The thud of pain Hugh felt at that moment didn’t come from his injury. It came from his heart, as though it had splintered into pieces and he would never be able to put it together again. He’d let this happen. Hugh Flynn with his selfish indulgence and self-pity – he’d let this happen.

Forgive me, Pippa.

Forgive me, Verity.

Forgive me, Tiger.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror once more, at the now-sleeping child, her arms folded around the cuddly tiger. Forgive me, daughter. I’ll make this up to you. I promise.

He sat for some time in the lay-by. Cars whooshed by. The sun went down. The hot day turned to a warm evening, as darkness fell.

He had money – plenty of it, stashed in a bank account that Verity had set up for him years ago. But a bloke covered in blood arriving in a strange place, with a child who had been so desperately neglected, was going to cause attention. He was her father, but he had no way of proving that. He had no clothes for her. No food. What the hell was he going to do? Where could he go?

He knew the answer wasn’t to tell the truth. He couldn’t go to the authorities and let them know what his sister had done. He just couldn’t. Verity had been his salvation. Protected him. He owed her. This was Hugh’s fault, and she would go to prison if it all came out, and her daughter would be taken from her, placed into care. No. That wasn’t an option. He couldn’t do that to his sister.

He started the engine, and pulled from the lay-by. He would keep driving, head around London until something came to him. But first he needed petrol, to grab something to eat for the child.

He drove into a petrol station, dragged his overcoat over his bloodied T-shirt, and filled the tank, before locking the car, and making his way into the little shop, where he grabbed a couple of packs of sandwiches, a milkshake, some coffee.

*

‘Is that nice?’ he said, as the child pulled her sandwich apart, and nibbled at the cheese, like a mouse. She didn’t answer, and he wondered again at the damage his sister had done.

When Hugh started the engine once more, he knew exactly where he was heading. The only place he had ever travelled to outside of Flynn House. He would go to Bristol.

After travelling for more than five hours, exhausted, Hugh pulled the car onto the wide drive of Clara McCloud’s house on the outskirts of Bristol, and dragged on the handbrake. He prayed she would be able to put him and his daughter up.