The Girl You Left Behind

which came in from New York at 3.42am. Some legal problem. He
     takes the lift down to the underground car park, trying to update himself with the
     night’s events.
    ‘Morning, Mr Traynor.’
    The security guard steps out of his cubicle.
     It’s weatherproof, even though down here there is no weather to be protected from.
     Will sometimes wonders what he does down here in the small hours, staring at the
     closed-circuit television and the glossy bumpers of £60,000 cars that never get
     dirty.
    He shoulders his way into his leather
     jacket. ‘What’s it like out there, Mick?’
    ‘Terrible. Raining cats and
     dogs.’
    Will stops. ‘Really? Not weather for
     the bike?’
    Mick shakes his head. ‘No, sir. Not
     unless you’ve got an inflatable attachment. Or a death wish.’
    Will stares at his bike, then peels himself
     out of his leathers. No matter what Lissa thinks, he is not a man who believes in taking
     unnecessary risks. He unlocks the top box of his bike and places the leathers inside,
     locking it and throwing the keys at Mick, who catches them neatly with one hand.
     ‘Stick those through my door, will you?’
    ‘No problem. You want me to call a
     taxi for you?’
    ‘No. No point both of us getting
     wet.’
    Mick presses the button to open the
     automatic grilleand Will steps out, lifting a hand in thanks. The early
     morning is dark and thunderous around him, the Central London traffic already dense and
     slow despite the fact that it is barely half past seven. He pulls his collar up around
     his neck and strides down the street towards the junction, from where he is most likely
     to hail a taxi. The roads are slick with water, the grey light shining on the mirrored
     pavement.
    He curses inwardly as he spies the other
     suited people standing on the edge of the kerb. Since when did the whole of London begin
     getting up so early? Everyone has had the same idea.
    He is wondering where best to position
     himself when his phone rings. It is Rupert.
    ‘I’m on my way in. Just trying
     to get a cab.’ He catches sight of a taxi with an orange light approaching on the
     other side of the road, and begins to stride towards it, hoping nobody else has seen. A
     bus roars past, followed by a lorry whose brakes squeal, deafening him to Rupert’s
     words. ‘Can’t hear you, Rupe,’ he yells against the noise of the
     traffic. ‘You’ll have to say that again.’ Briefly marooned on the
     island, the traffic flowing past him like a current, he can see the orange light
     glowing, holds up his free hand, hoping that the driver can see him through the heavy
     rain.
    ‘You need to call Jeff in New York.
     He’s still up, waiting for you. We were trying to get you last night.’
    ‘What’s the problem?’
    ‘Legal hitch. Two clauses
     they’re stalling on under
     section … signature … papers … ’ His voice is
     drowned out by a passing car, its tyres hissing in the wet.
    ‘I didn’t catch that.’
    The taxi has seen him. It is slowing, sending a
     fine spray of water as it slows on the opposite side of the road. He spies the man
     further along whose brief sprint slows in disappointment as he sees Will must get there
     before him. He feels a sneaking sense of triumph. ‘Look, get Cally to have the
     paperwork on my desk,’ he yells. ‘I’ll be there in ten
     minutes.’
    He glances both ways then ducks his head as
     he runs the last few steps across the road towards the cab, the word
     ‘Blackfriars’ already on his lips. The rain is seeping down the gap between
     his collar and his shirt. He will be soaked by the time he reaches the office, even
     walking this short distance. He may have to send his secretary out for another
     shirt.
    ‘And we need to get this due diligence
     thing worked out before Martin gets in –’
    He glances up at the screeching sound, the
     rude blare of a horn. He sees the side of the glossy black taxi in front of him, the
     driver already winding down his window, and at the edge of his field of vision something
     he can’t quite make out, something coming towards him at an impossible speed.
    He turns towards it, and in that split
     second he realizes that he is in its path, that there is no way he is going to be able
     to get out of its way. His hand opens in surprise, letting the BlackBerry fall to the
     ground. He hears a shout, which may be his own. The last thing he sees is a leather
     glove, a face under a helmet, the shock in the