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They take her to Cardiff. The City Royal would have been closer, but the University Hospital has specialist surgeons, more equipment, and for tonight a guaranteed, dedicated team. I go with her in the ambulance, hold her hand the whole way there, talk when she opens her eyes, call her name when she closes them. But by the time the back doors of the ambulance crash open, her grip on my fingers is so loose, it falls away when I let go. I rush with the crew down the corridors, my job now to collect any evidence should she not make it. A blood sample before a transfusion, clothing, jewellery, everything that could piece together what happened. She herself hasn’t told me anything. And when it came down to it, rightly or wrongly, I chose to give her comfort instead of a grilling. At moments like this you’re forced to use your better judgement, your instinct even, and suffer the consequences afterwards. What else can you do?
*
‘That’s everything,’ the nurse says, handing me the plastic bag in which are Anna’s dress, denim jacket, underwear, a smaller clear bag with her jewellery – a bundle of rings, the gold chain and pendant, ANNA – another with a vial of blood, and another with a saliva swab. I sign and print my name and job title across the paperwork, then take the bag over to Sacha along with the glove with Anna’s phone inside.
‘Take these back to the station. I’ll meet you there.’
She doesn’t reach for it right away, but looks up at me from where she sits on one of the plastic chairs. The shadows under her eyes tells me she’s at that point in the night where she’s hitting the wall. But aren’t we all? Our job’s not done yet. I gesture again with the bag and she reaches up to take hold of it, gets to her feet.
‘We did what we could, Steve,’ she says, standing close enough that I smell the night air and exhaust fumes clinging to her uniform.
‘The sooner we put these through the system, the sooner her parents can have them back. Start on the paperwork and I’ll follow on once I’m done.’
Sacha doesn’t protest, not like some of the others would. She doesn’t say there’s no more to be done here, or complain about doing the donkey work, or insist I return to the station with her immediately. What she does instead is trust me. Not as her superior, which I’m not, but as someone with more hours on the job than her.
The soft peel of her shoes over the linoleum floor gets lost to the insistent noises of a busy NHS emergency ward in the middle of another hectic night shift. I find a coffee machine and root about in my pocket for the right change.
‘Steve.’
I turn to see Fred Dalston, his sergeant’s lid propped under his arm. Jaffa hovers behind with his hands in his pockets and his face solemn, like he’d rather be somewhere else. You and me both, Jaffa. Some parts of the job are just shit.
‘Sorry I didn’t get there sooner,’ says Dalston. ‘A mini riot broke out up at the Stow Estate and I had to cover Jonesy. Some plonker with one of them Samurai swords. Thought he was some sort of martial arts expert. Seen better knife work from my sister’s three-year-old tackling a plate of peas. Anyway, bit of a crap one for you, mate.’
His hand lands on my arm while I’m still looking at the change in my palm, trying to do the maths.
‘Want a coffee?’ I poke at the coins, not sure I’ve got enough for one, let alone two. Dried blood stains my fingers.
‘I just passed Sacha and told her to wait in the car for you. You’re done here, Steve.’
‘I’m waiting for the parents. They should be here any minute.’
I don’t think I have enough change after all. Prices at these machines are bloody extortionate.
‘Family Liaison’s with them, and me and Jaffa will do the rest.’
‘I was with the girl. Better it be me.’
‘Steve.’
Damn machines. Five pence short. I drop the coins in my pocket and turn. Dalston’s standing closer than I expect and his eyes are as hard as stones. ‘Get back to the station.’
‘No disrespect, Sarge, but they’ll be wanting answers and I was at the scene.’
‘So was Jaffa.’
I look over his shoulder at my colleague and try to recall seeing him there. If anything, he was probably directing traffic half a mile down the road.
‘Fred—’
‘Look at yourself, Steve.’
My friend’s voice is barely above a whisper, but firm enough for me to know he means business. His eyes roam down over me and I follow their gaze to see what the hell he’s talking about.
Before they wheeled Anna into the operating theatre, someone passed my jacket to someone else, who returned it to me. I had put it on out of habit and so I wouldn’t have to carry it. But looking at it now, I notice the burgundy smudges in sweeping streaks from the hem of the yellow and silver reflective material upwards. More of it is tattooed on the sleeves.
I shrug the jacket off and turn it inside out to the lining. But then I see the dark patches on my utility vest, and when I remove that, it’s on my polo shirt, too. I don’t even know how it got there, but you’d think a black uniform would hide it. Not well enough. I look to Dalston, but his eyes are on my arms. I hold them out and turn them, the heavy jacket dangling from one hand. All down my forearms to my hands is a deep red, as if some bored toddler with a paintbrush and a tub of fence paint has used me as a blank canvas. I tuck my arms under the jacket and clutch it in front of me, but the sergeant is shaking his head.
‘Return to the station with your partner, PC Fuller. That’s an order.’
I clamp my lips together. This might be the first time he’s ever issued me a direct order, and he knows I won’t dispute it. I’m close to. I was with Anna right there until almost the end. She never regained consciousness after she got here, which means I was the last person she spoke to, the last person she looked at. But no matter what my reasoning or beliefs, my job is not to question my superior’s directives. My job is to do as I’m told.
I’ve only gone a few steps down the corridor when he adds, ‘And Fuller? Once you and Sacha finish your reports, go home. Your shift’s done.’
