by Liz Lawler
‘So you’re saying a tree branch could have knocked her out? ’ he said tersely. ‘But it’s not what she said occurred, is it?’
Laura briefly pressed her lips together. ‘What if she’d had a traumatic day? I hear she lost a baby yesterday. Might that have some bearing on her mental state?’
Patrick Ford’s eyes narrowed. ‘Her mental state! I do hope you’re not suggesting Dr Taylor is unbalanced, because I assure you she isn’t. I would know. I spend enough time with her. Do not go down that route. If there is another explanation, it will be a physical cause. Concussion, most likely. And yes, possibly from a tree branch hitting her head.’ His eyes coolly appraised the detective. ‘But until you’ve exhausted every avenue of searching for this man, I expect you to accept what she said as truth. And if that’s all we have to discuss, I’m anxious to see how she is.’
Laura smirked behind his retreating back. A bit pompous for her liking. Good looking and dressed well, though more for the city than the job he did, and bluntly confident, but not someone she would fancy. Still, the meeting had gone well, she had managed to gather a time frame of who was where and when at the time of this so-called abduction. Dr Taylor had certainly been out in the car park a long time. If her boyfriend had arrived on time then none of this would be happening. And Laura Best would not have spent the night searching the hospital. Never let it be said she hadn’t taken it seriously; she was nothing less than professional.
*
When Alex looked into Patrick’s eyes the morning after, she worried about what he was thinking. He’d been sitting beside the bed when she woke. He clasped her hand in both of his. In the deep-blue irises she saw his love, his understanding, his concern for what he knew she must be going through, and something else. Separated from all other emotion, standing alone, she saw his doubt.
He didn’t say anything when she first looked at him. He simply stared into her eyes, leaned over and kissed her mouth. A gentle pressure, a second of warmth and comfort, and then he sat straighter in his chair and waited for her to talk.
‘We didn’t have that champagne,’ she said.
He smiled briefly. ‘It’s on ice.’
‘The ice will have melted by now. And the label will have soaked off.’
‘It’ll still taste good. Or I can buy another bottle.’
She entwined her fingers with his and gently squeezed. ‘How’s my mum?’
‘Probably wondering if you and I are coming to lunch. Desperate to talk through the final arrangements for the wedding.’
Alex grimaced. This was the longest-planned wedding in history. Her sister, Pamela, had finally decided on a venue, a dress, a photographer, the flowers and her sole bridesmaid. Alex had left the choice of bridesmaid’s dress up to her sister. After trying on more than a dozen, and listening to Pamela’s oohing and aahing and indecision because each was so nice, Alex had given up. She could only use so many of her days off for shopping.
‘I meant, how is she about this?’
Patrick let go of her hands and steepled his fingers. ‘She doesn’t know. I thought it best if you talk to her about it. In the cold light of day. Well . . .’
Alex sat up, her eyes watching his every expression. ‘Well what, Patrick?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s just you may feel differently today. Have a different slant on things. You know, darling, you really scared me last night. When we found you I was never more relieved in my life. The weather was appalling. Someone could have driven over you. You could have died out there in the cold.’
The familiar shaking began again. Alex now recognised it for what it was. Panic. Not just because of what had happened, but because of not being believed. She dug her recently cut fingernails into her palms and willed herself to be still.
‘Where was I found?’
‘In the car park.’
‘I mean, where in the car park?’
‘Right at the back of it. The security guard and I found you lying on the grass beneath some trees. A couple of tree branches had fallen off close by, and we think one of them may have clocked you on the back of the head.’
‘Really. That’s what you think, is it?’
He was silent for a moment. ‘No. I mean, yes, it’s possible you were knocked on the head by a branch, but that doesn’t mean to say I don’t believe everything else that happened. Look, Caroline Cowan has booked you in for a CT. I think it’s a good idea. We don’t really know how hard you were hit on the head. By our reckoning you were unconscious more than three hours. It’s a long time to be out cold.’
