Alias
Page 5
“What if she doesn’t find anyone?” I say, finally finding the balls to ask one of the questions that have been keeping me awake at night. “That could happen, couldn’t it? I’ll have nowhere to go, no money, no job. I’ll end up in one of those hostels for drunks and smackheads. Shit.” I release the sheet I’ve wound into a knot.
“We’ll sort something out for you, I promise,” Lewis says, but she can barely look me in the eye, and she shouldn’t be making promises that she won’t be able to keep.
* * *
I manage without a wheelchair, linking Ceinwen’s arm instead for a slow and steady plod toward the main entrance.
“I bet you go to the gym a lot,” she says, as we join the throng of IV-trailing patients on their way outside for a fag.
I perform an awkward sidestep to avoid a doctor jaywalking with his phone. “What makes you think that?”
Ceinwen squeezes my biceps and laughs when I tense. “This puppy,” she says, and I realise her hand is wrapped around a healthy bulge of muscle.
“Hmm, you might be on to something.”
I’m no power lifter, but I’ve obviously done regular training with weights. Intrigued, I toe up one leg of my scrubs trousers and find a well-toned calf that’s probably pounded more than a few laps on the track.
“Maybe I’m a runner.” That feels close but not quite right. Enlightenment comes in the form of a toddler who overtakes us wearing a full Cardiff City kit. “No, it’s not running. I play footy. I scored a hat-trick once and got to keep the ball.”
“Oh!” Ceinwen does an excited little hop. “This is perfect! We just need to find the team that’s missing a player.”
I shake my head, hating to be the fly in the ointment. “I’m not sure. I think I was on a team”—our strip was white with navy socks, and the year that we managed to win something, a cup or maybe the league, we got so drunk we couldn’t find the team bus when it was time to go home—“but I don’t…I dropped out for some reason.”
Ceinwen utters a stream of furious Welsh, which must contain at least one swear word because a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket tuts as he hurries past us.
“I thought we had it,” she says, releasing her stranglehold on my arm and smoothing the sleeve of the sweater she’s loaned me. “I thought we’d be able to find you.”
“Well, it’s something, which is more than we had five minutes ago.”
“True.” She goes into the newsagents and comes out with two ice lollies, apparently undeterred by the weather report predicting a high of four degrees.
A frigid blast of air hits us when we step outside. We look at our ice lollies and shrug, nibbling on the shell of strawberry sorbet as we wander past Outpatients and find a bench near A&E. The sky is cloudless and brilliant blue, and pockets of frost are lingering in shaded spots. Stretching my legs, I lift my face to the sun.
“You should make a list,” Ceinwen says, flicking a piece of pink ice at an optimistic seagull. It squawks its disgust at her and steals a discarded chip as recompense. “A list of all the stuff you’re figuring out, because even the tiniest scrap might turn out to be really important.”
I nod, glad that her sweater covers the notes I’ve already made on my cast. “Okay, well, I’m right-handed, probably sporty, and I don’t speak Welsh.”
She’s found a pen in her bag and is scribbling dutifully. “You prefer marmalade to Marmite.”
I give her a moment to jot that down while I steel my nerve. “I think I’m gay,” I tell her quietly.
“Hmm,” she says, and starts a new bullet point. “You do have a distinct vibe.”
“What bloody vibe?” I nudge her with my elbow, relieved that she’s still sitting there. “Explain.”
She laughs. “It’s nothing you can explain. You just have a way about you.”
“A gay way.”
“Yes, exactly. A gay way.”
I ponder that for a few seconds. “Is it the hair?”
“Among other things.” She raises a finger. “Moving on, you also swear quite a lot, and you sound like the love child of Liam Gallagher and Lena Headey.”
“In short, I’m a lesbian northern scrubber.”
She snorts. “I’m writing that down.”
Something cold drips onto my fingers, and a sharp shake of my shoulder tears me away from a memory of a lad with a dark mop of hair and an infectious laugh.
“Rebecca?” Ceinwen rests her palm on my forehead as if checking for a fever.
