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been there, and as soon as he came in Jane had begun talking about Stacey and her horrible death. It would be the same with Nicola.
    He asked himself why he didn’t want to talk about Stacey. He had done nothing wrong; in fact he had been doing her a favour as far as he knew. It wasn’t his fault that she had taken an overdose of the pills. She could have checked them on the web. The label had advised using care. All he had done was give her – well, sell her – fifty slimming pills that in some circumstances, for some people, caused nasty symptoms. ‘And death,’ an inner voice reminded him. Death could be caused by taking DNP. He had by this time been to several dinitrophenol websites, which all mentioned death as a possible result of taking the stuff. Not inevitable, of course, but possible. He had to accept that, painful though it was.
    Really, the whole situation was his father’s fault. He had died after a heart attack, and one of the websites had said DNP could damage the heart. Could it be …? No, Wilfred had been an old man, and old men died from heart attacks. Young women didn’t.
    Carl jumped suddenly out of his chair. It was a fine day, another fine day after many in this month of June, and he would go out, walk in the sunshine, think about
Sacred Spirits
and how best to get into it. He had made a false start with this book, and he must begin again. He must find the kind of creative inspiration he had felt when writing
Death’s Door.
    He made his way through the little streets of St John’s Wood, then turned down Lisson Grove. The June sunshine fell gently on his face, the kind of warmth sunshine should always bestow; not a punishing heat or a mildness spoilt by the wind, but steady and promising a permanence. He thought, why can’t I just appreciate things as they come? Why can’t I enjoy the moment? I have done nothing wrong. But that inner voice said to him, ‘You sold those pills to that girl and you never emphasised to her that they had side effects. You never even told her to google them. You wanted the money. You didn’t warn her.’
    Nothing, he told himself as he let himself back into his house. There is nothing to be done. Put it out of your mind. Nothing will bring her back. Sit down at that computer and write something. Anything.
     
    There must have been close to thirty children in the play centre that afternoon, but on a fine day like this it wasn’t so bad looking after kids. Only another half-hour to go and then Lizzie could get back to the beautiful flat in Primrose Hill Road. The playground had been quite a big area when she was a child herself, but over the years it had become smaller as more and more children reached school age, more and more classrooms were needed, as well as a bigger gym and a science lab, though what little kids needed a lab for she didn’t know. Now the children actually bumped into each other running about. Lizzie wasn’t supposed to have a whistle for the little ones, but she had and blew it often, trying to bring them to heel. Like dogs, said her mother, who didn’t approve.
    It was worse when it rained and the children had to stay indoors. Another thing Lizzie wasn’t supposed to do was feed them with anything but their tea, which consisted of wholemeal bread and Marmite, and apples. Lizzie gave them crisps and sweets called star fruits to shut them up. It cost her a fortune, but it was worth it, especially now she had no gas or electricity to pay for.
    On the dot of five thirty, when the parents would start coming for them, she shooed them indoors and counted them. She dreaded one going missing. Not because she cared – if anything, she disliked children – but because of the trouble there would be and the loss of her job. But they were all there today, and they all wanted to get home. So did Lizzie.
    It wasn’t far to Primrose Hill Road from West End Lane, just a short walk along Adelaide Road, and halfway along she sat down on a seat, tore up