Chapter 121

Harry’s call to Laurel McFry went well. Since taking the call from Bill Blunt, she had found the obituary he’d written on her father. Although it wasn’t old, the paper was already yellowed, and the words she read were like an echo. It had been some time since she had read it, but she remembered now how sensitive she had thought it was at the time, a generous tribute to someone she dearly missed. Perhaps, after all, this Bill Blunt fellow might be on her side? He’d mentioned Galloway, and something about some medals. When she’d raised this with Danny Longhurst, he’d feigned ignorance. She hadn’t entirely believed him, so that when, as evening fell, she picked up the phone to find Harry McFry on the other end, she was ready to give him a piece of her mind.

“I’m glad you’ve rung, Harry,” she said. “There are one or two things I wanted to talk to you about.”

Harry had worked out what these might be, but waited for her to outline them.

“How come your friend, Mr Blunt, knows all about Cyril Galloway? And what’s all this about medals?”

“Bill’s a journalist, Laurel. Don’t you forget that. He’s a good one, too. When you told me about the problems with your McFry shares, I asked him to do some digging for me. Seems he’s done more than I expected.” Harry waited for her response which, when it came, was in the form of another question – pointed, this time:

“Did you tell Mr Blunt about Galloway?”

“Absolutely not. I’m going to ring him, shortly, and find out how he knows about him.”

“So – I take it I won’t be finding my name on the front cover of the Birkenhead Beagle this week?”

The question jolted Harry. He knew that the deadline for the Beagle was Tuesday. He realized Bill might, indeed, be planning a story for this week. He’d have to head him off, if he could.

“Absolutely not. I can assure you it won’t.” Harry hoped his assurance was worth something to Laurel, even as he was wondering how he might achieve it.

“And the medals he mentioned?”

“Bill’s put two and two together to make five, I’m afraid. I’ll put him right though, don’t you worry. Now…” Harry said, pausing to change tack. “I have something I need to tell you.”

Danny had been watching as Harry made the call, his glance occasionally straying back to the locals as they continued their promenade around the square. The general hubbub of chatter was punctuated occasionally by the shrill cries of a lottery ticket vendor, which Danny couldn’t make out at first, but which sounded something like ‘ons-ay!’ He supposed that Harry was about to tell Laurel about her own personal lottery win…

He was right. Harry outlined how, while in Madrid, they had discovered that Laurel was the inheritor of a pre-war bond which was worth a substantial amount of money: far, far more than her shares in McFry & Co had been worth. At first, Laurel found it hard to take in, but Harry had convinced her it was true. It took a while before she asked the obvious question, and when she did it was with an excited tone that Harry hadn’t heard her use before:

“But I don’t understand… a bond … from who?” Harry had anticipated the question.

“Laurel, you’re going to have to trust me on this one. Just now, I can’t tell you who. I’m hoping to clear it up in the next few days. But listen – I don’t want you to say a word about this to anyone, you understand? I particularly don’t want you to say anything to Bill Blunt. If he rings you again, tell him he has to speak to me.”

Laurel’s mind was a blur, but she took the warning. Whatever Harry McFry was up to in Madrid, it sounded like he was on her case, had her interests at heart.

“What about Galloway? Am I safe?”

“I don’t know, Laurel,” was all Harry could say. “You read Lawrence’s letter. Just watch out, that’s all. Danny and I are home tomorrow. We’ll ring you tomorrow night, if that’s OK…”

Laurel agreed. As the call ended, she sat back on the sofa and tried to make some sense of it all. Her ‘missing family’ was proving to be a bigger ball-game than she’d imagined.

*

In Telford, Lillian McFry was contemplating the week ahead. If last week had been a busy one, then heaven knows the one she now faced was promising to be busier still. And, for reasons we perhaps don’t need to go into here, it looked very much as though Tuesday would be the day when everything came out. She tried to remember the order of play for that day. If everything went to plan, Colin McAllistair would be there first, followed on closely by Cyril Galloway and a positive stranger to the game, Mr Morris, from Cardiff. His secretary had been most insistent that he needed to see her – something to do with an investigation into Dr Lawrence. Well, they might as well all roll up, and be done with it!

She wondered what Harry McFry and Danny Longhurst were up to. She expected she'd hear from them, one way or another.

