Safe House (4 page)

‘So the two guys she was with wouldn’t see my bike. Her idea was, we could wheel it out of my van and get everything ready inside the garage. Then, when we were geared up in leathers and helmets, we could be out of there before they realised what was happening.’

‘Sounds like a lot of effort.’ Teare had left the wall and taken a seat on the other side of my bed from Shimmin. Close up, she looked older. Her skin was dried. Pocked and lined. I could see the white of her scalp through her thinning hair. ‘How about your dog?’

‘I left Rocky at home.’

She nodded, as if that made sense. ‘Didn’t it make you suspicious at all, the way this Lena was talking about the two men you say that you saw?’

‘I did see them.’

She waved a hand. No rings on her fingers, I noticed. ‘Point is, the things she asked you to do are pretty unusual, agreed?’

‘I think she just wanted to get away without any hassle. Like telling them would cause some kind of argument.’

Teare watched me closely. Truth is, I suppose I
had
been curious about why Lena had wanted everything done in secret. But not enough to turn her down.

‘What happened when you left?’ Teare asked. ‘These men come outside?’

‘I didn’t see them.’

‘So you made it out of the plantation like Bonnie and Clyde. And then you had this crash of yours.’

This crash
. As if the fact I was lying before her in a hospital bed was some kind of elaborate smokescreen.

‘Want to tell us about that?’ she asked.

‘I told you. I don’t remember the accident.’

She made a humming noise, unconvinced. ‘Know where you were when they found you?’

‘I heard it was the track leading to the Sloc.’ The Sloc is the A road that skirts South Barrule hill and connects the middle of the island with the southern coast. I’d been planning to follow it in the opposite direction towards the village of Foxdale. I was going to pick up the TT course at the Ballacraine crossroads, a key spectator point when the races are on.

‘Quiet road,’ Teare said. ‘Single-lane. Not much traffic about.’

‘So what are you suggesting? I just fell off?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘All right, Detective Sergeant. That’s enough for now.’ It was the first time Shimmin had spoken for some minutes. He removed his feet from the end of my bed. Rearranged his weight in his chair. ‘Sounds to me like you’re delusional, son.’

‘I’m not making this up,’ I said, looking between them. ‘Why would I?’

‘Hard to say.’

‘You should be searching for Lena. What if she’s in trouble? What if something happens to her while you’re just sitting here?’

Teare seemed to be as interested in Shimmin’s response as I was. I sensed I’d got to her, at least.

Shimmin was different. He rolled out his bottom lip and glanced down at a stain on the fat point of his tie. ‘Any road traffic incident, Control always send out a response team.’ He scratched absently at the stain with his nail. ‘We did that yesterday. They didn’t see anyone else. Been no reports from the public.’

‘But the paramedic
spoke
to me,’ I said. ‘He told me they’d put her in an ambulance.’

Teare opened her mouth but Shimmin cut her off before she could speak. ‘Control keep a record of every emergency response that comes in. Every team that goes out.’ He looked up and considered me with those dark, deep-set eyes of his. ‘Only one ambulance unit responded to your accident. And the only casualty they found was you.’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘The facts say otherwise.’

‘Maybe the paramedic was off duty. Maybe he was in his uniform because he’d finished his shift. Or he was on his way to work.’

Shimmin’s fat head swivelled from side to side. Slow and easy. ‘Even supposing it
was
possible, he wouldn’t have had an ambulance with him. Besides which, there’d be a record of your girl being checked into A&E. There’s nothing. You were the only RTA brought in yesterday, apart from a pensioner whose husband ran over her foot down in Port Erin.’

‘What about other hospitals?’

He looked at me as if I was brain-damaged. Which, come to think of it, was a reasonable assumption.

‘Only other hospital is in Ramsey,’ he said slowly. He didn’t need to mention that Nobles Hospital, where I was currently based, was a good twenty minutes closer to the scene of the accident. Or that Ramsey, up in the north of the island, was only used for minor surgery and outpatient care.

‘So what are you saying? You don’t believe me at all?’

Teare was considering her hands now. They were resting in her lap.

