by Phil Walden
The file also covered her treatment at the hospital at the northern tip of the Fens, where the young woman had first been taken and her subsequent time in the specialist coma unit, where she had resided for fifteen long years. Her superficial injuries had healed within a matter of weeks. However, the severe brain trauma suffered then caused her to lapse into a comatose state. On several occasions over the ensuing years, a decision to switch off life support had been contemplated. But the absence of any next of kin and the possibility and hope that someone, somewhere, might be looking for her, made them hold back.
Police records were perfunctory at best. They had made inquiries in the immediate locality. No one recalled seeing the girl, no one had been reported missing. There was nothing to suggest an accident or incident in the vicinity where she was found. Officers couldn’t be sure if or how far Angel had wandered, or even for how long, before she had collapsed. The subsequent appeal in the local press had unfortunately coincided with the headline news of a coach crash in Spain, which had taken the lives of seven people, all residents in and around the local area. The resulting coverage had lasted over a week and had relegated Angel to a seemingly insignificant slot in one of the inside pages. Even the small photograph attached to the article was marred by the heavy cuts, swelling and bruising evident on Angel’s face. By the time they had faded and she had looked a semblance of her normal self, the story had gone. No other possible marks of identification could be found anywhere on her body. Even a check of dental records drew a blank.
Finally, to make matters worse, Olivia made no headway in trying to decipher the rough symbol which Angel had scored onto the window. Drawn the proper way up, she learned, it could represent the planet Venus, the element copper or even feminism. Under these circumstances, that made little sense. Drawn upside down, it made none.
*
So this day, bright and early, far too early he wailed, she had announced her arrival by banging on the roof of the houseboat as usual. Unshaven and unwashed, he’d opened the door, to see her nose immediately screw up at the outgoing odour. Still, her poise quickly regained and with even more energy and intensity than ever, she had pushed past him, down the steps, thrown off her coat and begun to remove some tatty old notes and brown tinged sheets from a long abandoned cork board.
Start poured himself a large, consoling whisky, his third of the morning, to be met by a critical and condescending frown.
”A little early, isn’t it?” she preached. “Even for you.”
He watched as the board began to fill with photographs of Angel and the symbol scratched onto the French window “I think you’re mistaking this for some sort of police investigation.”
“I like to be organised that’s all.”
Start raised the glass towards the photographs. “Do you have to do it here?”
“I could use your office.”
“This is my office.”
“Well then. Look, I had a long think last night. We’ve had no luck with the police, the Press or the hospital. But so what? We just have to work with what we’ve got.” She stepped back to survey her work. “I guess she’s mid-thirties. What do you reckon?”
His answer took the form of one large gulp, as he emptied the glass in one.
She tried again. “This symbol? Any idea what it might mean?”
Start sloppily refilled his glass. “The ravings of a mad woman?”
She moved across to his computer. “I tried googling it earlier. We could take another look. See what you think.”
“We! We! You keep saying we,” he snapped. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone who gives a damn.”
She froze. “But…”
“Listen. You wanted a proper story. You’ve got one. Just leave me out of it.”
“But Angel’s a great story. Don’t you see? She could be your way back.”
Start’s eyes bulged with anger. “Way back? What are you talking about?”
“Way back, way out, whatever, back to something better. Surely you don’t want to stay here any longer than you have to.” She surveyed the inside of the boat. “In this?”
He grabbed her coat and tossed it at her. “You’d better leave.”
Disgruntled and defiant she pulled on her coat and snarled back at him, “This the way you were treated when you started, was it?”
“Just go!”
“I’m on no pay, remember?”
“I’m sure Mummy and Daddy will help out.”
Her face fractured. “They can’t. They died ten years ago.”
Start turned his back and threw more whisky down his throat, dulling the emotion, killing the words and crushing any semblance of guilt. He heard the cabin doors pushed open. Good, she was leaving, he told himself.
But then Olivia spoke, her voice, strangely calm, controlled and authoritative, as if she had assumed command. “OK. I’ll do this on my own. But do one small thing, will you? Use whatever contacts you have. Get me an e-fit. I need to know what Angel looked like around the time she was found…without the facial injuries.”
The words fell from his mouth. “Are you still here?”
“Do you care about anybody or anything?” she shouted. The door crashed shut. He swigged down his drink, collapsed onto the sofa and fell fast asleep.
*
When Start woke, it was mid-afternoon. He coughed, phlegm spitting from his otherwise dry mouth. He needed to get some air. As he struggled to his feet, his face collided with its reflection in the mirror. Lined and drawn, it cried of age, pain and sorrow. He was thirty nine but looked ten years older. God, he was a mess. Olivia and the scene earlier slammed back into his consciousness. He tried to tell himself that she got what she deserved. All that talk of a way back or a way out. What did she know? Why should she care? She was only interested in using him to push her career. In six months’ time she’d be gone. She wouldn’t even remember his name. It was all Deacon’s fault. Jack knew how he felt about interns; they were like leeches, sucking the energy from you for no discernible long term benefit, either to him or to the paper. But hard as he tried, Start could not justify his behaviour. He’d been foul and he knew it.
