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had got hold of the wrong syringe. She dropped it back on to the shelf in disgust.
    The burglar froze in the act of stuffing some untidy paper into his pocket. In a slightly more natural but still disguised voice the intruder squawked loudly, then reverted to the hoarse whisper. ‘What you done to me?’
    Jane pulled herself together. ‘I’ve just microchipped you,’ she said bravely. There was a momentary silence broken only when somebody tried the door and, on finding it locked, pushed a small packet of salt through the letter box. Footsteps receded. Silence would only leave the intruder free to think thoughts that Jane would prefer to let die. She picked up the packaging of the syringe from the shelf below the counter. ‘If you really want to know, I can even tell you your number.’
    The whisper rose in panic. ‘Don’t be funny. Take the microchip out of me. Quickly, or I’ll slice your face off.’
    She was in no doubt that the intruder had begun to lose control. Strangely, to be the calmer of the two steadied her nerves. ‘I can’t,’ she said, improvising wildly. ‘Nobody could. It’s inside one of your kidneys. If it’s taken out you’ll be on dialysis for the rest of your life, so if you harm me you’re already carrying the proof of your guilt.’
    The burglar made a half-hearted slash in the direction of Jane’s head. She ducked back and the knife barely missed her scalp. A few strands of dark chestnut hair drifted down. Now the intruder turned and fumbled at the door. It swung open and then slammed shut after the figure left and she heard footsteps scampering away. He had gone; her ordeal was over. Jane was aware how lucky she’d been to have barely had anything stolen aside from some drugs and a small amount of cash. A few moments later, once she was absolutely sure that the intruder had left, never to return, and once the adrenaline had stopped pumping through Jane’s body, her emotions took over and she crumpled to the floor in relief and shock at how close she’d been to a far nastier, potentially more harmful experience.
    Her mobile phone was already in her hand although she had no recollection of taking it out. She meant to call Alistair but first she called Kempfield. Lucas Fraine answered. She managed to compress the story into an amazing minimum of words and told him again to apologize to everyone and explain. But most importantly to let the groom know she had been delayed at the surgery, so that he didn’t start to wonder what was keeping her or worse that he didn’t start to consider the possibility that she could be having second thoughts. She promised that she would explain all later. Lucas sounded more upset than she did but she disconnected from his incoherent enquiries after her well-being.
    Having somewhat collected her emotions and turned to the more practical issues at hand, she noticed for the first time that there was not a mirror in the place. She began sponging at the wedding dress with a mixture of water and the salt the young boy had delivered through the letter box, but the edges of the bloodstains had by now dried in. When Alistair arrived in answer to her second phone call she said, ‘Take me home again. I’ll have to change. Quickly.’
    Alistair looked in horror at her bloodied dress. ‘You’re not allowed to bleed all over my good seats.’ It was touching that his concern was for his car upholstery rather than the dishevelled bride.
    â€˜I’m not going to bleed anywhere,’ Jane said. ‘It’s not me who’s bleeding.’
    For some mad reason this seemed to satisfy Alistair. She sprawled on the luxurious back seat and breathed deeply. She felt that it might have relieved her feelings if she could have snarled like a wolf or bitten somebody, but there are few nervous outlets available to a seriously bloodstained bride. She contained herself as