Peter Dunne nods.
‘And we want to be with her. She’ll need support,’ Tom says. ‘One of us should be with her.’
‘I’ll pass that on,’ Peter Dunne says, ‘and nothing will happen until she’s well enough.’ He takes a breath. ‘They have recovered images from Carlson’s laptop, photographs of both women.’
My stomach flips over. I think of the Internet, the paedophile rings and the like, people with sick predilections swapping obscene material.
Oh, Lori. ‘Was he sharing them?’ I say.
‘Seems not, though they’re still working to confirm that,’ Peter Dunne says.
‘If he’s convicted,’ Tom says, ‘what will he get?’
‘Murder is a capital crime. With the crimes against Lorelei in addition, he would either face life in prison or execution.’
Execution. Something twists inside me. Hanging. The electric chair. Lethal injection. Beheading. I don’t agree with capital punishment. Never have. But now . . . He should be dead, I think. He should be torn into pieces and left for dogs to eat. He should be killed. But some part of me is revolted by the idea. The barbarity.
‘I’m not sure we’d want that,’ I say. I turn to Tom, enlisting his support.
He moves his head slowly, his mouth tightening a fraction. ‘I’d put the rope around his neck myself,’ he says.
‘It’s usually by injection, these days,’ says Peter Dunne.
Which is not the point.
I squash my emotions, ignore the impulse to agree with Tom, to indulge the lust for vengeance. If taking a life is wrong, then executing someone is wrong. If we lose all our principles, aren’t we as bad as he is? ‘If we objected—’ I say.
‘It’s not our call,’ Tom says. ‘That bastard took a life. People will want him to pay the price. We’re a sideshow.’
Peter Dunne reacts: ‘I wouldn’t describe it—’
Tom cuts across him: ‘And Lori needs to understand that,’ he says fiercely. ‘No guilt trips about compassion and forgiveness and the sanctity of human life. This is not down to us. It’s not our country. He probably wouldn’t get the chop just for the abduction but he killed someone so he forfeits his life. We have to make her see that.’
‘We don’t make her do anything,’ I say.
‘The boys want to talk to Lori,’ Nick says, when we speak again. He sounds exhausted, as if it’s an effort to get the words out.
‘Just tell them she’s still too poorly.’
We couldn’t work out at first how to explain what had happened but my instinct was to stay close to the truth and keep it simple. Lori’s story would be all over the papers: it wouldn’t be fair to tell them some fairy tale and for them to find out we’d lied.
‘A bad man wouldn’t let her go home. He kept her in a garage,’ I said.
‘And when they ask why?’
‘We’re all asking why,’ I almost snapped. Why on earth? ‘Say we don’t know. It was a mean thing to do and he shouldn’t have done it and now the police have locked him up.’
Now I say, ‘She is getting stronger all the time, though.’
‘That’s good,’ Nick says.
‘And once she can walk they say we can take her home. They’ve not found her passport anywhere so we’ll have to get an emergency one from the consulate.’
‘OK. Give her my love,’ Nick says. ‘I’d better go.’ I can hear Benji barking in the background and Finn calling. I long to be back there with them.
* * *
Lori is awake more as the dosage of the sedative is slowly reduced. They alter the position of the bed, raising her head so she is sitting up. And on the fourth day they remove the gastric feeding tube and the nurse tells us they plan to sit her on the edge of the bed for ten minutes at a time. Because of the extreme muscle wastage, such small steps are milestones. She is weak as a kitten.
Each time I see her, it cuts me to the quick: her skeletal frame, the ghastly, savage sores and, most of all, her frailty. But I must hide my pity and sorrow, and adopt the same positive, practical tone that all the medical staff have. She is getting better, I tell myself. She is getting better every day.
‘How did you find me?’ Lori says, her voice hoarse. The first direct question she has asked.
My mouth goes dry and I stumble over the first few words. ‘Mrs Tang told us you were going to photograph Bradley but he said you’d not fixed anything up. We were suspicious. Your dad found messages from you on Bradley’s phone and we managed to get into his flat when he went to work. That’s where we found your camera. When it seemed like the police weren’t doing very much we followed the pictures.’
