Stolen

by Lesley Pearse

  The next morning she woke early and just lay curled up beside Mark, drinking in everything about him. He was every bit as handsome as she’d thought the previous night, even with a shadow of stubble on his chin. Such beautifully shaped lips, full and soft, turning up at the corners as if he were smiling. She liked his hair, it was cut like Tom Cruise’s in Top Gun, sort of floppy on the top but very short at the back and sides. He had a rather long neck and a small, straight nose, and then that hunky muscular chest with just a sprinkling of dark hair.

  He woke up as she was looking at him. ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he said sleepily. ‘I expected to find I’d dreamt you. But you are for real.’

  In the ten days that followed Lotte was often tempted to play ill so she could be with Mark all day. As it was, they made love half the night, and she stumbled off to work almost asleep on her feet. Mark met her for lunch, just half an hour sitting in the sunshine holding hands, and then she had to wait all the way through till five to find him waiting for her again.

  ‘He is a dreamboat,’ Simon said thoughtfully, watching from the salon window as Mark crossed the road. ‘What are you going to do when he goes back to sea?’

  ‘Catch up on my sleep,’ she said and laughed. She had pondered that same question many times already. She knew she loved Mark even if she didn’t dare tell him so, and the thought of being without him filled her with panic. It was as though she’d only been firing on half her cylinders until he came along and made the other half work. He was on her mind from the moment she woke till she fell asleep. She could talk to him about anything – she’d even told him all about her parents one night. He’d been at primary school with Fleur, as it turned out, and though he didn’t remember much about her, as she was a couple of years ahead of him, he did know she had died and recalled his parents saying how tragic it was.

  The last night before he had to go back to Plymouth, Mark told her he loved her, and promised that on his next leave he’d take her to meet his parents. ‘They are going to love you too,’ he said, holding her face cupped in his hands and looking at her as if he was trying to imprint every detail of her face on to his mind.

  Their lovemaking that night was slow and tender, both of them aware that the hours left together were ticking away. That Saturday morning was a beautiful one, promising to be very hot later, and he walked with her to Kutz before going home to collect his gear and then catch the train to Plymouth.

  Lotte cried as he kissed her goodbye, but he promised he would phone and write as often as he could.

  ‘My little Tinker Belle,’ he murmured, stroking back her hair from her face. That was his nickname for her – he said she’d sprinkled magic dust on his life. ‘We’re together for the long haul now, a few weeks apart won’t matter. You’ll be in my heart every minute of each day. We were meant for one another.’

  Around ten that morning a client came into the salon and said someone had been knocked down by a truck up near the railway station. At lunchtime on the local news they reported a man had died in the road accident but said the police were withholding his name until his family had been informed.

  None of this even registered with Lotte. Her mind was stuck on wondering how she’d get through the next few weeks without Mark. But as she came out of the salon with Simon at six, dragging her feet with tiredness, they both spotted a news bulletin on a stand selling the evening paper.

  It read, ‘Leave ended with death for local sailor.’

  Lotte blanched, her legs suddenly like jelly. ‘It can’t be him,’ Simon gasped, and he went over to the newspaper stand to read the story. But just the way his shoulders slumped as he read the front page told Lotte that it was Mark who was dead.

  People said things like, ‘Well, you only knew him for such a short time.’ As if that made it hurt less! When she called on Mark’s family they looked at her oddly as if she was trying to elbow her way into their grief. Clearly to them she was just the girl he’d been knocking off during his leave. His mother even said if he hadn’t been up half the night perhaps he might not have run across the road in front of the truck. Lotte had no standing at the funeral; her flowers weren’t put on the coffin. She didn’t even know any of his naval friends who came up from Plymouth to pay their last respects.

  If it hadn’t been for Simon and Adam she might have stepped in front of a truck herself. It crossed her mind many times that death by any means was preferable to living with such pain.

