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She looked up at the smears of red and brown paint across the blank sheet. ‘I take it that wasn't what you intended?'

He stopped and smiled for the first time, recognising that she was trying to engage with him. ‘No, not exactly. Christ, I wasn't even trying to do anything very complicated. Just a few initial brushstrokes. And I couldn't even do that properly. The lines were all over the place. In the end, I just scrubbed it out.' He looked back at her, the smile faded, the eyes despairing. ‘Shit, Marie. It's the only thing I could do, and now I can't do it any more.'

There was nothing she could say. There was no point in denying it or in trying to offer any attempt at consolation. She knew from experience that he wouldn't be in any mood to listen to that. She grasped his hand in hers, squeezing slightly, trying to express physically the emotions she couldn't articulate in words. It wasn't worth, now, even trying to pretend that his condition might improve. The consultant had made that clear. Liam had gone well beyond the point where they might expect any remission. The best they could hope for – and even this seemed increasingly forlorn as week followed week – was that his condition might stabilise, that he might remain as he now was. Looking at him this evening, that hardly seemed a consoling thought.

‘Come on,' she said. ‘I'll get some supper on. Open a bottle of wine. You're exhausted now. You can try again tomorrow–' Even as she said the last words, she regretted them, knowing how Liam was likely to react.

‘Jesus, Marie, haven't you worked it out yet? I'm always bloody exhausted. I sit around on my arse all day in this bloody contraption, watching fucking makeover shows on TV. And I'm still bloody knackered. It's not something a good night's sleep's going to sort out. Assuming I could even get a good night's sleep.'

Not even trying to respond to any of this, she climbed to her feet and pushed the wheelchair back through into the sitting room. Depression, she thought. On top of everything else, like some bad joke. Apparently, it wasn't uncommon for sufferers from multiple sclerosis also to suffer from clinical depression. Liam had had bouts of that before, long before he'd been diagnosed with MS. Just my artistic temperament, he'd half-joked, when they'd first talked about it. But now it looked as though it might have been just one more indicator of this bloody illness. Christ knew, he had enough to be depressed about.

She positioned him in front of the television, searching through the channels to find something that wasn't entirely mind numbing. That was another thing, she thought. Perhaps the most worrying of all.

She'd expected the physical disability. Maybe not the extent of it or the speed of its progression – but she'd known it was going to happen. She'd steeled herself for it, as best she could.

What she hadn't expected was the condition would affect him in other ways. His cognitive abilities, to use the jargon that had become so painfully familiar. It wasn't unusual for MS to have some impact of that kind, but usually the effects were relatively minor – the odd difficulty in remembering a word or in formulating a sentence, some increased forgetfulness. Not that different from the fate that awaits most of us as we grow older, she thought.

But in Liam's case it already seemed worse than that. He forgot things that had happened only minutes before. He struggled with words. There were activities, familiar day-to-day tasks that he seemed to have abandoned entirely – using their PC, operating the microwave, even using his mobile phone. Some of that resulted from the physical effects, of course. It was increasingly hard for him to get about the house, get into the kitchen, so he was less inclined to do things that previously would have seemed routine. And, as he'd snappily pointed out, if he hardly ever left the house, why would be need to use his mobile phone?

But it was more than that. She'd watched him, on a few occasions when he hadn't realised she'd been observing, and seen how he'd struggled with what should have been straightforward tasks. Sometimes trying over and over again to complete an action like making a phone call. She'd heard him getting into tangles trying to explain something to a caller – making arrangements for a delivery, say, or change a medical appointment. Once or twice, she'd had to intervene to sort something out, and she'd seen the mix of despair and irritation in his eyes.

He would barely admit that there was a problem. He couldn't deny the deterioration in his physical condition, but he refused to acknowledge any other problems. If she tried to raise the issue, he cut her off or insisted that it was tiredness. But she'd called the consultant back after their last joint visit – feeling as disloyal as an errant lover in doing so – and asked his view.

‘There's definitely something there,' the consultant had confirmed. ‘Some cognitive problems. A degree of disinhibition.'

‘More than you'd usually expect?' she'd asked.

‘Nothing's usual with MS. But, yes, definitely something more significant than the norm.'

It was the luck of the draw, the consultant had explained. It very much depended on which areas of the brain were being affected. Generally, the effects were primarily physical. But sometimes, if you were unlucky, there could be a significant cognitive effect as well.

‘We could get the clinical psychologists to have a look at him,' the consultant had offered. ‘Do some tests. Get a measure of how far things have progressed.'

She'd turned down the offer, at least for the present. She knew there was a problem. She could see no real benefit in finding out quite how much of one. It would be like rubbing Liam's nose in something he was trying hard to avoid. She'd go down that route only when it was really needed – which would no doubt be when she had to persuade social services to give Liam more support.

Now, though, watching him sit in front of some cosy police series on the TV, she was haunted by the consultant's concluding comments. She'd asked the doctor what the prognosis might be, what further deterioration might be expected.

As always, the consultant had been unforthcoming. ‘There's no way of knowing. It might just stabilise–'

‘Yes, I know that,' she'd interrupted. ‘You've explained that. But what do you
think
?'

There'd been a pause, as if the consultant was considering the idiocy of her question. ‘Well, the only guidance we've got is how quickly it's progressed over the last year or so. And that's been very rapid. So, well, if you
forced
me to give you a view, I'd say it's probable that it'll continue to progress at a similar rate.'

‘And in terms of his – cognitive abilities? What can we expect there? If I
forced
you to give an opinion.'

Another pause. ‘Well, the same, I suppose.'

‘And what does that mean? What will it look like?'

