She pulled her coat around her and clutched the collar closed at the neck, then ran across the car park to the Golf. As she reversed out of her parking space, she took care not to clip the rear bumper of the red BMW that was parked beside her.

It had been pure devilment on Maxwell Borthwick’s part to slot his car into the parking space next to the Golf. There were many other spaces available in the car park, but as soon as he saw her arriving, he moved his car adjacent to hers so that he could see her close up before he ruined her life forever.

He watched as the Golf turned out onto the main road, then he got out of the car, and wrapping his blue serge overcoat around him, he walked delicately across to the entrance door, taking care not to slip on the newly fallen snow. He approached the reception desk with a friendly smile on his face.

“Good morning,” he said in a bright, cheery voice. “I wonder if you could direct me to the ward where I might find Patrick Trenchard.”

The woman clattered speedily on her keyboard, and then picked up the telephone and dialed an extension number. “Hullo, this is reception,” she said. “Could I speak to Staff Nurse, please?” She smiled at Maxwell as she waited for the staff nurse to come to the telephone. “Hullo, yes, this is reception here. Do you still have Patrick Trenchard with you? . . . Right, I see. And how long will that be? . . . Right.” She cupped her hand over the receiver. “They are in the process of moving Mr. Trenchard from the High Dependency Unit into a day ward. He won’t be ready for visitors for about half an hour.”

Maxwell slapped his hands down on the desk. “Not to worry.” He turned and pointed to an empty bench in the foyer. “I’ll just go and have a seat over there. Maybe you could let me know when he is ready.”

He walked over to the bench and sat down, and immediately let out a long, shuddering yawn. He hadn’t had a moment’s sleep all night. As soon as he had left the hotel in the early hours of the morning, he had gone back to the office to write the report for Cyril Bentwood. It had been a difficult task, because his mind had kept imagining with relish the conversation he was going to have with Patrick Trenchard later on in the day. But at seven o’clock on the dot, he had placed the report on Bentwood’s desk, and at that point he had sworn to himself that, once he had disposed of Trenchard, he would then turn his attentions to the wretched little man with the sheepskin car coat and the porkpie hat.