“He’ll be here in a couple of hours. Depending on traffic.”
“A couple of hours. So soon. After all this time it feels a bit strange,” I say, but don’t expand on my sudden rush of nerves when the doctor raises his eyebrows encouragingly at me.
Instinctive, habitual loyalty to Dom makes me reluctant to admit that it’s actually Aidan not my husband I’m desperate to see. It took a while for my brain to remember the tension in my marriage, but now those images have returned, they won’t budge. I do want to see Dom, but I’m also scared: of what I’ve remembered, and of what he knows—or doesn’t know . . .
“A good husband will understand that,” is all the comment Professor Hernandez offers.
“A good husband would have visited before now,” I snap. “Sorry, I just can’t believe I’m still not going to see Aidan.” I desperately want to cry, but I don’t want to have to explain my tears.
“And your daughter, too, I imagine.”
“Sorry?” The deafening sound of my heartbeat roars in my ears, blood pulsing through me in a sudden hot rush.
“You have twins, yes? I’ve just come from another patient of mine who mentioned bumping into you on your walkabout yesterday. She’s quite a talker and was beyond excited at the idea of twins. Told me off for not knowing anything about them.” He chuckles. “Although come to think of it, I do recall you mentioning a daughter once—or perhaps I’ve got that wrong?” he says, and I feel guilty about the look of concern pinching his face as he watches the blood drain from mine.
“No, yes, it’s just that—”
“I’m so sorry. It’s unprofessional of me to share personal information between patients. Please, accept my apologies. And don’t worry, I know the mother-daughter relationship can be very challenging. I’m not married myself, but Carol tells me she often has—how shall I put it?—differences of opinion with her daughter. She finds it hard to talk about their relationship too,” he says kindly.
“If only it were that simple,” I say, sighing heavily, kicking myself now for having mentioned the twins to Stash.
“Well, how about this . . . ?” He pulls up a chair. “When your husband arrives, I could suggest we set up a Skype call. That way you get to see your children, and they’ll get to see and talk to you without ever setting foot inside this abominable place.” He smiles, and I want to reach out and hug him for being such a genius. “Well, now, that is a happy sight.” He gestures at my face with his ever-present ballpoint pen, and I realize I’m smiling back at him.
I’ll have to explain to him about Annabel later, I realize. I at least owe him that honesty, painful as it will be. But for now the thought that I might soon be able to speak to Aidan has sent a thrill of excitement through me. I know it won’t be an easy conversation; I know Aidan must be distressed and worried. My unconscious mind has been playing out exactly how sad he must be feeling, but there are two important differences now: I’m awake. And I’ve found my voice.
“I do believe that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile, Mrs. Castle.”
“Please, do me a favor and call me Madeleine,” I say, on a sudden happy high. “Or better still, Maddie. Just so I know you’re not cross with me.”
“Maddie.” He smiles again. “And the only reason I’ll be cross with you is if you don’t rest and take proper care of yourself,” he says, sounding amusingly like a bossy parent. “As long as you do that, and if it makes you feel more comfortable, I’m happy to break a few rules and be on first-name terms. My name is Sebastián. Pleased to meet you, Maddie.”
He shakes my hand formally and then, still smiling, he clicks his pen and picks up his clipboard, scribbling on it. I wonder if he’s jotting down a reminder to use first names. I’ve never met anyone so conscientious and methodical; he never stops making notes. I want to borrow them and crib up on my own life, which is still such a mystery to me.
“Oh, no. That won’t do at all. I can’t call you by your first name—you’re a doctor.” I feel my jaw dropping and wonder if I look as horrified as I feel.
“Professor, actually.”
“You wear a white coat. And a stethoscope,” I say pointedly.
“This is true.”
“So if I call you Sebastián, that feels like we’re equals. And I need you to be much more than that—more than me. Better than me. To make me better, I mean.”