But mainly, she was relishing the prospect of all of these people telling her more – whatever they could - about Jonathan Harcourt, so that the void that had been in her heart for so many years now might, perhaps, be filled. If only just a little.

Chapter 120

The paseo was new to Danny. Sitting outside a café in the corner of the Plaza Mayor, the thin, wintry sun sitting lower in the sky, he marveled at the procession around the square.
“And this happens every day?” Danny asked Harry, intrigued by the spectacle of hundreds of people walking in groups, mainly around the edge of the plaza, but sometimes criss-crossing it. Their movement was slow, relaxed and casual.
“Sure. Not just in Madrid, either. You’ll find it in the smallest town or even village.” Harry was starting to relax a little, now. In fact, he was feeling more tired than he had done in a long time, the effect of two late nights in a row taking their toll on his mind and body. Danny noticed it: Harry wasn’t drinking as quickly as he’d seen him do before, even if he never seemed to have a cigarette out of his mouth the whole time since they left the flat.

“So, what’s the plan, Harry?” he asked, eventually.
Harry realized he hadn’t got so far as having a plan, and he knew, now, that this had been a big mistake. He’d drifted into Madrid, thought he’d rely on his wits, but these were more than a little shell-shocked, it was clear.
“Well, I guess I need to ring Laurel McFry – and Bill, of course. I think we should see her before we see Lillian,” Harry said, thinking aloud.
Danny wanted to know what he planned to tell Laurel. “We need to be careful, Harry. We haven’t really got to the bottom of her missing family.”

Harry rubbed his chin. Danny was right. But Laurel deserved to know she could relax a little about her financial position. It was not only less bleak than she realized, it was positively sunny. Danny had only got as far as telling Harry that he’d done a little research into Lawrence and Galloway.
“Perhaps you’d better tell me what you found out about our friends in Thirsk and Telford,” Harry said, “that way we can work out what Laurel needs to know.”

Danny pulled his notepad from his backpack, and started leafing through his notes.
“First thing to know is that it’s highly likely that Dacre Lawrence’s father was a brother to Anne Lawrence, who was mother to the McFry brothers,” Danny said.
“Highly likely?” Harry asked. He was back on home turf, now – questioning, teasing apart, pulling out facts in the cynical way he’d made his own.
“Well … I couldn’t find them on the 1901 census together. Anne’s there, but John Lawrence wasn’t born until ,,,” (a slight pause while he consulted his notes) “…1908.”
“John Lawrence? This is supposed to be Dacre’s father, then?” Harry thought a moment. “And the evidence that they’re siblings?”
“Dacre Lawrence said his father was a cousin to Thomas McFry. Here’s Dacre Lawrence’s birth registered in Thirsk in the December Quarter of 1946,” Danny replied, pointing to the GRO reference number. “And here’s the only marriage of a Lawrence in the Thirsk area in that year – John, to a Margaret Spears. That would give us the Margaret Lawrence who was the witness at Philip McFry’s wedding.”
“OK. But what about other Lawrence marriages? Just because Dacre was born in Thirsk, it doesn’t mean his parents were married there.” Harry was enjoying being the bearer of bad news.
“Sometimes you get a hunch, Harry…” Danny said. And, it was true – sometimes, in family history, you had to work on that strange, instinctive feeling that something ‘seemed’ to fit. Harry knew that as much as anyone else, but it didn’t fit with his triangulation process. He wanted more evidence before he believed a hunch.
“It’s a big step from locating Dacre Lawrence’s father to saying he’s a brother to Anne Lawrence, Danny. You’re going to need certificates to bridge that gap…” Harry seemed to be thinking of something, while he spoke.
“I know. I thought you could ask your source at Southport…” Danny said, slightly apprehensively.

Harry didn’t like to acknowledge that Danny had guessed he had a link into the GRO certificate section: his own personal fast-track to births, deaths and marriages. But he knew it was the only way to move forward.
“I’ll ring her tomorrow,” he said, “first thing. That way, we might have them for our return to Birkenhead.”

Danny relaxed. He felt, at last, that they were working together. Somewhere deep in Harry’s mind, though, alarm bells were ringing.
“Wait a minute, though … didn’t you say that Laurel told you her father had an uncle called John James Lawrence, who had married an Amy Peterson?”
Danny was impressed that Harry had recalled this information, which he had scribbled in his notes from his first discussion with Laurel.
“Yep – but it was another of Laurel’s mistakes, just like she got Thomas McFry’s date of death wrong. She was looking at a different Lawrence family altogether – I found them in the 1901 census, but Anne was the wrong age. Just a red herring, Harry!”

