Away from the flash of cameras, the corridors were gloomy and quiet. It was clear that they were being given VIP treatment, because no lay person would have an army of doctors and nurses tending to their every need, without a fee. A consultant actually asked if she’d like a coffee. She accepted. She was parched. He scurried off. Didn’t he have other patients to attend? She supposed it wasn’t every day that a cabinet minister was airlifted for surgery here in the middle of nowhere. Only the daylight of the morning would confirm how dreary this place was. Donald had told her over the phone how grim it was in the towns, and bitterly cold. But he’d also told her of the stunning beauty of the rural Lake District, somewhere they’d never actually taken the time to visit. As minister for DEFRA, this was indeed ironic, as he should be visiting farming hubs like this as part of his job, chatting to common farmers and forest rangers as a matter of course. But he didn’t. He relied on an army of civil servants to give him the common touch, and she wasn’t interested anyway. Four years ago, she’d agreed to stay married to him for the sake of his career.

He’d never mentioned his intention to meet Bart Kennedy-Craig.

Before the news sent shivers down her spine, she hadn’t worried particularly that she hadn’t been able to get hold of Donald since Saturday morning. She’d simply assumed that the conference was in full swing, and left him to it. He’d call her back when he was ready, she’d thought. It wasn’t as if it was important: simple Christmas arrangements, that was all. If she’d known who he was really with, she would have accompanied him herself and made sure it never happened. Bart’s violent and sudden death was all over the news, and ordinarily she tended to ignore such tittle-tattle, but now she couldn’t help herself googling the story every five minutes. Gossip and sleaze was already emerging about why Lord Reilly might be on a very expensive private helicopter with a staggeringly rich businessman like Bart. She felt sick to her stomach. What they were doing together was something that sat heavily on her conscience. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good for her marriage or his career, if he survived the night. The press had already begun to ask questions about why a cabinet minister was accepting rides in a helicopter from a millionaire who funded the Tory party under a cloud of controversy, due in part to his business affairs. It wouldn’t take long, under this scrutiny, for the press to dig a bit deeper.

It looked bad.

But that really was the least of Donald’s worries right now. He could die tonight.