‘And you definitely think his name was John?’
‘Oh yes, dear. No doubt about that. Now, more tea?’
***
Even though I said I’d pick Alex up she still looks surprised to actually see me. She works in that building you can see from the ring road. The one with the spiky thing on the roof. One of the wags in the station calls it Minas Morgul. Leering down the Botley Road in mockery of the spires. It has a great view, though. And an extensive car park. Which is where I’m sat, watching the door.
She comes out with two other people I don’t recognize. A woman in her thirties in a green suit, and a man, closer to Alex’s age. Tall. Dark. Not unlike me. The woman in green talks to them a moment then heads off to her car. Alex and the man linger. It’s not chit-chat, I can tell that. Her face is earnest, his thoughtful. Their heads are a tiny bit closer together than they need to be. He gestures with his hands a lot. He’s establishing himself – his status, his expertise. In this job, you get good at body language. At assessing people with the sound on mute.
I watch as they part. He doesn’t touch her. But, then again, she knows I’m watching. Perhaps he does too.
‘Who was that?’ I say as she opens the car door and gets in.
She glances across at me, then turns to find her seat belt. ‘David Jenkins. He’s in the Family team.’
‘It looked pretty intense, whatever it was.’
She gives me that ‘don’t tell me you’re jealous’ look. ‘I was just asking his advice, that’s all.’
I’m not sure that’s any better. But like Gis, I know when to stop digging.
We pull out into the traffic and I head for the ring road.
‘Do you mind if we stop off at the John Rad? I want to look in on the girl.’
‘OK, no problem. I didn’t think you’d be here this early anyway.’
‘I wouldn’t be, if we’d made any progress. If there was something useful I could be doing instead.’
She looks across, then away again at the fields.
‘Sorry. That didn’t come out the way I meant.’
She waves her hand in dismissal, but she doesn’t turn her head. She knows when to drop it, too.
*
When we get to the hospital, she surprises me by deciding to come in.
‘Are you sure? I know how much you hate hospitals.’
‘It’s still better than twiddling my thumbs out here.’
On the third floor, I’m met by Everett and a doctor who looks like he’s straight out of Casualty. Or whatever they call that thing these days.
‘Titus Jackson,’ he says, shaking my hand. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than I’ve already told DC Everett. The young woman has definitely given birth but shows no signs of recent sexual violence – no vaginal or other bruising.’
‘Is she still sedated?’
‘No. But she hasn’t yet said anything.’
‘Can I see her?’
He hesitates. ‘Only for a few minutes, and only one at a time, please. She’s in a very fragile state, mentally. She becomes extremely distressed when anyone gets too close, especially men, so please bear that in mind.’
‘I have dealt with rape victims before.’
‘I don’t doubt you have, but this is rather more than just that.’
I nod; I know he’s right. ‘And the child?’
‘My colleagues in Paediatrics carried out another examination as you requested and there’s nothing to suggest sexual abuse. But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that some of the things those people do to children don’t leave physical signs.’
‘You’re right. You don’t need to tell me.’
I turn to Alex.
‘It’s fine,’ she says, anticipating me. ‘I’ll wait here.’
‘I can show you the waiting room,’ says Everett. ‘It’s just along the corridor.’
*
When I get to the girl’s room I do what everyone else must have done. I stop at the window and I look at her. And then I feel ashamed. Like a voyeur. And I wonder how she feels about being here. Whether these four walls are just another type of prison – it’s caring, this time, but it’s still confinement. Her eyes are open, but though the room looks out on trees and grass and green things she can’t have seen for God knows how long, she’s staring at the ceiling. At the blank repeating tiles.
I knock on the door and she starts, sitting up quickly in the bed. I open the door slowly and step inside, but I take care not to move any closer. All the while her eyes follow me.
‘I’m a police officer. My name is Adam.’
There’s some sort of reaction to that, but I’m not sure I could define what.
‘I think you saw my colleague. DC Everett. Verity.’
Definitely a reaction now.
‘We’re all really concerned about you. You’ve had a terrible time.’
Her lip trembles and she clutches at the blanket.
I reach into my jacket and pull out a piece of paper.
‘I know you haven’t said anything about it, and perhaps you can’t. That’s OK. I understand. But I was wondering if perhaps you could write it down? Anything you remember – anything that might help us?’
She’s staring at me, but she’s not frightened. At least I don’t think so. I take a pen from my pocket and move slowly towards the bed, ready to retreat if she reacts. But she doesn’t flinch, she just watches.
I place the paper and pen slowly on the bedside table, perhaps a foot from her hand, then back off to the door.
It’s another five minutes before she touches them. Five minutes of silent patience on my part, which is not a talent of mine, but I can do it if the stakes are high enough. And this time, they are.
She puts out a hand and pulls the paper towards her. Then the pen. And then, as if it’s a task she doesn’t do often and has lost the knack for, she takes it in her hand and writes. It’s slow but it can’t be much more than a word. Then she holds out the paper to me, and I can see the strain in her eyes. The tears only just suppressed.
Five letters.
Vicky
When I go back down the corridor, Everett is waiting. I can see her react to the look on my face.
‘Did she say something?’
‘No,’ I reply, showing her the paper. ‘But we have a name.’
‘Is that all – nothing else?’
I’m about to say that it’s still a bloody sight more than she’s managed to get so far. But I stop myself just in time, and then I’m irritated that I’m irritated. It’s hardly Ev’s fault, after all.
‘Afraid not. I asked, but she was starting to get distressed. And then that doctor friend of yours arrived and kicked me out. Nicely, of course.’
I might be mistaken, but I think she’s actually blushing.
‘Look, I’m on my way home, but can you get on to Baxter and ask him to check Missing Persons for girls called Vicky?’ I look around. ‘And do you happen to know where my wife is?’
‘She went downstairs. She wanted to see the little boy.’
*
It’s not just Alex who hates hospitals. I remember bringing Jake here when he fell off a swing in the playground and got a bump on his forehead the size of an egg. He must have been three. Perhaps four. We sat in AE for an hour while every conceivable catastrophic brain-damage scenario spun through my head, and then a brisk, overworked nurse took one look at him, gave him some Calpol and sent us home. The bump went pretty quickly; the memory of the panic didn’t. And later, much later, after he started hurting himself, we came here again. When we had to. Enduring the sideways glances from nurses, and the doctors taking us aside, and the explanations, and the calls to the GP to check that we weren’t lying – that she knew all about it and it was under control. As if something so terrible could ever be ‘under control’. And all the time, Jake’s white face, his anxious eyes.