Critical Incidents. Lucie Whitehouse

the look Thomas had given Patel. They were right, of course – she would have been all over that, too. There were such things as coincidences, but they were suspicious until proven otherwise, every time.

      Her stomach turned over. No. She stopped herself. Just think: how else could that be connected?

      Could Hinton be involved somehow? Was that possible? He was at large, whereabouts unknown – he could be in Birmingham. And he certainly had contacts here. But she was the person who’d let him go – she’d been fired for it, plastered all over the sodding Mail and the Evening Standard. Even if it hadn’t been crystal to him that day, he’d know now. So – who? The person who had actually killed Farrell? An enemy of his?

      No – it was too intricate, too massive a leap. Even if it was Hinton himself, which was unlikely enough, or Farrell’s killer, why would they harm Corinna? And how would they even know she and Rin were friends? No one would find them posing together on social media. Plus, there’d been no threat, no claim afterwards – what would be the point of doing it if she, the target in this scenario, wasn’t even aware? No, this was crazy stuff.

      She bent her head, dug her nails into her scalp. What the fuck was going on? How could she find out?

      Picking up her phone, she opened Contacts. Last night, she’d rung Di, Corinna’s mother. She’d been ashamed of how relieved she’d felt to get voicemail. She’d left a message saying just that she was heartbroken, and heartbroken for her. ‘If I can do anything, Di, anything at all, please let me know.’ Just words, however much she meant them.

      Will’s number was underneath his mother’s. Robin had it from group texts – photos of Peter, details for birthday parties and dinners – but she hadn’t actually called him since the old days, when she and Rin were sixth formers and he’d used to pick them up from parties, sober as a judge in his little Peugeot. Will didn’t drink, never had. ‘Just not my thing,’ he said but Rin told her it was deeper than that. He was afraid that if he started drinking, he’d never stop.

      ‘Does he think that for a reason? Does he feel like he’s an alcoholic?’

      ‘No, but it runs in families; alcoholics quite often have alcoholic kids. He says he can’t risk it.’

      Will had been an adult since he was twelve, responsible and reliable as bedrock. While they’d been out getting smashed, he’d been studying. He’d done medicine at Edinburgh and he was a consultant neurologist now, at the Alexandra in Redditch. His wife, Lily, was an anaesthetist and they lived with their son and daughter in a snazzy barn conversion near Henley. Not bad for a bloke whose nickname at the boys’ grammar, where irony was king, had been Thrill. But was he ever actually that boring? He was no Sean Harvey, tearing the place up with his delinquent tendencies and come-to-bike-shed eyes, but when you could hear what he was saying, Will was funny, which had become more apparent as, with the advent of Lily, he’d become more confident and thus more audible.

      He answered almost immediately. ‘Robin?’

      They spoke at the same time. ‘How are you?’

      ‘I don’t even know,’ he said. ‘Stunned.’

      ‘How’s your mum?’

      ‘She’s … not good. She’s with Peter at the hospital, she was there all night.’

      ‘The police came to talk to me yesterday – you probably know. They said he broke a lot of bones.’

      ‘Yes, but the real issue’s the lung. They keep calling it a puncture but it was more of a tear – the end of the broken rib tore the lung. They’ve operated, obviously, but now it’s a waiting game. If he gets an infection, it could all just …’ He trailed off into silence.

      ‘What happened, Will? What are the police saying?’

      ‘I don’t know. Nothing. The same as yesterday.’

      ‘You don’t think Josh did this, do you?’

      ‘No. I don’t.’ He paused. ‘But I don’t know what else to think, either. If he didn’t, where the hell is he?’