A Place of Hiding by Elizabeth George

to be a trial and a sentence before the month's up.”
    â€œCan the embassy do anything?” Deborah put their breakfast on the table. “Simon, do you know?”
    Her husband considered the question. He didn't work often for embassies, more often instead for the CPS or for barristers who were mounting a criminal defence in court and required an outside expert witness to offset the testimony of someone from one police laboratory or another. But he knew enough to be able to explain what the American embassy would doubtless offer Cherokee when he put in his appearance in Grosvenor Square.
    â€œDue process,” he said. “That's what the embassy works to ensure. They'll make certain that the laws of the land are applied to China's situation.”
    â€œThat's all they can do?” Cherokee asked.
    â€œNot much more, I'm afraid.” Simon sounded regretful, but he went on in a more reassuring tone. “I expect they'll make sure she has good representation. They'll check the lawyer's credentials and make sure he wasn't called to the bar just three weeks ago. They'll see to it that anyone in the States whom China wants to have informed will be informed. They'll get her post sent to her in good time and they'll make her part of their regular round of visitations, I expect. They'll do what they can.” He observed Cherokee for a moment and then added kindly, “It's early days yet, you know.”
    â€œWe weren't even there when all this came down,” Cherokee said numbly. “When it all happened. I kept telling them that but they wouldn't believe me. They have to have records at the airport, don't they? Records of when we left? They have to have records.”
    â€œOf course,” Simon said. “If the day and the the time of death conflict with your departure, that's something that'll come out quickly.” He toyed with his knife, tapping it against his plate.
    Deborah said, “What? Simon, what?”
    He looked at Cherokee and then beyond him to the kitchen window, where Alaska sat alternately washing his face and stopping to press his paw against the rain tracks on the glass as if he could prevent them from coursing downward. He said carefully, “You have to look at this with a level head. This isn't a third world country we're talking about. It's not a totalitarian state. The police on Guernsey aren't about to make an arrest without evidence. So”—he set his knife to one side—“the reality is this: Something definite has actually led them to believe they've got the killer they want.” He looked at Cherokee then and he studied his face in his usual dispassionate scientist's fashion, as if seeking reassurance that the other man could handle what he was about to conclude with. “You need to prepare yourself.”
    â€œFor what?” Cherokee reached as if unconsciously towards the table's edge.
    â€œFor whatever your sister may have done, I'm afraid. Without your knowledge.”

Chapter 3
    â€œW INKLEWATER, F RANKIE. 'A T ' S WHAT we called it. Never mentioned that, did I? Never talked much of how bad things got round the subject of food, did I, lad? Don't much like to think about those times. Bloody Krauts . . . What they did to this island . . .”
    Frank Ouseley slipped his hands gently through his father's armpits as the old man maundered on. He eased him off the plastic chair in the bath and guided his left foot onto the tattered mat that covered the cold linoleum. He'd turned the radiator up as far as it would go this morning, but it still seemed frigid in the bathroom to him. So, one hand on his father's arm to keep him steady, he grabbed the towel from its rail and shook it out. He tucked it snugly round his father's shoulders, which were wizened as was the rest of him. Graham Ouseley's flesh was ninety-two years old, and it hung upon his frame like stringy bread dough.
    â€œThrew everything into the pot in those days,”