Wednesday 5 April
Weybridge, Surrey

It would have been just another suburban tragedy - except for one thing. That afternoon, Andrew Norton left his City office early, catching the 2.20 train from Waterloo. On arrival at Weybridge station, he walked out to the car park, climbed into his Honda CRV, and began the three mile drive through the curving arboured lanes to Matthew's school.

This was a twice-weekly ritual. On a good day, Matt and he would be home by three. After settling his son with homework and a mug of tea, Andrew would head down the corridor to his study. His PC was linked to the office intranet and he'd resume work, keeping an eye on Matt till Jess got home from her graphic design job just after six.

Andrew's bosses at Glencoe Asset Management liked to hold him up as a glowing example of their own enlightened working practices. But the truth was that for three of the past five years, Glencoe's North American Fund had yielded the highest returns in its sector making Andrew, at forty three, one of the most sought-after fund managers in the City. Glencoe had no intention of losing him for the sake of a few hours of teleworking. And for his part, the afternoons at home made him feel more engaged in his son's life, which was important to him. Time, after all, was fast running out.

That particular afternoon, Andrew passed between the ivy-clad gateposts of Greendale Primary, and headed for the covered courtyard outside the school offices. He pulled up directly in front of the 'No Parking' sign - a special dispensation of the Headmaster's - and waved over to where Matt was, as usual, at the centre of a group of kids messing about outside the hall.

Jess and he had been worried when Matt joined the school two years before. Even though his celebrity preceded him, there was no guarantee he'd be accepted by the kids in Primary 4. But within days they'd realised all would be well. Matt's sunny optimism led to rapid popularity and his sharp wit made detractors think twice about teasing. He hadn't been at Greendale a month before a request had come from Primary 6 asking for his attendance at an inter-school athletics meeting; Matt had already acquired mascot status.

Getting out of the CRV, Andrew opened the tailgate. Whizzing towards him from across the courtyard, Matt came to a halt before climbing out of his wheelchair and gingerly making his way into the passenger seat of the car. With ease of practice, Andrew folded the chair, slid it in the car and closed the door, before returning to the driver's seat. Matt's leg had come out of its plaster cast two weeks before. Even though he was capable of walking, doctors thought it best he should stick to his wheelchair, especially at school. They didn't want to risk another fall.

The drive home that day had been uneventful. Andrew asked about the morning's spelling test. Matt talked excitedly about a forthcoming trip to the Natural History Museum. Would he be allowed out of his chair for the visit, he'd wanted to know?

Once home, they followed their familiar routine, Andrew putting the kettle on for tea, and Matt collecting a few slices out of the breadbin for the ducks. Their home, acquired after several years of six figure Glencoe bonuses, was a bungalow with a lawn that rolled gently down to the water's edge. Living on a river had always been a dream of Jess's, one Andrew had come to share after nearly ten years of suffocation in a Clerkenwell loft. Down at the bottom of the garden, a sturdy wooden landing made for an excellent vantage point both up and down the river. Around three in the afternoon without fail, the ducks would assemble in noisy anticipation of Matt's arrival.

Because he was still wheelchair bound, Andrew pushed him down the lawn to the landing, a cellophane wrapper of bread in his lap. More than fearful of water, Matt had always shrunk from the river bank, even though his parents had long-since installed protective railings. But up on the landing he felt steady and secure.

There was the usual fracas as he began tearing off pieces for the mêlée of gathering mallards and teals. Andrew delighted in the expression on his son's face as he dispensed largesse to the flapping, clucking flock. Matt was always careful to ensure that the smaller, less aggressive birds got their share. The telephone ringing up in the house sounded above the quacking. 'Won't be a minute,' Andrew told his son. Matt nodded, too absorbed in the activity even to look up. As things turned out, the one minute extended to eight. Andrew had to search through his filing cabinet to check the details of an application form. And when he emerged from the house, Matt was nowhere to be seen. His empty wheelchair on the landing was a silhouette of shining steel against the rippling blue-grey river.

'Matt?!' he called, more surprised than worried that his son had left the landing. Usually, he had difficulty persuading Matt to come back inside. He glanced up and down the river front, but there was no sign of him. He called again, wondering if Matt had gone up the side of the house. But why would he have left his ducks? Suddenly alarmed, Andrew rushed around the side of the house. The narrow strip of land leading to the front was deserted. Where the hell was he?! He pounded down to the landing, screaming out Matt's name. He glanced around, wild-eyed, at the calm surface of the water.

It was possible Matt had fallen in. He could have got out of his chair. He might have stood on the four inch ledge that ran round the bottom of the landing. If he'd slipped, he could have floundered. He'd never been a strong swimmer. And in his condition …

Andrew ran up and down the waterfront. He scanned the bank, bellowing Matt's name. Grabbing the mobile phone out of his pocket, he frantically dialled 999, demanding an ambulance. As he did, he was kicking his shoes off. Throwing down his jacket. Tugging the tie from round his neck.

As soon as he'd blurted out the address, he dived in the river.

Chief Inspector Hardwick of the Weybridge police was immediately informed by the Duty Officer. Looking up from behind his desk, his face filled with grave concern. He didn't need to be told who Matthew Norton was. Everyone in town knew that. Even though Weybridge had the reputation - undeserved in his opinion - of being part of the anonymous commuter-belt, there were local characters who stood out from the crowd. And Matthew Norton would have stood out anywhere. He'd been in the papers, including the nationals, more times than Hardwick could remember. There'd been a BBC documentary about him just a few months back. Whenever he was seen out in the streets, or down at the station, people would wave and yell at him. Matthew would wave and yell right back. He was like that; friendly, open-natured. He was Weybridge's local hero.

Everyone loved Matt Norton, despite his appearance. In the street Hardwick would overhear parents telling their children not to stare. Matthew looked unusual, they'd say, but that didn't affect who he was inside. For there was no denying he was very different. Unlike all the other kids in Primary 4, Matt Norton was seventy five years old.