‘What’s everyone saying, Patrick? What are the police doing?’
‘They’ve looked for him, but no sign as of yet. To be honest, darling, I’ve seen them talking more to your colleagues than actively searching for this man. I don’t think they’re giving much credibility to what you say happened. Everyone’s worried, of course. But I don’t think the police believe you.’
There he stopped, leaving Alex with no doubt of what was being said. She either had brain damage or had lost her mind.
‘And you? Do you believe me?’
He rose from his chair to perch on the edge of the mattress so that he could hug her. His words whispered in her ear: ‘Of course I do.’ He leaned back so that she could see his face, and the doubt she thought she’d seen earlier had gone from his eyes. ‘I have no reason to disbelieve you. When have you ever lied to me?’
Alex rested back in his arms. She had grown to feel safe with this man. He intrigued and challenged her in equal measure. His passion for veterinary surgery matched her own for human medicine. He was ambitious and driven, a potent combination in someone who also had the looks of a male model. They’d met because of his passion for rugby. During a game he’d ended up in A & E with a suspected fractured ankle. It wasn’t love at first sight. In fact, she’d thought him a pain in the neck. His knowledge of medicine was at the same level as hers and he had dictated the terms of his treatment at length, until she put him in his place and told him she was the doctor and she would decide if he needed crutches or not. A bunch of not overly imaginative flowers arrived in the department the next day, and he had followed it up by asking her out for a drink.
As she hugged him back, she filled with anxiety. She was hurting badly, and never before had she felt so alone. The thought of people disbelieving her was hard to bear. Especially the police. The helium balloon floating beside her said ‘Get Well Soon’ on a Post-it note taped to the string, and she fondly suspected Fiona had pinched it from a sleeping patient. Get well from what, though? A knock on the head? A hard day at work? Did people honestly think she could make this up?
She eased back from him, looked him straight in the eye and told him bluntly: ‘There’s a killer on the loose. Not just a rapist. This man is a sadistic sicko. I need you to believe that last night is not a figment of my imagination, or caused by a blow to my head. I lay captured, Patrick, and the only thing that kept me sane was thinking about you. I certainly didn’t lie out in a car park for several hours. I lay in the hands of the scariest bastard you could ever imagine. And do you know what gets me most? It’s that the police are not prepared to investigate properly. They can’t accept that it could have happened. But I’ll have the CT and then we can move on with the most obvious conclusion – that I’ve lost my fucking mind.’
*
He insisted on being by her side while she had the CT scan. Protected by a lead-lined apron he had smiled at her as she disappeared into the tunnel.
His questions to the radiologist had been endless, his thought being that recent trauma to the brain may not show up so soon after the incident. A cerebral vascular accident doesn’t always show unless the haemorrhage has already occurred, he argued. A repeat of the scan in a few days time should surely follow, he suggested. Patiently the radiologist answered all the questions. He pointed out that not only was her scan normal, but that there wasn’t even a small bruise to the brain showing on the CT. Alex wanted to
laugh as she saw the disappointment on Patrick’s face. Patrick clearly wanted there to be a cause other than what had actually happened. And who could blame him? It would be so much easier to accept.
There was tension in Patrick’s shoulders and the radiologist was quick to pick up on it. She was fond of Edward Downing and would be sorry when he retired at the end of the year. He was old school, a charming man who was always polite and cheerful and was probably one of the best radiologists in the country. He laughed good-naturedly and winked at Alex. ‘Of course, this doesn’t rule out nuttiness.’
‘Indeed it doesn’t,’ Patrick replied drily, before seeing Alex’s dismay. ‘I’m only joking.’
She squeezed his hand gratefully, unable to trust herself to speak. She would get through this. She had Patrick and Fiona and Caroline, of course. She was not alone in this nightmare.
