She was asleep.
It was a different bed, a different place, and two weeks since she had regained consciousness. The nurse looked at their faces and read the uncertainty in them.
‘She’s just dozing, that’s all. She gets tired. I can wake her if you want,’ she offered, ‘let her see you’re here.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Sam Winter said, then glanced towards his wife. Gloria Winter nodded her head in brusque agreement but she did not meet his eyes.
‘Let’s go to my office,’ Liam Maginnis said. ‘We can have a chat over a cup of tea.’
He was a tall man with gold-rimmed spectacles and a good suit, a deep grey double breasted with a hint of silk that gave it an expensive sheen, and he led the way along the corridors of Musgrave Rehabilitation Centre with a confident swagger that said he was a man of position.
What he was was the Centre’s highly paid Chief Executive and Northern Ireland’s foremost consultant on rehabilitation medicine. Living at such a professional pinnacle, he did not normally descend from it in order to concern himself directly with new arrivals but he had decided to take an interest in this one. For all sorts of reasons, Meg Winter was going to be an unusual patient.
The Centre, replacing what had been an old hospital, was on the south-western tip of Belfast. The views from it were not as commanding as those over the lough at Knockvale, yet it was pleasant enough, facing out on the grassy hillsides of the Black Mountain and the trees of Musgrave Park itself, one of several green spaces dotted around the city, magnanimous gestures by municipal dignitaries of long ago.
The Centre specialised in orthopaedic care and prosthetics. Here was where people who had lost limbs learned how to live with new ones. There was a military wing, little used now but still protected by heavy security, to which army victims of terrorist attacks used to be flown, an occurrence of grim regularity in past years. But the air above the medical enclave was quieter these days, the ominous clatter of hovering helicopters much less common.
One unit specialised in physiotherapy for people recovering from difficult operations or long illnesses. It was an area of expertise which Meg would need and it was why her parents and the doctors at Knockvale had approached Maginnis once they had all accepted her new, wakeful, state as permanent.
When they reached his office, Maginnis directed his guests to two soft chairs, then settled himself. Tea things were already waiting on a low table.
‘When will she walk again? Even talk?’ Sam Winter wanted to know almost before he had sat down.
Gloria Winter gave a snort. ‘I find this eagerness touching in someone who not so long ago wanted to turn the machines off and let her die.’
Her husband looked towards Maginnis, as if appealing to his good sense. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ he insisted. ‘The chances of recovery were uncertain, unlikely even. After four years – the question had to be asked – but I didn’t—’
Maginnis relieved his anguish. ‘It’s only a couple of weeks since she woke up. We’re just going to have to be patient.’
He took his glasses off and set them on the table as he leaned forward to pour the tea. ‘Milk?’ They nodded. ‘Sugar?’ They nodded again.
It ocurred to him how they liked their tea was one of the rare subjects on which these two would agree. He poured his own, then leaned back in the chair.
‘Almighty God has brought her this far,’ Gloria Winter said. ‘He will set her free.’ Across the table from Maginnis she sat bolt upright, her face set in an expression that challenged him to argue the point.
Maginnis smiled encouragingly. ‘I hope you’re right.’
She reached for her cup and as she glanced away from him he studied her. She was a big-boned woman in her late fifties, white-haired and handsome. There was caution and suspicion in her eyes and she had a presence that made you careful what you said.
Sam Winter sat on a chair several feet from her but the real gulf between them was immeasurable.
Compared to his wife he seemed diminutive, yet Maginnis reckoned he was the same height, somewhere about five-nine. The difference lay in the demeanour. Sam was thin and had been handsome when younger but at sixty his face had fallen into folds, as if he had lost weight too rapidly. He sat hunched, with his head bent slightly forward, looking out from under eyebrows that were like tussocks on a worn hillside.
He looked tired, Maginnis thought, past his peak, although he cautioned himself that appearances were deceptive and that Sam Winter had never been short on energy.
He was an astute businessman who had made a fortune in the building industry through his firm, Seasons Construction. Maginnis knew a lot about that because his own prosperity was due not only to his substantial salary and the fees he was able to earn in private consultancy but also to successful investment ventures. Business matters intrigued him, thus he knew that Seasons Construction had been a collaboration between Winter and a partner, Derek Sumner, who had died several years ago. When they had founded the company they had been amused at the sound of their surnames together – Winter and Sumner – and so they had hit on the name Seasons.
