Mo Hayder - Pig Island

Well, off he went into the lift and that was where the exchange ended, short and polite and not very remarkable. But I'm not stupid. I knew quite well the message he was sending. His choice of words, very attractive (used twice), wasn't lost on me. From that day on I kept the reception area shining and bright, squirting perfume into the air and sweeping the floor every time a patient walked leaves and dirt in from the street. Every day Christophe came breezing through; no matter how late he was or how stressed, he always found time to comment on how attractive it looked, and every day I worked harder at it, always thinking ahead, trying to do what would please him.

I think I've told you — and you probably knew anyway — about all his pro bono work, the fabulous things he's done for people around the world too poor to pay for operations? Well, I'd saved a lot of the press cuttings, interviews and photos of him with the people he's helped, and it suddenly occurred to me how nice it would be to have them framed. I found someone in Tottenham Court Road to do them quite cheaply and two weeks later I got to work early and spent an hour hanging them around the reception area until they looked perfect. Then I polished everything, swept the floor, straightened my blouse and sat neatly, waiting for him to come in

He was a few minutes late. He came in, shaking his umbrella and propping it in the corner. 'Good morning, Alex.'

'Morning, Mr Radnor,' I said, my smile getting wider. I could hardly keep still I was so excited. 'What filthy weather.'

'Dreadful.' He looked up, and when he saw all the pictures arrayed behind me, his expression changed. He paused, then came forward slowly, a hesitant smile on his face. 'Those are nice,' he said uncertainly. He stopped at the desk, unbuttoned his raincoat and seemed to be thinking hard. Then he said, 'Maybe not entirely suitable in Reception? I wonder if they look a little — uh — showy. Do you think?'

My smile faded. 'You've got a lot to be proud of, Mr Radnor.'

'I tell you what,' he said kindly, 'don't you think they'd look rather good in my office?'

'Your office?' And then, of course, I understood. He wasn't upset or angry — he was being modest. That's the sort of man he is. I stood up behind the desk, very erect and proud. 'Yes. Your office. Your office it is.' I turned and began to take them down, piling them efficiently on the counter. 'I'll carry them up for you.'

'Oh, no no no — no need for that.'

'None of the staff'll be here for half an hour. I can lock the door.'

'It won't be necessary.'

'But I'd like to.'

I stood on tiptoe to reach the top ones, and here I blame myself — because I didn't give a thought to what it might do to him to see my skirt ride up and reveal the tops of my legs in my black tights. When I got the last picture down and turned to him, his expression had hardened. He was red in the face.

'Come on, then,' he said, picking up half of the pictures. 'I'll get the lift.'

I'd never been in his office because that dragon of a secretary guards it like Cerberus. Well, it was absolutely exquisite, with oak-panelled walls and elegant curtains and a marvellous view of the rain-spattered roofs of Harley Street. You could even see the tops of some of the trees in Regent's Park. I stopped and sighed, looking around me.

'Oh, it's lovely, just lovely, up here. It's exactly what I expected.'

'Thank you,' he said, taking off his raincoat and hanging it on the hatstand behind the door. 'You can put them on the window-seat. I'll deal with them later.'

So I took the pictures to the window-seat, with its lovely raw-silk cushions in a dusty apricot colour, and put them in a pile. Then I loitered for a moment or two, next to the window where the sun could come through and show the highlights in my hair. Christophe sat down at his desk and switched on his computer.

'Was there anything else?'

I smiled and stretched up on tiptoe once or twice, my shoulders up, I was so full of excitement. This was like a secret game we were playing.

He smiled, a little tightly. 'Sorry. I said — was there anything else?'

'Your secretary's got a great job,' I said. 'It's the sort of job I'd love.'

He nodded, and looked at the door, then at the computer screen. Then he rubbed his top lip a little anxiously, with the side of his finger.

'Don't worry,' I said, because I know that's the thing with men and sex — it overwhelms them, like a wave. He needed time to come down to earth. 'I'm going. Call me if you need anything. I finish at five.'

I stopped at the door and turned round to give him a last little wave, but he was busy with the computer, clicking through his appointments — like the professional he is — so I went back to my desk and spent the whole day glowing with that amazing feeling you get when you know you've met someone who is going to change your life.

I didn't tell you any of this before out of respect for Mr Radnor — the medical community is like a grapevine, isn't it? And, God knows, it's not easy for a man of his age, struggling with these feelings. But don't think I'm dismissing what you said: in fact, when you said, 'professional relationship', I think you were closer to the truth than you realized. Because in the last few days it's become very clear to me: what Christophe needs is an excuse to have a closer professional relationship with me. He needs a bit of breathing space to relax around me, so the real thing between us can develop. What's ironic is I didn't see any of this until what happened that awful morning with Oakesy and Angeline Dove.

Sometimes you surprise yourself. When we drove away from the layby I was trembling with shock. But then I wound down the window and put my face into the slipstream, the cold air racing up my nose and into my lungs and I thought of one thing. Ithought about Christophe. I thought about the things he's endured — the human tragedies, the danger, the disaster zones — all the appalling conditions he's confronted (without, incidentally, ever being reduced to tears). The sun floated free of the horizon and warmed my face, and suddenly I felt very close to him. I had the strange feeling that what had happened on Cuagach was going to unite us in some way. By the time we got to Oban I wasn't trembling any more. If anything, I was excited. I was in the middle of something enormously important. No one at the clinic would be able to ignore that for very long.

The seaside town was absolutely silent: aside from the early Mull ferry in the harbour, lit up like a Christmas tree, the only sign of life was the remains of last night's drinking sessions — chip-wrappers blowing along the cobbled street, a seagull tugging at a half-eaten kebab in the gutter. Oakesy parked in a back alley and we all got out of the car, our faces stony and shocked in the early sun. Angeline took a little longer getting out, struggling a bit. I think it was then I realized there was something wrong with her.

Earlier I suppose I must have thought she'd hurt herself on the island and that was why she was sitting strangely. It's amazing that, with all my experience at the clinic, I didn't give it much thought. But now, as we walked to the police station, I studied her out of the corner of my eye and it dawned on me that something was very wrong. She limped slightly, lurching a little, as if her right leg was shorter than the left, and once or twice held her hand up, as if to reach for something to catch her balance, the hem of her coat swaying. She kept up with us — but whenever I slowed down to try to get a glimpse of her from behind she slowed too, so I couldn't see. But I was getting an impression, even out of the corner of my eye, of a strange bulk at the back — looking at her, you'd think she was wearing a bag strapped under her coat.