It occurs to me that in normal life I would be waving my arms around, gesticulating in explanation. But I have still recovered only pieces of myself: my voice, physical sensations, some movement and a handful of fractured memories. I’m not sure anything will make me completely whole again; without Annabel, that simply isn’t possible. But the prospect of speaking to Aidan holds out at least some hope.
“I see.” He cocks his head to one side.
“You do?” He’s clever; perhaps he does. I don’t add that I need someone to look up to—someone I can rely on—and that it’s frightening to feel so powerless and vulnerable, and I want someone to tell me everything’s going to be all right. My parents were always elusive, and then they died, and it was Dom who became my rock, until trust crumbled beneath his aggression and my fear. I’ve surprised myself by being able to put my faith in another man at all, as I have in Professor Hernandez, and I’m not sure whether that’s down to his fatherly manner or simply his official-looking doctor’s name badge.
“Yes. I understand that calling me Doctor and seeing me wear a white coat and stethoscope reinforces your confidence in my medical abilities.” He gives a soft chuckle. “I wish I’d known patient care would be that simple before my parents invested in twelve years’ training at Europe’s finest med schools. I could have just visited a fancy dress shop and saved them a fortune.”
“Ha. You’re very funny. For a professor,” I tell him, pulling a wry smile.
“Nice try, but you can do better than that. I’ve seen you,” he says, pointing to his own broad grin.
It takes me a moment. “Oh, you mean . . .” It dawns on me that his teasing is just another way of assessing my mental faculties; my smile is a demonstration of fully functioning nerve processes. He’s not trying to be funny; he’s still monitoring my recovery. “I’m not sure I have much to smile about right now, but I’ll let you know when I feel one coming on,” I tell him, feeling tired and anxious again. “Tick it off your whiteboard anyway, though. Makes me feel better seeing ticks rather than a list of crosses.”
“In that case, you get a gold star, Mrs. Castle.”
I glare at him.
“Maddie,” he corrects after a long pause. “Apologies, I forgot.”
“And I thought I was the one with amnesia,” I say. And smile.
“Aha, that’s better. Now, try to eat some of this delicious breakfast Carol has left for you, yes?” A dark eyebrow quirks comically as he glances at the tray on my bedside table and then back at me. “As for your amnesia, it may be temporary. We are only at the beginning of a long and winding road. Try not to worry about bridges yet to be crossed. One thing at a time, Maddie. Baby steps.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Mrs. Castle? Maddie?” Carol pops her head round the door, and even though I know I’m supposed to be resting, I feel embarrassed that I haven’t moved since the doctor left me.
Lie-ins have been a rare luxury since the twins were born; I feel bizarrely guilty that this motherly, uncomplaining woman is having to do so much for me. I watch gratefully as the nurse pulls open the curtains, letting in bright morning sunshine. I thank her as she helps me sit up in bed, propping the pillows comfortably behind my back. She smooths back my messy fringe and then tucks a stray strand of her own mousey-gray hair back into its neat bun, tutting as she catches sight of my breakfast sitting untouched on my bedside table.
“Sorry, Carol,” I apologize, with a rueful smile.
“Not to worry. I’ll bring you some toast and tea in a while. But first you have a visitor,” she says, picking up the plastic tray and pulling a face at the bowl
of congealed, soggy cereal.
My heart leaps in trepidation before I realize it’s too soon for Dom to have made it here. It’s still early and the doctor said it’s a couple of hours’ drive out of London.
“Detective Chief Inspector Watkins is here to see you. I’ll show him in, shall I?” She balances the tray on one rounded hip, hesitating as she rests her other hand on the door handle. Her brown eyes widen; doubt furrows her usually smooth, high forehead.
“Yes. Thank you,” I say, feeling a riptide of inexplicable guilt surge through me, followed by tingles of excitement that at last I’ll be able to find out more facts, real information. Surely this detective can help me fill in the missing pieces, the last frustrating gaps in my memory. I take slow, deep breaths and try to stay calm as Carol props the door open, waving in a man wearing a long, dark wool coat.