As she and Patrick left the hospital in the early afternoon, he told her his plan. He’d already OK’d it with Caroline Cowan, and he’d cleared his own workload by bringing in a locum. They would have a holiday. A week away. Somewhere hot where they could lie on a beach, drink lethal cocktails and eat lots of delicious food. Where she could recharge her batteries. In her fragile state, Alex could only ponder on why everyone was in such a rush to whisk her away. Surely she should be available if the police wanted to question her further or if they made an arrest and captured this man? Surely in normal circumstances when a crime has been committed the victims don’t just up and go on holiday? And that, she suspected, was exactly why everyone was being so accommodating. Because they didn’t believe a crime had been committed. They didn’t believe she was a victim.
Chapter five
Ten days later, they flew into Gatwick airport on the return flight from Barbados with Virgin Atlantic, both lightly tanned, Patrick slightly fatter. He was in a jovial mood but she was a little sombre. He’d kept his in-flight fluorescent yellow socks on even after they landed, and the cabin crew smiled appropriately as he walked past them in his leather-strapped sandals. ‘Most comfortable socks I’ve ever worn,’ he said.
He walked several paces ahead of her through the terminal, full of energy, as he scanned the monitors for the conveyer belt from where they could collect their baggage.
Alex knew why he was in a good mood. Last night they’d had sex. She couldn’t call it making love, because she hadn’t felt loved. He had been generous with his caresses. Every part of her was given attention. He had held off from penetration for far longer than normal and she was on the verge of being ready, her skin and muscles relaxed and her bones melting. She had been ready even as he penetrated, until he whispered: ‘This isn’t so bad, is it . . .? It’s not as if . . .’ Then he’d breathed harshly, still holding back. ‘Your coil’s OK, isn’t it? It’s safe for me to come?’
So few words, but the hurt went deep. She analysed them over and over. This isn’t so bad. Did this mean in comparison to her imaginary rapist? Each thing he said betrayed his real feelings: It’s not as if . . .
Finish the sentence, she’d wanted to scream. Finish the fucking sentence. It’s not as if you were actually raped.
Last night was the only time they had had sex in the seven nights they were away. For the rest of the time she had blamed the shared bottle of wine at dinner time and the several cocktails that followed for her lack of interest and drive. Quickly diving under the sheet of one of the large twin beds, she had feigned drunken sleep each night until she heard his heavy snores. She’d then slipped down the back stairs of the colonial hotel to the private beach reserved for the guests. She’d walked its length, back and forth under the watchful eye of the hotel security guard, wishing the days away so that she could stop pretending that this was an ordinary holiday and that she was an ordinary tourist.
Patrick pushed their cases on a trolley, stopping at WHSmith. ‘We need some lemonade or Coke to go with the rum. Finish the holiday properly.’
‘We’ll buy some en route,’ she said tersely, trying hard to hide her annoyance. Even though it was his Land Rover that they’d used to travel to the airport, it obviously wasn’t going to be him driving. He’d drunk several glasses of wine on board, and in between meals had asked for lager.
He slept for most of the car journey, his seat in a reclined position and his feet in their yellow socks resting on his side of the dashboard. He roused when she pulled into the Chippenham service station, calling out as she hurried towards the building to use the toilet, ‘Don’t forget the Coke.’
She stood in the queue, with his Coke and some milk for the morning in her arms, desperately trying to shrug off the wave of depression. He had been easier to cope with in the sunshine, but every mile closer to home increased the sensations of dread. It was all right for him to forget why they had gone on holiday in the first place. It seemed that as far as he was concerned it was over and buried. It may well be that this was his way of coping, but his over-the-top joviality back at the airport and stupid requests like this felt like nails in her head.
She breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. Nearing the counter she scanned the newspapers. The front page of the Western Daily Press caught her attention:
Bath Nurse Still Missing
She leaned closer to read the report:
Fears are growing for pregnant 23-year-old Amy Abbott. The staff nurse has been missing for four days. Amy was last seen on Sunday evening in Kingsmead Square. Wearing blue jeans, light green shirt and tan leather jacket, she—
Beeping sounds interrupted her, and then the voice of the shop assistant: ‘Two pounds eighty-nine, please.’
