The hospital’s corridor is empty, and the smell is interlaced for Maarten with the birth of Sanne, number two daughter. Nic had been born in Holland, where home births were more common, and by the second they had moved to England, living in London. He had sat hot and hungry, holding Liv’s hand, as she strained out the tiny baby. The vivid sense of exhaustion and elation is wrapped up in this odour of disinfectant and the unwell – sterile blood. Apprehension and happiness, with each breath. Her tiny hands, waving and fragile.
‘How’s the war wound?’ asks Imogen, sitting down beside him.
Jolted back, reaching up, he touches where the glue holds the cut together, held under a dressing to keep it dry.
‘Not too bad. Kak, not too great.’
‘What time did you get home?’
‘Can’t remember. Liv picked me up. Before the sun.’
He had passed out when he’d arrived in the hospital. They had scanned him, watched him, wanted to keep him in, and all he had wanted to do was to flee. The mess and the chaos of the emergency room had been oppressive, impossible to unpick. He couldn’t have recovered in there. His memory of the night is faint. Liv had come. Liv. His mouth had been full of cotton wool. His lips cracked as he spoke, and his eyes had only partly opened: the bandage that keeps the wound tight pulled his eyelids forward, just a chink of light.
‘Are you sure you want to come home now? It’s four a.m… they said you were adamant?’ She had leaned over him and her scent was a relief, a warmth. Her hand had reached for his and her touch was all he needed to muster the strength.
‘Yes.’
Voice parched, scratched, he’d barely managed to speak, and she’d got him out.
‘Nice glasses,’ Imogen says.
The spare pair has a red rim, and are too bold for a murder investigation, but he’s got no choice today, as the others are being fixed. ‘Liv’s going to collect mine for me later. How’s he doing?’ He gestures to the room, where Tim Pickles is linked to machines that monitor in beeps and blinks on the screen.
‘Not great, but I think he’ll be OK. The doctor’s heading over in a second. What will we do about the interview, sir?’
‘Well, it will have to wait. Has there been anything else? Are his phone records in yet?’
‘Yes. He’s called a number of sixth formers but we’ve got nothing that links him to Leigh. He has, however, had a visitor.’
Maarten glances at Imogen; her eyebrows are raised.
‘Young?’
‘Seventeen. She came in yesterday evening. The hospital wouldn’t let her see him, but Sunny was outside the room so he managed to speak to her briefly. She didn’t say much, and ran away when he told her who he was. He did manage to get out of her that she was worried about him, and he got the impression that she might have been at the other end of his call. She answered a few questions: Pickles has loads of their numbers, from what I can gather. Smokes with them sometimes, gets drunk. Been to a couple of house parties when parents have been away. She said nothing to link him to Leigh – the girl looked as though Sunny was mad when he suggested it.’
‘Have you identified her?’
‘Yes, Sunny’s got her name and she’s coming in later with her parents so we can check her out then. We’ll keep digging.’
‘Good work.’
He glances down at Imogen’s wrist, wrapped in a white bandage. ‘What happened? Were you hurt too?’
‘Not really – I think I sprained it putting the cuffs on. Seb made me get it checked out this morning – he’s driven me in. Gone to get coffees. He’s getting you one too.’ She glances down the corridor. ‘Here he is.’
‘Maarten,’ Seb says, his long stride halting as he passes out a coffee, face filled with sympathy. ‘Shocking news – how are you?’
‘OK.’ The room spins. Holding the coffee close he breathes in – he can’t drink, his mouth feels too raw, but the bitter smell rises and takes the edge off the hospital aroma. ‘Tired. Looking forward to the end of the day.’
‘Pay attention to what they told you, Maarten. Head injuries are no joke, and I know what you and Imogen are like.’
Liv had handed him a bottle of something this morning. She had been angry he was going in after so little sleep. ‘Whatever you do, don’t get behind the wheel. You’re likely to collapse at any moment. Honestly, it’s a job, Maarten, there are other people…’ Her brow had creased in concern; her hands had been covered in glitter. The girls had woken early and been decorating the party invites. Her cheeks were dusted with it and it made him blink.
He could see two of things, if he blinked quickly.
Steps sound on the hard floor.
‘This is the doctor.’ Imogen gestures to a woman in a white coat heading down the corridor. ‘I came back last night, once the paperwork for the men was finished, to relieve Sunny.’
They stand as the doctor shakes their hands. She is short anyway, but Maarten towers over her, looking down at her pale white face, forcing her to look high up in the direction of the strip lighting, and she rubs her eyes at the glare.
‘He’s been fairly lucky, all things considered. Nothing serious, we think, to his brain. Concussion, a dislocation and a bleed into a joint, but the minor surgery has gone well, and we’re hoping he will wake up later today. Fractured cheek. There shouldn’t be any long-term consequences, hopefully.’
