‘Very good of you, sir.’

‘Keep me updated on Bruno’s progress, will you?’

‘Yes, sir, thank you, of course. I’m on my way to see him now.’

‘We’re all praying for you – for him.’

Cleo was already standing outside the front door, head bowed against the drizzle. Trundle jumped out and held the rear door open for her. She climbed in, her face white, gripped Grace’s hand and hugged him tightly. ‘Darling, this is so dreadful, any news?’

He shook his head, then they both sat in silence as the car headed out through the mortuary gates.

‘Bruno is young,’ she said. ‘Kids are more supple than adults, they have a far higher chance of surviving impacts.’

But he was barely listening to her. He was thinking about something Pip Edwards had told him on the way here, that a witness had told the police at the scene that she’d seen the boy on his phone at the side of the road moments before the collision.

He was trying to think back to the last conversation he’d had with Bruno, in his car just a few hours ago, before he’d dropped him at school.

Education’s a joke, don’t you think? I can learn more from Google than any teacher can tell me.

Is there any point in dreaming anything? Look at my mother. The teachers aren’t worth it. But is anything in life worth it?

Some while later, after Grace had dropped his son off and seen him enter the gates, Bruno had left school during break time and stepped out into the road in the path of a car.

So many bad memories returned. Sandy, Bruno’s mother, had died after being hit by a taxi in Munich.

Surely this couldn’t be happening again?

Bruno had to survive this, he had to.

He was still deep in troubled thought when they arrived at the Emergency Department entrance to the hospital, pulling up beside a row of ambulances.

42

Tuesday 3 September

A staff nurse with a yellow plastic tag reading Hello my name is Nadine, who had been waiting for Roy and Cleo, escorted them through the normal mayhem of the Emergency Department receiving area. Roy felt in a daze being here as he numbly followed, past the hectic reception counter, screened-off beds, patients on trolleys in the corridor waiting to be processed, and into the quiet, bland calm of a Relatives’ Room, spritzing their hands at a sanitizer dispenser before entering.

The nurse gave them a form for Bruno’s medical history and a consent form, told them the A&E consultant would be along to see them in a short while and offered to get them drinks. Grace gratefully asked for a strong black coffee and Cleo a glass of water.

As she left, they sat down in front of a coffee table sprinkled with a bunch of magazines and children’s books. Cleo read the consent form while Roy read through the medical history form, feeling utterly helpless. Bruno had been with them for such a short time, during which his health had been fine, apart from a cold in February, and he knew very little about his son’s previous medical history. All Sandy had said in her suicide note that she had written him was that she was worried about him. But no more.