‘That’s what everybody wants you to think,’ he replies, ‘but wait until you hear the rest of the story. I wish to call my first witness, Lilah Hooper.’
Lilah’s eyes shoot up. Rennie steps in front of her and pinches the edge of the tape between his thumb and forefinger before ripping it away from her mouth. Her top lip is raw and bleeding. He does the same to Daniela, who doesn’t flinch.
‘Please, Mr Rennie,’ sobs Lilah. ‘It was an accident.’
He rolls the tape into a ball and tosses it aside, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans.
‘Who was in charge that night?’ he asks.
‘I was the most senior nurse on duty,’ says Lilah. She’s telling the truth.
‘Who administered the drug?’
‘It was Maya.’
Now she’s lying.
‘Maya told me that Daniela administered the heparin.’
‘No, it was Maya,’ says Lilah, starting to panic. ‘But it was my responsibility. I was in charge.’
‘Why didn’t you name Maya in your statement?’
‘We were protecting each other.’
‘You were covering it up.’
‘We couldn’t change what had happened.’
‘You tried to make out that Oliver died naturally. You turned off his incubator and only turned it on again when his organs had failed.’
Lilah looks shocked. There’s only one way that he could know a detail like that – Maya must have told him. She starts to stammer and shake her head. ‘He was very sick. He was going to die anyway.’
‘No! That is what the hospital wanted us to believe. He was a strong little boy. He was a fighter. That’s what the doctors told us when he arrived at the ICU. You didn’t give him a chance.’
‘That’s not true. We told them what happened. We raised the alarm.’
‘After he was dead.’
There is a groan from beside her. Daniela raises her chin. Speaks. ‘I made the mistake. Maya and Lilah had nothing to do with it.’
She’s telling the truth.
71
Cyrus
I am not a patient person. I dislike the passivity of lingering. The ineptness. The helplessness. I know that Lenny is coming, but the cavalry doesn’t always show up on time. In the movies, yes, but not in real life, which normally throws up near-misses, wrong turns, bad choices, and unexpected delays.
Once Lenny arrives, I will have no say in matters. She will bring an armed response team with all the latest technology. They will put drones in the air and aim microphones at the windows. Officers in body armour and helmets will go from room to room, with guns drawn, yelling the word ‘clear’。 That is how sieges are created and how innocents get killed in the crossfire.
From inside the factory comes a crashing sound that echoes through the stairwells. Something has fallen or been thrown. Cassie appears beside me.
‘I told you to wait,’ I say.
‘Maybe we can stop this.’
I don’t know if that’s true, but I want to do something active, not passive. The tragedies in my life have always occurred when I’ve arrived too late to help or to change the outcome.
With Cassie behind me, we cross the pitted tarmac in a crouching run, reaching the first of four concrete ramps that make up the loading dock. A warning sign above our heads announces that trespassers will be prosecuted. I pause and listen, but the only sounds are bird calls and the distant horn of a train.
The food truck has been backed into a space between a quartet of concrete pylons that support the roof and the floors above. Approaching from behind, I avoid the mirrors in case someone is in the driver’s seat. When I reach the rear of the van, I press my ear against the painted metal, listening for voices inside. Edging forward I pull myself onto the side-step at the driver’s window and peer into the cab, which is littered with fast-food wrappers, coffee cups and plastic bottles of water.
My phone is vibrating. I answer the call.
‘I picked up the signal again two minutes ago,’ says Gary, ‘but it only lasted a few seconds. It came from the northern end of the building. Maybe he passed close to a window.’
The nearest door is marked as a fire exit but has been barricaded or screwed shut. The next one is also locked. Cassie follows me as I walk along the western wall of the factory, pushing through waist-high weeds, nettles and blackberry bushes. Thorny branches tug at my coat and trousers.
Without warning, the ground opens beneath me. As I pitch forward, Cassie grabs my coat, hauling me back from the edge. Breathless, heart thumping, I stare into a brick pit overgrown with weeds.
‘Don’t do that again,’ she says.
‘Noted.’
She points into the shadows. ‘There’s a door.’
The stone steps are slick with moss. I pull aside planks and fallen branches, before wading into knee-deep water the colour of sump oil. A door is propped open by a broken beam. Ducking underneath, I squeeze inside, emerging into a large room with a ceiling criss-crossed by pipes. The broken concrete floor is covered in puddles and wooden pallets and rusting pieces of machinery. A chair. A pile of sand. Empty paint tins. Plasterboard. Tiles.
Cassie follows me, as I navigate through the rubbish, using my phone as a torch. We head towards the only other light, which is coming from a lift shaft that reaches to the upper floors. The lift cage has gone, but a rusty metal ladder, dripping with water, is fixed against one wall.
I can hear voices coming from above me. Male. Female. I test the ladder, pulling myself up and dropping again, making sure it can hold my weight. It creaks. The noise echoes up the shaft.
‘I don’t think it could take both of us,’ I say to Cassie. ‘You should go back. Tell DSU Parvel where I’ve gone.’
She glances at the ladder and reluctantly agrees. ‘Tell Patrice …’ She searches for the words. ‘Tell Patrice that I’m here and I understand him, but he has to stop this. Tell him that I loved Jolene too and this isn’t what she would have wanted.’
I begin to climb towards the voices.
72
Evie
The red light on the camera is still blinking. Rennie checks to make sure that it’s recording and adjusts the angle. He steps closer and crouches to meet me at eye level.
‘You have heard their confessions. They have admitted their guilt.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘Which they covered up.’
‘I don’t want to judge them. This is wrong.’
‘They killed my son.’
‘He was dying anyway.’
His hands are so low that I don’t see his fist. He strikes me across the face, and I topple sideways, still attached to the chair, tasting blood in my mouth, sickly and coppery and warm.
Rennie seems to realise that he’s been caught on camera. He picks up the chair with me still attached to it, setting it upright, apologising.
‘You promised to be fair,’ he sulks.
I blow hair out of my eyes and stretch out my lower jaw, moving it back and forth to make sure it’s not broken. ‘I didn’t promise you anything,’ I say, spitting blood onto the floor.
‘My son was defenceless. He was an innocent. He deserved a chance. They were supposed to heal him, to keep him safe, but they gave up and covered up. They killed him.’