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out.'
        'What'd
he say to that?'
        'He
said it looked like her, but it wasn't her.'
        'But
he hadn't seen the new-look Arabella.'
        'Exactly.
But he's convinced.'
        'So
they told him to bugger off.'
        'Yep.
He went to the newspapers, weren't interested. He stormed the clinic, mad
drunk, thinking that would get the press interested, but all it got him was a
night in the clink. He took to standing outside shouting at anyone going in or
out. They took out an injunction. Court told him he couldn't go within half a
mile of it. So he stands half a mile away, with a megaphone. He's been
bombarding them with phone calls and e-mails and ordering coal for them, and
pizza, and wreaths and all sorts of shit, generally just being really
annoying.'
        'And
all he wants Dr Yes to do is stand up and admit to killing his wife?'
        'That's
all.'
        'And
he has no hard physical evidence at all?'
        'He's
seen her medical records. The only thing he can say is that she was allergic to
penicillin, but it doesn't show on her consent forms.'
        'And
they say to that?'
        'They
say it does on the original, and they sent over poor photocopies; they
rectified it and sent better copies.'
        'And
he suspects conspiracy.'
        'Obviously.'
        Alison
took a sip of her coffee. A little bit dribbled down and nestled in her extra
chin. She saw me looking at it and wiped it away. I stared at her hand.
        She
rolled her eyes but lifted one of the napkins that came with the coffee and
wiped the back of it. I nodded appreciatively. She balled the napkin and
chucked it over her shoulder.
        'It
doesn't mean he's wrong,' she said. 'We shouldn't underestimate the bond there
is between a man and his wife and the instinctive knowledge that brings.'
        'Or
you could be talking bollocks.'
        'All
I'm saying is that short of speaking to Arabella herself, Augustine is probably
the one other person in the world who knows her best. That last phone call was
so full of love
        'According
to him.'
        '. .
. and there was no indication that she was unhappy or planning to take flight.
She would have been on a high knowing the big reveal was coming; why would she
suddenly disappear?'
        'It
doesn't matter why. There is no evidence of foul play, but there is
evidence that she's alive and well and spending her money. She went to Dublin,
she probably caught a flight somewhere. Augustine Wogan is an alcoholic,
paranoid wastrel; she's had enough of him. All we need to do is get him to sign
some books and then get him the hell out of here.'
        'You're
wrong. He's in love, and he knows something is badly wrong, but nobody will
listen to him. His wife is dead and Dr Yes is pulling strings to cover his
tracks and get away with murder.'
        'God,
you're turning into a conspiracy theorist as well! Have you by any chance
swallowed Jeff?'
        'Not
recently.'
        'You're
funny.'
        'So's
your face. Look, you've been championing Augustine for years; don't let him
down now. I have a feeling about this. And we're his last hope.'
        We
locked eyes across the table, each of us unaware that Augustine was standing in
the doorway, arms folded, immaculately dressed in one of my father's
long-mothballed suits, at least until he said, 'Of the two of you, I think I
prefer you, princess.'
        Alison
glowed.
    ----
        

Chapter 5
        
        Of course I backtracked. It is my default mechanism. I assured him I was
merely playing devil's advocate, and of course we were going to look into his
case. But I had no intention of it. The truth was that the trauma of having him
at such close quarters, in my mother's bed and dressing gown, in my father's
suit and eating me out of house and home, had somewhat dulled my enthusiasm for
persuading him to sign my stash of books. I could just forge it and nobody
would be any the wiser. I had