Danny had done well, there was no doubt about that. But Harry would save the plaudits until later, he decided. Still, something put him in a good mood, whether it was Danny’s success with mining the records, or the knowledge that Laurel McFry might have slipped up again with her own researches. One thing was certain, however: he guessed Danny might have made a mistake in transcribing the year of John Lawrence’s birth – either that, or he might have to revisit his own theory about Dacre Lawrence’s father…

“Now,” Harry said, “I’m going to need your phone, if you don’t mind. I think I know now that we’ve still got to keep things vague with Laurel – although she deserves to know about the money. As for Bill Blunt … I’m definitely going to keep it vague where he’s concerned!”
With that, he reached across for the phone that Danny had pulled from his pocket, along with a scrap of paper with Laurel McFry’s number on it.
“Thanks, Danny,” he said, with a smile, “how’d you guess I didn’t have her number?”

*

Mabel Harris had been troubled by Dave Morris’ visit to ‘her’ practice. Although he’d made it clear that the purpose of his visit was purely to investigate Dacre Lawrence, she couldn’t help but worry that some of her own ‘indiscretions’, petty financial wrongdoings that they may be, might be disturbed in the process.

Perhaps that’s why she had determined to see what she could find that might assist Mr Morris in his investigations? Whatever the reason, as she pulled up outside his flat, wreathed in early evening darkness, she had a pretty good idea of what she might be looking for: anything to do with family history. Switching off the engine, she left the lights lingering for a moment on the windows of the ground floor apartment where Lawrence lived, the curtains gaped open just as he had left them on the day he’d gone for his little trip to Telford.
She reached into her handbag for his keys, and killed the lights.

Minutes later, she was pushing open his front door, where only a few pieces of mail provided any resistance. She switched on the hall light, and looked around. It was modest enough, for such a financially successful GP, she thought. But then, he didn’t have any family. She wondered what he did with his money, if he didn’t lavish it on his home?

She found his study, and clicked the switch on a standard lamp in the corner of the room. A pool of light spilled across a small coffee table next to his computer’s printer, which sat on another small table in front of Lawrence’s desk. There, in a neat pile on the coffee table, were what to Mabel’s eye looked like certificates of birth, death and marriage, stacked maybe half an inch high.

She knew what she had to do, and leant across to flick the printer on. It was a similar model to the one’s they used at work, and Mabel knew she’d be able to copy the certificates in a matter of minutes. After pushing them into the automatic feed, and setting the machine away, she went off to hunt for the pair of pyjamas she’d promised Lawrence, smiling to herself as she left the room. David Morris would have cause to thank her, she was sure, when she rang him the next day.

Chapter 119

Harry felt guilty as he walked behind Alan, back towards the flat – but it was nothing to do with Carrie. He knew (he was 99% certain, anyhow) that he didn’t think about his ex-sister-in-law in that way. He couldn’t conceive he’d done anything but share her bed, and the more time that elapsed since Friday, the more certain he was of it.

His guilt was all about Danny. Some ‘colleague’ he was turning out to be for the poor kid. He knew it should have been him showing Danny around the flea market that morning, that the two of them should have been able to stand, sharing the awe, in front of the Picasso just now. He felt a failure.

Alan looked to be brooding, as he walked ahead, his pace quickening as if he didn’t really care that his brother was following him. In fact, he was thinking about what Harry had said about Yolanda, and trying to quell an anger that was building up inside of him.

However right Harry might be about his feelings for Yolanda – and for Carrie, for that matter – he wished his older brother had kept it to himself. He knew, well enough, that Yolanda wasn’t ‘the one for him’, but she was convenient, as far as relationships went. It had certainly been helpful for Carrie to discover about Yolanda, and he wondered if her interest in Harry might have been sparked by the news of his having taken up with Ana’s sister? Perhaps it was her way of responding in kind: touché!

Suddenly, it occurred to Alan that everyone in this strange rectangle de l’amour was using everyone else, all to their own ends. Except perhaps Ana – though, of course, she wasn’t without an agenda of her own, either.