Automatically, I reach up to tighten my loose ponytail and sweep aside the fringe that now hangs over my eyes, tentatively touching the bandage on the right side of my head. I must look awful, and suddenly I feel self-conscious. Carol told me I will most likely always have a scar, and I’m glad: I want it to remind me. The feathery wisps of shaved hair on the right side of my head, beginning to grow back, also remind me of Aidan’s shorn curls, and I wonder if his hair will be longer now. In my memories, it was sometimes shaved and sometimes wild and curly—which was baffling at first but makes complete sense to me now I understand that I was recalling scattered snapshots from different moments in time.
“Good morning, Mrs. Castle.”
The detective brings with him scents of the outside world. Cocooned in this sterile environment, my senses are alert to subtle changes: the chill of autumn air that lingers on his coat; the oaky mustiness of a damp morning. I wonder if it’s raining outside and glance down at his shoes. Immediately I think of big black boots tearing up the lawn, a jagged scar rucking across the lush green grass towards the rose bushes. My heart beats faster at the memory, but I force it from my mind. I need to stay focused now; I need to gather hard facts and not get distracted by wayward emotions.
I’ve never met a detective before, but if I’d ever thought about it, I suppose I would have imagined that all DCIs are stubble-chinned, leather-jacket-wearing, wisecracking tough guys. I’ve obviously watched too many American crime TV programs over the twins’ shoulders, because DCI Watkins’ boots are the only point of similarity with this maverick image. There is nothing tough or scary about Detective Chief Inspector Watkins of the Metropolitan Police, as he introduces himself.
He may not be a tough guy but I suddenly feel at a disadvantage, tucked up in my narrow, caged bed, unable simply to dash out of the room if the interrogation gets too intense. I don’t even know whether I’m to be interviewed as a victim, witness or suspect: the guilty mother who committed the vile crime of choosing one child over another. I study his clean-shaven face, looking for clues. His expression gives nothing away. He looks more like a well-dressed civil servant than a detective: beneath his coat he’s wearing a dark suit and a gray tie; his black hair is graying at the temples, neatly cut. I wouldn’t pick him out in a crowd.
“Welcome back to the world. Good to see you doing so well,” DCI Watkins continues. He smiles but I see his gaze flick over my face and body, assessing me.
“Thank you. I’m feeling . . . I’m doing OK,” I say, not returning his smile, bracing myself for whatever he has to tell me. I try really hard to wait patiently rather than rush in with questions.
Who killed my daughter?
The four words pulse like a heartbeat inside my chest; I’m almost too scared to ask them, frightened that the answer will flip my already spiraling world inside out and upside down once again.
“Good. That’s good. I can see you’re being very well taken care of. Excellent.”
He starts pacing round the room, looking at everything as if fascinated. Given that it’s pretty much an oblong white-painted box with a couple of armchairs and the odd landscape painting dotted here and there on the walls, it doesn’t take long. Maybe hospitals make him anxious; the monitors and machines are rather intimidating, I suppose, although I’m used to them now. But I guess it’s not every day he gets to meet a woman who’s woken up from a coma after her family has been decimated by a crazed gunman—maybe that explains his jittery demeanor.
“I wasn’t sure we’d ever get to meet,” he says at last, still pacing. “Head injuries tend to be unpredictable, in my experience. I knew you’d be in good hands when you were brought here, though. Professor Hernandez has a reputation second to none. He’s saved many a lost cause. Some who didn’t deserve his expertise, I might add. But I usually find that justice has a way of prevailing.”
“I certainly hope so,” I say, wishing he’d get to the point.
“But I’m very glad indeed to have the chance to speak with you now,” the detective adds politely. “Just a formality, of course.”
“A formality?”
“That’s right. A couple of questions we’d like to ask you before we officially close the case.” The detective checks his notepad, and again I feel frustrated that he seems to be dragging his feet.
“Close the case? I don’t understand. Why is it even still open? You’ve caught the gunman, haven’t you? Haven’t you?” My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I finally manage to force out, in a harsh whisper: “Who is he?”
