The clinic stood high on an Alpine slope. Lush meadows, studded with autumn crocus, sloped steeply down. Across the valley, above the pinewoods, the high peaks were already dusted with snow. Like a toy railway, the line to Davos twisted and turned up along the mountain side. Laurence Carroll breathed in the pure, clear air. A wonderful place, a not-too-demanding job as resident doctor to the convalescent children flown out from England; it was a million miles from his Scottish childhood, the struggles to qualify and the grinding, poverty-stricken years as a young GP in the Welsh mining valleys. He was relaxed. Happy. But, soon to arrive at Zurich, a woman he had once known well, now a widowed mother, was to bring with her all the turmoil and anguish of his early years, flooding back into his casually ordered life.