She stood and went up close to him, as close as she dared, fearful of causing some kind of alarm to go off or some such emergency, and it being all her fault. His face was somewhat peaceful, but the lines around his eyes and mouth seemed deeper, and he looked older. He must have been terrified. She knew he hated flying, and didn’t trust helicopters. How had Bart convinced him to get in it in the first place? She dared not touch him, but she couldn’t help thinking that a warm loving touch might help. But her heart had been broken before and she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She reached out a hand, as if in response to some kind of instinct, but stopped short of stroking some stray hairs out of the way of his left eye. He didn’t move and the bleeps didn’t change.

She stood back and stretched deeply, feeling grubby and tired suddenly. She went to find a nurse or anybody who could at least get her a coffee, even though it was ghastly hospital piss. The ward was deathly quiet, and she realised that she was surrounded by desperately ill people, and that those in hospital uniform padding silently around were trying to save lives. She felt a humbling respect for them and decided to leave the ward to find her own sustenance.

There was a police officer outside the door.

‘Morning, ma’am, I’ve been asked to make sure you don’t—’

‘What? Am I not allowed to get a coffee and stretch my legs?’ she snapped.

She regretted it instantly; she was used to having police protection. Donald had his fair share of death threats like any cabinet minister, especially from climate activists, but she never took them seriously. Now they’d almost succeeded in killing him, and the PM’s office was obviously not taking any chances. She calmed her active imagination; the cause of the crash was yet to be determined but Abigail had sent her footage of a helicopter instructor, on holiday in the Lake District, being interviewed, and saying he thought it wasn’t an accident. It sent shivers down her spine.

‘I’m sorry for being cranky,’ she said.

‘It’s all right, ma’am, what would you like? I’ll radio my colleague,’ the uniform said to her.

‘Anything. Coffee, sugar, pastry, you know, that sort of thing? Something to keep me awake.’

He radioed into his shoulder and she checked her phone. For want of anything better to do and to avoid going back into the ward, she tried Vivienne Kennedy-Craig’s number again. During the night she had tried three times, each time leaving a message. This time it was answered straight away.

‘Hello Elaine.’

The response took Elaine by surprise. She hadn’t expected it and had concluded that Vivienne was avoiding her.