much guidance about how to get around. The fact that she wouldn’t have gotten all the necessary relevant information about how to get around by cheerfully talking to everyone she met had simply never occurred to Cormac; how else did people live?
The farm was small, a few cows and chickens mostly, the farmyard a churn of mud and the track leading up to it single lane and full of potholes. It did, however, crest a vast hill, and she suddenly caught a glimpse of the valley and the village down below, beneath the shadows of the crags, a straight train line on one side and the great expanse of Loch Ness on the other. She stared at it for a long while. It must be so strange to grow up here. All this space, all this fresh air. Did they like it? She supposed they must. How strange.
Blinking, she stepped out of the car, up to her ankles in mud.
“Hello?” she shouted out. The farmhouse itself was quiet, old gray stone and empty-looking windows. It was perched high up in the hills and the cold wind whistled through her, completely unprotected above the low stone walls, but the view was utterly breathtaking. She felt as if she were in the middle of a living, breathing painting in a million shades of green.
For the first time in a while she wasn’t constantly aware of whether her heart was jumping in her chest, wasn’t worried about loud noises or someone creeping up on her. This vast canvas spread in front of her. This landscape with birds rising from scattered seed and tiny bounding spots of fluff on distant hillsides, mirroring the little clouds scudding quickly past in the cold bright blue sky. Lissa shut her eyes and took a deep breath.
So it was ironic, really, that the very next second she jumped out of her skin.
Chapter 27
The traffic wasn’t getting any less frightening, Cormac noticed. He thought there was meant to be something called a “rush hour,” but it didn’t seem to exist here. It was like that all the time.
The next address was a tower block too, but a very different one.
Right on the south bank of the river, on a street called, mysteriously, Shad Thames, stood a high warehouse building and, at the very top of it, as if it had been plonked down, a white-paneled house in the shape of a lighthouse, with a weathercock on the top of it, surrounded by terraces overlooking the Tower of London and the sparkling river.
Inside, it was the most extraordinary place Cormac had ever seen. It was immaculate, beautifully furnished in a minimalistic way. Large, expensive-looking paintings lined the walls, even though from the mirrors on three sides of the room the view was reward enough. It was a beautiful day in London, warm enough that Cormac’s hi-vis jacket was an encumbrance, but the apartment was perfectly temperature controlled. Fresh flowers were lined up on every available surface. There weren’t many drugs in Kirrinfief, but Cormac had dealt with a few overdoses as a student on placement. He’d never, ever met a junkie who kept flowers in a vase.
Barnabas Collier leaned against an island in the vast kitchen, having buzzed him up. At first Cormac couldn’t imagine what on earth he was doing there. His patient was standing with a glass of something he’d just taken from a massive American fridge. He was incredibly handsome: floppy hair over the high planes of his face, long green eyes. Slim and fit looking. It felt like a setup or a strange blind date gone a bit wrong.
“Hello,” said Barnabas warmly, shaking his hand. He was wearing lots of what was clearly an extremely expensive cologne. “Coffee? Water? Wine?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” said Cormac, then he frowned and glanced at his hospital notes. Why couldn’t Lissa have filled him in? There was nothing but the basics here . . . “Sorry, it says here we have a wound treatment?”
“Yah,” said Barnabas, yawning ostentatiously and pouring himself another large glass of Chablis from the fridge. “Sorry, don’t mind if I do? Rather a hair of the dog—I was at a Serpentine party last night, and goodness, you know how they are.”
Cormac very much did not and smiled awkwardly.
“So,” said Barnabas, leading him through to the sitting area. It had windows on three sides, two balconies, and a vast gray modular sofa; a huge flat-screen television hung on the wall. Cormac didn’t know many junkies who had those