‘He’s behind what happened to Will. I’m almost certain of it.’

‘That’s quite an accusation,’ said Christine, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. This was exactly what she’d been hoping for – the final piece of the jigsaw. She didn’t want Isabelle to think she was glad – that might sound heartless. ‘Do you have any evidence?’

‘Not evidence, exactly. But it’s Joel.’

‘Joel? What, my Joel?’

‘Everyone’s Joel, I’m afraid.’ I’d have enjoyed saying that to her once, thought Isabelle. Not now.

‘What’s he got to do with anything?’

‘He’s been arrested for the attack on Will.’

‘Oh my God. In Los Angeles?’

‘He was picked up wandering around the streets covered in blood.’

‘Will’s blood?’

‘Well, I suppose so.’

‘And the police think he did it? Joel?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’ Christine almost shouted. ‘He wouldn’t. It doesn’t fit. He didn’t do it.’

‘Well, that’s exactly what he’s saying.’

‘And who does he think is behind it?’

‘Who do you think?’

‘Rivelli.’

‘Got it in one.’

‘Darling, would you think it awfully rude of me if I made a call? Please don’t have a go at me. I want to talk to you. But on this occasion . . .’

Isabelle opened the drawer and retrieved the phone from its nest of tea towels.

‘Be my guest.’

In a ward of the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles, a nurse suddenly looked up from the notes she was reading and rushed to the bedside of a young male patient who had been unconscious for several days. An electronic beeping noise told her that he was going into cardiac arrest.

Chapter 31

Chapter 31

A doctor crouched over Will’s bed, a stethoscope pressed against his chest. The heartbeat was there, irregular and shallow, and then – boom, boom, boom, it thudded like a horse kicking against stable walls.

It was bad – very bad indeed. It looked like a result of the trauma – a sudden drop in blood volume, possibly due to internal bleeding. The heartbeat stabilised, but it was weak, and Will was getting cold. If his brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen, he could suffer permanent damage. They connected him to a ventilator, and watched the monitor like hawks. One more episode like this was likely to be fatal.

‘Oh no . . .’

Isabelle’s wailing voice carried down the stairs. Christine sprang to her feet; her child was in pain, and she must help her.

‘What is it?’ She bounded up the stairs two at a time. Isabelle was standing on the landing, the phone at her ear, her face as white as a sheet.

‘Okay . . . Okay, I understand . . . Yes . . .’

Christine reached out to her; Isabelle put up a hand, turned away.

‘Thanks. Okay. Thanks a lot. I will. Goodbye.’

‘What’s the matter? What is it?’

‘It’s Will.’

‘Oh no.’

‘He’s . . . he’s had a massive heart attack and . . .’

‘Oh darling.’