Behind his reflection he could see the folder Deacon had brandished at him in the office, at the time Olivia had been foisted upon him. It had lain there untouched. He’d not the slightest interest in reading it. But the tragic words about her parents, the sudden unexpected emotion and surprising vulnerability evident in her voice would not go away. Momentarily the ice maiden had melted and he was curious to find out more. So he turned, picked up the folder, flopped down on the sofa and began to read.
She was twenty seven years old. Educated at a girls’ grammar school in the home counties, she had taken her A Levels a year early, gaining impressive grades and was all set for a bright future at a top university. A horrific car accident had left her orphaned. An only child, she moved to South Africa to live with her paternal grandparents and attend university out there. Still grief stricken and unable to settle, she dropped out and set off on her own to travel the world. She was gone for almost five years, working and paying her way down the Americas from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego before crossing to Asia to spend time in India and the Far East. Africa had been her final and hardest challenge before she rejoined what was left of her family in Cape Town. The whole experience persuaded her to apply for a degree course in Politics and at last she felt strong enough to return to England to pursue it. By the time she graduated, she was in her mid-twenties and keen to embark on a career in journalism. But she hit the proverbial brick wall. To some employers her curriculum vitae made her seem too extreme, unusually bohemian and unpredictable. Much easier to go with someone who appeared more mainstream, unquestionably reliable and a safe bet. After all, in the current recession, there was no shortage of applicants. So she accepted her fate and got herself farmed out to a local rag in the middle of the East Anglian fens. How typical of Deacon to take her on, Start thought, always a sucker for a desper
ate cause. Life was full of victims and two of them had eventually found their way to Jack.
He closed the folder and dragged his blood shot eyes to look up at the photographs attached by Olivia to the wall. Scrutinising each in turn, he unpinned one of Angel and studied it. She could only be a few years younger than him, but just like him, alone and seemingly abandoned. Something in her past was destroying her present and denying her a future. Was she also a victim? Had she been betrayed? Would she, should she, see justice?
He edged to the cabin door and stepped outside, relieved to breathe in the cold, cleansing air. Black, boiling clouds rolled menacingly across the sky, the fierce wind driving the rain horizontally, lashing and slapping at his face. He lifted his mobile from his pocket and quickly scrolled through his contacts.
“Del. It’s Start. I know. Long time, no hear. Listen.”
He held the photo of Angel in front of him. Well, he told himself, anything to keep Olivia off his back. “I’m sending you a photograph.”
Chapter Six
Frenetic waiters, carrying trays loaded with drinks and meals, weaved up and down a long, narrow corridor, which served a series of small private dining areas overlooking the large, square courtyard of Somerset House. Trisha watched as several carefree skaters swished and swirled past on the ice rink outside. It was good to see the old palace reinvented, occupied and so full of joy.
Joy was something she had not experienced much of lately but tonight had taken her aback. The phone call had come predictably enough. Being a new face in town, intent on building contacts and influence, Catchpole was bound to see her as a prime target. She knew it was a necessary by-product of her job. Nevertheless, she had surprised herself by agreeing to meet him. After all she knew nothing about him, past the barnstorming impression he had made in the short time he had been in the country.
The widespread flooding of the previous weeks had caught the whole country unawares and reopened a fierce debate about the perceived effects of global warming. There had been much footage of distraught homeowners mopping up after the year’s second inundation of houses built upon flood plains. Even the new defences, expensively erected in endangered towns and cities, had failed to hold in the face of that autumn’s extreme weather. Politicians had lobbied on behalf of their constituents in the full knowledge that money was simply not available to address the problem. Catchpole alone had forged a new path.
His own constituency had been one of the worst affected with the river quickly breaking its banks and swamping the centre of Battersby. Catchpole’s response was to source a small sum of money from a European environmental fund. This paid for a group of local farmers to begin work on changes to the landscape west of the town. Shelter belts of trees were planned, new ponds created. The course of the river, previously straightened to speed the flow of water, was now to be restored to its old meandering self. The science suggested that more water would then be retained and released downriver at a much slower pace, allowing its safe dispersal and avoiding the prospect of future flooding for good. Nature would once again be allowed to flourish.
The government had been forced to acknowledge the possible benefits of the scheme and to welcome the potential cost savings, so much so that they had ordered exploratory studies in other seriously affected locations. Catchpole’s stock soared within his party, Parliament and the country as a whole.
Unusually, Coburn had been keen for Trisha to meet him. Size him up he’d said. See if he lived up to the hype and was worth cultivating. Typical Max. Sometimes it was necessary to follow the people, even if most of the time you sought to control them. Anyway, to be seen with one of the movers and shakers in the city could do her career no harm. If, in the meantime, Catchpole turned out to have charm, good manners and a forte for engaging conversation, well, she could live with that.