  Lotte found herself crying as she recalled those terrible grief-filled weeks after Mark’s death. She remembered that she refused to get out of bed, to eat, bathe or talk to anyone. It was only when Simon became ill that she stirred herself to take care of him.

  ‘You will meet someone else one day that you can feel that way about again,’ Simon assured her. ‘You can get over it too. One day you’ll suddenly realize you haven’t thought of him for a day, a week, or even a month. It is curable.’

  Lotte felt Simon was right. She didn’t know whether she’d thought about Mark constantly for all of the time since then, but remembering him now didn’t hurt the way she remembered it.

  Had there been another boyfriend since? She would have to ask Dale.

  Chapter Six

  ‘What is your problem?’ Marisa snapped at Dale. ‘The guests who come into the spa come to give themselves a treat or to make themselves feel special. They certainly don’t want to be greeted by someone sniffing and sobbing!’

  ‘I’m not sniffing and sobbing,’ Dale retorted.

  ‘Your eyes are red and puffy,’ Marisa said contemptuously. ‘It looks like you’ve been crying all night.’

  Dale had been crying most of the night.

  Simon had rung her as he was leaving the hospital yesterday to tell her and Scott about Lotte being attacked on Saturday and that earlier the same day a doctor had informed her she’d had a baby recently.

  It turned out that all the Sunday papers had covered the story about the baby, and reports of that and the attack had been on both radio and television that morning. But no one in the spa had read any Sunday papers or heard the radio or television bulletins, so Simon had to break the dreadful news. Dale was so shocked she could barely speak. Simon’s voice kept cracking and it was clear he was in no fit state to discuss it further either.

  After getting this news Dale somehow managed to give both a massage and a manicure without breaking down. But the minute the last client had gone, she fled back to the cottage. Frankie, Scott, Michelle and Rosie were all there, and the minute Dale saw them all, she burst into tears.

  They were all shocked rigid by the news. Scott was every bit as upset as Dale, and he pointed out that if this man was prepared to risk everything to try to kill Lotte in a public place, it put a whole different complexion on the mystery of her having been found washed up on the beach. The question they were all asking was what could be so bad that she had to be killed for it.

  ‘This can’t be right,’ Dale kept repeating through her sobs. ‘No one could have so many terrible things happen to her. Where is the baby? Who was the father? Who is this man who tried to kill her? And why did he want to do that?’

  Scott was almost as distraught as Dale, and Frankie tried to make them feel better by going over to the kitchen and getting them some dinner on a tray. But it wasn’t food they wanted, just answers no one could give them.

  Frankie rang the hospital on their behalf to see how Lotte was. The Ward Sister said she was unhurt and recovering some memory, but advised them not to visit her for a couple of days as she needed complete rest.

  Dale downed several glasses of brandy, hoping for oblivion, but instead she lay awake crying, wondering how her friend was ever going to get over this.

  Then the next morning she had Marisa on her back.

  ‘Well, what is it about? A boyfriend dumped you?’ she asked curtly.

  Dale felt like slapping the woman. She could see both Scott and Frankie hovering by the door leading to the swimming pool, and could sens
e them willing her not to react to the woman’s goading.

  ‘Men don’t dump me, I do the dumping,’ Dale retorted. ‘But I can cry when someone tries to kill my best friend, and it is discovered she had a baby recently, which the police haven’t found. But I don’t suppose you’d lose any sleep over a small baby left without its mother, would you? You haven’t got a heart!’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ Marisa’s dark eyes flashed dangerously. ‘I shall be reporting your insolence. Now, cover those puffy eyes with makeup and get to work.’

  ‘And I shall be reporting your lack of humanity,’ Dale hissed back at her. ‘You’d have made a great warder in a concentration camp.’

  On Wednesday afternoon, eight days after Lotte was found on the beach, Dale and Simon were at St Richard’s for an appointment with Dr Percival.

