by Adam Croft
For now, though, that would have to wait. PC Easton had been summoned by the A&E receptionist to deal with an unruly customer in the waiting area — something a number of Mildenheath’s beat officers spent a large portion of their weeks dealing with.
Finally, after a lot of corridor wandering, Wendy found her way to the specialist brain injury unit on the fourth floor and introduced herself to the nurse on the ward desk. The nurse, who could only have been about twenty-four, took Wendy to one side to explain the situation.
‘The doctor is with her at the moment, but it’s looking pretty serious,’ she said, trying to sound reassuring and professional. ‘Any brain injury is serious, of course, but in this patient’s case, the injury seems to have caused a bleed on the brain. That’s all we know at this stage. Although it looks like the bleed is relatively minor, the senior consultant decided it would be best to put her into an induced coma. That’s far less scary than it sounds, I assure you. Essentially it means we’ve sedated her heavily, which allows us to control her breathing and also allows us to protect her brain while it heals.’
‘Is that normal at such an early stage?’ Wendy asked.
‘To be honest, no,’ the nurse replied. ‘Although the way she was attacked, with the trauma directed at her skull, means there are a lot of unknown variables. We don’t know yet which areas of the brain have been damaged, or how badly. And that kind of trauma can be extremely distressing for a patient. Giving her brain the chance to heal with protection should help her.’
Wendy sighed. ‘So we won’t be able to talk to her then.’
‘Well, no. She’s in an induced coma. Or will be shortly,’ the nurse said, looking up at the clock beside her. ‘When she came in she was understandably quite distressed. She seemed very confused and was making some quite disturbing noises, so she wouldn’t have been in any fit state to talk anyway. To be honest, for all we know she could already be permanently brain damaged. It’s just too early to say at this stage.’
‘You say she’ll be in an induced coma shortly,’ Wendy replied. ‘So she isn’t yet?’
‘I’m not sure,’ the nurse said. ‘It depends if the drugs have been administered and how quickly they have their full effect. It’s possible.’
‘Can I see her?’ Wendy asked.
‘I’d have to speak to the senior consultant,’ came the reply. ‘I really don’t see the need, though. She’s certainly not able to talk, and she’s not responding to auditory or visual stimuli. I really don’t know what else to say at this stage.’
‘I understand,’ Wendy replied. ‘But if I could just see her anyway? We do need to make sure that we’ve got all angles covered.’
‘Sure. I’ll just check with the consultant,’ the nurse said, smiling.
As the nurse headed back onto the ward, Wendy was left for a few moments in the company of an assortment of posters, leaflets and notices plastered to the walls. Many of them looked like they’d been there for years — yet another sign of corners having to be cut in the National Health Service. Other than that, this part of the hospital seemed to be very technologically advanced. It had long been lauded as one of the leading neurosurgical units in the country, and Wendy could see why.
In all the time she’d been a police officer, she’d never been to this part of the hospital, but she could understand how people easily became fascinated with the inner workings of the human brain.
Just as she was beginning to contemplate exchanging one career in investigating diseased minds for another, the nurse returned.
‘I’ve spoken to the consultant. He said it’s fine to see her, but not for long. She’s in a pretty fragile state at the moment.’
Wendy knew exactly how she felt.
8
It’s both pitch black and blindingly bright at the same time. The bright lights are the first thing I remember. I remember seeing it before I felt the pain. But now I think about it, I’m not sure if I did feel pain. Just confusion. Not a lucid confusion, not trying to work out what was going on, but an almost peaceful acceptance that I could do nothing but submit to whatever was happening.
It’s not that I don’t remember anything of what happened; I remember actively knowing nothing. It’s not a missing part of my memory: it’s a period of complete darkness, as though someone covered my eyes and plugged my ears. I don’t know how long that lasted, but I experienced it in real-time. That section, that passing of time, it isn’t missing; it’s there, but it’s blank. Blank until I started to become increasingly aware of myself, though slowly at first.
I remember hearing sounds — bleeping, buzzing and whirring. At first I thought it was inside my own head. Then I heard voices. I knew that I knew the words they were saying, but they still didn’t make any sense. The link between hearing and comprehending didn’t seem to be there. Still now, however long it’s been, every noise is adding to the confusion.
I don’t know if I can see or not. That sounds like an odd thing to say, but it’s the only way I can think of describing it. My brain is compiling pictures, images, relating them to the sounds I’m hearing and the sensations I’m feeling. But none of them make any sense. It’s almost like I’m watching an old black and white television set and constantly turning the dial — almost always an incomprehensible fuzzy static, but occasionally I get the fleeting glimpse of a badly adjusted picture. And then it’s gone.
The worst thing is that I can’t do anything. I have no control. I cannot move. The link between my brain and my body seems to have disappeared. I don’t feel any pain — just confusion.
There’s the sound of someone talking. A deep voice, like a man. It is the men that have deep voices, isn’t it? Yes. I think it’s that way round. The men who—
A blinding flash of red passes in front of my eyes, more bright and vivid than anything I’ve ever seen in my life. It jolts me, feels like an electric shock or a bolt from a stun gun.
