The Best of Times (26 page)

“I see. And when you left the house, who was driving the car?”

“I was.”

“So … you stopped at the service station and filled up the tank. Did anything of note happen on your way there?”

“Yes, we were stopped by the police.”

“For speeding?”

“Yes. And, of course, that made us later. Much later.”

“Presumably you were Breathalyzed then, sir?”

“Yes, of course.” He was beginning to feel beleaguered. “And it was absolutely fine.”

“Right. Well, we can check on that, of course. May I ask what speed you were travelling when you were stopped?”

“Er … ninety-eight,” said Barney with an apologetic look at Amanda.

“A little over the speed limit, sir. Well, we don’t need to waste time on that now.” He made a separate note. “And then you proceeded on your way? To the service station?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And … you filled up with fuel. Anything else?”

This was it. No need to mention it, though. Completely irrelevant. Red herring.

“No, nothing else.”

“You didn’t need oil, or windscreen wash?”

“No, we didn’t. And then we went on our way.”

“And were you still driving?”

“Well … no,” said Barney. “Toby took over.”

“Why was that?”

“He just wanted to. I think he felt less stressed if he was behind the wheel.”

“I see. And presumably you were going more slowly by then.”

“Yes, of course. No more than seventy-five, eighty, max.”

“Right. So … were you aware of any other cars at this point, or indeed earlier, driving erratically ahead, overtaking you …?”

“Yes, there was one,” said Barney slowly. “It was a white van, and he was going like the clappers—tailgating, flashing, weaving in and out of the traffic, behaving extremely dangerously. He certainly deserved to be stopped. As much as, if not more than, we did.”

“I see. I don’t suppose you were aware of any markings on the van, any name of the firm …?”

“No. Sorry.”

“That’s all right. Someone else might have seen it. Now, tell me what happened next. Take your time.”

“We were just driving along in the outside lane. The traffic was quite heavy, and everyone was driving very steadily. Actually rather slowly. There’d just been a storm, and the road was still wet. Anyway, quite suddenly, it seemed, the lorry just lost control.”

“You were beside it? Behind it?”

“Behind it. But in the outside lane. There was a Volvo Estate in front of us, more or less even with it. Anyway, he veered over to the right, towards the central median, and just … well, went through it. Stopped finally on the westbound side, jackknifed, total chaos. Toby slammed on the brakes, obviously, but we had a blowout. I’ve never known anything like it; it was absolutely terrifying. The car was all over the place; it was as if the steering just didn’t work. Or the brakes. We seemed to be swinging about on the road, and then somehow, Toby got it back under control, and it—well, it went into the Volvo. Which had managed to stop. It was so odd; it seemed to happen so
slowly, as if we had all the time in the world. I know people always say that. So weird.”

“Indeed. Now, were you aware of hitting anything, however small, that may have caused the blowout?”

“No,” said Barney, “we weren’t. But there could very easily have been something.”

“Well, again, Forensics are doing a full report on your car; they may come up with something. Of the tyre being cut in some way.”

“But surely … the tyre was in bits. How could they see anything at all?”

“You’d be surprised what they can see, sir. Anyway, you impacted with the Volvo. Then what happened?”

“We just went on and on into the Volvo’s rear. We hit it on Toby’s … on the off side; it crushed the bonnet and drove the steering column down into his leg. He was bloody lucky it wasn’t worse, I suppose.”

“Indeed, sir. Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, thanks.”

But he wasn’t; he could feel his eyes filling with tears. Amanda came over to him and took his hand. He looked at Freeman.

“Sorry. All a bit vivid.”

“I’m sure. Anyway, I’m going to go over this with you now, and then prepare a statement, and you can sign it if you’re happy with it. Shouldn’t take too long.”

Going over it meant a gruelling trawl through the whole thing again. It seemed, quite literally, endless.

• • •

“God,” said Amanda when they’d gone, “they’re very thorough, aren’t they? All those questions about how much you’d drunk, who was driving. You don’t think Toby was over the limit, do you?”

“Absolutely not,” said Barney impatiently. He felt absolutely exhausted, drained of emotion, and the last thing he wanted was further questioning. “He’d had the same as me, I swear to you—really
not much at all—and it was fifteen, sixteen hours later, for God’s sake, and when I was Breathalyzed, when they stopped us, I was fine.”

“Yes, of course. But … there is one thing I still don’t understand. Haven’t from the beginning. I mean, why did you leave so late? It does seem awfully stupid.”

“I told you. Tobes was in a bad way.”

“Oh, yes I see,” said Amanda.

But she didn’t sound altogether convinced.

• • •

“Nice young chap,” said Constable Rowe as they drove through the crowded streets of Clapham, “and what bad luck. And for the bridegroom, imagine missing your own wedding like that …”

Sergeant Freeman said he knew several people who might have wished to miss their own weddings, and said that they should examine the CCTV footage at the service stations as soon as possible.

“With what in mind, exactly?”

“To make sure everything happened exactly as he said …”

CHAPTER 20

“Shit,” said Jonathan aloud, and his eyes filled unaccountably with tears. He was sitting at his desk in his tiny room at St. Andrews, ostensibly going through his notes for the next patient; the day had seemed interminable, everything everyone said to him meaningless.