‘Listen,’ Shimmin said, ‘we have a duty to explore every possibility.’ And his tone suggested the responsibility was wearing heavily on him right now.

‘But you don’t believe me, do you?’

He sighed. ‘Don’t you think it’s possible that the blow to your head, combined with the stress of recent events, might just mean that your mind is playing tricks on you?’

‘
No
.’

‘You’re saying it’s not possible at all?’ Shimmin pressed. ‘Despite all the evidence going against the things you’ve told us?’

‘What about the evidence going
for
the things I’ve told you? What about the two men in the cottage? Shouldn’t you be speaking to them? Or what about my van? You’ll find it up there, you know.’

‘You have a contact number for these men?’

‘No,’ I said, teeth clenched. ‘I already told you. They didn’t leave one on my machine.’

‘You still have the message?’

‘I deleted it. When I got home after my first day up there.’

Shimmin pushed himself up from his chair, shaking his head. He smoothed his shirt down over his belly. Fastened his jacket. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. As a personal favour to your dad, myself and DS Teare will take a drive out to this
spooky
house of yours. If these men are there, we’ll speak with them, see what we can find out. See if there’s anything that can help your story make even a shred of sense.’ He slid the knot of his tie up to his collar, as if the distraction from the real police work of his day was finally over. ‘And in the meantime, you can rest. See if any alternative explanations start to occur to you.’

*

I must have fallen asleep because I woke to the sound of somebody clearing their throat. A man was standing at the foot of my bed. He was wearing a colourful knitted sweater and an awkward smile.

‘Robert?’

I blinked a few times.

‘Sorry to wake you. My name’s Donald. I’m an occupational therapist here at the hospital. Dr Stanley thought it might be a good idea if I came by to say hello.’

I wiped the back of my hand across my gummy lips, careful not to catch the plastic tube connecting my cannula to my drip.

‘Sorry to wake you,’ he said again.

Donald was clasping his hands together, like he was planning to recite a prayer. There was something of the vicar about him. His garish sweater could have been knitted by a well-meaning parishioner and he wore his hair in a conservative side parting. No dog collar, mind.

‘Do you have time for a quick chat?’

I nodded towards one of the plastic chairs. ‘Take a pew.’

He gazed at me for a long moment. Then he went ahead and arranged himself in a sitting position, with one leg crossed at the thigh.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’ve been better.’

‘In much pain?’

‘Only when I breathe.’

He smoothed a hand over his side parting. ‘And what about emotionally?’

‘What about it?’

‘Are you feeling a tad low, for instance?’

‘Low?’

‘Low, yes. Or upset, perhaps?’

‘Upset,’ I said, as if I was scanning my mind for any trace of the emotion. ‘Nope. I’m good, Donald.’

‘Well, that’s great.’

‘Isn’t it?’

His smile was uncomfortable. Forced. He slid his hand inside his trouser pocket and removed a small notebook and pen like he was going for a concealed weapon.

‘Look, what’s this about?’ I asked him. ‘Why are you really down here?’

‘As I said, Dr Stanley –’

‘But I’ve already spoken with the neurologist. It didn’t seem as if there was anything to worry about.’

‘Possibly so.’ Donald turned to a fresh page in his pad. Clicked the end of his pen. ‘Your parents were also keen for someone from occupational therapy to speak with you.’

I didn’t like that. Not one bit. Donald could sense it. He raised a palm.

‘Just hear me out,’ he said. ‘I’m here to help, OK?’

‘Not OK.’

‘I have experience of working with people in your situation. I think you could find talking to me useful.’

‘My situation?’ I looked down at myself in bed. One arm in a sling. The other connected to a saline drip. Bandages wrapped around my torso. Plastic identity tags on my wrists. ‘Are you talking about bikers? People who’ve been in accidents?’

‘I’m talking about people who are grieving. People who’ve experienced traumatic events.’

‘
Out
,’ I told him.

‘Robert, please.’

‘Leave.
Now.
’

Donald squirmed in his seat. He clutched the notebook to his chest. But he didn’t get up from his chair.

‘They told me about the girl,’ he said.