By the time they’d reached the flat, Alan had resolved exactly what he needed to say to Harry. And he’d also worked out something he put up his sleeve, for discussion with Yolanda, when the opportunity presented itself.

Pausing in the hallway, he turned to Harry and looked him square in the face:

“Look, brother … I never asked you to come to Madrid. And I certainly never got involved with you and Ana when you split up … even though I thought it was the stupidest thing you ever did. I kept my distance, and I expect you to do the same with Carrie. Understand?”

Harry was listening, and knew there must be more to come.

“Here’s the deal, then. You’re in my house. At least for one more night. Danny will be back soon, if he’s not already here. I don’t want to hear any more mention of Carrie, or Yolanda, or Ana – is that clear?”

Harry nodded. There was some sense in protecting Danny from the debris, anyway.

“We’ll have something to eat. Then, I suggest you take your guest out somewhere. Unless that’s another friendship you want to foul up?”

No answer was expected. Alan, in fact, had turned to climb the stairs, leaving Harry to accept the terms as the fait accomplis they were meant to be. They’d be out of there tomorrow, anyway … and Harry didn’t really care if he never saw his kid brother again.

*

Harry never got the chance to make the calls he’d wanted to make – to Laurel McFry and to Bill Blunt – even if he’d remembered.

The rest of the late afternoon was spent following Alan’s schedule and, in truth, it worked out well enough. Yolanda had surprised herself, in the end, by preparing a simple tortilla salad, along with fabada, a hearty stew that had seemed the obvious choice when she had seen the chorizo, the morcilla and the beans hidden at the bottom of the fridge. Even Alan had seemed impressed, she noticed.

Any conversation kept well away from the subject of families and relationships, and no one was more surprisedby this than Danny Longhurst. He felt the atmosphere of stilted politeness, of course, but it was a relief. They didn’t even discuss the case that he was working on with Harry. They talked, instead, about Picasso. Yolanda had said how Guernica had always scared her when she was a young girl, and that it still sometimes figured in her dreams. “I hate it, actually. It’s like a nightmare come to life”, she’d told them. Alan seemed to know a thing or two about art, Danny noticed, and he enjoyed his explanation of the techniques used by the painter.

Soon enough, the table was cleared, and Harry suggested that Danny might like to take a walk with him up to the Plaza Mayor, Madrid’s main square, where they might catch something called the ‘paseo’. It sounded good to Danny.

Chapter 118

Fortunately, Pablo had turned up back at Yolanda and Alan’s place – with his tail between his legs – not long after Ana got there. Danny probably passed him in the street as he made his way across the square and on towards the internet café but, of course, had never met him before in his life, and didn’t know that the two sisters had been fretting about his absence.

Ana had disappeared shortly afterwards, leaving Yolanda to try to calm down and wonder when to expect Alan and Harry. Well, she knew to expect Danny back around 4pm – Ana had told him his plan to meet up with Harry about then. She supposed she’d better organize some food or other, just in case. It wasn’t her forte, and as she opened the door to the large refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen, she saw only a jumble of produce. She sometimes thought she had culinary dyslexia, and marveled at how some women seemed to be able to rustle up a meal from what seemed like the most random of ingredients. Her sister had that knack. But then, she obviously had other skills, too – including an uncanny ability to see through facades … and reveal hidden truths.

Harry McFry was on her mind again. She felt she’d done more than enough to facilitate his meetings with Ana, but wondered, now, to what purpose. Ana had given little away, at first – had been more concerned to tell her about the meeting at the Ministry, didn’t even seem overly worried that Pablo had gone missing while her sister was on watch duty. “He does it all the time. Don’t worry. He’ll be back. He knows a good thing when he sees it!” To Yolanda, it had sounded as if Ana was describing a dog.

“How was Harry this morning, anyway?” she’d asked.

“The usual. Why? What makes you ask?”

Yolanda had chosen her words carefully. “Well, he took me for breakfast this morning, before he met up with you. I’m sure he must have mentioned it…”

“No,” Ana had replied, before the question was even properly phrased. “It didn’t crop up in our conversation. And?” Her question was quite matter-of-fact.

“He’s not interested, Ana. It’s all in the past, for him. You’ve done the right thing, moving on. You’ve got to think of Pablo, now.”

