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Dr Bell. She consulted her computer then produced a sheaf of forms from a drawer. ‘If you wouldn’t mind filling in these and letting us have them back. It’s Ms …?’
    ‘Hodson,’ Lizzie said. ‘I guess Dr Reilly must be run ragged.’
    ‘Far from it, I’m afraid.’ The receptionist was making a note of her name. ‘We’ll need your NI number.’
    Lizzie thanked her, collected the forms and left. In her car she scrolled down the directory in her mobile. Journalists, like policemen, routinely discount the power of coincidence.
    The number answered in seconds. A male voice.
    ‘Anton? Lizzie. Your place or mine?’
    Anton Schiller lived in a basement flat in the depths of Heavitree, a red-brick suburb to the east of Exeter city centre. Lizzie had known him now for a couple of months. He’d left his native Vienna with a doctorate in literature and sizeable gambling debts. His father had paid off the gambling debts on condition that he move to the UK, perfect his English, find himself a job and keep away from the casino and the gaming machines.
    With the exception of an occasional tussle with the slots, Anton had kept his side of the bargain. He taught conversational German to a variety of age groups and was about to embark on a series of lectures at the university on the novels of Thomas Mann. Lizzie had run into him at a function at the local Picturehouse and liked him a great deal, not least because he loved the idea of Bespoken, her investigative website, and was keen to contribute.
    Last night’s email had come from him. Now she wanted to know more.
    ‘We’re talking mercy killings?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘I had a friend. A good friend.’ He frowned. ‘This is difficult.’
    ‘Just tell me, Anton. Don’t fuck around.’
    Under pressure, Schiller was good at doing coy. When they’d first met, Lizzie had known at once that he was far too interesting and flirty to be anything but gay. Now, his long body curled on the sofa, he gazed into his herbal tea. He had a number of boyfriends but his regular date was a Tunisian student at the medical school.
    ‘Was it Ghassan?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Who, then?’
    ‘An older man. Jeff. You don’t know him.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Jeff had a partner. They lived together for years. His name was Alec. He was an American like Jeff but even older and he’d been here a long time. He had Aids. Full blown. No coming back. He was dying and Jeff was nursing him. Tough stuff.’
    ‘You were there too?’
    ‘No. But I know Jeff. I know Jeff well. He’s a sweet guy. The sweetest. No bullshit with Jeff. He tells it the way it is.’ He frowned. ‘Or was.’
    Lizzie knelt on the floor beside him. The best stories, she told herself, come from moments like these, guys like these, the yeast in life’s rich brew.
    ‘So what happened?’
    ‘Alec was suffering. And he was frightened. No one wants to die. He didn’t want to die. Jeff didn’t want him to die. But he didn’t want to see him the way he was either. Skin and bone? You say that?’
    ‘We do. Alec had a doctor?’
    ‘Of course. Jeff said she was wonderful. Nothing too much trouble. She set up nursing support. She made sure there were always plenty of drugs. She spent time with them both. This woman was an angel.’
    ‘Sure.’ Lizzie was thinking about last night’s email. ‘Who told you about Harold Shipman?’
    ‘Jeff did. A famous GP? Killed hundreds of patients?’
    ‘That’s right. So what happened with Alec?’
    ‘He’d had enough. He wanted it to end. And so it did.’
    ‘Thanks to the doctor?’
    ‘Thanks to the angel. Just an injection. Jeff was there. Jeff held him in his arms, watched him go. So peaceful. So perfect.’
    ‘And her name? This doctor?’
    ‘Harriet Reilly.’
    Lizzie was back home within the hour. Anton had given her other names. Some of these people were from the gay community. Others for whatever reason had hit rock bottom. Several were simply old and