‘You need to understand. It's not like, say, Alzheimer's. You won't get the same types of confusion about, you know, who people are or where he is that you'd find in those kinds of dementia. This is more like – oh, I don't know – more like an old computer, gradually getting slower and slower. It's the white matter, the connections in the brain, that are being affected. So it's likely that he'll get increasingly passive, increasingly unresponsive. If things get more severe, that is.'

And that was what she'd seen, as the weeks had passed. Today's outburst had been unusual, a rare demonstration of energy and emotion, however negative. That happened from time to time, as Liam's frustration at his condition built inside his head to the point where he could no longer contain it. But those sudden explosions were increasingly rare islands in an otherwise endless sea of calm.

It wasn't the Liam she'd known. The old Liam had been sparky, enthusiastic, full of ideas. He could be a pain to live with at times, their different personalities rubbing up against each other in a constant friction. But that had been the Liam she'd loved. The Liam who was always looking for a new challenge, a new opportunity. The Liam who continued to pursue his dream of being a successful artist even when, some might think, it had ceased to be realistic. The Liam who would do anything rather than sit slumped in front of some anodyne television programme.

She returned from the kitchen bearing an opened bottle of red wine and two glasses, a takeaway menu tucked under her arm. Liam already had a local authority carer who came in a couple of times a day to help him get something to eat, check he was okay. Increasingly, though, Marie had the sense that he shouldn't be left alone for too long. He needed more care, someone to be with him through the day.

Would that be her? She couldn't see it. She tried to imagine herself giving up her job, spending the day as Liam's full-time carer. The image simply wouldn't form in her head. Apart from the practical questions – what would they actually live on, for example? – that just wasn't the person she was. Maybe that was selfish – well, of course it was selfish – but she knew that if she tried to devote her life entirely to caring for Liam, she'd probably end up killing both of them.

It needed thinking about, though. She had to start planning for this. She'd intended to discuss Salter's proposed assignment with Liam before she gave Salter her answer. But she knew there was no way she could raise it tonight, and, even if she did, no likelihood that Liam would be able to give her a sensible response.

Another decision postponed, then. But she was beginning to recognise, watching Liam gazing vacantly at the flickering TV screen, that nothing could be delayed forever.

‘Get much from the sheep-shaggers?'

Brennan paused in the doorway, his blank expression suggesting that Salter was speaking some entirely unfamiliar language. Brennan closed the door behind him, paused to hang his jacket carefully on the coat stand, and walked across the room to the conference table where Salter was sitting. He paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to sit, and then lowered himself on to the chair opposite Salter. ‘Not really. Nothing new, anyway. Mind you, it might have helped if I'd had the foggiest idea what I was supposed to be looking for.'

‘Local colour,' Salter said. ‘Mainly green out there, I imagine.'

Brennan bent down to unfasten his expensive-looking leather attaché case. Salter was dressed in the plainclothes cop's standard uniform. Jeans, open-necked shirt, leather jacket tossed casually around the back of chair. Brennan wondered whether he always dressed like that. He suspected not. Salter struck him as a Marks & Spencer man. Brennan's own suit was Paul Smith, and not off-the-shelf. ‘I still don't really know why I'm here,' he said, placing a thin manila file on the table in front of him. ‘Not just today, but the whole thing. Why have I been seconded over here? Don't tell me it's just because you're short-staffed.'

‘We are, actually. Bloody short-staffed, now you come to mention it. And particularly short of bright young things like yourself.'

‘I'm not sure I'm all that young any more, let alone bright. Anyway, I thought this place was wall-to-wall bright young things.'

‘It's a mess over here, to be honest, Jack.' Salter's voice had taken on an ingratiating tone now. ‘It's been a mess from the start. It was a political decision to set up the Agency, so everything was done at a rush. Bits and pieces from all over the place, cobbled together. Of course, there were some excellent people – there still
are
some excellent people – but we're holding it together with not much more than good intentions.'

Brennan noted that Salter had casually included himself in the category of ‘excellent people'. Probably not without reason, from what he'd heard, but it was clear that Salter wasn't short of ego. Well, okay, Brennan thought. That makes two of us. ‘And now it's going through another set of changes?'

‘It's never stopped bloody changing,' Salter said. ‘That's the trouble. As soon as the dust begins to settle, they start moving the deckchairs round again. If it's not the politicians, it's senior management trying to second guess what the politicians might want. People get pissed off.'

‘Well, I'm sold,' Brennan said. ‘I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be seconded to.'

‘Yes, well, at least you're only being seconded,' Salter said. ‘Means you've still got a way back.'

‘And you haven't?'

Salter shrugged. ‘There's nothing to stop me applying for jobs back in the police service. At the moment, I'd even be in with a shout. Despite everything, you get some good experience over here. But the longer I'm out of the mainstream, the harder it'll be to get back. That's why a lot of our best people have already voted with their feet.'

‘And that's why you need some new blood, is it?' There was a cynical edge to Brennan's voice. Experience had taught him that management decision-making rarely stemmed from much more than short-term expediency. We've got a gap to fill. You got anyone suitable? Well, Jack Brennan's royally screwed his career. We could send him over to cool his heels for a few months. Keep everyone happy. He could imagine the conversation.

‘It's why we need talented officers,' Salter said. ‘And, yes, I've been fully informed about your background. It doesn't stop you being a very capable, committed and experienced officer.'

‘It bloody well proves that's what I am,' Brennan said. ‘That's the point, from where I'm sitting.'

Salter looked doubtful. ‘Yes, well. Not everyone will see it that way. Even here.'

‘I imagine not. I'm well past caring.'

‘And it means we have something in common.'

Brennan gazed thoughtfully at Salter. ‘So I understand. Funny how things work out, isn't it? From what I hear, you're quite the hero round here.'

‘In some people's eyes. Not in everyone's, I imagine.'