Ana had felt a surge of heat building up inside of her, and caught her breath coming more quickly. Why couldn’t people keep their nose out of her affairs? And Harry’s, for that matter? Sometimes, her sister was just too protective. Maybe she should look at her own situation, first, before barging in and analyzing everyone else’s, she’d thought.

“Yolanda. I know you mean well. But don’t you think you have your own problems to sort out first, before meddling in mine?”

A flush of embarrassment had spread across her sister’s face, and she had seemed to struggle to form a response but, even before she could, the doorbell had buzzed down the corridor.

Ana had seen her excuse to leave. “That will be Pablo now”, she’d said, grabbing her handbag and disappearing up the corridor, without another word.

No wonder Yolanda wasn’t in the frame of mind to cook – whether for Alan, Harry, or poor Danny.

Chapter 117

Standing in front of Guernica by Picasso, Harry was momentarily in awe. The huge canvas – much bigger than he’d ever imagined it, spread out across a whole wall of the gallery – shouted its anguish and pain as he slowly scanned it. Just like when he’d first visited New York, and felt – as every other visitor did – that he was walking into the set of every movie he’d ever seen that was filmed there, so the image of Guernica was familiar, and at once so radically new to him.

“So?” Alan whispered, standing just behind his left shoulder.

“Amazing. It’s more powerful than I ever could have imagined.” Harry’s eyes were wide, still trying to take it all in.

“I know. A poster can’t do it justice.” Alan turned to leave, expecting his brother would follow, but when he got to the end of the gallery he saw he was still standing, transfixed, in front of the canvas.

He watched for a minute or two while Harry continued to take in the spectre of war in black, white and flashes of every shade of grey. Eventually, he pulled himself away, just as a huddle of Japanese tourists came in.

“You know, it’s bewildering to imagine that Lillian McFry was there – that she lived through all of that,” he said to Alan, as he drew up next to him and they made their way out of the long room and down the stairs.

“There can’t be many left who did,” Alan said. “Unless they were children.”

They’d been looking at an artistic snapshot of the brutal bombing of the Basque’s spiritual capital, captured by a tortured artist who wanted the world to scream, with him, at the agonies inflicted on an unsuspecting people.

As they descended to the exit, Harry finally felt he could give some sort of explanation to his younger brother for Friday night.

“Look … if you must know, I don’t think anything happened between us,” he said, quietly.

Alan stopped, near the foot of the stairs, and shot Harry a look that said ‘I don’t believe that’. “She said you stayed for breakfast, Harry. In my bed.”

“She … seduced me!” Harry’s words spilled out, almost involuntarily.

Alan’s response was terse: “Not how I heard it, bro.”

“I was drunk!”

“Not an excuse. She’s my ex-wife, for God’s sake!”

Harry was getting riled, felt himself backed into a corner. “Ex-“ he said, pausing for just a fraction of a second, “-cuse me! She’s her own person, Alan. She makes up her own mind what she does, and who she does it with, now. Or did you forget that?”

“It’s not like there aren’t any other women in Birkenhead, is it?” Alan pleaded.

“The truth is, I don’t really know if we did, or we didn’t. She’s the only one who really knows that…” Harry sensed a strategic advantage coming, a chance to turn the tables back on his brother. “Why don’t you ask her?”

(‘And when you do, make sure and let me know!’ he thought). But he knew that would be the last thing Alan would do, worried that it might betray how strong his feelings still were for Carrie. Maybe even that he had – sometimes, at least – regretted abandoning her? He didn’t have to have disappeared to Madrid when Carrie wanted him to stop the drinking, after all, and Harry knew that.

“She’s a fine woman, Alan,” Harry said, pursuing his advantage some more. “But she’s not my type. Just like I don’t think Yolanda’s really your type.”

It was Alan’s turn to feel the ropes against his back. Harry was relentless, and wanted another stab at his brother to drive his point home:

“After all - it’s not like there aren’t any other women in Madrid, is it?”

Their walk back to the flat was passed in silence.

Chapter 116

“We’d best make our way back, don’t you think?” Alan McFry said to his brother, as they emptied the last of their beers.
Harry had made no other arrangements with Ana, other than that she’d ring him as soon as the results of Laurel McFry’s DNA tests were through. Harry was hoping it would determine the relationship between Dacre Lawrence and her: he knew it was most probably a distant one, but what exactly it was, he hadn’t a clue.

