by CJ Carver
‘We don’t want anybody entering or leaving while we’re conducting the search.’ The Detective Chief Superintendent’s voice was a surprising foghorn and at odds with his narrow shoulders and whippet-thin stature. ‘We want this done absolutely by the book. No fuck-ups, please.’
The metal gates were swung open and each team coalesced and began to undertake their specific role. Lucy’s was to tag along with Mac and the DCS and try not to be overly lively or act stupidly in any way. This was her ticket home. She had to concentrate. Show herself at her best. She could almost smell the apricot pastry she used to buy for breakfast at the Tube station on her way to work, taste the steamy cappuccino . . .
‘Lucy.’
It was Mac looking at her expectantly. She shot to his side. He pointed to a white Land Cruiser. ‘Our ride.’
She tried not to beam as she hopped in the back. She didn’t want to appear shallow but tagging along with the top dogs certainly had its benefits, like not having to walk across acres of freezing docks but being driven in a luxury heated vehicle with two Customs officers and the harbour master.
They passed a ship that had been loading until the police arrived. Containers waited on the dock, the derricks unmoving. A couple of minutes later the car started to slow.
‘Here she is,’ the harbour master announced.
Lucy craned forward to see a container ship with a two-storey block, painted white, and two derricks. Tears of corrosion streaked from the windows making the vessel look shabby and unkempt. Containers were already stacked on deck. A handful of uniformed police stood with a group of Indian men to one side of the gangway. The crew. They wore scuffed, dirty trousers and oil-stained jackets.
Lucy climbed out of the car. As she approached, the men’s eyes slid her way. They didn’t look at her directly, but she could feel their gazes probing past her uniform and latching on to her breasts, her waist and legs. Perverts, she thought.
The DCS had already ascertained from the ship’s paperwork that there was an RFC container on board. Lucy followed him and Mac up the gantry. It began to snow. Soft flakes drifted and settled on their heads and shoulders. Most containers were marked in Hindi but then she saw two standing side-by-side, stamped with English lettering: RFC – Recycling For Charity. Two uniforms set to work removing the steel locking bar with a pair of metal band-saws.
Lucy watched the DCS and a sergeant move inside the container. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. She didn’t realise she was holding her breath until she heard the DCS suddenly call, ‘We’ve got a body. Male, in his twenties. Dreadlocks. Tattoos on his neck and arms. Badly mutilated. Handcuffs on his left wrist.’ His voice wavered a fraction and Lucy knew he would be battling with the horror she’d experienced when she’d discovered Bella.
She felt a hand gripping her arm. Saw it was Mac.
‘Well done,’ he said.
She’d expected to feel triumphant but instead she experienced a wave of sorrow. She wished they’d found the man alive.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Thursday 29 November, 7.32 a.m.
Dan looked out of the kitchen window. The sky was dark, low with clouds. Snow covered the ground. Aimee was going to go crazy when she awoke. He’d better make sure he helped her make some kind of snowman after breakfast or she wouldn’t speak to him for a month.
He hadn’t slept particularly well last night. He’d dreamed about the woman with the tumbles of raven hair. Her touch was gentle, her joy genuine, but he couldn’t relax as he couldn’t stop searching while trying not to let her know. Her perfume followed him as he rose to consciousness; wood sage and sea salt. Was she real? If so, why did she create such disquiet in him? Perhaps he’d catch sight of her at a university reunion one day, or bump into her at a party given by friends. He’d like to know what hold she had over his unconscious mind.
Across the valley he saw a tiny cluster of yellow lights that belonged to a hamlet of three cottages and a sheep farm. Had an amnesia drug been used on him? If so, why hadn’t he been told? And what about Jenny? Ever since she’d made that call, telling that man about Stella’s death and then lying about it, he’d found it almost impossible to look at her and probably wouldn’t be able to until he’d sorted this mess out. He didn’t want to confront her yet, though. A deep instinct he couldn’t fathom told him to hoard as much information as possible first. Knowledge was power. Knowledge brought understanding.
He thought of Grace, her face shadowed by grief and a deep anxiety that she tried to hide. Whether it was connected to the anguish of losing her mother he wasn’t sure but, from the way she was burrowing through Stella’s things, she was obviously searching for something. When he’d told her about the team of four men coming into her mother’s house under the guise of carpet cleaners, her face had blanched.
‘I called the police,’ he told her. ‘They came and checked them out. They told me the men were legitimate, but they weren’t.’ He went on to tell her about their van giving him the slip.
‘Are you sure?’ Her voice was faint.
‘Yes.’
‘Who were they?’
‘I don’t know, sorry.’
He’d asked Grace for DCA & Co.’s address but she hadn’t been able to remember it, just that it was in Mayfair somewhere, and when he’d pressed her she’d closed down on him, obviously unable to think about anything but getting the locks changed in case the men returned.
He’d left her to it, thinking that he’d find DCA & Co. now he knew which area of London they resided in, but no. Nothing. It was as though the company didn’t exist.
He’d called Dr Orvis Fatik from his car but the psychiatrist’s phone was switched to voicemail. Dan said, ‘Call me. It’s urgent.’
