‘Shy, are we?’
‘Anyone could say they knew me. How would I know if they were speaking the truth?’
‘What are you worried about? Some chap trying his luck? You’d know your own boyfriend, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Stone the crows!’ said Imogen. ‘You do have problems.’
They drove down the rest of the road and into the city in silence.
At the office in Manvers Street, Rose – she really was making an effort to respond to the name – was handed twenty-five pounds and asked to sign a receipt. She was also given a second-hand shirt and jeans. She changed right away. Imogen put the old clothes into a plastic bin-liner and dumped them in a cupboard.
She thought about asking to keep her tatty old things regardless of the state they were in. Seeing them dumped in the sack was like being deprived of even more of herself.
In the end she told herself they were too damaged to wear and what were clothes for if you didn’t use them? She didn’t make an issue of it.
Then Imogen drove her to a women’s hostel in Bathwick Street called Harmer House, a seedy place painted inside in institutional green and white. She was to share a room with another woman who was out.
‘How long do I stay here?’
‘Until you get your memory back – or someone claims you.’
Like lost property.
Imogen consoled her. ‘It shouldn’t be long, they said. Chin up, Rose. It could happen to anyone. At least you’ve got some sleeping quarters tonight. Somewhere to count sheep. You’re luckier than some.’
Two
The bed across the room was unmade and strewn with orange peel and chocolate-wrappings. Not promising, the new inmate thought, but it did underline one thing: you were expected to feed yourself in this place. Imogen the social worker had shown her the poky communal kitchen in the basement. If she could remember what she liked to eat and how to cook it, that would be some progress. Surely if anything could jump-start a girl’s memory, it was shopping.
So she went out in search of a shop. It would be pot-luck, because Bath was unknown to her. Or was it? She may have lived here some time. She had to get into her head the possibility that her amnesia was blocking out her ability to recognise any of it.
A strange place can be intimidating. Mercifully this was not. Viewing it through a stranger’s eyes, Rose liked what she saw, disarmed by the appeal of a city that had altered little in two hundred years, not merely the occasional building, but street after street of handsome Georgian terraces in the mellow local stone. She strolled through cobbled passages and down flights of steps into quiet residential areas just as elegant as the main streets; formal, yet weathered and welcoming. At intervals she looked through gaps between the buildings and saw the backdrop of hills lushly covered in trees.
An unfamiliar city. Unfamiliar people, too. She didn’t let that trouble her. She preferred the people unfamiliar. What if she did live here and suddenly met someone who knew her? That was what she ought to be hoping for – some chance meeting that would tell her who she was. But if she had a choice, she wanted to find out in a less confrontational way. She dreaded coming face to face with some stranger who knew more about her than she did herself, someone who expected to be recognised, who wouldn’t understand why she acted dumb. Her situation was making her behave like a fugitive. Stupid.
So she was wary of asking the way to the nearest food shop. By chance she came across Marks and Spencer when she was moving through side streets, trying to avoid the crowds. She discovered a side entrance to the store. A homeless man was sleeping outside under a filthy blanket, watched by his sad-eyed dog. Her pity was mixed with some apprehension about her own prospects.
Hesitating just inside the door of the shop, feeling exposed in the artificial light, she found she was in the food section, where she wanted to be. To run out now would be ridiculous. She picked up a basket and collected a pack of sandwiches, some freshly squeezed orange juice, a mushroom quiche, salad things and teabags and paid for them at the checkout. The woman gave her a tired smile that reassured, for it was the first look she’d had in days that wasn’t trying to assess her physical and mental state. Carrying her bag of food, she followed the signs upstairs to the women’s wear floor to look for underwear and tights. She blew fifteen pounds in one quick spree. Well, no one had told her to make the money last. Outside in the street she dropped some coins into the homeless man’s cap.
She saw someone selling the local daily, the Bath Chronicle. She bought one and looked for a place to read it, eventually choosing a spare bench on the shady side of the paved square beside the Abbey. She took out a sandwich and opened the paper.