A few years ago, the building and property giant, Malone Group, had made a bid for Seasons, offering a sum that many now believed totally over-valued Winter’s company, and Sam had been happy to sell. He had stayed on as managing director and he had also become a director of Malone Group.
The sale had topped up his already substantial wealth but it was money he had needed. Paying for his daughter’s care all these years would have been an extraordinary financial drain, even to someone with his resources.
‘First,’ Maginnis said, ‘having rejoiced in the fact of your daughter’s remarkable return to the world,’ he smiled politely at Gloria, ‘it would be wrong of me to suggest that everything’s going to be back to normal overnight. I recognise that this must be a very frustrating period for you both, in some ways almost as agonising as the past four years have been, but we can’t expect miracles.’ He winced inside when he said the word because he knew she could not resist the cue.
She looked at him. ‘People who don’t know, who don’t understand – they talk about miracles. The power of prayer, Mr Maginnis – that’s what we’ve seen. I can’t speak for anyone else,’ her eyes went to her husband momentarily, ‘but I’ve prayed to the Lord night and day for Margaret’s recovery, knowing . . .’ she placed a fist to her bosom, ‘. . . that if my prayers were to be answered it would signify that He had a purpose for her, that eventually the holy fire of his love will fill her heart. I’ve waited a long time for this day and I can wait a little while longer. I’m content in the knowledge that she’s saved from the storm, sheltered by faith.’
Maginnis nodded gently as if he understood. The woman did not speak, she preached. It left little scope for a response. Other than Amen.
Sam Winter sighed. He sat forward with his elbows on his knees.
‘Mr Maginnis,’ he said, ‘as you may be aware, my wife and I have lived apart for many years. I’ll be straight with you – we don’t see eye to eye on many things. In fact, being together under any circumstances is a rare thing for us. Yet we do have one thing in common and that’s our daughter’s welfare. My wife’s a very religious woman and she believes in prayer, as you’ve just heard. Me . . .’ he opened his arms out as if to accept suggestions, ‘. . . I’m just grateful to whoever or whatever has brought her back to us and like Gloria here I’ll take each day as it comes. I didn’t mean to sound impatient a moment ago. I have every confidence in you and your team here. I just want Meg to be well again. You can understand that.’
Maginnis smiled. ‘Of course. And your attitude will make things a great deal easier both for your daughter and for those whose task it is to look after her. Because I have to tell you – there’s a long way to go.’
He sipped his tea and put the cup and saucer on the table before continuing. ‘At Knockvale, before she came to us, they correctly identified some of the areas of need. Basically, it means a lot of therapy. They had already started her with a speech therapist and we started her with ours yesterday. It won’t be particularly demanding for the time being because she gets tired quickly. It’s slow progress, as you’ll appreciate. After all, here’s a young woman who hasn’t spoken a word for four years, whose voice box and vocal chords have been inactive. You don’t just sit up in bed after that length of time and carry on a conversation where you left off. As well as that, we won’t know for a while how much her current speech difficulties are the result of the long duration of her comatose condition or . . . or, well to be frank, whether they signify rather more deep-rooted problems.’
He paused to let them absorb the thought.
Sam frowned. ‘But before, everyone said there was no sign of brain damage.’
‘That’s true, as far as could be ascertained. But there are other tests we can do now, other forms of scanning. There’s just a chance that they may reveal something.’
‘I see,’ Sam said. He subsided into the chair.
‘We don’t know, for example, why she woke up when she did. We may never find that out because there might be no real reason. Coma can be unpredictable, some of the causes uncertain. Sometimes it’s as if people just choose to wake up, as if they’ve had enough. But I have to say it’s very probable that after all this time there’ll be some sort of personality change. To what extent, we won’t know for a while but it’s unlikely that she’ll be the same young woman she was four years ago. You could hardly expect otherwise.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ Gloria said. Her eyes seemed lit from within and she smiled as if she knew something they did not. ‘I know she will.’
‘Physically,’ Maginnis went on, ‘it’s slow progress, too. When she was in a coma, they would have done some mild physiotherapy with her out at Knockvale – I’m sure they explained it to you – passive movements, they’re called. Someone moving her arms and legs for her several times a day to keep the muscles from atrophying altogether. There would have been some chest physio, too.’
‘What’s that?’ Sam Winter said. ‘I don’t remember that.’
