I call out, softly at first, ‘Is anybody there?’
I listen to the sounds. Water dripping. A crow calling. A tree creaking in the wind. In the distance I hear traffic, or maybe it’s a train, but no voices, or footsteps. No sign of life.
I can just make out the edges of a covered window because light is leaking through cracks where the nailed boards don’t quite meet. And there is another strip of light beneath a closed door.
The last thing I remember is hearing Lilah scream before I blacked out. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to recall something more, and another image flashes into my mind. Elias is leaning over me. His mouth is on mine. I taste blood on his lips and smell his sour breath and the scent of cologne.
Another image. Lilah on the floor lying next to me. I touch her hand, thinking she might be dead, but her skin is warm. I press two fingers against her wrist, feeling for a pulse … she’s alive. I try to remember more, but the cold keeps snatching the memories away.
Where am I? Sitting on an unswept concrete floor with my back to a metal pipe that rises to the ceiling. Ropes are wrapped around my arms and wrists. Another is looped around my neck. If I lower my chin it cuts off my air.
‘I’m thirsty,’ I say. ‘Can you hear me?’
I listen. Nothing.
‘I need to use the toilet,’ I say, louder this time.
I wonder if Lilah can hear me.
‘Hey! Are you there?’
If I’m alone, I’m going to shout this place down. I’d do it now, but it goes against my every instinct. When I was hiding in the secret room, a child in the dark, a mouse inside the walls, I couldn’t make a sound. I tried to stop breathing. I could hear them calling my name, searching for me, ripping holes in the plasterboard walls, tearing up carpets and floorboards, overturning beds.
Shuffling on my bottom, I see how far I can move. Only a few inches either way. I stretch out my legs, one at a time, sweeping them across the rough concrete. My toe touches something soft. I pull away, thinking it might be a body, but stretch out again. It’s a blanket. I pull it closer.
Using my feet, I manoeuvre the blanket over my knees and then to my thighs but can’t lift it any higher without my hands. The effort has warmed me up.
Footsteps. The door swings open and a shadow fills the frame. He has a torch that shines in my eyes. I turn my head away.
‘Elias?’
67
Cyrus
Cassie is waiting for me when I pull up outside the Arncliffe Centre. She slips into the passenger seat and buckles her seatbelt, unwilling to make eye contact. I move off and drive the first few minutes in silence, waiting for her to speak. Expecting it.
‘When did you realise?’ she asks.
‘The obituary called you Cassandra. Your sister changed her name when she married Rennie. Before that she was Jolene Wright. Patrice is the brother-in-law you were worried about. You said he was a mess.’
‘I didn’t think he’d do this,’ she whispers. ‘Until you told me Maya once worked as a nurse, I didn’t even consider the possibility that she could be one of the nurses who …’
She seems to bite off the statement, swallowing the rest.
‘What about Daniela Linares?’ I ask.
Cassie doesn’t answer.
‘Where is Patrice?’
‘He’s been living in his food truck.’
‘Where?’
‘He moves around.’
‘What about a phone number?’
‘His mobile is turned off.’
‘How do you contact him?’
‘I can’t. I’ve tried. The last time I saw him was at the funeral.’
She is hugging her knees, pressing her chin between them. I am driving into Nottingham, heading to Radford Road station.
‘What does he want?’ I ask.
‘The truth.’
‘He knows the truth. The nurses made a mistake.’
‘They lied to protect each other.’
‘They raised the alarm. They tried to save the babies.’
Cassie’s eyes spark with anger. ‘They killed Oliver. They were negligent. Somebody should have paid a price.’
‘Like Maya?’
She stops and takes a deep breath. ‘No. Never. Not like that.’
There is a pleading tone to her voice when she begins again.
‘My sister was one of the kindest, warmest, most beautiful people you could ever meet. All she ever wanted was to meet someone like Patrice and have a family. When Oliver was born, it was like a dream had come true. I had never seen her so happy. And when he died, I had never seen grief consume someone like that.
‘But she didn’t complain. She didn’t want the nurses charged. She didn’t want to sue the hospital. All she wanted was another chance to be a mother. They tried everything. IVF. Homeopathy. Prayer. Acupuncture. Folk remedies. She slept on a hill in Dorset. She ate bird’s-nest soup. Nothing worked. And then the cancer came. It was horrible. She disappeared, piece by piece, eaten away from the inside. What sort of God could be so utterly, utterly evil?’
She looks at me, wanting an explanation. I don’t have one.
‘Did you plant evidence to frame Mitchell Coates?’ I ask.
‘No. Never. Check the dates. I was still at university.’
‘Who, then?’
‘Hoyle.’
I take my eyes off the road for a moment to look at her face.
‘Craig told me that Hoyle had done it before – taken material from a crime scene and planted it at the suspect’s address, or in his car.’
‘Why didn’t Dyson say anything?’
‘Hoyle was too clever to get caught. And nobody was going to question a senior officer without serious evidence. It would have been career suicide.’
‘Dyson told you this?’
She nods. ‘Hoyle thinks he’s streamlining the process, not corrupting it. When he’s sure of someone’s guilt, he finds the evidence to convict them.’
‘Mitchell Coates has spent six years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.’
Cassie goes quiet.
‘The manslaughter prosecution against Lilah Hooper collapsed and two weeks later she was attacked. You must have suspected Patrice.’
‘No. Never. He and Jolene were trying to have another baby. It didn’t even enter my head.’
‘Where is he? There must be someone who knows. Friends. Family.’
‘Some of his old army buddies came to the funeral, but I don’t know how to contact them.’
‘You’re covering for him.’
‘No.’
‘Voigt asked you to compare the rope used in the attacks on Maya and Lilah. Did you purposely avoid doing it?’
Cassie hesitates, as though debating how much to say.
‘It’s soft hemp,’ she whispers. ‘The same organic make-up and weave.’
‘Did it come from the same source?’
‘Yes.’
‘When we met at the Little Drummer, you saw the CCTV footage from the camera above the bar. You recognised Patrice’s reflection in the mirrors.’
Again, she doesn’t answer. I can’t tell if it’s defiance or self-pity or embarrassment. Finally, she speaks. ‘There’s something else you should know. Ten days ago, there was a break-in at a pharmacy in Lenton. It looked like an addict, stealing metha-done or opioids, but something else was taken. Heparin.’