“I have a brother,” I murmur as she eases my ice lolly from my grip and swaps it for a napkin. “Older than me, and he doesn’t live in Manchester. Bleedin’ hell, this is proper fucking weird.”
“Did you see someone who looked like him?” She cranes her neck and scans the ambulance bay. Seeing no one of note, she wipes my fingers to stop me shredding the tissue.
“No, it was what we were just talking about. When I moved away, he used to joke about it, about me turning into an inner-city scrubber.” I lick a splodge of vanilla from my thumb. “Crap. This could throw the whole Manchester theory through a loop.”
“Perhaps you weren’t born there, you just live there now.”
“Perhaps.” I can only picture my brother as a child, ruddy-cheeked and racing barefoot across a rough field. He squirts me with water that smells of Fairy liquid, and I squeal, returning fire with my own homemade cannon. Our rope swing hangs from the oak near the river. Falling off it caused the break to my leg, but my dad didn’t cut it down, he just told us to be more careful.
“I grew up in the countryside,” I say, and I can see our cottage now, nestled at the top of the field. My bedroom was at the back, overlooking the yard where the ducks and hens would torment the dog. It seems idyllic, but the images bring disquiet with them, and I’m sure I left this place as soon as I was old enough. I feel the tickle of goose pimples as they rise along my right arm. The cast on my left prevents me from rubbing them away, so I pull the sweater over my hand and watch the seagull strutting in front of a pigeon until my urge to shiver has passed.
“Right, come on, or you’ll catch a chill.” Ceinwen is about to tug me up when her stance stiffens and she mutters, “Uh-oh.”
I catch sight of Pryce making a beeline for our bench, before Ceinwen assumes a defensive position and blocks my view. “Was she on today’s guest list?” she mutters.
“No.” I stand up beside her. It’s the first time I’ve been able to meet Pryce on her level, and I’m still a few inches too short. She nods a curt greeting, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses.
“I need to speak to you,” she says, and then raises her shades as if surprised to find Ceinwen hasn’t taken the hint and made herself scarce. “About a private matter.”
Ceinwen folds her arms and juts out her chin. I doubt she’s much older than eighteen, but she’s got the protective instincts of a newly whelped bulldog.
“We were going back inside, Detective,” she says.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “You head off. I’m sure we won’t be far behind you.”
Her brow furrows, but she relents, with a final caveat aimed at Pryce. “Will you see her to the ward when you’re done?”
“Absolutely,” Pryce says. I can’t tell whether she’s taking the piss, but her guarantee is sufficient to placate Ceinwen.
“Here.” Ceinwen wraps her jacket around my shoulders. “Don’t be too long. I’ll have a brew ready for you.”
She hurries off, using A&E as a shortcut, and I lose sight of her in the ambulance bay as a vehicle reverses in with its blues flashing. My right palm, still hidden in my sweater, is clammy, and I feel dizzy enough to sit down without waiting on ceremony.
“What have you found?” I ask. Pryce has never been one for exchanging pleasantries or small talk, but her body language is even more guarded than usual, and she’s yet to look me in the eye. Whatever is going on, this isn’t a routine visit.
She sits next to me, leaving her bag unopened for once.
I nod, unable to reply. Major Crime. The words whip around my head as briskly as the wind is agitating the litter. Not piddling misdemeanour, not a slapped wrist and a suspended sentence, but Major Crime. Jesus Christ. What the fuck have I done?
If Pryce notices my nervous breakdown, she pays it no heed, continuing her monologue in the same formal tone.
“Yesterday afternoon one of the MCT saw a news bulletin that featured an update on your case. DI Ansari was alerted first thing this morning, and I’ve been back and forth on the phone and email with MMP since then.”
“For fuck’s sake!” I blurt out before common sense can rein me in. “Stop stringing me along. If you’re going to arrest me, then fucking arrest me.” My burst of defiance is short-lived, and it shatters along with my voice. “Please,” I whisper. “Just tell me what I did and get it over with.”
