Chapter 1

August 2000

She always felt exactly the same. It surprised her. Relieved.
Excited. And a bit ashamed. Walking away, knowing she'd done it,
resisting the temptation to look back, carefully subdued --- she
could still remember old Bob at the news agency telling her one of
the prime qualities for a good reporter was acting ability. Of
course, the shame was pretty rare, but if it was a real tragedy,
then it did lurk about, the feeling that she was a parasite, making
capital out of someone else's unhappiness.

This had been a horror to do; a baby in its pushchair, hit by a
stolen car; the driver hadn't stopped, had been caught by the
police fifty miles away. The baby was in intensive care and it was
touch and go whether he would live; the parents had been angry as
well as grief-stricken, sitting, clutching each other's hands on
the bench just outside the hospital door.

"He'll get what --- three years?" the young father had said,
lighting his ninth cigarette of the interview --- Jocasta always
counted things like that, it helped add colour. "And then get on
with his life. Our little chap's only had eight months and he could
be gone forever. It makes me sick. I tell you, they should lock
them up forever for this sort of thing, lock them up and throw away
the key --- "

She could see her headline then, and hated herself for seeing
it.