“Ah. I see.” He stops pacing and turns to look at me, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t know anything at all, do you?”
“I’ve been in a coma, Detective.” I’m really losing patience now.
“Of course. Then I’ll just bring you up to speed, shall I?” he says, lifting a pacifying hand as I sit bolt upright and start fidgeting irritably. “My senior investigating officer DI Nick Baxter is outside in the relatives’ room. He was the detective who conducted the initial investigation into the incident at your home.”
The incident. I close my eyes and remember clawing my way across the grass, the clammy soil, blood soaking through my clothes as I tried desperately to reach Annabel.
“We didn’t want to crowd you, but he’s here and you can speak with him afterwards, if you like. Run through any details we don’t cover here. He has all the forensic reports, of course, along with witness statements and SOCO’s analysis of the crime scene, so—”
“Knock knock!” A petite, dark-haired young woman in a navy trouser suit pops her head around the door.
“Ah, at last,” DCI Watkins says, sighing heavily, and I realize why he’s been prevaricating. He was waiting for this woman, whoever she is. “Time-keeping not on the curriculum at Cambridge?”
“Sorry I’m late, boss. Got stuck in rush-hour traffic, then missed my exit off the M25. And there was a pile-up on the A41,” she apologizes, shrugging her shoulders as she steps in to the room and heads straight to my bedside, her movements brisk and bird-like.
Immediately I realize the detective was right to leave his other colleague outside: I feel crowded with just two police officers filling the small room with their unfamiliar presence. I catch a faint whiff of cigarette smoke from the woman’s jacket and wonder if that’s the real reason she’s late. I must remember to tell Professor Hernandez later that there’s nothing wrong with my sense of smell, I think . . . Another thing he can tick off his list on the whiteboard.
“This is Michelle Simpson,” the detective says, nodding curtly at his colleague, “my family liaison officer. She’s just joined the case, and I like her to be present in matters of domestic violence.”
Just joined the case—when it’s about to be closed?
“Hi. Please call me Michelle—and is it OK if I call you Maddie?” She pulls up a chair and sits down close to my side; any closer and she’d be in bed with me. “Before we start, I just want you to know that there’s nothing to be frightened of any more. You’re safe now.”
“So the gunman . . . You were saying . . . He’s locked up, yes?” I look back at DCI Watkins and realize I’m holding
my breath; it’s making me feel dizzy. I catch a fleeting glance between the detectives and wonder what it means.
“I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through,” Michelle says softly, leaning even closer. “But we’re going to give you all the support you need. I’m here for you, any time of the day or night. I want you to know that.”
“Mrs. Castle, if I might jump in.” DCI Watkins steps forward, huffing slightly and looking impatient. I can see why he needs Michelle to do the touchy-feely stuff. “To answer your question, no prosecutions have been brought and no further action is required at this time.”
“No further action,” I parrot.
“As the final key witness, though, we’re keen to hear your version of events. See if we can’t fill in some of the blanks,” he continues.
“Blanks,” I echo again. I thought I was the only one with blanks . . . I don’t need more black holes—I want answers, not more questions!
“We’re eager to gather whatever information you can share with us, no matter how trivial those details might seem. What you were doing on that day, what you were thinking—basically your recollections of that morning. It may be that we need to come back and speak to you another time—I don’t want to tire you too much in one go. I’m aware this is all extremely difficult for you.” He looks down at his notepad again.
“Yes, you can talk to us at any time,” Michelle reiterates, flicking a glance at DCI Watkins that says: Leave the sympathy to me. “I’m sure it will take a while for everything to come back to you. Your memory of that day, and all the events leading up to—”
“My daughter’s birthday. The morning of my twins’ tenth birthday,” I cut in impatiently. They may have come to me looking for answers, but I don’t have any. That’s their job, I think angrily. “But you say no further action is required. I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” I shake my head as if that will make everything suddenly fall into place.
The Perfect Family Page 15