‘Well, it’s a bit unpleasant – but necessary. Your chest – well, things gather, you know. It’s important to keep it clear. But she’s far beyond that stage now, thank goodness. We’ll go from passive movements to assisted movements: helping her a bit to bend her arms and her legs, that sort of thing, but really letting her do it for herself. A couple of weeks ago she couldn’t even hold her head up on her own but now she’s already getting back her sitting balance and trunk mobility, which is good. She’s able to sit in a chair for periods of time and very soon we’re going to try her in a wheelchair. How long she’ll need it depends on how her strength develops.’
‘She’s very thin,’ her father said. ‘Almost wasted away.’
‘Perhaps she looks more so now,’ Maginnis agreed, ‘now that you’re seeing some movement from her, not just the still figure lying in a bed. Yes, she is a bit – well, slender – but she’ll build up gradually. She’ll have one physio assigned to her. It’s better if she gets used to working with the one person and establishes a relationship. There’ll be occupational therapy every day and hydrotherapy too. We’ve got good facilities for that here. Who’s for more tea?’
They both put their hands over their cups. He poured some for himself. ‘Don’t mind me. I drink far too much of this stuff. With normal physiotherapy, the individual’s working against gravity all the time. But in the pool, you’re buoyant and it’s easier to do the exercises, although the benefits to your muscles and limbs are exactly the same.’
He sipped the tea and thought. ‘What else do I need to explain to you? There’s ADL.’
‘ADL?’ Gloria asked.
‘Sorry – Activities of Daily Living. All those important routine things: washing herself, going to the toilet, combing her hair. You’d be amazed how much there is. She has to be shown how to do all that, to get her co-ordination back – always provided, of course, that there’s nothing more serious to worry about, nothing preventing her from regaining her normal dexterity. She seems to be eating well enough. She’s on a high protein, high calorie diet but don’t forget that the actual act of eating is a strain for her. She finds it hard enough to lift a spoon and manoeuvre it properly’ He smiled. ‘Yesterday she got fed up and just dropped the thing on the floor but I wouldn’t let that worry me. Frankly, I think it’s a good sign.’
‘In what way?’ Gloria questioned.
‘Well, it shows frustration for one thing. Her brain may want to do things which her physical condition won’t allow just yet. What we’re seeing may be a manifestation of that. The psychologist will soon tell us.’
He waved an index finger, remembering something. ‘Glasses.’
‘Sorry?’ Sam Winter said.
‘She needs glasses. At least for a time. There’s some evidence of short-sightedness. The way her eyes reacted to the tests we did, it’s evident that objects further away are less clear to her, obviously the result of the weakening of the eye muscles. It may not be a permanent state of affairs. Of course, the muscles may recover their strength, but if not, well, I guess it’s not the end of the world.’
He picked his own glasses up from the table, took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them.
‘Coma cases can still surprise us. That’s why I have a particular psychologist in mind – Dr Paddy Sands. If you like, I can make the arrangements.’
‘Go ahead,’ Sam said. ‘Do whatever you need to.’
‘He practises in Dublin. He’s very skilled in dealing with people who’ve suffered psychological damage through traumatic experiences. We know very little about what happened the night of your daughter’s accident but what we do know is traumatic enough. It’s very rare for someone to come out of a coma after all this time and, like I said, rarer still for there not to be some residual effect. Even if Meg recovers physically, we have no idea what the psychological consequences are. So she can’t go out into the world until we . . .’ he gestured to show that he meant all three of them, ‘. . . are certain that she’s absolutely ready.’
‘How long will that be?’ Sam asked.
Maginnis made a face. ‘How long’s a piece of string? But I’d guess the best part of a year.’
‘A year? That long?’
‘It could be longer. Maybe shorter. It all depends on how quickly she progresses.’
‘God is testing us all,’ Gloria said.
Maginnis smiled thinly. He turned to Sam. ‘You’re aware there’s a lot of media interest?’
He nodded. ‘They’ve been pestering both of us.’
‘He’s testing our perseverance,’ Gloria continued. ‘He wants us to put our trust in Him. He wants us to believe that He’ll carry us through.’
‘I’ve seen the headlines,’ Sam said, ignoring her.
‘ “Murder Car Girl Wakes From Coma” – that sort of thing. The tabloids are offering money for the first interview. I’ve told them to get stuffed.’
‘Some of our staff have been approached,’ Maginnis told him, ‘but they won’t say anything. Anyone who does will get the sack. I’ll see to that. It’s one of the reasons I decided to become personally involved. Look, Mr Winter—’
‘Sam.’
