He was late, having been drawn into an anxious discussion with Kate about three spots on Celia’s chubby cheek. Was it measles? No, she’d had the jab. Chicken pox? Not the right kind of spots. Ringworm, then, caught from other children at the Mums and Tots group? Finally they had agreed that Kate should take her to the surgery and check with the doctor. Couldn’t be too careful, Gavin had said. Now he arrived in the office car park, locked his car and ran towards the front entrance. “Gavin!” A tall, heavily built man with sandy hair carefully combed over a pinkish scalp, emerged from behind a car parked to one side and blocked his way. Damn! Gavin said to himself. What the hell did Tim Froot want with him now? And surely he had more sense than to come here to find him? “In a hurry!” he gasped, hesitating for a moment. “Can I catch up with you later?” “Now,” said Froot flatly. “In my car. Get in.” The darkened windows shielded them from onlookers, and Gavin said again that he was late for work and in a hurry.