I see cowboys. Cowboys from the old Wild West. As they charge towards me, staring into my soul, I see the spears they point towards me, their horses deep black, almost purple. Cowboys don’t carry spears, I realise, and they instantly become knights in shining armour. I can hear the clanging of metal chainmail and the whinnying of the horses as they reach me. I feel a spear puncture my chest as the air rushes into me, the horses pushing forward, trampling me and forcing the air in and out of my lungs, regularly, rhythmically.
I hear one of the horses squealing a high-pitched shriek. Then again. And again. The noise fades and builds, each time morphing until it sounds like a person talking. A lighter voice, a higher voice. I recognise her words as questions, but still they make no sense. They’re just words. They carry no meaning. And I feel like I’m choking, struggling to hold on.
I’m slipping.
Slipping.
Slipping.
9
‘This is Mr Mills,’ the young nurse said, introducing Wendy to the senior consultant. ‘He’s in charge of Tanya’s care.’
Wendy shook hands with the affable-looking man in front of her. Her first thought was that he would be quite attractive, if she was into older men.
‘Call me Julian,’ the consultant said, pulling back his hand. ‘I don’t suppose you have any information on who the woman is yet?’ Wendy detected a slight Scottish lilt to the man’s voice.
‘We’re working on that at the moment,’ Wendy said as she watched the nurse leave the room, the early morning summer light starting to stream in through the window. ‘She was attacked in her home, so it shouldn’t take long to find out. What can you tell me about her condition?’
Julian Mills raised his eyebrows almost in mock defeat. ‘Only what I’ve already told the nurses, I’m afraid. She was brought straight here by ambulance with a severe head trauma, and we did a CT scan straight away in order to try and ascertain what was going on. She was struggling for breath, but was still breathing on her own. She seemed to be conscious but unresponsive, which could be a cause for major concern. It coul
d be the effects of shock, of course, but until we’ve done a more detailed analysis it’s impossible to say for sure.’
‘And she’s in a coma now?’ Wendy asked.
‘Yes. What we’d refer to in layman’s terms as an induced coma. In effect she’s been heavily sedated to keep her body and brain activity relaxed in order to give her the best possible chance of recovery.’
Wendy nodded, looking down at the mass of bandages and wires on the bed in front of her. ‘Can she hear us?’
‘Perhaps. Some patients in comas do report being aware of what was going on, but not often so much in induced comas. The dose of barbiturates is pretty high.’
‘What would you say her chances are?’ Wendy whispered. ‘Realistically.’
The consultant shook his head. ‘Impossible to say. Even if we could calculate her chances right now, which we can’t, it’s liable to change drastically at any time. The first twenty-four hours are absolutely crucial. We can never predict how the brain’s going to react to an injury.’
Wendy could see where he was coming from. How often did you read about people who tripped in the street, hit their head and died? Then, on the other hand, there were numerous stories about people being shot in the head at point blank range and surviving. She guessed some people just had an in-built survival mechanism.
‘There’s still so much about the brain we don’t know,’ Julian Mills said. ‘I’ve been doing this job for over twenty years and I’m still learning things every day.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Wendy said, thinking about her own job. It was a constant, never-ending learning curve. She was interrupted by the sound of her mobile phone ringing in her pocket. The screen showed Detective Sergeant Steve Wing’s direct dial number. ‘Sorry, just be a minute,’ she said, raising her hand in apology and leaving the room to take the call. ‘Steve?’
‘We’ve got an ID on your woman,’ Steve said on the other end of the phone. ‘Tanya Henderson’s her name. She’s a journalist or writer of some sort. We’ve managed to contact her husband at work, and he’s on his way to the hospital now. Reckoned it’ll only take him about an hour and a half to two hours at this time of night.’
‘Right, thanks Steve,’ Wendy replied, trying to figure out where would be best to meet Tanya Henderson’s husband. She knew it wouldn’t be a great idea for him to see his wife in this state, particularly while she was still so unstable, but he might insist on it, as she’d done. ‘What about the daughter?’
‘She’s with the neighbour, still. There’s an officer with them. Get this — when they went back into the house, there was another one. A boy, eight years old. Tucked up fast asleep in bed without any idea what was going on.’
‘Poor little thing,’ Wendy said. ‘Is he at the neighbour’s too?’
‘Yep. They’re happy to keep an eye on them for now.’
‘Right, good,’ Wendy replied, before an instinctive flash of warning appeared in her mind. ‘Steve, can we get someone over there? One of ours, I mean. Get the lowdown on the neighbours.’
‘Lowdown?’ Steve said, almost laughing. ‘Don’t think you’ll need to bother. They’re both about a hundred and twenty. I doubt either of them can lift their own pants up, never mind a baseball bat or whatever.’
‘Still. Better safe than sorry,’ Wendy replied. ‘First people on the scene and all that.’
‘If you say so. I’ll give Frank a call. The guv said not to get him in until ten, but I could do with a laugh.’
Wendy tried to picture the look on DS Frank Vine’s face when he got a call not only waking him up at the crack of dawn, but asking him to go and babysit a couple of pensioners. ‘Good luck with that,’ she said.