This wasn’t only about orientating herself in a strange place. If – as her injuries suggested – she had been in some sort of accident, it might have been reported in the local press.
She leafed through the pages. The story hadn’t made today’s edition, anyway.
Trying not to be disappointed, she put aside the paper and started another sandwich. People steadily crossed the yard carrying things that gave them a reason for being there – shopping, briefcases, musical instruments, library books, city maps or rucksacks, going about their lives in a way that made her envious. Seated here, watching them come and go, secure in their lives, Rose knew she was about to be overwhelmed by a tidal wave of self-pity. She had nowhere to go except that hostel.
Shape up, she told herself. It was stupid to let negative thoughts take over. Hadn’t everyone said her memory would soon be restored? They’d come across amnesia before. It wasn’t all that uncommon.
Even so, she couldn’t suppress these panicky feelings of what might be revealed about her hidden life. Who could say what responsibilities she had, what personal problems, difficult relationships, unwanted secrets? In some ways it might be better to remain ignorant. No, she reminded herself firmly, nothing is worse than ignorance. It cut her off from the life she had made her own, from family, friends, job, possessions.
Lady, be positive, she lectured herself. Work at this. Get your brain into gear. You are not without clues.
All right. What do I know? I’ve looked in the mirror. Age, probably twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Is that honest? Say around thirty, then. Clothes, casual, but not cheap. The shoes are quality trainers and reasonably new. The belt is real leather. The discarded jeans were by Levi-Strauss. My hair – dark brown and natural, fashionably short, trimmed close at the sides and back – has obviously been cut by someone who knows what to do with a pair of scissors. As for my face, well, they said at the hospital that I wasn’t wearing make-up when I was brought in, but it doesn’t look neglected to me. You don’t get eyebrows as finely shaped as these without some work with the tweezers. My skin looks and feels well treated, smooth to the touch, as if used to a moisturiser. The hands? Well, several of my fingernails were damaged in the accident – though I did my best to repair them with scissors and nail-file borrowed from one of the nurses – but the others are in good shape. They haven’t been chewed down, or neglected. I’m interested to find that I don’t paint my fingernails or toenails, and that in itself must say something about me.
No jewellery, apparently- unless someone took it off me. There isn’t the faintest mark of a wedding ring. Is there?
Rose felt the finger again. This was the horror of amnesia, not being certain of something as fundamental as knowing if she was married.
The injuries told some kind of story, too. Her legs were bruised and cut in a couple of places, apparently from contact with the vehicle that had hit her. The broken ribs and the concussion and the state of her clothes seemed to confirm that she’d been knocked down, but it must have been a glancing contact, or the injuries would have been more serious. The likeliest conclusion was that she’d been crossing a road and the driver had spotted her just too late to swerve. It was improbable that she’d been riding in another vehicle, or there would surely have been whiplash injuries or som
e damage to her face.
She walked the canal towpath for an hour before returning to the hostel, where she found a policewoman waiting. A no-frills policewoman with eyes about as warm as the silver buttons on her uniform.
‘I won’t keep you long. Just following up on the report we had. You are the woman who was brought into the Hinton Clinic?’
‘So I’m told.’
‘Then you haven’t got your memory back?’
‘No.’
‘So you still don’t know your name?’
‘The social worker called me Rose. That will have to do for the time being.’
The policewoman didn’t sound as if she would be calling her Rose or anything else. Not that sympathy was required, but there was a skeptical note in the questions. Jobs like this were probably given to the women; they weren’t at the cutting edge dealing with crime. ‘You remember that much, then?’
‘I can remember everything from the time I woke up in the hospital bed.’
‘The funny thing is, we haven’t had any reports of an accident yesterday.’
‘I didn’t say I had one. Other people said I did.’
‘Has anyone taken photos yet?’
‘Of me?’
‘Of your injuries.’
‘Only X-rays.’
