Nick lets out a loud laugh and I smile.
“—oh, um, and in terms of the Russian idea along the lines of the nerve agent released in Salisbury. Chemicals are definitely worth testing for, although, to my knowledge, he’s not showing any related symptoms.” I pause for a moment to see if there’s anything I’ve missed. “I mean, it is very strange, given the amount of press coverage, that nobody has come forward in eight days to identify him. That should be telling us something. Although I’m just not sure exactly what it’s telling us.”
“Yes, quite.”
“Have the police made any progress?”
“In a word, no. They’ve been keeping us in the loop, but they haven’t been able to trace his journey before the beach. No abandoned cars found in the area. They’ve checked CCTV at King’s Lynn train station and the local shops, but he hasn’t shown up on anything yet. Plus, no ID on him, as you know, and his fingerprints aren’t on the national database, so no luck there.”
“Have the police run DNA?”
Nick raises his eyebrows. “No. No, I don’t think they have yet,” he says hopefully. “Definitely worth asking them for an update as of today.” He taps a note into his phone briskly, then looks at me with a smile of gratitude. “Can I just say, Emma, I’ve never been so glad to have the troops called in on me. Something tells me before long we’ll have something solid to show for our efforts.” He rises, signaling that our meeting is officially over. “Right, I hope you don’t mind me springing this on you, but I’ve asked all nonessential staff to gather up in the canteen—I thought you could do a quick intro and get your face out there so they all know who you are. How does that sound?”
Not good, Nick. Not good.
17
THE MAN
DAY 2—HOW COULD HE KNOW
A THING LIKE THAT?
Rhoda arrives for her shift forty-five minutes early, her rucksack heavy on her back. After what happened yesterday they’ve asked her to stay on the patient’s ward again today. They told her she’d be staying on with him at least for today, considering what he’d been through on the ward and given his unusual situation.
If Rhoda were a cynical person, she’d say the hospital might be trying to cover their backsides over what happened there yesterday. How had that situation been able to occur on an active ward? Why had a confused and recently bereaved man been placed on an open ward and left unattended? It was a valid question that a lot of people were already asking.
There had been reporters hanging around the hospital entrance last night after her shift ended, a woman and a man. They asked her what she thought about hospital security. What she thought about immigration. What she thought about the patient found on the beach that morning. Did she think he was a hero? they asked. Did she know his name? She hadn’t wanted her picture taken, though they’d asked her politely if she would, but it had been a long day and she had worried it wouldn’t come out well. Finally, she had told them she needed to go and she’d thought no more about it.
Since the scuffle on the ward she’d replayed the incident with Mr. Garrett over and over in her mind.
Should she have done something? What if her patient hadn’t stepped in? What if it hadn’t gone the way it did, if something very bad had happened? People could have been hurt because of her failure to act.
She’d tried to remember her counselor’s words while she made a cold-plate supper for herself that night, her cream cockapoo Coco bouncing around her heels. Her counselor has been telling her for the past five weeks, since the incident in the park, that it wasn’t Rhoda’s fault. But it’s hard not to blame yourself when something bad happens to you. Because she knows if she’d just fought back, then maybe things would have been different. The fact is, in actuality she did nothing and she let something terrible happen to her. She knows she can’t blame herself, she shouldn’t blame herself, but she does.
Her thoughts had circled back around to her new patient, the odd feeling she’d had that he’d known about what happened to her. It was the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d pointed out the scar running jagged down her temple, her dark skin puckered and still tender where the stitches had been. She’d been styling her hair differently to cover it; people at work had only noticed her new hairstyle. But Rhoda noticed the scar every time she looked in the mirror. And—somehow—he’d noticed it too.
How had he known? She hadn’t told anybody what happened to her in the park. She’d only called the police, grudgingly, after realizing that she wouldn’t want the same thing to happen to someone else next time, someone younger or older, someone frailer.
She’d reported it but she hadn’t told anyone else, not her friends and certainly not her family. She didn’t want them to see her that way, to think of her like that. She’d lied in those days after it happened and told anyone who asked that she had slipped on the stairs in her building, rainwater on the steps, and people had grimaced and sympathized but thought no more about it.
The police had filed a report but they told her that they couldn’t do any more without eyewitnesses. And there had been no one else there that day. Just her and Coco and the skinny old man with his walking cane, sitting on a park bench. She’d noticed his dog, a Staffie, nosing around a bin for scraps, off the leash.
It had all happened so quickly.
Usually Rhoda would unleash Coco as soon as they got to the park, letting her run free in her dizzying circles as happy as can be. But that day, seeing the Staffie there, running loose, she’d kept Coco close.
Her intuitions had been right because as soon as the Staffie had looked up from its search and seen Coco, the dog had bolted full-pelt straight for her. Rhoda had fleetingly thought to pick Coco up, but she hadn’t had time and it hadn’t mattered anyway because just before making contact with Coco the big dog had swerved and knocked Rhoda down onto the muddy grass. A flash of pain had ripped up her leg and into her hip. A shout came from across the park, the old man’s voice calling angrily to his dog, making his way to help her as fast as his cane would allow. At least that was what she’d thought, but as he got closer and she’d raised a hand so he could help her up to her feet, that’s when the first blow came. His thick wooden cane struck her so hard across the cheek, the blow knocked the air straight out of her. She’d gasped a breath in to shout out, but the next blow came down before she could make a sound. And all the while he was shouting at her. Poor Coco, dancing around her on the grass yapping furiously.
None of it made any sense as he glared down at her while swinging his cane a third and final time, his hate-filled voice saying terrible things, a storm of ugly words she would only begin to process afterward. He told her she was stupid, a stupid bitch, why had she got in the way of the dog, she was a stupid fucking n*****, and suddenly she knew why this was all happening.