He must speak to Abi before the police interview, absolutely must. And he really needed to know what Laura was going to do or say during the interview; even the mildest indication that she was suspicious of the relationship might lead to further questioning. And then there was the small matter of the phone call …

He went out into the hospital grounds, armed with his mobile, and dialled Abi’s number. “Abi, it’s Jonathan. Please call me. There are various things we need to discuss most urgently. Anytime in the next three or four hours.”

He realised he didn’t even know if the police had been on to her yet. Christ, it was getting worse by the minute …

• • •

It was only when the police rang and said they would like to interview her about the crash that Abi decided, in her own interest, she had better let Jonathan off the hook. She was eating a sandwich at her desk when the call came through; the call did rather destroy her appetite.

• • •

His voice was terse, impatient.

“I wish you’d got back to me sooner. You must have got my messages.”

“You’re not the only busy person in the world, Jonathan. I have a life too, you know. I can’t just take phone calls in the middle of jobs. I realise they’re not as important, my jobs, as chatting up mothers-to-be, but …”

“Oh, just stop it,” he said. “Look, have the police been on to you?”

“Yes. They’re coming to see me on Thursday.”

“Right. Well there’s one new thing for you to remember. You had a problem with your car; that’s why you didn’t have it with you at the conference. Can you remember that?”

“I’ll try.”

“Abi, please, this isn’t some silly game; it’s very important.”

“What, so Laura doesn’t find out about me, do you mean?”

“Well, so that she doesn’t know the truth about you. She’s insisting on sitting in on the interview; it’s essential we get the details right.

Look, you’ve got it all, haven’t you? The lift to Reading, the car, all that stuff. And … probably best not to mention the phone call. Which wasn’t a phone call, in the strict sense of the word. I answered it and then threw the bloody thing on the floor.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Is there anything else you’d like me to say? Like you weren’t there at all, I just happened to be driving your car? Lying to the police is a crime, you know, Jonathan. I looked it up on the Internet. You’re inciting me to commit a crime. And actually committing one yourself. That’s called blackmail.”

There was a silence; then he said, “I think you’re in danger of making a very big mistake, Abi. I could, if required, get witnesses, you know. Employees at hotels, for a start. I seem to remember you rather enjoyed impressing them with your little demos …”

She felt sick again. Very sick.

“All right, Jonathan,” she said. “I’ve got it.” And then, because she couldn’t resist it, she added, “I think.”

Two could play at this game …

• • •

How was she doing this? Georgia wondered. When she’d spent the past three days crying and quite literally wishing she was dead. She’d been in bits only half an hour earlier, holding Linda’s hand, shaking with nerves, and feeling terribly sick.

And now, suddenly, she felt fine, cool, self-confident, and upbeat.

It was always like that; all actors knew about Dr. Stage. Dr. Stage could mend a sprained ankle so its owner could dance, could heal laryngitis so a voice could fill a theatre; he could cure migraine, gastric flu and asthma, stanch tears and heal grief, summon strength and banish pain. Not forever, not even for very long, but long enough for the show to go on. And he was working very hard on Georgia’s behalf at that moment.

She walked into the casting director’s room, smiling radiantly at the people watching her from behind their table. She was surprised—
and pleased—that there were three of them; she’d been expecting just the casting director. Every moment was important now, she knew; the camcorder was running already, filming the way she looked, moved, talked, smiled.

“Hi, Georgia. I’m Tony; I’m the casting director. This is Bryn, the director, and you know Sue, my assistant.”

“Yes, I do. Hi. Thank you so much for letting me come today. I’m really sorry about last week.”

“That’s OK. So, what are you doing at the moment, what have you been up to?”

“Oh … lots of things. Episode of
The Bill
, episode of
Casualty
, two episodes of
Holly oaks
, bit of modelling to make ends meet.” She grinned at them.

“Who was the modelling for? TV?”

“Yes, one for a car commercial, one for a new chocolate, and a fashion shoot for
Glamour.”

It didn’t add up to a row of beans, and they would know it; the scenes for
The Bill
and
Casualty
had been tiny,
Hollyoaks
only a bit bigger; she’d been in a crowd scene in the car commercial, maybe slightly more of a presence selling the chocolates, one of three girls eating as suggestively as the client felt they could get away with. And fashion shoots—well, she might just as well have not mentioned it. Except that it did mean she looked all right. But they could see that for themselves …

Then the standard questions they always asked: would she shave her head if she was asked, did she have any tattoos anywhere on her body, would she take all her clothes off, do a nude scene. Georgia told them she’d shave her head and take her clothes off all in one scene if they asked; no tattoos, though, so if they were looking for them … They laughed; then there was a silence. They were going to tell her to go away, not bother, she thought, panic rising, but: “Well, from those scenes we sent you, Georgia, would you like to do scene ten? With a bit of a Brummie accent, maybe. Sue will read the dad.”

“Sure.”

That was lucky: scene ten was her favourite. She walked towards Sue, stood with her legs slightly apart, her hands on her hips.

“Dad,” she said, “can I have a word …?”

By the time she finished the scene she felt quite emotional; and she could tell they’d liked it. They sat looking at her in silence, the casting director smiling.

“OK, Georgia,” he said. “Now could you do it again, please, without the accent. Just in your normal voice.”