Grace looked back at him through misted eyes. Memories of being at his father’s bedside as he lay dying, then his mother’s, came flooding back, overwhelming him. ‘Isn’t there anyone – don’t they have brilliant neurosurgeons in America at some of their teaching hospitals? Germany? Russia? Is there anyone at all?’

‘If there was even a one per cent chance, I would suggest it.’

‘What about this intracranial bolt – can’t that possibly help?’

‘It won’t treat the injury, it will just monitor the pressure inside the brain,’ Burton replied.

‘So what’s the point in doing that?’ Grace said, his anxiety rising even further.

‘I’m afraid its main purpose, normally, is to confirm brainstem death. If Bruno has avoided that and does, by a miracle, pull through, it is very likely he will have permanent brain damage.’

‘How serious? I mean – how impaired would he be? Would he be able to function normally? Go back to school?’ Cleo was struggling to keep her voice down.

Burton stared at her levelly. ‘We’ll know more later, after the neurosurgeon, Mr Hoyle-Gilchrist, has seen him.’

Grace folded his body, resting his head in his arms, as he fought off tears. He lost track of the time as he sat, before finally straightening up again and gratefully accepting a tissue the consultant passed him from a box.

‘You both need to remain strong,’ Burton said gently. ‘We’ll keep you informed every step of the way, but I would urge you to prepare yourself for the worst.’

52

Tuesday 3 September

Two hours later, finally and reluctantly dragging himself from Bruno’s bedside after talking to him incessantly, with no response, before he had been taken off to theatre, Roy Grace left the ward and peered into the Relatives’ Room. Cleo was dozing in a chair and looked up as he entered.

‘A guy – a porter, I think – has gone to get us two camp beds.’

He smiled. ‘Good. If I can sleep. Be back in a few minutes.’ He closed the door quietly and walked a short distance along the deserted corridor, checking his phone in case there was any message from Lorna. But there was nothing. Then he hunted for the mobile phone number of the Road Policing Unit Inspector, James Biggs, unsure if he had it. To his relief, he did. It rang several times, and just when he was convinced it was going to voicemail, he answered with a curt, ‘Inspector Biggs.’

‘James?’

The tone of the Inspector’s voice changed instantly. ‘Sir?’

‘I apologize for calling so late.’

‘Call me any time, sir, twenty-four-seven. I’m so very sorry about your son. How is he?’

‘I’m at the hospital now and it’s not looking good, I’m afraid. Bruno—’ Grace had to stop for a moment to compose himself. ‘He has serious brain damage. At the moment his prognosis is pretty poor, to be honest.’

‘I’m extremely sorry to hear that, sir. I’m afraid it looked to me, from the damage to the vehicle, that his head had taken quite an impact. We’ve made enquiries at the school and it happened during break time, when all the kids were outside. Bruno somehow managed to find his way out of the grounds.’