“I’m not here to arrest you.” She meets and holds my gaze, her eyes narrowing even though the sun is behind her and half-blinding me. If her manner is meant to be reassuring, it’s falling well short. “Your name isn’t Rebecca Elliott. It’s Alis Clarke, and you work for MMP’s Major Crime Team.”
“What the fuck?” I mumble. I have to clutch the arm of the bench, because I think I might pass out.
“Put your head between your knees,” she instructs me.
“No, I fucking won’t.” I bat at the hand she presses to my neck. “You’re talking shit.” But even as I spit out the denial, I know she’s telling the truth. The name feels right in a way that “Rebecca” never did, and my familiarity with police protocols and terminology suddenly makes sense. I should be relieved, but I feel as if the ground is opening up, ready to swallow me whole. Too bewildered to process the ramifications, I grasp at a simple fact: if the police have ID’d me, they have contact details for my next of kin. I chew on my lip, splitting the skin with a ragged tooth. “My dad. Did someone call my dad? And my brother? I have a brother.”
“I spoke to your brother an hour ago,” Pryce says. Then, quietly, “Do you want me to start from the beginning?”
“Yes.” I answer automatically, the tang of blood mixing with strawberry ice as I swallow.
She shifts on the bench, as if she’s getting comfortable before telling a bedtime story, and hands me a sheet of paper copied from my MMP personnel file. The photograph attached to the copy is tiny, but I can see that it’s me, and apparently I spell my name A-l-i-s, not A-l-i-c-e.
“You’ve been with MMP for nine years and worked Major Crimes as a detective constable for the past four,” Pryce says. “Thirteen months ago, you volunteered for an undercover operation and were given the alias Rebecca Elliott.” She holds up a hand to prevent any interruptions. “I only have the basics. Your DI was less than forthcoming about the nature of your assignment. I know that it involved a full-time job in a factory called Hamer & Sons, and that on Friday afternoon, for reasons that are still unclear, you managed to dupe your handler and head out here. Neither he nor DI Ansari could offer any explanation for your actions or why you were with Jolanta. In fact, neither was aware of any connection or relationship you may have had with her, but employment records show she worked your shift pattern at the factory.”
It’s so subtle I almost miss it, the barest change of emphasis when Pryce says “relationship,” but it offers a succinct explanation for her stony demeanour. For the first time, we’re talking as one police officer to another, and she’s evidently convinced that I had dishonourable reasons for abandoning my assignment to abscond with a potential witness. My instincts, blunted by a thunderclap migraine, warn me to say nothing in my defence, and I defer to them even as alarm bells start to clamour in my head and the rhythmic throbbing behind my left temple provides an accompanying drumbeat.
“DI Ansari and Detective Constable Keith Wallace will be here to interview you later this afternoon,” she says. “I’ve updated them with regard to the road collision investigation, but I imagine they’ll take everything else off my hands.”
“Everything else,” I repeat, still stupefied.
“Your identity and background, whatever Jolanta’s role was in all of this, any potential charges that MMP may want to bring.” She ticks off the items in the manner of one reading from a shopping list.
“All right, I get it,” I snap. “And you need a statement, and I might be facing charges of death by dangerous driving. Did I miss anything?”
“It could be driving without due care,” she says, as if that would make things easier to bear. She hands me a card with her details. “Use this if you need me before I next contact you.”
“Cheers.” I give her a jaunty thumbs up. I suspect Alis might be sarkier than Rebecca. “Are we done?”
She unfolds her sunglasses but doesn’t put them on. “Your brother is driving over first thing tomorrow. Your dad’s abroad at the moment, and I’ve not been able to get in touch with him.”
“Thank you,” I say with sincerity this time. Pryce doesn’t answer, and there’s a conspicuous pause in the conversation. She hasn’t mentioned my mum, and I don’t want to force her to break the news to me. “I think my mum died,” I add.
“She did,” she says softly. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.” I push to my feet, weaving slightly until she steadies me. “Am I okay to go back now?”
