Abigail looked at her father and a tear slipped down her face. She’d been briefed by her mother. They were under no doubt, now, that a full case would be brought against the peer. Not even the PM could protect him now. She’d carried the burden for four long years, looking into his face at times, and begging him to tell her it was a lie. Fabian knew it wasn’t a fiction, and so did she. She’d believed at one time that he was sick. After all, he’d never touched her in that way. Her mother had asked her. It had been the worst conversation of her life. No. He hadn’t, she’d told her. But this didn’t excuse what he did to others. The test she applied to his behaviour was the fact that he did it in secret. Shame was the barometer she used to judge her father’s word.

The phone call from Fabian was the final confirmation.

She reached out and touched her father’s face and he rallied a little. Since waking up, he was breathing on his own but he was still in a great deal of pain as a result of the burns he’d sustained.

His eyes flickered open and he seemed to recognise her, but love soon turned to the familiar glow of burning shame as he realised that his daughter knew exactly why he’d been with Bart on that helicopter. He’d promised he’d get help. He’d pledged to stop. Forever.

He’d lied.

She rested her hand on his forehead and he winced in pain. Her hand pressed against the dressings and he tried to make a sound, but the tubes sticking out of his mouth and nose prevented him.

Abigail stared at him and his grimace of pain turned to fear. She could see in his eyes that he knew what she was about to do. He was defenceless. All he could do was force his eyes this way and that, as beads of sweat formed on his face, and Abigail wiped her tears away.

She leant over him and took a pillow, careful not to knock the nurse’s alarm.