And she had to admit that he possessed all of those attributes plus he seemed kind and polite, most unlike the typically self-centred and boorish politicians she usually encountered. He asked lots of questions and listened attentively. At times during the sumptuous meal, it had been easy to forget that this was a business assignment rather than an embryonic romantic assignation. God, at one point, she’d even caught herself playing with her hair.
“I’m so sorry. I had to take that call.” Tossing down his mobile, Tom Catchpole slid back onto his seat. A waiter followed close behind with a tray of drinks. “At the moment everyone seems to want a piece of me.”
“Goes with the territory, I’m afraid.”
“But it’s never ending,” complained Catchpole.
“Just remember it was you who called me.”
They laughed.
The waiter carefully placed the drinks before each of them. “Whisky for Madam and a bourbon for Sir.”
“Thank you.” Trisha reached for the jug of water but Catchpole’s hand beat her to it. “Anyway, I thought all politicians craved attention,” she teased.
“Not all. Give me a one off warts and all interview anytime.”
“That from the man who is all over the tabloids.”
“I’m new. There’s a need to show people who I really am and what I stand for. But I’m serious about an in depth discussion, tough, probing, with no holds barred. It’s why I asked for you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It’s meant as one.” He began to pour water slowly into her glass.
She raised her hand. “That’s enough, thanks.”
“You like it fifty-fifty?”
“Yes. It accentuates the flavour.” She frowned as he plopped ice cubes into his drink. “As opposed to drowning it.”
“I can see I’m dealing with a connoisseur.”
“More an enthusiast.” Trisha leant back. “Something I picked up from Joe.”
“Joe?”
“Joe Start.”
“The Joe Start?”
She nodded.
“Wow! The Shark himself!” Catchpole exclaimed.
“You heard of him in the States?”
“Sure did. The Globe’s star reporter, wasn’t he?”
“Was being the operative word.”
“What happened?”
“He upset the wrong people. Lost the paper a fortune. Cost him his job…. and his wife.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He chose to leave.”
“Say if you’d rather not talk about it.”
Trisha glanced out of the frosty window. A young couple swept by, hand in hand.
He tapped her glass. “Speyside, a favourite tipple of his?” His jaunty voice dragged her back.
“No. He was an Islay man, muscular and intense.”
“Sounds more of an acquired taste.”
She smiled. “Too much fire for me.”
“Start or the drink?”
She did not answer.
Catchpole held up his glass. “You should give bourbon a try?”
“I’ve always found the finish too quick.”
“Then sample a quality brand, smooth and full bodied.” He gently took her hand and wrapped it around the glass. “With a rich… rewarding…taste.” His hand slid across hers.
Trisha stiffened. Flirtatious banter was one thing. Perhaps he was just having fun and meant nothing by it. Since his arrival he had already built up something of a reputation for enjoying the high life of the capital and had been pictured with a number of glamorous women, only too anxious to be pictured on the shoulder of the latest big name. But nothing disreputable or shady, nothing to feed a tabloid frenzy. Only carefully staged shots to raise his profile and shape the image of a modern and energetic man, new, strong and dynamic, ready and willing for change. It was all part of the game.
As was this, surely. The meal, the setting, the teasing and the playful conversation. The man was part bear and part poet, an alluring combination. But she was not ready. She told herself not to overreact. Just disengage, slowly and with dignity.
Trisha looked him
straight in the eyes. Her tone was still light and humorous, designed not to offend. “This isn’t a proper spirit. It’s a fraud. An intruder imported from somewhere far, far away.” One by one she began to peel back his fingers. “A pale imitation of the real thing.” She let go. The glass dropped the short distance to the table, spilling its contents.
Catchpole watched her slowly rise. “Try seeing it as a challenge to the status quo, a breath of fresh air.”
More serious now, she firmly smoothed down her skirt and straightened her jacket. “I’m afraid I can’t. Thank you for a lovely dinner. It’s been fun.” She moved her bag smartly to her shoulder. “The interview. I’ll be in touch.”
With that she hurried away from him, desperate to banish the undeniable pangs of yearning, eager to embrace the bland anonymity and bustling solitude of the sprawling metropolis beyond.
*
In a quiet district of West London, Dominic Wilson waited anxiously in his car. The Chiswick area was a favourite of the political classes. It didn’t attract the feverish attention garnered by the Islington and Notting Hill sets and allowed a degree of privacy where a young family could attain a semblance of normal life. As usual, Violet was late. Today he urgently needed her to be on time. The paternal lift to school was something he loved to do. He couldn’t deny that being seen as a family man was politically advantageous but common sense told him it was at odds with the demands of his job. He blasted the horn long and hard, scattering starlings from the leafless elm trees which lined the wide suburban road. It would have been so much easier to have sent her to private school but that would have been anathema to the party grassroots and explosive ammunition for his political enemies.