Karene looked at the name behind the desk. She’d definitely come to the right place. ‘I spoke to the ward sister last night. She said he was here and settling well.’

‘Are you sure it was this ward?’

Karene stood to her full height. ‘Absolutely. Could you please check again?’ She had all the time in the world for those who dedicated their lives to the NHS but she couldn’t stand incompetence.

‘Nope. He’s not here. Give me one moment.’ The nurse dialled a number. ‘Carla, I have a lady here looking for a Mr Harry Peterson. She said she spoke to Felicity last night and—’ She stopped and listened. ‘I see. OK. Thanks.’ She hung up.

‘Mr Peterson was discharged this morning.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. At six thirty.’

‘Who would discharge him? He’s in no fit state to be moved!’

‘Well, he must have been.’

‘Believe me. He was not. He suffered a significant head injury resulting in serious memory loss. You can’t just send him home.’

The nurse shrugged. ‘Well he’s not here any more.’

21

Eighteen Months Earlier

The country pub near Karene’s home town of Bakewell was full of walkers sheltering from the rain. Karene and Harry sat in the corner farthest from the bar, away from the noise. They had ordered five starters to share and a bottle of wine.

‘Are you looking forward to it?’ Karene picked up a piece of whitebait, and dipped it in the tartare sauce. Harry was starting his new job the following Monday, and would be working out of Northwood Headquarters in London.

‘It’ll be the same old drill. Peacocking until everyone finally calms down and gets on with the work.’

‘I take it that’s you doing the peacocking?’

‘With a full-on turquoise suit. You know me, honey.’

Karene picked up his left hand and kissed the back of it. ‘My little show-off. Will the work be interesting?’

‘I expect so. It’s advisory for the most part, so no rolling up my sleeves and actually doing something.’

‘Will you miss being in the thick of it?’

‘Not when we have a habit of going to war, no.’

‘Bit of an occupational hazard that.’ She watched as he topped up their wine glasses. ‘Was it awful? War, I mean.’

Harry’s laugh was low and sarcastic. ‘Yeah.’

‘Tell me about it?’ She wanted to listen to him talk about it, to make sure he’d processed it in a healthy way. She wanted to take care of him.

‘You don’t want to hear it.’

‘Stop saying that. I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t want to know. Were you ever in danger?’

‘Of course. We came under fire plenty of times.’