by Adam Croft
The departures information board showed him that the flight to Alicante was due to leave in two hours. He’d packed light — hand luggage only, as he didn’t know how long he was going to be staying for. If García’s contact had been wrong, he’d be in and out within a few hours. If he needed to stay longer, well, he’d taken plenty of cash and credit cards. He’d be able to buy anything he needed while he was over there.
He’d tried to speak to Charles Hawes after the call with García, but he hadn’t been in his office, and having looked up the next flights to Alicante, he certainly wasn’t going to hang around to ask for permission. Sometimes, things were more important than work. Hawes would understand. He’d have to. And if he didn’t, tough. Culverhouse could feel himself being squeezed out of the job from either side as it was. If he managed to find Emily, they could shove the job. Let the bastards win. He wouldn’t care. As long as he found Emily.
The newsagents and duty-free shops were mobbed with people wheeling suitcases around, picking up copies of newspapers they never usually read and bottles of perfume they’d never usually buy. An announcement on the loudspeaker called for a passenger on the Krakow flight to return to the check-in desk as quickly as possible. All these people, going to all these places, all over the world. It was as if the whole of the planet’s population had been distilled down into this small representative sample. Even with that, however, the place was still overrun with bald-headed beer-bellied blokes in England shirts, getting tanked up ready for their week in Benidorm. Culverhouse made a note to apologise on behalf of his country while he was over there.
He went into the newsagent and bought himself a copy of a newspaper he’d never usually read. It was a way to pass the time, he supposed. He flicked through the pages absentmindedly, his eyes scanning over stories of wars in the middle east, corruption in American politics, scandals in sport. It was all doom and gloom. It was one of the reasons why he never usually read newspapers. Surely some good things must be happening in the world? Apparently not.
Instead, he decided to buy a book — the travel diaries of some bloke he’d never heard of — and managed to lose himself in it for the best part of an hour, before realising that the coffee he’d ordered had gone cold. He looked at the drink and grunted, before getting up and heading for the security area.
It was a good half an hour before he finally got through security, having put his belt back on, re-tied his shoes and filled his pockets back up with all of the things they were filled with that he probably didn’t need. The departures information board told him the flight to Alicante was now boarding, so he headed for gate twenty-one as indicated.
The number of people queuing at the gate seemed enormous. How could that many people possibly fit onto a plane? The truth of the matter was that most of them were probably heading off for a week’s holiday, or perhaps even going out to their second home. Jack definitely needed a piece of that; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone on holiday. Certainly not since Helen had left, anyway.
He wondered momentarily if it was worth it. What was he doing this for? Was it for Emily or for himself? He wasn’t entirely sure, but in his heart of hearts he really thought it was for Emily. Before now, he hadn’t done half as much as he could’ve done to try and find them. But that’s because he knew he wouldn’t be a good father. He knew Emily would be better off with Helen, better off away from the poison that was having a father in the police force. A father who left in the early hours and came back in the even earlier hours. A father who could only ever see bad in people. Emily deserved more than that.
Since Helen had returned, though, his thoughts had changed slightly. Emily still deserved the best, but Jack was becoming less and less sure that the best option was for her to be with Helen. It wasn’t just the fact that she’d developed a mental illness — although that did play a part — but he could also see how much Helen had fallen apart over the years. She wasn’t the strong, confident woman he remembered.
Before she’d returned, Jack was certain that Emily was safe with Helen. If anyone could cope with leaving the country and raising a child on their own, Helen could. That’s what he’d thought back then. Now, though, he doubted it gravely.
Emily was at that age now where she was becoming extremely impressionable. The early teens were hell for any parent, but a single mother living in a foreign land with a mental illness surely had to raise a few eyebrows. In Jack’s case, it was more that he was worried for the future of his daughter. He knew how easily influenced young adults were. He saw it all the time. He could predict with remarkable accuracy which twelve- and thirteen-year-olds in Mildenheath would be in prison before their twenty-first birthdays. Forward planning, he called it. He didn’t want Emily to be one of those.
The queue seemed to be taking an age to move forward, but Jack now had only three people in front of him. Within a few minutes they’d be in the air and he’d be on his way to potentially see his daughter for the first time in nine years. No more putting work first. This was it: time for him and her. Together.
His phone started to vibrate in his pocket, so he fished his hand in and pulled it out. It was DC Debbie Weston’s direct dial number.
‘Debbie, what is it? I can’t really talk right now.’
‘It’s Tanya Henderson, guv. She’s woken up.’
26
The sounds are clearer, richer. The words are beginning to make sense. I can feel my heart rate increasing, sense the first surge of adrenaline.
Then I slip behind again, the fog and the fuzz overtaking me. I try to hold on, try to clear the mist, and this time I’m successful.
The noises are loud, almost painful. Every sound vibrates and rings in my ears.
I think I’ve been awake for some time, but I’m not really sure what awake means. I think I’m conscious, but I still struggle to will myself to do the things I want to do.
