I grab my bag, filled with my notes and my laptop, and dash from the dry heat of the car through the wet of the car park.
I pull my coat collar up high over my head as I run, partly to protect my first-day hair, partly as a barrier as I near the press area.
But no one even glances up as I pass by.
* * *
—
I’m early. The clock above reception reads 8:39. I let my eyes drift over the lobby: The two security guards standing by the entrance of the main corridor to the wards, are they there to stop the press getting in? I wonder. Or to stop someone getting out?
Normal hospital life flows about me, nurses arriving for shifts, visitors buying morning papers in the small shop. The layout is different from what I remember, it’s been refurbished recently. A fledgling queue is forming already at the coffee concession opposite the reception desk, which I make my way over to. I sign in with the elder of the two receptionists and she peers down suspiciously at my name on her list. “Dr. Lewis?” she says, looking back up at me, frowning. “Oh, right. Well, that’s a surprise, we assumed you’d be a man.” She sounds annoyed. I attempt a smile but she remains unimpressed. “It’s the ‘Lewis,’ I suppose,” she posits. “Sounds masculine.”
Okay.
I give her a supportive smile. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t “Lewis” that tipped the gender balance in her mind. But I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt—first day, isn’t it?
She holds a small camera aloft to take my picture, prints out the photo ID, then wordlessly assembles my day visitor lanyard and hands it to me. I stare down at it, unsure exactly what’s supposed to happen next. The younger receptionist finishes giving directions to another visitor and smiles over at me. “Dr. Lewis, isn’t it?” she asks. I give her a grateful nod. “Someone from HR will be up in a minute. You can have a wander if you like.” She indicates the lobby newsagent and coffee bar. I thank her but head over to the metal seating near the windows. More coffee would probably not be a great idea.
I look down at my lanyard, a grainy digital image of me caught off guard, below it the name Dr. Emma Lewis. That’s me. That’s who I am.
Visitor ID lanyards aren’t usually hospital practice, nor are the security guards on the ward entrance. At least not in any hospital I’ve ever worked in. But this situation is slightly different, I remind myself. This is a different political climate. And given the media outside and the government’s interest in who this patient is, or could be, a little added caution can only be a good thing, right? ID verification stops outside threats.
After all, I could be anyone, couldn’t I? I could be a journalist. I could be paparazzo. I could have a hidden camera embedded in my bag filming everything. I could be making a BBC Horizon documentary on poor healthcare.
I bet those press photos spread all over my bedroom floor back at Cuckoo Lodge made someone a hefty amount. There’s definitely a market for information. People want to know.
I feel eyes on me. But when I look up, everyone in the reception area is going about their own business. No one is looking. I let out a sigh. I need to relax. I’m not on display yet, nothing has happened yet.
I swivel in my seat and look out at the rain-soaked car park. Watching the weather is grounding, relaxing—there’s neuroscience behind that but I won’t bore you with the details and take away the magic. I watch the rain collect and twist in rivulets as it glides and judders down the glass panels.
I notice his hair first. Across the car park, a man stands talking to an older woman. I recognize that close crop of blond curls, at least I think I do. Neither is carrying an umbrella. His back is to me, so I can’t quite tell yet, for sure, but I feel the queasy tingle of nerves in the pit of my stomach regardless. It’s funny how just recognizing someone in a crowd can cause such a strong physical reaction. He’s tall too, just like I remember. I brace myself for him to turn, to see me staring back at him through the smear of rain, for the spark of recognition to flare in his eyes. I steel myself for the inevitable look of disappointment on his face. The woman he’s talking to gets into her car and he turns. It’s not him. Relief flashes through me so powerfully that I shudder. He’s nothing like him really; it was silly to think it was him. Good. The last thing I needed was a school reunion on my first day in a car park full of press.
I count the press vans out there. Five, by the looks of it: BBC East, BBC News, ITV, Channel 4, and Sky. I wonder where all the print journalists are.
I look back at the people in the lobby. The man in a Barbour jacket propped in the corner, his black scarf balled into a pillow as he naps. The teenager by the security guards, head bowed, texting. The middle-aged woman in a beige-colored suit sipping coffee in the café as she jots notes in a pad. A gaunt sharp-featured man whispering to a smartly dressed redhead in the coffee queue. Her eyes catch mine for a microsecond and she looks away, absorbed in what the man is telling her.
And I suddenly wonder if everyone here is press.
15
THE MAN
DAY 1—NOT A WORD
Poole and Graceford arrive at the hospital nineteen minutes after the incident call goes out. They aren’t the responding officers, that’s the job of the King’s Lynn station. Poole and Graceford are here because, in some capacity, their unidentified suspect from the beach was involved in this new incident.
Their search on the beach was unsuccessful. No handy pile of clothes, no car keys or wallet, no shoes or coat. The identity of the man is still unknown. Trevor Kwasi, Princess Margaret Hospital’s head of security, makes his way over to meet them as soon as they enter.
“He’s gone down to the King’s Lynn station already,” Trevor informs them, hitching the waistband of his trousers, which is clearly in a losing battle with his comfortable girth. “His name was Mike Garrett. Adams and Rhys from King’s Lynn just took him. You just missed them.” He checks his watch, to clarify. “There’s still a King’s Lynn officer up on the ward, Mel Wheatly, she’s taking witness statements, if you guys want to make your way up.”
Graceford gives him a nod.
“I asked all the witnesses to hang about in case you lot need to talk to them too.”
From the initial radio call, Graceford and Poole had assumed the suspect was their unidentified man, but now they realize they were wrong.
Leading them up to Level 2, the security chief explains what he knows, which isn’t yet much.
“Mike Garrett was looking for a discharged patient, a guy called Martins. Apparently, Martins drove the car that hit Garrett’s car late last night. Drunk-driving incident. Garrett’s daughter died—she died en route here. Martins came away with only bruises. He was discharged into police custody shortly after admission. To be fair to him, he was broken up about it, called 999 himself from the scene. Anyway, Mike Garrett couldn’t handle the news. God knows what he would have actually done if he’d found Martins. And your guy, he somehow managed to sweet-talk Garrett into handing over his weapon. No struggle, nothing.”