‘You should get photographed in case there’s legal action. If you were hit by some driver and there’s litigation, it will take ages to come to court, and you’ll have nothing to show them.’
Good advice. Maybe this policewoman wasn’t such a downer as she first appeared. ‘Is that up to me to arrange?’
‘We can get a police photographer out to you. We’ll need a head and shoulders for our records anyway.’
‘Could it be a woman photographer?’
‘Why?’
‘My legs look hideous.’
The policewoman softened just a touch. ‘I could ask.’
‘You see, I’m not used to being photographed.’
‘How do you know that?’
It was a fair point.
‘If this goes on for any time at all,’ said the policewoman, ‘you won’t be able to stay out of the spotlight. We’ll need to circulate your picture. It’s the only way forward in cases of this kind.’
‘Can’t you leave it for a few days? They told me people always get their memory back.’
‘That’s not up to me. My superiors take the decisions. If an offence has been committed, a serious motoring offence, we’ll need to find the driver responsible.’
‘Suppose I don’t want to press charges?’
‘It’s not up to you. If some berk knocked you down and didn’t report it, we’re not going to let him get away with it. We have a duty to other road users.’
Rose agreed to meet the police photographer the same evening. She also promised to call at the central police station as soon as her memory was restored.
She was left alone.
‘Rose.’ She spoke the name aloud, trying it on in the bedroom like a dress, and deciding it was wrong for her. She didn’t wish to personify romance, or beauty. She went through a string of more austere possibilities, like Freda, Shirley and Thelma. Curiously, she could recall women’s names with ease, yet couldn’t say which was her own.
‘I’m Ada.’
Startled, Rose turned towards the doorway and saw that it was two-thirds filled. The one-third was the space above head height.
‘Ada Shaftsbury. Have they put you in with me?’ said Ada Shaftsbury from the doorway. ‘I had this to myself all last week.’ With a shimmy of the upper body she got properly into the room, strutted across and sat on the bed among the orange peel. ‘What’s your name?’
‘They call me Rose. It’s not my real name. I was in an accident. I lost my memory.’
‘You don’t look like a Rose to me. Care for a snack? I do like a Danish for my tea.’ She dipped her hand into a carrier bag she’d brought in.
‘That’s kind, but no thanks.’
‘I mean it. I picked up five. I can spare one or two.’
‘Really, no.’
Ada Shaftsbury was not convinced. ‘You’d be helping me. I’m on this diet. No snacks. Five Danish pastries isn’t a snack. It’s a meal, so I have to eat them at a sitting. Teatime. Three would only be a snack. If I was left with three, I’d have to blow the whistle, and that might be good for me. I’m very strict with myself.’
‘Honestly, I couldn’t manage one.’
‘You don’t mind if I have my tea while we talk?’ said Ada, through a mouthful of Danish pastry.
‘Please go ahead.’
‘I’ve tried diets before and none of them work. This one suits me so far. Since my mother died, I’ve gone all to pieces. I’ve been done three times.’
‘Done?’ Rose was uncertain what she meant.
‘Sent down. For the five-finger discount.’
Rose murmured some sort of response.
‘You’re not with me, petal, are you?’ said Ada. ‘I’m on about shoplifting. Food, mostly. They shouldn’t put it on display like they do. It’s a temptation. Can you cook?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll find out, I suppose.’
‘It’s a poky little kitchen. If I get in there, which has to be sideways, I don’t have room to open the cupboards.’
‘That must be a problem.’
Ada took this as the green light. ‘I can get the stuff if you’d be willing to cook for both of us. And you don’t have to worry about breakfast.’ Ada gave a wide, disarming smile. ‘You’re thinking I don’t eat a cooked breakfast, aren’t you?’
‘I wasn’t thinking anything.’
‘There’s a foreign girl called Hildegarde in the room under ours and she likes to cook. I’m teaching her English. She knows some really useful words now: eggs, bacon, tomatoes, fried bread. If you want a good breakfast, just say the word to Hildegarde.’
