Sister: A Novel by Rosamund Lupton Page A

to learn a little about it.’
    As I said, anger can take the chill from terror, at least for a while.

    It started blizzarding as I drove from Little Hadston back to London, transplanting the M11 into a violently shaken snow globe. Millions of flakes were falling frenziedly towards the ground, hitting the windscreen, too many and too fast for the wipers to clear them. Signs on the motorway flashed up warnings of dangerous driving conditions and issued slower speed limits, keeping motorists safe. An ambulance sped past, siren blaring.

    ‘It’s not a din, Bee.’
    ‘OK , racket then.’
    ‘A siren is the sound of the twenty-first-century cavalry on its way.’
    You’d just started art college and were full of thoughts no-one-but-you-had-ever-had-before. And you had that other annoying student trait of thinking non-students incapable of understanding.
    ‘I mean a cavalry of a fire engine, or a police car or an ambulance racing to the rescue.’
    ‘ I’d got the point first time, thanks, Tess.’
    ‘But you thought it too silly to comment on?’
    ‘Yup.’
    You giggled. ‘Seriously though, to me a siren’s the sound of a society taking care of its citizens.’
    The ambulance had gone from sight now, the siren no longer audible. Was there any cavalry for you? I stopped myself thinking like this. I couldn’t let myself wonder what was happening to you. But my body felt cold and frightened and alone.

    The roads near your flat hadn’t been gritted and were treacherously icy. I skidded when I parked, almost knocking over a motorbike by your flat. A man in his early twenties was sitting at the bottom of the steps, holding an absurdly large bouquet, snowflakes melting as they landed on the cellophane wrapping. I recognised him from your description - Simon the MP’s son. You’re right; his pierced lips do make his childish face seem tortured. His biker clothes were soaked and his fingers were white with cold. Despite the freezing air, I could smell aftershave. I remembered you telling me about his clumsy advances and your response. You must be one of very few people who actually deliver the promised consolation prize of being friends.
    I told him you were missing and he hugged the bouquet to his chest, crushing the flowers inside. His Eton-educated voice was quiet. ‘How long?’
    ‘Last Thursday.’
    I thought his face went white. ‘I was with her on Thursday.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Hyde Park. We were together till around four.’
    That was two hours after you were seen in the post office. He must have been the last person to see you.
    ‘She’d phoned me that morning, asked to meet me,’ continued Simon. ‘She suggested the Serpentine Gallery in Kensington Gardens. We’d meet there for a coffee, see how things went.’
    His accent had changed to North London. I wondered which accent was genuine.
    ‘Afterwards I asked her if I could walk her home,’ continued Simon. ‘But she turned me down.’ His voice was filled with self-pity. ‘Since then I haven’t phoned her, haven’t been to see her. And yes, that’s not supportive of me, but I wanted her to know what the cold-shoulder treatment felt like.’
    His ego must be monstrous to believe his hurt feelings could matter to you after your baby had died, or to me now that you were missing.
    ‘Whereabouts did you leave her?’ I asked.
    ‘She left me, OK? I walked with her across Hyde Park. Then she left. I didn’t leave her anywhere.’
    I was sure he was lying. The North London accent was the fake.
    ‘Where?’
    He didn’t reply.
    I yelled my question at him again. ‘ Where ?!’
    ‘By the lido.’
    I’d never yelled at someone before.

    I phoned DS Finborough and left an urgent message for him. Simon was in your bathroom, warming his numb white hands under the hot tap. Later your bathroom would smell of his aftershave and I would be angry with him for masking the smell of your soap and shampoo.
    ‘What did the police say?’ he asked when he came