“Yes.” She hesitates. “Do you want me to walk you over there? I said I would.”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
Her sunglasses go back on, masking her reaction, but some of the rigidity has left her posture. “I’ll be in touch,” she says.
“Right.” I let her walk a yard or so and then I call out, “DS Pryce?”
She stops immediately, raising her glasses again as she turns, and I see the concern that flashes across her face. “Alis?”
I close the gap. I’d rather not shout this. “What’s my brother’s name?”
“Martin,” she says. “His name is Martin.”
* * *
Disorientated by the headache, I get lost somewhere between Rheumatology and Stoma Care. I stagger into the public toilets and kneel on the floor of the farthest cubicle, where I cling to the bowl and throw up my Strawberry Split. Someone taps on the door as I’m using a handful of tissue to clean my face.
“Are you all right in there, love?”
“Yes, thank you,” I say.
I lean my cheek against the wall, avoiding its red-pen declaration “Caryl Jones luvs cock,” and listen to the blast of the hand dryer and the fading click of high heels. The toilet stinks even after I flush it, but I don’t move. Locked in where no one can find me, I feel safe enough to dissect the bombshell Pryce just dropped. I soon realise there’s not much for me to work with, though. The revelation of my real name hasn’t miraculously restored my memory, and I seem to have more in common with Rebecca Elliott, factory worker, than with Detective Constable Alis Clarke.
Another wave of nausea hits me as I whisper the names aloud, because whichever of them I go by, I’m in deep shit. I retch, flush, and reclaim my spot on the floor. An infant wails in the next cubicle, its mum too harassed to enquire after my well-being. I’m cold but sweating in Ceinwen’s jacket, and every scenario I conjure up ends with me facing disciplinary hearings and dismissal at best, a custodial sentence or a second attempt on my life at worst. I feel like a child abandoned in a crowd, scared stiff and surrounded by strangers whose lives are far better mapped out than mine. Sickly and miserable, I shove my hands into the pockets of the jacket and feel the edge of Pryce’s card dig into my fingers. I know it will list three ways to contact her: mobile, direct office line, and email, and for a moment, the urge to confide in her is so strong that I raid all of Ceinwen’s other pockets in the hope of finding loose change for a pay phone, but even with thirty pence sitting on the palm of my hand, I stay where
I am.
It’s not that I don’t trust Pryce. I do, implicitly. I’m sure she would listen to everything I had to say and take meticulous notes of my claims regarding the two men at the crash. She would examine my bruises for fingerprints, even though they’ve vanished and she doesn’t really believe me anyway, and then she would type a report and send it off to Major Crimes at Manchester Metropolitan Police, because that’s how inter-force investigations are supposed to operate, and she plays by the rules.
I, on the other hand, seem to have broken a number of them, and the more I think about it, the more convinced I become that I must have had a bloody good reason for doing so. I don’t believe that Jolanta and I were slipping off to a cosy cottage to indulge in a forbidden sexual liaison. For a start, I would have packed a bag, and we definitely wouldn’t have invited a couple of thugs to tag along. Which leaves only one possible explanation: we were trying to get away from someone, and we failed. Or, more specifically, I failed her. I’m the police officer, the one employed to protect the vulnerable and keep them from harm. Instead, my actions and the decisions I made got Jo killed.
My eyes fix on the flimsy door lock, my fingers twitching around Pryce’s card. I’m certain now that I can’t call her. The less she knows—the less involved she is—the safer it will be for her, and I can’t risk her telling anyone at MMP that I remember the men being in the car. I might be able to trust her, but if I didn’t say a word to my colleagues before I fled with Jolanta, I obviously don’t trust them.
Chapter Six
Dusk drops the temperature below freezing, and I sit by my open window as the sky over the car park turns pink. In anticipation of my visitors, I’ve changed into scrubs with a top that matches the bottoms, and muffled the worst of my headache with ibuprofen. My arm is resting in a complicated Velcro-strapped sling, not to alleviate the painful shoulder I fabricated, but because I’m ever more paranoid that someone will see the writing on its cast.