It sounds strange, but I don’t even know if my eyes are open. It’s difficult to tell. I don’t even know what vision is. I’ve seen things — crisp, clear images — but I know I wasn’t actually seeing them. It’s like those first few seconds after waking up from a vivid dream, not quite knowing which reality is real. It’s a state of perpetual confusion, your brain telling you one thing and showing you another.
The light begins to burn. It’s not a light that suddenly appears; it seems as though it’s been there all along, but it’s only just started to seep through, only just started to burn. It’s another level of increasing awareness, as if different areas of my brain are slowly unlocking. It’s like walking around the house first thing in the morning and drawing all of the curtains. Each drawn curtain lets in more light, allows you to see more of the outside world.
I feel a gasp rising from my lungs, can hear it as it escapes my lips.
I become aware of my own breathing, aware of it increasing in speed.
I hear voices. No meaning. Just words.
I start to pick out a sense of what those words mean. The confusion tries to take over, but I fight it back.
I hear a word and I know immediately what it means.
‘Tanya?’
It’s a word full of meaning. A word which anchors me in the here and now. Something for me to grasp onto. Something for me to use.
‘Tanya?’
I feel a hand on my wrist. It’s calm, reassuring. I don’t know whose it is, but I like it. It comforts me.
The words begin to echo and fade, before conglomerating into a roaring noise. It crescendoes, with a crystal clear silence lingering afterwards. Then I hear the words again, this time soft, distinct.
‘Everything is okay, Tanya. Try to breathe slowly. You’re doing just fine.’ The voice is soothing. I recognise the accent. It’s a soft Scottish lilt. ‘Tanya, do you know where you are?’
I hear another voice. One I recognise. ‘Can we give her a few minutes? Do the questioning after?’
The Scottish voice speaks again, this time quietly, addressing the voice
I now recognise as John’s. ‘It’s a fairly lengthy process, Mr Henderson. We need to test a range of stimuli both immediately after she wakes up and then throughout the following hours and days.’
All of these words make sense to me, but not in this situation. Why are they talking in this way? Are they talking about me?
‘Do you know where you are, Tanya?’ the Scottish voice asks again.
I try to speak, but I can’t. My chest burns with the effort. I try to shake my head, slowly. I don’t know if I’m succeeding, but my neck creaks and groans, the shockwaves vibrating up through my skull. I manage to force a half-groan, half-whisper.
‘No...’
‘You’re in Mildenheath General Hospital, Tanya. Don’t worry, though. You’re going to be alright. There was an incident and you were hurt, but you’re doing fine. Do you remember what happened?’
I try to take another breath, before repeating the same word.
‘No...’
There’s a pause. ‘Okay. Try not to worry too much. Tanya, can you tell me how old you are?’
I know this answer instinctively.
‘Thirty-five.’
The words seem to take an age to leave my lips. My voice sounds raspy.
‘And where do you live, Tanya? Which house number?’
‘Manor Way. Twenty-three.’
‘That’s great. Well done. Do you remember anything about what happened the other night? About the incident?’
I try to force myself to remember. I know I need to. But there’s nothing. I can’t even identify the last thing I do remember.
I try to shake my head again, but it hurts.
‘No.’
‘Okay,’ the voice says. ‘We can come back to that.’
‘What about work? Do you remember what you were working on?’ The voice is John’s.
I don’t. I don’t remember anything. I know it was important. Big. Huge. But it feels like the more importance I attach to it, the less my brain is letting me remember.
‘No.’
‘You need to try to remember, Tanya. Can you remember anything? Names? Locations? Anything.’
I can’t. I can’t. I’m trying, but I can’t.
‘No...’ I say.
I hear a female voice. ‘Her heart rate and breathing are increasing.’
‘It’s okay, Tanya. Not to worry. You stay relaxed. Breathe slowly,’ says the Scottish voice. ‘I think we should leave it there for the moment.’
The reassuring hand on my wrist squeezes me tighter, before letting go.
27
Frank Vine opened the car door, stepped out and grimaced as he plunged his hand into his pocket, jangling a collection of loose change.
‘Bloody scandalous, this is. Three quid a pop just to do my own job.’
Using his thumb, he shoved four coins into the coin slot, then jabbed the green button on the parking ticket dispenser.
‘Put it on expenses,’ Wendy said, closing the passenger door behind her as she got out of the car.
‘If you think I’m going to spend forty-five minutes filling out a bloody document just to get three quid back a month later, you’re having a laugh.’
Frank slapped the ticket on his dashboard, slammed the car door shut, and started to march towards the hospital, Wendy trying her best to keep up with him.
Inside, they made their way to the specialist brain injury unit, where they were met by Julian Mills, who took them into a side room.
‘Right. The good news is Tanya’s regained consciousness. From a medical point of view, that is. I think it’s fair to say she’s not up and dancing about just yet, but as far as medicine is concerned, she’s fully conscious.’
‘Is she talking?’ Frank asked.
‘To a degree, yes. She’s finding speech difficult, but that’s to be expected.’