‘Sam – our job’s to bring your daughter back to as normal a life as we can, slowly and sensitively. But we have to recognise that if all goes well and she recovers fully, then there’ll be a lot for her to face. It’s unavoidable. Although until she can talk to us, until she can respond – if she can respond – we can’t know how her mind has been affected by everything that’s happened to her and how she’ll cope with everything outside these walls. And of course there’s another thing. The police.’
‘I know,’ Sam said.
‘They’ve already been in touch with me. It’s another reason I’m keeping an eye on things. When she’s well enough to talk to us they’ll want her to talk to them, too.’
Sam grunted. ‘We’ll see about that.’
On a crisp morning ten days later, a man strolled casually through the grounds of Musgrave Park.
He was one of only a few. It was never the most populated of places, especially now, in January, in the cold. It was observed mostly, rather than visited. Stockman’s Lane, one of the busiest thoroughfares into the city, ran alongside and in the morning rush every day, queues of people sat in their cars and looked wistfully at the vision of tranquillity that the park represented.
For those who were in the little park itself, the traffic beyond belonged to another world and they hardly noticed it. They strolled along the paths, listening to the cheery encouragement of a blackbird, letting their dogs stretch their legs in the bright, early sunshine and sniff the hard-cropped rose beds for what creatures might have been there in the night.
The man did not have a dog.
Muffled against the cold in a waterproof jacket, scarf and cap, he carried a hold-all over one shoulder and walked with a heavier sense of purpose than the handful of people he passed, and who paid him little attention.
His route took him in the direction of the Centre. Although part of the same patch of land, its grounds were closed off to the public by high fences. Trees and shrubs had been planted all around to protect its privacy but winter had stripped away much of their covering.
When he got as close as he could, he stood for a moment, looking at the outline of the buildings, trying to spot something. There was a window he wanted, a couple of floors up, two from the end. You could not see much from this distance with the naked eye but then he was not relying on that.
He looked at his watch. Eight forty.
A quarter to nine, his contact inside had said. She was one of the auxiliary staff and he had paid good money for her to be right.
He put the hold-all down and from it he took a camera body and a bulky bag. The bag contained a massive telephoto lens, too heavy for him to support without the picture shuddering, but he had thought of that. When he had fitted it to the body, he dipped into the hold-all again and produced a metal stick which opened out into a thin but sturdy tripod which he set into the ground.
He set the camera on it and shook the structure to make certain it was secure. He looked around. There was no one about.
He tested the shot and the focus. As he pressed his left eye to the view-finder and fixed his gaze on the window, a figure appeared. It was a woman in a hospital uniform. She looked out anxiously for a moment and then disappeared from view.
In a few seconds she was back. This time she was not alone but was pushing someone in a wheelchair. When she got to the window she moved away, out of sight.
He took shot after shot. Click – whirr, click – whirr. All the while, the figure sat motionless in the chair. He finished a whole roll and thought about loading a new one but there was no point. He had got everything he had come for.
He struck a deal with all the major tabloids and his pictures appeared on their front pages the next morning.
The Star treatment was typical:
Taken from such a distance, it was not up to much. The photograph was grainy and fuzzy but nevertheless it was sufficiently clear for people who saw it to make out the thin face of a woman.
The accompanying story made up for what detail the picture lacked:
Looking gaunt and haunted, a young woman peers from a window at a world she has not seen for years.
Not since the night she was plunged into a coma.
Former doctor Meg Winter (30) is being nursed in high security conditions in a top secret wing of the Musgrave Rehabilitation Centre while police wait to talk to her.
For she is the only person who can help them solve a bizarre murder case.
Three and a half years ago she was found unconscious and critically injured in the wreckage of an MGB sports car which had plunged off the road at Shaw’s Bridge, near Belfast.
A body was found nearby – that of the driver, 27-year-old Paul Everett, a high-flying executive with an American pharmaceuticals company based in Co Antrim.
But he did not die in the crash. Instead, his skull had been smashed by repeated blows which a coroner later declared as murder.
A postmortem also showed that the dead man’s system was full of cocaine.
Police believe the murder was drugs-related but they have never been able to find a single clue as to who was responsible.
The case seemed destined to remain in the files, stamped: UNSOLVED.
Until now.
Almost a month ago Meg miraculously regained consciousness. A top psychologist said yesterday: ‘It’s fantastic. Her case is a medical phenomenon.’
But for the moment, she sits in a wheelchair by the window, waiting for the knock on the door . . . waiting to tell the police what she knows.