I have to tell her the rest. I don’t want her hearing it from anyone else. ‘Lori – Bradley hurt someone else as well.’
Tremors flicker near her mouth. ‘Who?’ she croaks.
‘A Chinese woman.’ How do I say it? He killed her? He kept her skeleton in a suitcase? ‘She died,’ I say.
Lori stares, makes a choking noise. ‘Who was she?’
‘We don’t know. The police are trying to find out.’
Tears spring to her eyes. She shuts them. ‘Don’t go,’ she says.
‘I’ll be here.’ She reaches for my hand, hers blackened by the bruising from the cannula. Her skin is hot. It is the first time she has let me touch her properly. I am light-headed. When her grip loosens I keep holding on as long as I can until cramp burns along my forearm and my fingers tingle with pins and needles.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The nurses get Lori to sit in the chair at the bedside. She has very little to say. Her only request, ‘I want to go home.’
‘You will,’ I tell her, ‘as soon as you can walk a little.’
She is stooped, frail, her eyes huge and wary. Now able to feed herself, she has little appetite and her diet is supplemented with nutritional drinks.
Her hair is dull and ragged, the sores either side of her mouth are two large dark circles, and with her chapped lips joining them she looks like a macabre clown.
But the arrhythmia has cleared up and the inflammation in her lungs has nearly gone. I’m astonished at the sweep of her recovery, at the work they have done here in the hospital, at her body’s capacity to heal.
Her friends are allowed to visit now, two at a time, for short periods. Dawn and Rosemary, then Shona and Oliver. Oliver brings some food his mother has made, little parcels of rice and meat. Lori can’t eat it but we thank him all the same.
By Thursday she can take several steps unaided and is transferred to a medical ward. She has a room on her own but the staff recommend she is not left alone so Tom and I sit with her in turn.
‘We can arrange for someone from the psychiatric service to speak to you,’ the doctor tells Lori, ‘about your experience.’
‘No,’ Lori says.
‘You can consider this when you are back in the UK.’
Lori gives a nod, her eyes averted, noncommittal. She is still awkward when we touch her, recoiling or stiffening at a hand on her arm, or the prospect of a hug.
Is it a barrier we need to break through? If we kept touching her, kept our hands on her, while we sit, might we be able to override the fear she has? It’s not something I dare try. We have to respect her boundaries. She was always so at ease physically, comfortable in her own skin, generous with hugs and kisses. Has that gone for ever?
The day before we travel home, Peter Dunne meets us at the hotel, bringing Lori’s emergency passport and our new tickets. We have a suite, two bedrooms, two baths and a living room. We sit in the living room on the couches with their shot-silk mustard covers, the floor-length drapes drawn back to reveal the vista of the river snaking through the city, olive green today under a clear sky. Tom is still packing but I am nearly done.
Peter Dunne asks after Lori.
‘She’s gaining weight,’ I say, ‘and she can walk a little further every day but we will use a wheelchair for the airport.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
He pauses, then, ‘I have some news from the PSB.’
Tom stops moving, a pile of clothes in his arms.
‘We’re seeing them today,’ I say, ‘for Lori’s statement.’
‘They have identified the other woman,’ Peter Dunne says.
Oh, God. A chill settles on me. Tom glances my way, eyes alert.
‘Apparently she was a Chinese student, nineteen years old, from Chengdu, studying in Chongqing. She went missing at the end of September, on her way home for National Day.’
Eight months ago. ‘What’s her name?’ I ask.
‘Bai Lijuan.’
I remember what Anthony said, how hard it was to publicize cases of missing Chinese girls.
‘Do they know how she met him?’ Tom says.
‘No.’ Peter Dunne adjusts his glasses. I sense he has more to say. He draws in a quick breath. ‘You saw oil drums in the workshop?’
‘Yes,’ Tom says.
‘The police also found substantial quantities of lye, caustic soda. It’s a very powerful alkaline.’