“Fancy a gallery, on the way, Harry?” Alan asked, as they left the bar.
“What were you thinking?” Harry replied. He wasn’t in a hurry to go back to the flat - not if there was even the remotest chance of bumping into Ana and Pablo, and all the embarrassments that would entail. Neither had he plans of his own for the afternoon – not now that Danny had made it clear he had his own business to attend to. He wondered what the boy might be up to. Maybe he’d met someone last night, and had a date?
Harry checked himself for projecting his own, younger self onto Danny – why should he assume he’d act like he would have done, at 19, given the freedom of Madrid?
“How about the Reina Sofia?” Alan asked, edging past a group of shoppers outside a tourist shop on the corner of the street.
“I never went there,” Harry said, “what have they got?”
“Hmm…” Alan replied, superior of a sudden. “I think there’s one piece you’ll find interesting, in the context of your case.” He left the response hanging, cryptically, as he made to cross the road, Harry keeping up, on his left. Their route took them slightly off the way to the flat, but not too far out that it mattered. Alan had another tack he had been waiting to try with his brother, though.

“Now… I think perhaps you owe me an explanation. About Friday night, that is.”
Harry had wondered when they’d get around to Friday – and Carrie, of course.

*

If Dacre Lawrence hadn’t been expecting any visitors that afternoon, then he was in for a surprise. Mabel Harris, practice manager at the Chapter Road Health Clinic was feeling generous. It wasn’t part of her job, of course, to visit her boss on a Sunday. But the visit by Dave Morris, from the Family Health Services Counter Fraud Operation, a couple of days earlier, had un-nerved her. She’d spent most of Saturday brooding about what Lawrence might have been up to – and she’d thought of a way she might just find out.

On entering the ward, she’d made her way to the nursing station, and asked to see the nurse in charge. It wasn’t difficult – there were only two or three staff on duty, and the senior nurse was soon located and called over. She recognized Mabel immediately as a regular visitor over the last few days, and wasn’t surprised at all when she asked for Dr Lawrence’s keys.
“He’ll need a change of pyjamas, and some toiletries,” she said, adding “and there is no family, of course.” For added alibi, Mabel pulled out her NHS ID card and flashed it to the nurse: “I’m the manager at Dr Lawrence’s practice.”

The keys were located and handed over. For show, Mabel thought she’d best pop in to see Dr Lawrence before she departed. As it wasn’t one of her lunch-hour visits, she would make it brief. She found him staring at the wall when she entered the room.
“Good afternoon, Dr Lawrence! How are we today?” she asked, brightly. She didn’t bother to take a seat, but hovered at the end of the bed.
Lawrence grunted an acknowledgement as his eyes flicked over her. He knew well enough that Mabel Harris had been using her visits over the last few days as an excuse to escape work. But he’d hardly expected to see her on a Sunday.

As if she guessed what he was thinking, she proffered an explanation.
“I’m going to collect some clothes for you, Dr Lawrence.” She spoke deliberately, and loudly, although there was nothing at all wrong with the doctor’s hearing. She paused, as if to let him take in the information. Lawrence knew he was powerless to argue against her. Maybe she was being helpful – but he doubted it. There was something about the ‘new’ Mabel Harris which made him more than a little uneasy. He knew she relished his weakness.

“Oh, and those people who came to visit the practice – the fraud people…” she said (emphasizing the last part rather too much for Lawrence’s liking) “…well, I think they’re going to be doing some sort of report.”

Mabel had told Lawrence about the visitors when she came on Friday, but had left the details vague. Now, his mind was starting to play over what exactly these ‘fraud people’ might be investigating. He hadn’t done anything so dramatically wrong, had he? Accessing patient records was part and parcel of being a GP and, well, if the government happened to make it easier to access records elsewhere in the country, he could hardly be castigated, could he? Part of him knew that, of course, he could be. With a grim resignation, he wondered whether there was anything to be gained by struggling on. It was one thing to fight against the effect of a stroke, to try to get back some semblance of normality in his life. But if they were on to him, what was the point?

“Anyway, Doctor – I’m afraid I can’t stop. There’s a television programme I simply must get back for - but I’ll see you on Monday, don’t you worry!” Mabel thought that was cutting enough: yes, let him know that a TV show was more important than him…
With that, she gave him a smile, turned on her heels and made her way out of the ward, out of the hospital and into her car, wondering, all the while, what she’d find in Lawrence’s flat.