‘Almost twenty-four hours. It’s Saturday afternoon.’ The nurse fussed around the monitor for a while, then fiddled with the intravenous line in Molly’s left hand. Finally, she wrote something on the clipboard that hung on the end of the bed and looked at her with a serious expression. ‘If you’re up to it, a couple of policemen arrived a few minutes ago. They’ve been in and out a few times since yesterday hoping to have a word with you. I said no, but perhaps now you’re awake you would prefer to speak to them.’

It was the last thing Molly wanted. ‘Absolutely n…’ She stopped. ‘Yes, okay.’ If they wanted to speak to her about the accident it was probably better sooner than later. ‘Is my husband here?’

‘He was here yesterday evening holding your hand for hours and again this morning. When you didn’t wake, he said he had to leave and would be back later.’ The nurse refilled the water glass and left.

Molly couldn’t remember Jack being there and tried to rationalise his absence; he’d probably gone for something to eat. Perhaps she should have insisted the police waited until he came back before speaking to her.

She was debating ringing the call bell to tell the nurse she’d changed her mind when the door opened. When she saw who entered, she groaned.

DI Fanshawe, about to speak, stopped and stared at her, his forehead creasing in what she guessed might be concern. ‘The nurse said you weren’t in pain, that you agreed to speak to us.’

‘She didn’t tell me it was you,’ Molly said, uncaring if she sounded rude. ‘Are you the only two coppers in London? Why are you looking into an accident? Shouldn’t you be looking for the man who killed…’ She searched for the man’s name, shaking her head when it wouldn’t come to her. ‘…what’s his name?’

‘Lucien Pleasant,’ Fanshawe provided calmly. ‘We are, Mrs Chatwell. That’s why we’re here.’ Fanshawe pulled up a chair and nodded to DS Carstairs to do the same. ‘It looks very much like someone tried to kill you.’

21

Molly had told the nurse she wasn’t in pain but a dull throb started in her head. She reached up and slid her hand across her forehead as if she could wipe it away. ‘You’ll have to forgive me if I sound a little dopey,’ she said. ‘Did you really tell me that someone tried to kill me?’

‘It’s a line of enquiry we’re following,’ Fanshawe said. ‘There was a woman with a pushchair beside you. She said you seemed distracted, but that you were waiting patiently for the lights to change when suddenly you went flying in front of a car.’