  ‘The problem is,’ he said, folding his hands together as if in prayer and holding them in front of his nose, ‘Miss Wainwright has no injuries that require a hospital bed – physically she is in good shape. But I am very concerned about her mental health.’

  Dale and Simon had requested this appointment in the hope that the doctor would support their wish to take Lotte home to Simon’s flat in Brighton. But Dale had taken an instant dislike to Dr Percival because she thought was he was overbearing and lacking in sympathy.

  Right from the moment she and Scott knew for certain that the girl on the beach was Lotte, they had been frightened for her. But now an attempt had been made on her life and she had learnt she’d given birth a couple of months earlier, they were terrified she’d turn in on herself and never recover.

  When they had visited her the previous night they had tried very hard not to let her see that the possibility that her baby was out there somewhere hungry and unprotected was giving them sleepless nights too. Or that they didn’t imagine every man coming along the hospital corridor could be her attacker returning. But they could see for themselves this was exactly what was on her mind.

  Both Dale and Scott were overwhelmed by the enormity of it all and felt helpless because they were unable to stimulate her memory or protect her from further harm. Yet they could see how well Lotte reacted to Simon and Adam and they felt that these were the two people who could bring back her memory and defend her.

  Dale had chosen to accompany Simon today because she wanted the doctor to know that she and Scott were a hundred per cent behind him and Adam.

  ‘She’s not mad, only lost her memory,’ Dale said sharply, afraid Dr Percival wanted Lotte moved to a mental hospital. ‘We both think she will recover quicker with her friends constantly jogging it. And Simon and Adam can keep her safe.’

  ‘Madness, in the way many people perceive it, is a rare thing,’ he retorted dismissively. ‘Mental illness takes many forms and amnesia is just one of them. While sometimes it can be a fleeting problem brought on by anything from a blow to the head, trauma or surgery, it can also be permanent. But in Miss Wainwright’s case it would appear to be caused by a deeply disturbing event which she has subconsciously suppressed.’

  ‘We are aware of that,’ Dale said, irritated by the way he was talking down to her. ‘So how were you thinking of treating her, and where?’

  ‘At the Vale,’ he said.

  ‘Surely not,’ Dale gasped. One of the girls in the hairdressers at Marchwood had said her grandfather had been put in the Vale when he became senile. She said it was an awful place.

  ‘I think you have heard too many myths about the Vale,’ Dr Percival said sharply. ‘It is one of the top psychiatric hospitals in the South-East.’

  ‘Lotte will just withdraw into herself there,’ Simon said firmly. He wanted to add that he didn’t think their friend should be in a place full of senile old people, depressives, bi-polars and drying-out alcoholics, but he was reluctant to say anything which might alienate the doctor.

  ‘What makes a young man with no experience whatsoever in mental health imagine he knows better than someone who has spent twenty-five years at it?’ Dr Percival sounded almost amused at Simon’s impudence.

  ‘I might not know anything about mental health, but I do know Lotte very well,’ Simon said, leaning forward in his chair and putting his clenched fists on the doctor’s desk. ‘And I think as soon as she’s settled in familiar surroundings, she’ll begin to unravel whatever has happened to her.’

  ‘And you don’t imagine she will need professional help dealing with all the problems surrounding her baby? Firstly she’s got to recover the memory of the birth, and how she felt about its conception, for we don’t know if it was within a loving relationship. There’s also the possibility the baby is dead.’

  Simon was only too aware it was likely to be an emotional minefield for Lotte as she regained her memory. All four of her friends suspected that the baby’s conception, the birth and the events afterwards had been the stuff of the worst nightmares. But they did believe she’d be able to deal with it better if she was surrounded by loving friends rather than just doctors and nurses.

  ‘The little mite could have died in appalling circumstances,’ the doctor went on. ‘It’s possible its body may never be found to give Lotte the answers she will need for recovery. I am not trying to alarm you, young man, only to point out that she might have to face huge, overwhelming problems.’