‘Jesus.’ I see what he is saying. I remember the drain where Lori was tied up, and how the bones we found were so clean.
Tom groans.
‘Her parents?’ I say.
‘They’ve been notified.’
‘Has he confessed?’ Tom says.
‘No.’
Bradley Carlson has been in custody for a week. He can be held for up to thirty.
I think of Lijuan’s parents, how they must have waited like us, anxious, then increasingly desperate. Weeks stretching into months.
‘Can we . . . I don’t know . . . send our condolences or something?’ I say.
‘If you wish to write a note I can get it translated and make sure it reaches them.’
I find hotel stationery. ‘Is it Mr and Mrs Bai?’ I ask Peter Dunne.
‘Mr Bai and Mrs Wen,’ he says. ‘Chinese women keep their maiden names when they marry.’
I write:
Dear Mr Bai and Mrs Wen,
We are so sorry for the tragic loss of your precious daughter Bai Lijuan and our thoughts are with you now. We hope that your loving memories of her will sustain you at this difficult time and be something to cherish for ever more.
I sign it from Tom, Lori and me, and give it to Peter Dunne.
There are a few moments’ silence, then Peter Dunne says, ‘Your car’s booked for the morning. Is there anything else you need?’
‘No. Thanks,’ Tom says.
I check the time. We need to leave soon: we are meeting the police in a room at the hospital, then packing Lori’s things at the apartment. Lori wants to see it again. Her friends have volunteered to help and I don’t know if that’s wise. Lori is traumatized – how could she be otherwise – and I worry that this will overwhelm her, but she says she’s OK with it. I have to trust her to tell us what she can and can’t cope with.
Lori has asked me to sit in with her for the police interview. Three police officers come: Superintendent Yin, Detective Song and Detective Lee. Detective Lee, a woman, speaks good English. She writes down what Lori says and translates it into Chinese for the men as she does so. Her manner is kind, measured and sympathetic.
Lori answers a few questions about Bradley, how long they’d known each other, how often they saw each other, the nature of their relationship, then Detective Lee asks her to describe the events of Monday, 7 April.
Lori remembers meeting Bradley as arranged by the North Street bridge over the river. She had called into Wenshu Monastery on the way – she’d not visited it before but had heard a lot about it. She reached Bradley just before half past ten and from the river they walked to his workshop. She stopped, now and then, to take photographs.
Her delivery is flat, almost monotonous, with lots of pauses. As she talks, she strokes the back of her wrist continually where the wound from the hand tie has scabbed over, like a dark, rust-coloured bracelet.
‘We got in the workshop and he gave me a drink, some jasmine tea he’d brought along.’ She falters. We wait. ‘The next thing I remember it was dark and he had gone. I was tied up on the floor. My . . . I didn’t have any clothes on.’
I sit as still as possible, trying not to react, giving her all the space she needs.
‘There was something around my mouth too, in my mouth, so I couldn’t call out.’
‘How long until you saw him again?’ Detective Lee says.
‘I don’t know. When he came back—’ Lori stops dead and silence fills the room.
Eventually Detective Lee asks, ‘What happened when he came back?’
‘I was so thirsty,’ Lori says, ‘he brought me water and I drank it and I was asking what he was doing. I was begging him to let me go and he put the gag on, then I must have fallen asleep again.’
‘Did he talk to you?’
‘No,’ Lori says.
‘Nothing at all?’ Detective Lee says.
‘No,’ Lori says.
‘When did he come again?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lori says. ‘I could never tell how long I slept.’
‘Did he come every day?’ Detective Lee says.
‘I don’t know. Sometimes perhaps.’
‘Did he bring food?’ Detective Lee says.
‘No.’
‘And when he came, what did he do?’
I press my feet to the floor, grit my teeth.
‘He put the lights on,’ Lori says, ‘and took the gag off, and gave me water. If I ever tried to talk he put the gag back on. Then he would watch me and take pictures on his phone.’
‘How long did he stay?’ Detective Lee says.