He then rang his father. ‘Don’t go anywhere. I’m coming to see you.’
‘Now?’ His father sounded taken aback. ‘I’ve got golf at two.’
‘Cancel it.’
Before his father could protest, he hung up. Eased into the outside lane of the dual carriageway and pressured the accelerator. His father might know something, be able to fill in some blanks. Dad knew Jenny, knew Luke, and had known his old work colleagues. He might have known Stella, and be able to shed some light on what Grace had told him.
His father lived in a ground floor apartment a block from the seafront in Weston-super-Mare with a small garden and a greenhouse where he grew tomatoes and chillies. Dan’s mother had died ten years ago, and his father had sold the family house soon afterwards. He never remarried. He continued to work as a security specialist with the Royal Marines until retirement. Since then, he’d done some consultancy work and played golf. If he’d ever had the occasional girlfriend, he never told Dan, and Dan never asked.
He was doing the Telegraph crossword when Dan arrived.
‘Keeps my mind from going gaga,’ he said, slapping the newspaper down. ‘What do you do to keep your mind fit?’
Dan was going to make a flip comment about amnesia drugs but at that moment, his phone rang. Dr Orvis.
Dan said, ‘I need to see you. I’ll be there in –’ He checked his watch and did the calculations – ‘just over two hours.’
‘I’m sorry, Dan, but I’m in Edinburgh today. I’m back tomorrow, late morning, but I have wall-to-wall clients and can’t see you until –’
‘Tomorrow, midday.’
‘Dan, I can’t change –’
‘Midday,’ Dan repeated. He hung up and set the phone to silent.
His father raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re seem a little on the tense side. Is everything all right?’
Dan walked across the sitting room. Stood with his back to the faux Georgian oak fireplace. He looked at his father, the silver hair tightly cropped, military style, his steady blue gaze.
Dan said, ‘I’ve recently learned that an amnesia drug may have been used on me after Luke was killed.’
He could count on one hand the amount of times he’d shocked his father. Now was one of them. He watched his father o
pen and close his mouth, momentarily lost for words.
‘What?’
‘It was for my own good, apparently.’
‘An amnesia drug?’ His father looked appalled. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing.’
Something inside Dan relaxed at his father’s obvious horror. He didn’t think he could have borne it if Dad had known all along, and hidden it from him.
‘Are you serious?’ his father’s eyes were wide.
‘Yes.’
‘Good God.’ He looked even more horrified. ‘How is something like that even possible?’
Dan ran his father through what Grace had told him.
‘Good God,’ his father said again. ‘I thought you’d lost your mind because of poor Luke . . . You couldn’t cope with what happened, that he died on your watch . . . but now you’re saying you suspect your memory may have been interfered with artificially?’
‘Yes.’
His father lowered his voice, as though he was concerned they might be overheard. ‘Are you sure about this? And the person who told you? Are they reliable?’
Dan nodded. On the drive here, the information had seeped through the landscape of his memory, uncovering odd images and a strange feeling of belonging, as though he’d been reunited with a long-lost sister. Stella.
‘You saw me in hospital?’ Dan asked.
‘Yes.’ His father looked away.
‘That bad, huh?’ Dan gave a twisted smile.
‘You were helpless and screwed up and when you lost the memory of what happened . . .’ His father wouldn’t meet his eye. ‘Well, you may not like to hear it, but it was a blessing.’
Dan considered Jenny. He’d relied on her for his memories, taking everything she said as absolute truth, but now his confidence had been shaken his cautious nature dictated that he’d better start double-checking every fact, every detail of his history.
‘Which hospital?’ he asked.
‘Mile End sent you to Croughton Royal near Regent’s Park. You were there for two months.’ He studied Dan carefully. ‘Who told you about the amnesia drug?’
‘A friend. Someone from my past, who I couldn’t remember.’
‘Who?’
‘Stella Reavey. Do you know her?’
A strange guilelessness entered his father’s expression. He shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
Dan added, ‘She worked for a company called DCA & Co.’
The guileless look remained.
‘Why did she tell you?’ his father asked. ‘Why now?’
‘She wanted me to do something for her.’
‘What, exactly?’
Loan myself to her for a couple of days. Pretend my memory was coming back. Help her find Cedric.
‘She never said,’ he lied. ‘She died of a heart attack last week.’
His father looked shocked. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
Small silence while his father gazed outside. Then he seemed to shake himself and said, ‘How about if I make a pot of tea?’
Dan ran a hand down his face. ‘Tea sounds good.’ Once mugs had been filled, they settled back down in the living room. Dan said, ‘Dad, how did Luke die?’
His father frowned. ‘You already know this.’
‘I’d like to hear it again.’
‘Are you sure?’ He looked doubtful.
‘Yes.’
He sighed, took a gulp of tea. Turned his gaze outside, as though it might make the tale easier to tell. ‘You were in Brick Lane with Luke, visiting the market. Jenny was tired, and had stayed at home with Aimee. Nobody knows how you got separated from Luke . . .’
His father told the same story that Dan knew. He wasn’t sure if he was comforted by this or not. When his father had finished they sat in silence for a while. Dan could hear the faint sound of a TV coming from the flat above, some canned laughter.