  Simon gulped, suddenly unsure of himself. He cared deeply about Lotte, he wanted and needed to help her, but were Adam and he the right people for the job? Could he be sure that loving and caring for her was enough to heal her?

  He paused, glancing at Dale’s tense face. She took his hand and squeezed it as if silently assuring him he could do it.

  ‘I admit we’re taking on a lot,’ he said when he’d steadied himself. ‘But I think Lotte will be able to cope better with even the worst-case scenario if she’s in a safe and loving environment. Adam and I may not be psychiatrists, but we are sensitive, caring and we love her. We’ll have Dale and Scott too to help us. You try telling me that isn’t a better basis for her recovery than the Vale!’

  ‘So you want to tell me how to do my job now,’ the doctor said, yet there was a softer expression in his eyes which suggested he was beginning to come round to the idea of a bunch of amateurs taking on his patient.

  ‘No, sir,’ Simon insisted. ‘We will follow all your advice. But the hospital is overcrowded, and the other patients in the Vale will probably frighten Lotte. She has happy associations with my flat, and I can make it like Fort Knox to keep her safe. I doubt if you could do that at the Vale.’

  ‘You are right there.’ Percival sighed. ‘So I am going to agree that you can take her home with you at the weekend, but only on the condition you call me on a regular basis and if you have any cause for alarm about her, you bring her back here.’

  ‘I will,’ Simon said, beaming at the doctor.

  Simon and Dale had to wait half an hour until visiting time, so they went off to the coffee bar and Simon told her that DI Bryan had called round at his flat the previous evening.

  ‘He had just broken off from the search for Lotte’s attacker, but there was no good news. He said they hadn’t got a single clear image of the man’s face on CCTV, and no car either, which means he must have parked it away from the hospital. His knowledge of the hospital suggests a local man, so they’ve had David Mitchell, the guy that interrupted the attack, looking at mug shots and trying to create an identikit picture.’ Simon sighed deeply, looking dejected. ‘Sadly, he didn’t get a real look at the attacker’s face.’

  ‘We owe David a lot,’ Dale said. ‘He’s something of a hero. But it’s eight days since he found her on the beach – surely the police should have found something concrete by now? Did Bryan say if they had any leads on her baby?’

  The welfare and the whereabouts of the baby had become a concern for everyone in the locality since the press release about it. People were discussing it in the streets, shops and pubs, and back at Marchwood Manor it was virtually the only topic of conversati
on.

  ‘I don’t think so; he wanted to know about people Lotte used to hang around with in Brighton. And he was especially interested in her old boyfriends. He thought she might have contacted one of them when she left the cruise ship and that led to her getting pregnant.’

  ‘Do you know of anyone?’ Dale asked.

  ‘No,’ Simon responded, looking stricken. ‘But as I told you before, Lotte would never have come to Brighton without contacting Adam and me. And if she had become pregnant, whether she was pleased about it or not, wherever she was in the world, she would have rung us or written. I told Bryan that’s positive proof she’s been held captive somewhere.’

  ‘And what did he say to that?’

  ‘He pointed out that she didn’t ring or write about the rape in South America.’

  ‘He’s got a point there,’ Dale agreed.

  Simon tossed his head as he didn’t see it that way. ‘Bryan also suggested it was possible that her baby’s father was someone she was protecting. He could be married or in the public eye. I told him she would at least have rung to say she couldn’t explain who she was with. Then Bryan said she might have been afraid to tell me anything in case it got back to her parents! I ask you! How homophobic is that? I suppose he believes the old cliché that all gay men are gossips.’

  ‘I don’t think he is homophobic,’ Dale said soothingly. ‘I think he would have said the same to anyone, man or woman, single or married. He’s still looking for reasons why Lotte might have wanted to keep away from us. But since that chap stormed into the hospital and tried to kill her, it’s fairly obvious this business is a whole lot more serious than her holing up with a mystery lover. I suppose they’ve got to explore every avenue, though. So did he say if they’d got any new evidence?’