‘I don’t know. I always fell asleep.’
‘He never spoke?’
‘No,’ Lori says.
‘Did he touch you?’ Detective Lee says.
‘Only to put the gag on, or to help me drink. And sometimes he used the hose when I’d been sick or when I had diarrhoea.’
‘He hosed you clean?’ Detective Lee says.
I bite my cheek.
Lori nods.
‘Did he assault you sexually?’
‘Not when I was awake,’ Lori says.
My throat clenches tight.
‘When you were sleeping?’ Detective Lee says.
‘I think so. It felt like he had. I think he raped me.’ Her voice breaks.
I taste bile in my throat, feel a wave of grief and pity for my daughter, a blaze of rage at the man who had inflicted such violence on her.
Thirty-three days, thirty-three nights.
‘I am sorry, I know this is very difficult,’ Detective Lee says, ‘but we are nearly finished.’
Detective Lee adds to the written statement and translates for her colleagues. Then she turns back to Lori. ‘When you met Mr Carlson you had your camera with you?’
‘Yes,’ Lori says.
‘Did you carry anything else?’
Lori frowns. ‘Sorry – I keep going blank,’ she says.
‘Did you have your wallet?’ I say. ‘Or your phone?’
‘Yes,’ Lori says.
‘Did you have a bag?’ Detective Lee says.
‘Yes, my red canvas one,’ Lori says.
‘And your keys?’
‘Yes,’ Lori says.
‘Did you have your passport?’ Detective Lee says.
‘No.’
‘Your laptop?’
‘No.’
‘Your backpack?’ Detective Lee says.
‘No.’ Lori frowns.
‘And your toothbrush?’ Detective Lee says.
‘No.’ Lori looks puzzled.
‘They were at your apartment?’
‘Yes,’ Lori says.
All these things are still missing. So Bradley must have been to her apartment and taken her passport and laptop, toothbrush and backpack, making it plausible that she’d gone travelling.
‘Did you ever meet a Chinese girl, called Bai Lijuan?’ Detective Lee says.
‘I don’t
think so,’ Lori says.
Detective Lee shows Lori a photograph. A slender girl with a page-boy haircut and a mischievous smile, she has a pair of over-sized sunglasses pushed up on her head. She wears a pink shift dress and a necklace of daisies that look like they’re made of plastic.
‘No.’ Lori shakes her head. ‘Is that her?’
‘Yes, this is the other victim,’ Detective Lee says.
Lori’s eyes are troubled. She lowers her head as if she’ll hide. Tears spill down her face, fall onto her arms, into her lap. She makes no sound; she does not move to wipe them away.
‘Are we finished?’ I ask Detective Lee.
‘Yes. Thank you, Lori,’ Detective Lee says. ‘This is very hard foryou and we are very glad for your assistance and co-operation. This will help us make a very successful prosecution. If you remember anything else, please email me.’ She has a business card and places it on the table next to Lori.
I know that Detective Lee is right and that Lori’s story will be a crucial part of the case against Bradley Carlson but I wish she could have been spared the pain of revisiting her ordeal.
Lori manages to nod and the police scrape back their chairs and prepare to leave. They come to shake hands with me. When it gets to Superintendent Yin’s turn I move away, my face burning. I am still infuriated by his incompetence and arrogance, and this petty gesture seems the only power I have to express it.
When they have left, I say, ‘Come on.’ I touch Lori’s upper arm and release the brakes on the wheelchair. Lori looks at me once, eyes clouded with tears, and then into the distance. Lost again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Tom wheels Lori into her flat, to the middle of the living room. She looks about and I hear her let go of her breath, a little puff, but I can’t tell what she feels about the place, though she’s clearly terribly shaken after giving her statement.
We have a new wheeled suitcase that we bought from a shop near the hotel, and a roll of bin bags for rubbish.
‘You’re going to have to tell us what to pack,’ Tom says.
‘All your clothes?’ I suggest.
‘Yes,’ she says. I make a start in the bedroom and before long her friends arrive.
Half the World Away Page 26