‘What job did I have in London?’ Dan asked.
‘You’ve already asked me these things,’ he said slowly, carefully.
Dan met his eye. ‘I’d like to hear them again.’
‘You were a civil servant.’
‘In Immigration.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Can you remember the names of anyone I worked with?’
‘Joe,’ he said promptly. ‘And the lovely Savannah.’
‘Anyone else?’
His father appeared to think. ‘Ellis,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember their surnames. Why?’ He gave Dan a sharpened look. ‘Are you planning on having another reunion?’
Dan had met Joe, Ellis and Savannah a year after his breakdown. Jenny had been desperately anxious that it might cause him to relapse into psychosis once more but Orvis encouraged him to go in case it helped a memory to break through. They’d met at what apparently used to be their favourite drinking hole where they’d hang out Friday evenings, mulling over the events of the week.
The pub felt warm and the lighting was muted, making it difficult to see into the corners and make out people’s features. When he entered, he looked at the pictures on the walls – photographs of London in the last century – and then he moved from room to room, ending up pushing open a door marked Private and finding a comfortable snug with several armchairs and a private bar.
‘Hey, you remember!’ Ellis said, looking pleased. Apparently they used the room occasionally when one of them had a birthday or special celebration. Except Dan didn’t remember. It was merely one of the moments where his memory came to a junction and allowed him the knowledge of the room, but not when he was last there, or who he’d been with.
He’d done a lot of vacuous smiling that day, and nodding. Smiling and nodding to avoid saying something stupid as well as to try to cover his inability to remember anything about them. Joe, late thirties, fit and strong-looking, lighthearted, with a repertoire of jokes, mostly centred on current affairs. Ellis the same age, but more intense and less quick to rise to laughter. Savannah, twenties, cute with a slender body and bubbly personality. Her honey-brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a figure-hugging black dress over long black leather boots. The men were dressed in plain office garb, grey trousers, jackets, neutral ties.
‘I bought you a Guinness,’ said Joe. ‘Your favourite.’
Except it wasn’t any more. He preferred real ale.
‘Thanks,’ he said, feeling awkward.
They told him stories about other colleagues, but he found it hard to keep interested in people he didn’t remember.
‘What was I like to work with?’ he asked.
‘Full on,’ said Savannah.
‘Energetic, enthusiastic,’ said Ellis. He thought a bit more and added, ‘dedicated.’
‘You were exhausting.’ Savannah smiled. ‘But the newbies looked up to you.’
‘Did I enjoy my work?’
They all laughed. ‘You complained like the rest of us,’ said Joe with a smile. ‘Long hours, not enough pay. The usual stuff. But yes, you loved it.’
They told him he’d had an investigative job, looking into asylum seekers’ claims as well as checking immigration references and declarations. Lots of paperwork.
Savannah looked at him, her pretty green eyes concerned and kind. ‘Do you think you’ll ever get your memory back?’
He looked away. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Can’t you remember anything about us or your job?’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry.’
‘But why can you remember your wife and family and not us?’ she pressed. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘I don’t either.’ His tension began to rise beneath her questioning.
‘What about skills you learned at work?’ She was leaning forward as though willing him to find an answer. ‘The courses you went on? Are they lost too? Like –’
‘Savannah.’ It was Joe. He was shaking his head.
Savannah sank back. ‘Sorry.’ The word was sullen. ‘I only wanted to know why he can remember everythi
ng but us.’
An uncomfortable silence fell. Dan tried not to appear too eager to leave, but he was desperate to get away from their obvious disappointment. None of them had been in touch since, except Savannah, who hadn’t been able to leave the subject of his memory loss alone and had ambushed him six months later in Chepstow where he was shopping at the farmers’ market. It had been in the middle of summer. Men in shorts and women in loose summer dresses. Stalls with striped awnings selling everything from preserves to crafts and pet food.
She’d pretended it was an accidental meeting, and he would have believed her if it hadn’t been for the way she’d caught her lower lip between her teeth after she’d spoken, sparking a quicksilver memory. It was her tell when she fibbed. He was sure of it.
She looked at his shopping bags. ‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘Cheese. Bread. A homemade cake of some sort.’
‘Anyone could have guessed that.’
‘OK. Guess what I would have bought.’ She eyed him expectantly.
‘Fresh veg. Lots of fresh fruit. Eggs.’
Her face fell. ‘No, no and no. All far too healthy for me. I’m a chocoholic and pizza addict.’
‘I’m addicted to bliny,’ he admitted.
She gave a wan smile. ‘I know. You used to bring tons of them back . . . It’s not like we don’t have pancakes here but you were convinced they never tasted the same.’
‘Back from where?’ he asked.
‘Er . . .’ She moved aside for a couple carrying a man-sized pot plant between them. ‘Russia. You loved it out there.’
‘Russia?’ he repeated blankly.
‘Jenny wasn’t quite as enthusiastic,’ she said. ‘I don’t think she likes snow. How is she?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘She likes living out here?’ She made it sound as though they’d moved to the Outer Hebrides.