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out a bit of discipline that won’t really hurt, but then it goes too far. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’
    She stared at him, hating him. What he was trying to make her say was horrible. And he was horrible, too: a bully. She’d met plenty like him before.
    ‘I’ve never laid a finger on Charlotte,’ she said, making her voice less like her own and more like Antonia’s. It was typical of creeps like the sergeant that he began to look at her differently after that.
    ‘So if not you, then who? Her father ever hit her?’
    ‘He’s not her father. Her mother’s divorced. Lottie never sees her real father.’
    She saw the two of them look at each other and wished she’d kept her mouth shut. They’d probably start going after Robert now. The police always did that – treated everyone like suspects till they knew what was what. Still, Robert would be able to stand up to them better than her.
    ‘When are you going to let me go?’
    There was a funny kind of silence, and then the older one said, ‘Whenever you want, love. You came here of your own accord, remember? We didn’t bring you in and we’re not keeping you here. You’re not under arrest or anything, you know.’
    The sweat on her face was much colder than it had been and the table seemed to be moving as she got up. She put both hands down on it, hating that she was leaving sweaty patches on its shiny surface. For a minute she thought she was going to pass out, but then she got it all under control and looked at them again. They were staring at her with even nastier curiosity than before.
    ‘You all right, love?’ asked the sergeant. ‘You look very pale.’
    ‘I’m fine.’ She wasn’t going to tell them about feeling so dizzy and sick. ‘Except for worrying about Charlotte. Will you promise to phone me when you find her? I’ve given you the number.’
    ‘Your boss’s number,’ said the sergeant, still staring at her. ‘She’s back already, you know, from New York. It was on the news before you got here. We saw her. She’s furious.’
    The table swayed again. Even Antonia couldn’t make her feel any guiltier than she already did, but the thought of the things she was going to say was unbearable.
    ‘How’re you getting back, love?’
    ‘I’m walking.’ It might not be too bright outside. If it wasn’t, the fresh air might stop the dizziness.
    As soon as she turned into Bedford Gardens she saw a crowd of men and women at the bottom of the steps of Antonia’s house. Lots of them had cameras and it was obvious what they were doing. Nicky stopped dead at the corner. She knew if she attempted to get back into the house they’d take pictures of her and try to make her talk to them and probably say all the things the police had just been saying. Worse, too, maybe.
    She looked to see whether Robert’s car was back outside the house, but there was no sign of it. If she’d known he’d be there in the house, she might have been able to force her way through the journalists. Robert would’ve helped her, whatever they said. Antonia wouldn’t. Even in normal times she’d never help. She’d just say it was all Nicky’s fault and probably laugh.
    Nicky knew she’d have to face Antonia soon, but she couldn’t do it yet; not alone and not with the journalists to get through first. She just couldn’t.
    As the breathlessness came back and the top of her head started to feel floaty, Nicky leaned against the dark-blue sides of someone’s BMW and tried to breathe through the dizziness and find some courage from somewhere.

Chapter Three
    Trish was sitting in a damask-covered wing chair, feeling even more suffocated by the pretentious grandeur of the drawing room than usual. All the windows were shut so that none of the journalists outside could hear anything that went on in the house, and the room smelled stale.
    Antonia herself was a mess. She was still wearing the dark-blue tracksuit Trish had seen on the news. Like all her