Her heart ached. Her head ached. Yet her body still glowed from last night. That already seemed like a lie, or at the very least a bad joke.
She passed a newspaper stand then, its billboards advertising reports of Constance Lange’s suicide. The slogans were predictably lurid.
Rose shuddered involuntarily. She was clutching an envelope in her hand. It contained her resignation from the police force, written the previous day before she had spent the night with Simon, before they had made such wonderful love, before everything had been destroyed when they had yet again quarrelled so viciously.
She hurried past the news-stand, then paused by the post box. Yesterday she had been so sure of herself. Now she did not know whether she wanted to post her letter or not. Her face was wet with tears. And she had no idea whether she was crying for herself, or for Simon, or for Constance Lange — or even for Charlie.
In the hold of a 747 jet somewhere over the Indian Ocean a black Labrador cowered trembling inside a wooden crate.
Josh was not afraid, not of flying, which he did not understand, nor of being in the crate, which was actually quite cosy. He had been treated kindly. He had been fed and watered. He assumed that he would continue to be treated well. After all, he had never been mistreated. But although Josh had no conception of travelling across half the world, he somehow knew that he was leaving everything he loved behind. For months the dog had existed merely in the hope that his mistress would return. Every day he had watched and waited for her. Now he finally understood that he would never see her again.
Josh did not know that his mistress was dead — only that she had gone away for ever. He threw back his fine black head with the sad brown eyes and howled.