the illegals, as they were known. The Time Police themselves paid an astronomically high price. After the first year, nearly all the original members were dead. Casualties were massive. It is doubtful whether they could have sustained these losses for very much longer but they never faltered, relentlessly pursuing their targets up and down the timeline. At one point they numbered less than thirteen officers in the whole world. No one ever knew how close the Time Police came to extinction.

Fortunately, by then, people were beginning to realise that possessing time travel is like holding a snake in your hand. If you don’t know what you’re doing, sooner or later, it will twist in your hand and bite you.

One by one, nations were induced to give it up. Many were secretly glad to see it go. They simply hadn’t wanted to be the first to surrender it. And by then, big business had discovered the past was not theirs to plunder. Their massive investment had led to no returns at all. They too lost interest.

In the shell-shocked aftermath, it was the Time Police, politically neutral, who brokered agreements, treaties and accords or, if that failed, knocked a few heads together. When done at street level, that sort of thing is known as a brawl. Do it at international level and it’s called diplomacy.

After a long while, things settled back down again but, as is always the way, those who had been the first to extol the virtues of the Time Police now began to perceive that the existence of an organisation with such wide-ranging powers might not be such a good thing after all.

Time travel, however, was not completely eradicated. There was Temporal Tourism – illegal but lucrative. Attempting to hide in another time to escape the consequences of an illegal act in this one was always popular. And every now and then, someone would put something up on the Dark Web, and armed with not even moderately accurate information, a hundred enthusiastic amateurs – for whom death by radiation was something that happened to other people – would beaver away in lock-ups, garages, spare bedrooms and science classes, apparently oblivious to the Time Police heading their way, determined to resolve the situation – whatever it took.

Whatever it took.

Be one of the first to meet unlikely recruits Jane, Luke and Matthew as they join the Time Police and navigate their perilous first year on the beat.

Pre-order your copy here.

Pre-order your copy here

A long time ago in the future, the secret of time travel became known to all – and the world nearly ended. There will always be idiots who want to change history.

Enter the Time Police. An all-powerful, international organisation tasked with keeping the timeline straight. At all costs.

Now the Time Wars are over and the Time Police must fight to save a very different future – their own.

This is the story of Jane, Luke and Matthew – arguably the worst recruits in Time Police history. Or, very possibly, three young people who might just change everything.

From Ancient Rome to the Tudor court, revolutionary Paris to the Second World War, discover the best voices in historical fiction and non-fiction.

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Table of Contents

Copyright

About the Book

About the Author

Also By

Contents

When Did You Last See Your Father?

Dramatis Thingummy

Author’s note

Chapter One

Acknowledgements

Dessicated Water

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Markham and the Anal Probing

Author’s Note

Chapter One

DISCOVER MORE BOOKS BY JODI TAYLOR . . .