‘And is that because of the injury?’ Wendy said.
‘Difficult to say at this stage. It could be to do with the injury, or it could just be because of the amount of time she’s been unconscious. The drugs could play a part, too. She’s been through a hell of a lot these past couple of days. We’re going to do some more tests throughout the day, which’ll include testing her nerve responses and motor skills. We’ll know more then.’
‘What are we looking at?’ Frank asked. ‘Worst case scenario, I mean.’
The consultant sighed. ‘Well, I think we all know what the worst case scenario is; just because she’s conscious and communicating now doesn’t mean that’ll always be the case. You never know with the brain. All we can do is start to approach an increasing degree of certainty as more time passes. Long-term, we could be looking at impaired movement and balance, development of dyspraxia or apraxia, sensory deficits, behavioural changes, cognitive issues... The list really does go on and on.’
‘What kind of behavioural changes?’ Wendy asked.
The consultant smiled. ‘Like I say, you never know with the brain. It’s a very delicate but quite extraordinary piece of machinery. I’ve seen people with horrendous brain injuries go on to live perfectly normal lives, much as they did before their injury. And I’ve seen people with relatively minor injuries have their lives completely turned upside down.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, anything from complete physical paralysis to what might seem to be a completely new personality. Different parts of the brain switch off or activate as they or other parts are irreparably injured. We think that even the brain repairing itself can sometimes cause short circuits, if you like, which can lead to some strange things happening. I remember one case,’ he said, sitting down on the arm of a sofa, ‘in which one young man — he can’t have been more than twenty — was in a motorbike accident. He was wearing a helmet, and the accident was pretty minor, really. But the effect on his life was incredible. Within a week he’d left his partner and their young son, quit his job and turned to heavy drugs. Before that he’d been a doting young father coming to the end of his apprenticeship. All that because of a relatively minor bump on the head.’ He shrugged, as though he were saying “that’s life”.
Wendy didn’t quite know what to say to this. It was the unpredictability of the whole situation that depressed her — the not knowing. In her job she was used to often being one step behind, having to play constant catch-up with whoever they were seeking, but this time it was different. There was nothing they could do until they knew what Tanya Henderson’s situation was going to be.
‘Now, in my expert opinion, I would say it looks as though Tanya’s quite confused,’ Mills said. ‘That’s to be expected, though, after what she’s been through. Her brain is still trying to repair itself. One minute she was sitting at her desk, and the next she’s waking up in hospital two days later, surrounded by police. The brain will do all sorts of things to make sense of that. After I had the nurse call you, I spoke to Tanya some more. Nothing official, and no specific tests as such, but just to get an idea of how her mind was working and to observe how she was doing. There were one or two things that gave me some cause for concern, but nothing too major.’
‘Like what?’ Frank asked.
‘I really wouldn’t worry too much,’ the consultant replied, waving his hand. ‘It’s quite a common thing. I had one patient a few months back, who for the first week and a half he was here swore blind he was Elvis, risen from the dead. I’m sure it’ll pass.’
Wendy’s heart sank. Even if Tanya Henderson were to remember something — or to think she remembered something — how reliable would that information actually be? The likelihood of any of it standing up in court would be extremely low, particularly if no hard, incontrovertible evidence was there to accompany it.
There had been a police presence on the ward ever since Tanya Henderson had been admitted — that much had been decreed by Culverhouse when it became clear she would likely still be a target for whoever had attacked her in the first place. Wendy was satisfied that Tanya Henderson was safe — for now, at least — but what would
happen if she were to be in a fit enough state to be discharged from hospital? And what if she was unable to provide them with any further information? Not only would they not be able to get any closer to finding whoever had done this to her, but they’d also find it far more difficult to protect her from that person.
Wendy knew that time was against them. But she didn’t know how little time they had left.
28
Culverhouse struggled to regain his breath as he clambered into the taxi and put on his seatbelt.
His head was a mess. Half an hour earlier he’d been ready to board a flight to Alicante to see his daughter for the first time in nine years. A couple of hours before that he’d been sitting in the Chief Constable’s office. And now he was in the back of a cab, on his way back to Mildenheath CID, a broken and confused man.
He couldn’t make any sense of his thoughts. He’d had no choice: he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. But he couldn’t help that overriding feeling of guilt, the realisation that he’d done it again. As always, the job had got in the way. And, as always, he’d sat back and succumbed to the job, letting Emily down yet again. This time, she wouldn’t even know it. He wondered how much she really did know. Whether she even knew his name.
That was the hardest part of it all. Jack liked to plan head, to always keep a few steps ahead of the game, but in this situation he was no longer in control. He never had been in control. And that was a problem — a big one.
He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket, unlocked the screen, and immediately forgot what he was about to do. Clenching his teeth, he pummelled the heel of his hand into the side of his head three times before he remembered. Going into his contacts list, he tapped Antonio García’s name.
The phone seemed to take an age to connect, the lonely silence making him feel more and more agitated until the cross-border connection was finally made and the low ringing sound started in his ear.