‘Cheers. Any news from the doc?’ Steve asked.
Wendy shook her head, even though she knew Steve couldn’t see it. ‘Nothing yet. They said anything can change in the first day or so. Right now it’s a case of waiting and seeing how things pan out. They did a CT scan and there’s a bleed on her brain, so they’ve put her in an induced coma.’
‘Blimey, sounds serious.’
‘Yeah. I’m sure she’s felt better. Listen, let me know when you’ve found out a bit more about her, will you? In the meantime I’ll try and find PC Easton. I could do with him here when the husband turns up.’
‘Will do,’ Steve replied. ‘Debbie’s due in any second and the guv’s just updating the Chief Constable.’
Wendy allowed herself to smile. Detective Constable Debbie Weston was one of the most undervalued members of the team. She always worked quietly and without fuss, and she had a tendency to uncover information that no-one else could. Somehow Debbie had always been passed over for promotion to a higher position, but it never seemed to faze her. She just carried on regardless.
10
The Chief Constable’s office was somewhere Jack Culverhouse almost always felt appreciated. More so than he did in most other parts of the building, anyway. It was an office he wouldn’t have minded having for himself one day, but he very much doubted if that day would ever come.
Charles Hawes, the present Chief Constable, only occupied the office when he wanted to get away from the county’s police headquarters at Milton House, which, to be fair, was most of the time. Almost all of the police resources in the county had been relocated there, as well as some regional services. It was all part of the current fashion of police mergers and ‘service and efficiency sharing’, which was government speak for ‘we’re cutting your funding’. Unfortunately for Mildenheath, the county’s current Police and Crime Commissioner, Martin Cummings, was a particular fan of praising the virtues of ’streamlining’ services whilst in the same breath bemoaning the government cuts that caused them.
As far as Jack Culverhouse was concerned, the politics could go to shite. All he was interested in was doing his job to the best of his ability and in the only way he knew how. When politics got in his way, he was the first person to speak out about it — and loudly, too — but for the most part he considered them all to be a big bag of bastards. For as long as Charles Hawes was the Chief Constable, though, Culverhouse knew his arse was covered. Hawes was of the same old school approach as Jack — two of the last people on the force who knew what real policing was about.
‘So are we potentially looking at a murder case, then?’ Hawes asked, the unspoken sentiment being that he was deeply concerned, as was everyone else, about the relatively high murder rate in Mildenheath. Although their success rate in catching killers was also extraordinarily high, this did little to assuage the fears of Martin Cummings, who was only ever interested in headline figures and statistics. Rising murder rates were not the sort of headline figures and statistics he was keen on.
‘We don’t know yet,’ Culverhouse replied. ‘At the moment, no, but early signs indicate we’ve probably got enough to charge with attempted murder. No early suspects, though. The husband was working away. He does something in financial services, apparently. Although that’s coming from the geriatrics next door, so it could be anything.’
‘He out of the frame, then?’
‘Seems to be. We’ll get triangulation on his phone to confirm that, but my spidey senses aren’t exactly tingling.’
‘No signs of forced entry? Nothing stolen?’
Culverhouse curled his bottom lip and raised his eyebrows. ‘Impossible to say if anything’s been stolen. The husband will be able to confirm that when he gets back. But no, no signs of forced entry. The four-year-old daughter reckons she got up because she heard the doorbell. We’ve not spoken to her properly yet, though. We’ll need to get child protection officers in for that. Cover our arses.’ Culverhouse, like many experienced officers, had seen cases thrown out of court because the prosecution had been unable to prove that a young child witness had been interviewed without any leading questions.
A defence team would, of course, try to latch on to anything that they thought would plant a seed of doubt in a judge or jury’s minds, so an enormous amou
nt of time was spent trying to ensure that the evidence was sound, with all potential loopholes tightened and any holes well and truly plugged. The Crown Prosecution Service, who reviewed the evidence and informed the police of whether or not a charge would stick, tended to err on the side of caution. Getting someone to court was an expensive and laborious process, and it wasn’t a decision that was ever taken lightly.
‘There’s something else I wanted to tell you, Jack,’ the Chief Constable said, taking a sip of tea from his mug. ‘There’s a new officer joining your team. Called Ryan Mackenzie. Young, keen, works hard. Specific roles are up to you, of course, but I think Mackenzie would be ideal to fill Luke Baxter’s boots.’
The mention of Luke’s name always brought back memories for Jack. He’d seen Baxter as his young protégé — someone who could be moulded to carry on his own legacy when the time came for him to retire noisily. One stray bullet had ended all that.
‘Sir, I really don’t think we need anyone else,’ Culverhouse said. ‘Not at this stage. At the moment this is an assault case. Possibly attempted murder at best. We’re more than fine with the team as it is.’
‘It’s potentially a murder case, Jack,’ Hawes said. ‘We don’t know if Tanya Henderson’s going to make it through the day yet. If that’s the case, the shit’s going to hit the fan. She’s a journalist on a national newspaper, for Christ’s sake.’
‘She’s freelance,’ Culverhouse replied.
