‘Jesus, Camilla. Of course you can’t go to New York, but there’ll be another time. You’re alive, and that’s all that matters.’ Tom Bartlett took his feet down off his desk and leaned forward, looking for a pencil and notepad in the pile of letters and sheets of photos that covered most of the surface. ‘Here’s the name of someone you should see right now. Edward Carradine. He’s brilliant at his job. You should ring him and go today if it’s possible. I’ll phone him too, and explain how important it is.’

‘Is he a plastic surgeon?’ she said.

‘The best. Everyone goes to him for a tuck here and there. Not at your age, usually. But he’s bloody good, and he’ll have your face back to normal in no time.’ He rose and handed her a piece of paper with a scribbled telephone number.

Camilla smiled at him and put the paper into her pocket. ‘Thanks. I didn’t know you had such a soft heart,’ she said.

‘I’ll bloody murder you if you let on,’ he replied, grinning her. ‘If you so much as hint that I have a charitable corpuscle in me, I’ll arrange to print pictures of you with that bloody awful fringe.’ He lifted a small camera and took a photo of her, and she found herself laughing in protest.

‘Would you do me another good turn?’ she said, still smiling.

‘Need a few quid, do you, to get through all this?’ He opened the drawer of his desk and took out his chequebook.

‘No, it’s not that at all,’ she said, surprised and touched at his offer. ‘It’s just that I went to see Ricky Lane this morning. I feel bad about having let him down and I’m hoping he’ll still be able to do New York.’

‘Put the squeeze on you, did he?’ Tom’s eyes were shrewd. ‘Little shit, he is. But a talented little shit. Yeah, I’ll make sure he still goes, if it’s important to you. Now go home and lie down. And make an appointment with Carradine. He’d better do a bloody fantastic job. He’s used his magic blade on plenty of major names that wouldn’t like to be named.’

‘Will you phone Ricky now?’ Camilla found herself shivering at the idea of a knife blade slicing across her face again.

‘No, I damn well won’t. Let him sweat it out until tomorrow. And get your fringe cut properly, for fuck’s sake, before anyone sees you. It looks like some African rat got into your hair.’

When Camilla stepped out into the street again the rain had given way to feeble sunshine and she walked slowly, admiring the tawny trees, the first bare branches, and the coppery gold leaves fluttering and fragile in the late-September sky. She was alive, after all. They were all alive. In the flat she began to unpack her suitcase, putting away her safari clothes with reluctance, holding her pile of Samburu bangles and beaded collars up to her nose, inhaling the pungent scent of cattle and woodsmoke. The scent of Africa. When she had stored everything neatly away she lay back on the sofa and gathered a rug around her. Within moments her eyes had closed and she drifted gratefully into the first proper sleep she had experienced since the traumatic night of the raid.