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was sure of that. But with Dad gone, Mum’s nearest relative was Em himself, and he certainly hadn’t made an application. Unless . . .
    Harold was his mother’s brother. He was legally Mum’s closest relative while Em was underage. “You sectioned her?” Em gasped.
    Harold dropped his posturing and waved one hand irritably. “No, of course not. Why would I section her? I told you; I tried everything I could to stop it.”
    “Who sectioned her? It has to be a relative.”
    “No it doesn’t,” Harold said. “It was a social worker.”
    “A social worker ?” Em exploded. Social workers called on people in council houses who were mistreating their children. Em had never even seen a social worker. Social workers simply didn’t have any business with people like his mother and himself. “What social worker?”
    Harold pulled a chair across and sat down. Now that he’d stopped puffing himself up, he looked defeated. “A Mrs. Harlingford,” he said.
    Em cut him off. “What had she got to do with Mum, this Mrs. Harlingford?”
    Harold shook his head. “I don’t know. She just turned up at the university, demanding to be let into the apartment. Caroline was out somewhere at the time shopping, I think, and you were away in France, so the provost sent for me. When I got here they were arguing on the doorstep; but your mum came back from shopping a few minutes afterward, and the Harlingford woman served her with a commitment order under the Mental Health Act.”
    “They can’t do that!” Em protested. “I mean, a social worker can’t just walk up to you and have you committed just like that. You have to get a medical examination or something.”
    “She had two forms signed by doctors.”
    Em just stared at him. This was unbelievable. Eventually he asked angrily, “What doctors? Who were they?”
    “One was Alex Hollis. I don’t know the other one, but there was the stamp of some clinic; I can’t remember the name.”
    “Dr. Hollis?” Em almost felt like yelling. “That’s our own GP. Dad and he went golfing sometimes.” Dr. Hollis’s surgery was only about twenty minutes from the university. He was the GP to most of the faculty. Why would he do a thing like this?
    Harold looked down at his feet. “I know; I didn’t understand it either. I tried to see him for an explanation, but there was a different doctor at the office, and the secretary said Dr. Hollis had to leave the country for a few days.”
    “What happened next?” Em asked. “After the Harlingford person served the papers?”
    “Well, Caroline protested, of course, and so did I; but Harlingford stoned it: I threatened to call our lawyer, but she just said to go ahead. Meanwhile, she had to put your mother in the hospital. Then she called these two goons she had with her in the car—bouncer types: all dark glasses and bulging muscles—and said she had to go to the hospital right away. Harlingford didn’t want to give me the name of the hospital, but I insisted; and finally she said it was Saint Brendan’s.”
    “Where is that?” Em interrupted.
    “Other side of town. Highgrove.”
    “When did this happen?”
    “Three days ago.”
    “Why didn’t you let me know?” Em demanded.
    “Your mobile must have been out,” Harold said. “Tom’s too. Somebody told me the French network’s pretty shaky.” He glanced away.
    It was a lie. Em knew it at once. Harold was useless in a crisis. Carefully, he said, “How is Mum? You’ve visited her, haven’t you?”
    Harold shook his head. “They wouldn’t let me.”
    “Who wouldn’t let you?”
    “The hospital. They said no visitors for four days. They were doing an initial evaluation or something. I sent her a suitcase of clothes, though, and I phoned every day to see how she was.”
    Em glared at him. “So how was she?”
    “Fine. At least they told me she was fine. They wouldn’t let me talk to her.”
    “I don’t understand this!” Em protested. “Why would some