Sarah had flown as far as London with her, offering to stay on for a day or two, in spite of having problems of her own that needed to be resolved quickly. On the plane she had been quiet, but her hands shook noticeably when she picked up her book or her knife and fork, and she had woken with a start each time she tried to doze and to put the horrible images of the raid behind her. Camilla had refused the generous offer, but now that Sarah was not with her she felt cast off, left to navigate her way through the after-effects of terror and injury, with no map or guidelines that might lead her towards recovery. She picked up the telephone and dialled her father’s number, only to hear the lonely sound of the instrument ringing in an empty space. When she replaced the receiver she fought the self-pity that threatened to bring on tears. Then she remembered the phial of tranquillisers that the doctor in Nanyuki had given her, and she rummaged in her vanity case. The yellow tablets looked comforting and she swallowed one with a glass of water. In the bedroom she sat down in front of her mirror and took a pair of sharp scissors from the drawer of the dressing table. It was surprisingly difficult to cut a fringe, but she tried to shape the hair so that it fell in a straight line, hiding the dressing on her forehead. By the time she had showered and put on a warm sweater and trousers she felt calm, ready to face the London morning in a reasonable frame of mind. She found a jacket and umbrella, and went out into the grey drizzle.

‘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.