Emma felt sorry for the poor man. How many times a day did he have to deliver those same words? From the look on his face, it didn’t get any easier.
“I’m afraid there’s rather a lot of paperwork to be completed, but I fear the coroner will require a formal identification before we can think about that.”
Emma bowed her head and burst into tears, wishing, as Harry had suggested, that she’d allowed him to carry out the unbearable task. Mr. Owen leaped up from behind his desk, crouched down beside her and said, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Clifton.”
* * *
Harold Guinzburg couldn’t have been more considerate and helpful.
Harry’s publisher had booked him on to the first available flight to London, first class. At least he would be comfortable, Harold thought, although he didn’t imagine the poor man would be able to sleep. He decided this was not the time to tell him the good news, but simply asked Harry to pass on his heartfelt condolences to Emma.
When Harry checked out of the Pierre Hotel forty minutes later, he found Harold’s chauffeur standing on the sidewalk waiting to drive him to Idlewild airport. Harry climbed into the back of the limousine, as he had no desire to speak to anyone. Instinctively, his thoughts turned to Emma, and what she must be going through. He didn’t like the idea of her having to identify their son’s body. Perhaps the hospital staff would suggest she waited until he returned.
Harry didn’t give a thought to the fact he would be among the first passengers to cross the Atlantic non-stop, as he could only think about his son, and how much he’d been looking forward to going up to Cambridge to begin his first year at university. And after that … he’d assumed that with Seb’s natural gift for languages, he’d want to join the Foreign Office, or become a translator, or possibly even teach, or …
After the Comet had taken off, Harry rejected the glass of champagne offered by a smiling air hostess, but then how could she know he had nothing to smile about? He didn’t explain why he wouldn’t be eating or sleeping. During the war, when he was behind enemy lines, Harry had trained himself to stay awake for thirty-six hours, only surviving on the adrenaline of fear. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he’d seen his son for the last time, and he suspected not for some considerable time after that: the adrenaline of despair.
* * *
The consultant led Emma silently down a bleak corridor until they came to a halt outside a hermetically sealed door, with the single word, Mortuary, displayed in appropriately black letters on its pebbled glass pane. Mr. Owen pushed open the door and stood aside to allow Emma to enter. The door closed behind her with a squelch. The sudden change in temperature made her shiver, and then her eyes settled on a trolley standing in the middle of the room. The faint outline of her son’s body was visible under the sheet.
A white-coated assistant stood at the head of the trolley, but didn’t speak.
“Are you ready, Mr
s. Clifton?” asked Mr. Owen gently.
“Yes,” said Emma firmly, her fingernails cutting into the palms of her hands.
Owen nodded, and the mortician pulled back the sheet to reveal a scarred and battered face that Emma recognized immediately. She screamed, collapsed on to her knees and began to sob uncontrollably.
Mr. Owen and the mortician were not surprised by this predictable reaction of a mother at the first sight of her dead son, but they were shocked when she said quietly, “That’s not Sebastian.”
2
AS THE TAXI drew up outside the hospital, Harry was surprised to see Emma standing by the entrance, clearly waiting for him. He was even more surprised when she ran toward him, relief etched on her face.
“Seb’s alive,” she shouted long before she’d reached him.
“But you told me—” he began as she threw her arms around him.
“The police made a mistake. They assumed it was the owner of the car who was driving, and that therefore Seb must have been in the passenger seat.”
“Then Bruno was the passenger?” said Harry quietly.
“Yes,” said Emma, feeling a little guilty.
“You realize what that means?” said Harry, releasing her.
“No. What are you getting at?”
“The police must have told Martinez that his son had survived, only for him to discover later that it was Bruno who’d been killed, not Sebastian.”
Emma bowed her head. “Poor man,” she said as they entered the hospital.
“Unless…” said Harry, not finishing the sentence. “So how’s Seb?” he asked quietly. “What state is he in?”
“Pretty bad, I’m afraid. Mr. Owen told me there weren’t many bones left in his body to break. It seems he’ll be in hospital for several months, and may end up spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair.”