I turned my head away. Muttered under my breath.

‘The one you say was in the accident with you.’

‘She
was
in the accident.’

He was silent for a moment. But I knew there was more to come.

‘Look, did the neurologist talk to you about some of the symptoms you might experience? He probably spoke to you about memory loss. Am I right?’

I stayed silent.

‘Well, what he may not have mentioned is the possibility that your brain could also
create
memories. False ones. I’ve read papers on this, Robert. Patients who’ve suffered a brain injury, through no fault of their own, sometimes they can find it almost impossible to tell the difference between those things that have really happened to them and events they may simply have imagined or even dreamed.’

‘So what are you suggesting? I made Lena up?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything right now. All I’m saying is that there are cases where something similar has happened. And when you factor in the high degree of strain you’ve been under in recent weeks. The unexpected loss . . .’

He let his words trail away, as if he was unsure where exactly they might lead him.

I felt a stinging in my eyes. Now, more than anything, I didn’t want the tears to come. But they started to brim over, almost like they’d never been away.

‘Out,’ I told him, unable to hide the crack in my voice. ‘Leave me alone, can’t you?’

I heard the scuff of chair legs on the floor. The soft percussion of his shoes crossing the room. The stiff door hinge. The burble of corridor noise.

‘I understand your sister was blonde, too,’ Donald said, almost as an afterthought. ‘Her name was Laura, wasn’t it? Laura. Lena. I’m just saying – these things are possible, you know?’

Chapter Five

I was discharged from hospital the following day. There’d been talk of keeping me in longer, so the doctors could watch for any complications from my head injury. Then Mum explained about her background in nursing and the qualifications of the staff at the care home, and the hospital decided they could use the extra bed.

It was Dad who collected me. Mum sent him in with a pair of jogging trousers and training shoes with Velcro straps. It made dressing easy, although Dad had to help me into my shirt and readjust my sling. I didn’t have too much difficulty walking, and while I felt a pinch in my chest when I inhaled deeply, I didn’t experience any of the dizziness I’d been warned to expect. We took it slow all the same, with Dad carrying my things in a plastic bag the hospital had provided. There wasn’t much to carry. My leathers had been cut off me and thrown away and my bike helmet was beyond salvage – something I wasn’t keen to see. That just left my wallet, phone and keys, together with the pain meds the doctors had given me. Oh, and a printed copy of the official police report of my accident, countersigned by DI Shimmin.

The report was short and circumspect. It listed the date and time of the ‘incident’ and stated that no other vehicles had been involved. There was no mention of anything connected to Lena. As far as the Manx police were concerned, Lena didn’t exist.

Shimmin had phoned me earlier in the morning. He’d already dropped off the report with Dad, so I had a fair idea of what to expect, but that didn’t make hearing it any easier.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘we’ve been up there. We’ve seen it with our own eyes. It’s just not how you remember.’

‘It has to be.’

‘There’s your van for one thing. You said you reversed it up to the garage, right?’

I agreed that was what I’d said. It was also what I’d done.

‘Well, that’s not where we found it. Not even close. It was parked down by the entrance to the plantation. You left your keys in the ignition.’

‘I always leave my keys in the ignition when I’m working out of town. There’s not usually any danger of my van being stolen. But they must have moved it.’

‘Who?’

‘The men in the cottage.’

Shimmin exhaled into the phone. ‘Son, listen to me. Try to hear what I’m saying. The cottage was empty. There was nobody there.’

‘Then it’s obvious what’s happened, isn’t it? The men I saw must have been the ones who took Lena. And afterwards, they moved my van.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. To throw you lot off, I guess.’

‘Listen, that cottage hasn’t been lived in for a long time. We looked, OK? Teare even got a locksmith out so we could check inside. There was no furniture. No beds. Nothing.’

‘There was a table and chairs in the kitchen.’

He paused. ‘But nothing else. You told us this girl made you a cup of tea. But there were no groceries. No kettle. All the cupboards were empty.’

‘They could have cleaned the place out. And they wouldn’t have needed much furniture. They could have had sleeping bags. Air mattresses.’