‘I don’t know if I’ll be staying long.’
‘You don’t know, full stop,’ said Ada. ‘Could be only a couple of hours. Could be months.’
‘I hope not.’
‘Do you like bacon? I’ve got a whole side of bacon in the freezer.’
‘Where did that come from?’
Ada wobbled with amusement. ‘The back of a lorry in Green Street. The driver was delivering to a butcher’s. He was round the front arguing with a traffic warden, so I did some unloading for him, slung it over my shoulder and walked through the streets. I got looks, but I get looks anyway. They shouldn’t leave the stuff on view if they don’t want it to walk. I’ve got eggs, tomatoes, peppers, mushrooms, spuds. We can have a slap-up supper tonight. Hildegarde will cook. We can invite her up to eat with us.’
‘Actually, I bought my own,’ Rose said.
‘Good,’ said Ada Shaftsbury, failing or refusing to understand. ‘We’ll pool it. What did you get?’
‘Salad things mostly.’
‘In all honesty I can’t say I care much for salad, but we can use it as a garnish for the fry-up,’Ada said indistinctly through her second Danish.
Rose’s long-term memory may have ceased to function, but the short-term one delivered. ‘It’s a nice idea, but I’d rather not eat until the police have been.’
‘The said Ada, going pale.police?‘
‘They’re going to take some photos.’
‘In here, you mean?’
‘Well, I’ve got some scars on my legs. If you don’t mind, it would be easiest in here.’
‘I’ll go down the chippie for supper,’Ada decided.
‘I don’t want to drive you out. It’s your room as much as mine.’
‘You carry on, petal. If there’s a cop with a camera, I’m not at home. We’ll have our fry-up another day.’
She gulped the rest of her tea and was gone in two minutes.
The photography didn’t start for a couple of hours, and Ada had still not returned.
Having the pictures taken was more of a major production than Rose expected, but she wa
s relieved that the photographer was a woman. Jenny, in dungarees and black boots with red laces, took her work seriously enough to have come equipped with extra lighting and a tripod. Fortunately she had a chirpy style that made the business less of an ordeal. ‘I can’t tell you what a nice change it is to be snapping someone who can breathe. Most jobs I’m looking at corpses through this thing. Shall we try the full length first? In pants and bra studying the wallpaper, if you don’t mind slipping out of your things. It won’t take long.’
Jenny thoughtfully put a chair against the door.
‘Okay, the back view first. Arms at your side. Fine… Now the front shot. Relax your arms, dear… My, you’re getting some prize-winning bruises there. Sure you’re not a rugby player?… Now I think we’d better do a couple without the undies, don’t you? I mean the blue bits don’t stop at your pantie-line.’
Rose swallowed hard, stripped to her skin and was photographed unclothed in a couple of standing poses.
‘You can dress again now,’Jenny said. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. Whoever you are, you’re not used to flaunting it in front of a camera.’
Three
Rarely in his police career had Detective Superintendent Peter Diamond spent so many evenings at home. He was starting to follow the plot-lines in the television soaps, a sure sign of under-employment. Even the cat, Raffles, had fitted Diamond seamlessly into its evening routine, springing onto his lap at nine-fifteen (after a last foray in the garden) and remaining there until forced to move – which did not usually take long.
One evening when it was obvious that Raffles’ tolerance was stretched to breaking point, Stephanie Diamond remarked, ‘If you relaxed, so would he.’
‘But I’m not here for his benefit.’
‘For yours, my love. Why don’t you stroke him? He’ll purr beautifully if you encourage him. It’s been proved to reduce blood pressure.’
He gave her a sharp look. ‘Mine?’
‘Well, I don’t mean the cat’s.’
‘Who says my blood pressure is too high?’ She knew better than to answer that. Her overweight husband hadn’t had a check-up in years. ‘I’m just saying you should unwind more. You sit there each evening as if you expect the phone to ring any moment.’
Upon A Dark Night Page 2
