But how black could it be? Ben was half-and-half, lighter skinned than his sister, almost the same colour as Rivelli when Rivelli had been slapping on the olive oil and roasting himself in the Provençal sun. The baby would be even lighter, Ben’s genes mixed with hers – and she, as Rivelli often reminded her, was whiter than white. Unless the baby was some kind of throwback, and emerged from her womb as black as coal, there was little reason for anyone to suspect a thing. Besides, Rivelli got there first. His sperm had a good five hours’ lead on Ben’s. It had to be his. Please God, it had to be his. Let it be his.

Linda was sleeping a lot, and when she wasn’t sleeping she was high on morphine, but that didn’t really matter: Christine was used to seeing her under the influence. Instead of sitting in chambers waiting for briefs that never came, Christine sat by Linda’s bed in Guy’s Hospital. If the clerks needed her, they could call her; she could be back in the Temple in fifteen minutes. Up here, at least, she was doing something useful, even if Linda didn’t know she was there for much of the time. She wasn’t bored. She caught up on reading, she busied herself on her laptop, and in between times she looked out of the sixteenth-floor window over a vast panorama of London, the river and the City and far beyond on every side, as if Linda and the other patients and the nurses and doctors and visitors were already being airlifted to heaven.

‘Chris . . .’ Linda sounded amazed to find her old pupil by her bedside every time she woke.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Bit groggy. Water?’

Christine poured from the plastic jug into the plastic glass, held it up to Linda’s lips. She had lost a lot of weight. Her hair, which had always been a frizzy mop, was thin and sparse, revealing her scalp. How fast it took you. How cruel.

‘Thanks, babe.’ She folded her hands above the sheet; an old woman’s hands, thin, clawlike, picking at the bedclothes.

‘It’s a beautiful day. Amazing views you’ve got from up here.’ What does one say to the dying? What’s left that won’t hurt them or remind them of how little time they have?

‘Can you see the Old Bailey?’

‘Yes, clear as a bell.’

‘Which way?’

‘Over there.’ Christine pointed. Linda extended her neck a little, like a tortoise.

‘I like to know where it is. Scene of former glories, and all that.’ She patted the bed. ‘Come and sit with me for a minute.’

‘Okay.’ Christine took Linda’s hand, stroked the bony knuckles, the papery skin. She was covered in bruises from canulas.

‘I’m very proud of you, you know.’

‘Oh, come on, Linda.’