‘Are his family here?’ Maarten asks.
‘No. He’s got a housemate, who came in last night. He said he would call the family, but so far we haven’t heard anything.’
Maarten looks through the door. Pickles lies immobile. A lot rests on his regaining consciousness.
‘We need to interview him when he comes round. Can I leave someone here?’
‘It’s up to you. You can leave an officer sitting in the corridor, if you like? But he needs rest.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that. I’ll call someone in now.’
They move to walk down the corridor, Seb falling behind, and as they turn, a beep begins to sound from Pickles’ room. It turns quickly to the squeal of an alarm.
The doctor runs into the room and nurses appear from all directions.
Maarten steps back to let them in, and he can hear the whirr of the emergency team in action, but from where he stands it’s like a cloud of confusion. His head still aches. There is shouting and someone wheels a cart past him. Flurry, dash. The room spins.
‘Oh shit,’ Imogen says, to his left.
Seb moves to her and puts his arm around her shoulders. ‘Don’t worry – they’ve got this.’
It’s frantic and furious. There is some shouting, and then it calms a little. The silence is powerful. More people run down the corridor. Someone pushes a bed.
‘Should we go?’ Imogen is jumpy beside him.
‘No, let’s wait. We’ll give it five minutes.’ The outcome of this could impact the case from all different directions. Threads will tangle.
The beeping slows, nurses file out and the doctor steps back out. Her face shines with sweat.
Maarten steps forward.
‘Alive. He was fitting. We will need to keep a close eye on him. It’s likely that he has an underlying condition we’re not aware of; he could have epilepsy or it could be the fever. The injuries he sustained yesterday have placed stress on his body. We’ll need to run a few tests.’ The tiredness on the doctor’s face ages her – ten years in the last five minutes.
‘I’ll have an officer here in half an hour.’ Maarten tips his head an inch in Imogen’s direction and she turns to make the call.
‘I know I shouldn’t ask,’ the doctor says, ‘but did he do it?’
*
Pushing the door open to Interview Room One, Adrika and Sunny sit opposite John Hoarde’s brother-in-law. Maarten recognises him from earlier, one of the larger ones from the attack, but not the one who hit him.
Back in the station, he wants to show his injuries to the men, give them a glimpse of what they may be prosecuted for: lend weight to his officers’ questioning. His plan is to ask for a quiet word with Adrika, and then exit, but his entrance causes a snicker.
Surprised, Maarten catches his eye. The man is wearing police issue clothing because his clothing had been covered with bloodstains, now evidence of the assault.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ The aggression stirs, the tone lazy, slow.
Maarten doesn’t speak, but holds the man’s gaze. His head is still throbbing and the night in hospital has upped his exhaustion, nerves newly stretched.
‘Really, you come in here, dressed like you’re in fucking costume, with your black suit and your red glasses. You’ve got your people talking to us in here, holding us for beating up a cunting kiddie-fiddler, a murderer!’ The man, shouting now, lunges forward. The speed is a surprise. His chair spins behind him.
Sunny throws himself between the two men. Maarten holds his position.
‘Help in here!’ shouts Sunny.
Officers run through the door and wrestle the man backwards, holding him by his arms and cuffing him, locking his hands behind his back.
‘I pay your effing wages! And you’re wasting my time! Go and catch the fucking killer, you fucking foreign ponce!’
A glob of spit lands at Maarten’s feet. With one last look, he leaves.
Back at his desk, Imogen comes running up. He can hear her footsteps outside the office. She knocks quickly before entering. She carries a coffee.
‘Sir! Are you OK? I just heard.’
Placing the coffee down before him, she sits opposite. ‘You know you shouldn’t even be in today. Shall I phone Liv? I can drop you back now, or if you’d prefer I can ask if she wants to come and get you. I don’t think you should drive…’
‘Oh, it’s fine. Don’t fuss.’ He opens the packet of pills, and knocks two back with the coffee. ‘I would imagine we’ve found our charge for incitement, if nothing else.’
Imogen sits back and scratches the back of her hand. ‘I’ve got something for you.’
‘Yes?’
‘One possible, actually. We took a statement from one of the inhabitants of Lake Lane. Their alibi didn’t check out. The statement came in half an hour ago. He said he was away golfing, but no one at the club remembers seeing him. We can’t pin him down, and the car passed right outside his house: one of the last sightings of Leigh.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Well, we did some background checks and his place of work, a creative agency in London, they have taken groups of Y9, Leigh’s year group, for a morning in industry. We haven’t got an obvious link between Leigh and him directly, but…’
Maarten sits up. ‘What’s the name?’
‘Connor Whitehouse.’