After handing over the money she wandered despondently back to the car.
On the last part of their journey she made a decision. She nudged Patrick awake when they pulled up outside his house and told him that she thought it best if they slept at their own places tonight. She needed to lie in because of night duty tomorrow, and he was back at work in the morning, so drinking rum might not be the best idea. She’d drop his car back round to him tomorrow. She said it all in a light tone and was relieved when he didn’t put up too much of a fight. Their parting kiss was brief and his wave casual, which suited her fine.
*
In her apartment she turned on every light, checked the windows were all firmly locked, and double-bolted the front door. She had chosen to live here for security and peace of mind. The entryphone system was linked to the main entrance door, which had been a major plus point.
With a large rum in her hand, she sat with her back against the living-room wall, the telephone beside her, and listened to her messages. Three from her mother, all about the final arrangements for the wedding next week. One from Caroline – cheerful, upbeat – hoping she had a good holiday and looking forward to her return.
The last recorded message had been left at five thirty.
‘Hello, this is a message for Dr Taylor. This is Maggie Fielding. I have your results back. I don’t normally give them over the telephone, but I’m sure you’re anxious to hear them. They’re all clear, Dr Taylor, so you can stop taking the antibiotics.’ There was a couple of seconds’ pause. ‘Look, if you want, I’m here to talk . . . Anytime. You have my extension, but here’s my home number and mobile just in case.’
Alex didn’t write the numbers down. Instead she saved the message. After a third rum she reached up and pulled a cushion from the couch and lay down on the floor. With her head propped on the cushion and her back flush against the living-room wall, she looked out into the brightly lit room with her eyes wide open.
Patrick hadn’t said he no longer believed her, yet the mere fact of not bringing up the subject at any time other than last night was beginning to tell. She wondered if he thought she’d experienced some form of psychosis, and whether it would be the easy option to allow him to draw this conclusion. She wondered if her colleagues were thinking something similar. Her mother and sister still didn’t even know about it.
And Maggie Fielding was of
fering her a chance to talk.
Alex knew that a professional counsellor would help her to separate fantasy from fact, dreams from reality – if she’d had some kind of breakdown, or if she’d imagined it.
But she knew she hadn’t. Her dress – she remembered how surprised she was to see it back on. When she pulled back the white sheet after Caroline sat her up on the trolley, she had stared at it in disbelief. Laura Best had pointed out that all the buttons were done up. And they were – every one of them. Heart-shaped and fiddly, they were all in their correct buttonholes. Yet not one of them noticed how clean it was. She had supposedly lain for more than three hours out on grass under trees. They had all said how bad the weather was. It had been cold and wet – not one of them had noticed that she was dry.
Chapter six
Alex reached down and tied the laces on her Nike trainers. She pocketed her stethoscope and tourniquet, pinned on her name badge, clipped a couple of pens to the V-neckline of her shirt, and then went and stood in front of the long mirror. Underneath her green tunic the waistband of the green trousers felt loose. She’d always been slim and toned from the running she did. She’d been second fastest sprinter in the 100 metres for two consecutive years at university, dipping to third when a sixteen-year-old girl took to the track for the first time on a cold summer’s day and set a campus record. Alex had read several articles written about her in the newspapers since those days, following the athlete’s meteoric rise to world champion after winning gold at the 2016 Olympics.
With her light tan and freshly washed tawny hair held up in a loop at the base of her neck, Alex looked well and full of vitality – at first glance. It was only on closer inspection, beneath the layer of concealer, that the black beneath her eyes was visible. She’d bathed her eyes in Optrex, and they sparkled, but it was only because of the determined look of brightness fixed on her face. Her cheeks ached from practised smiles.