Monday 22 October, 10.35 p.m.
Matthew had added insult to injury by washing her grazed knees, spreading filthy-smelling iodine ointment on them, which stung. (Don’t want them getting infected.)
And finally tucking her in bed and bringing her some hot chocolate.
She’d looked at the steaming mug in disgust. ‘Hot chocolate.’
And felt sure that in Matthew’s face there was a hint of mischief as he handed it to her. She took the mug and looked up at him. ‘Matt.’
He sat on the bed, his eyes on her, waiting. ‘Matt,’ she said again, ‘promise me one thing.’
He raised his eyebrows in preparation.
‘I’ll behave this time,’ she said. ‘I won’t be cycling again until after the baby is born. But Matt, no more children. Just this one.’
He gave a little smile, a smaller nod. But not until she’d read disappointment in his face. ‘You hate being pregnant that much?’
Unable to lie she disguised her answer by taking a sip from the mug. It was ridiculously sweet. ‘It’s not just the pregnancy. It’s …’ she heaved a great sigh, ‘… well, bringing up a child … all that entails.’ Then she dived for cover and took refuge. ‘Being pregnant is so restrictive.’
He looked surprised. ‘Just because you can’t go on your bike?’
‘No – more than that.’
He voiced his question with a raising of his eyebrows. ‘Work?’ She said nothing but watched him warily and he tried again. ‘Is it work?’
That was when she nodded but with a wry look. ‘If you can call my current case work.’
Now he’d won, Matthew was magnanimous. ‘So …?’ he queried, smile registering faint interest.
‘A ninety-six-year-old man with dementia absconding from a residential home apparently in search of a lost teddy bear?’
She had to hand it to her husband. He did his very best not to laugh. Trouble was he didn’t succeed. The result was a loud snort. But he was still listening. One thing Joanna really loved about her husband was the opportunity to pick his brains.
‘Matt,’ she said a little later, after drinking more of the disgusting hot chocolate. ‘How long would my old man last out there?’ She took another sip, made a face. ‘I mean he’s old. He’s confused. Is he likely to still be alive?’ She glanced towards the sleet rattling against the windowpanes. ‘In this weather?’
As was his habit, he didn’t respond straight away but spent some time considering her question from more than one angle.
‘Depends,’ he said finally. ‘On his BMI. Body fat. Is he slim or well covered?’
‘I’m not really sure. I suppose tomorrow I’ll get a more detailed description. Maybe a picture.’
‘Well, he’d last better if he’s got some body fat.’ He paused, frowning. ‘It’s an instinct to find shelter, even though he might not really know where he is if his mental state is confused.’ He too watched the rain cascade down the window and his frown deepened. ‘All in all, I’d say he’s more than likely to be dead.’
‘Mmm. Rotten end to a long life.’
And he agreed.
Somehow or other he managed to fit his arm around her and the child and they went to sleep.
His good humour lasted through until the next morning.
Tuesday 23 October, 7.45 a.m.
She was woken by a knock on the door, the rattle of coffee mugs, a cafetière and the scent of buttered toast. She sat up. ‘Breakfast in bed, Matthew Levin? Are you going to keep this up until I give birth?’
She would have forgiven him anything for that grin which seemed to wrap up anything bad. ‘Absolutely, Jo. Got to look after my family.’
My family. The phrase sounded unfamiliar, even in her thoughts. But he meant her and the child. His family.
‘After all, there’s two of you now.’ A stickler for the absolute truth, he added, ‘Well, almost.’
‘I’m hardly likely to forget it.’
He flopped down beside her, almost spilling the coffee and catapulting the toast on to the bed.
‘Jane was really sick,’ he said, ‘when she was …’
She didn’t know which was the worse image – the thought of Jane, his ex-wife, being treated like this, Eloise a growing and developing foetus, or the thing that was fast growing inside her.
She closed her eyes to all the images and accepted the coffee and toast. He’d noticed her frown and ignored it, but not before she’d seen the look in his eyes. ‘I need to get up …’ And then she knew why she was reluctant to leave this cosy place. ‘Matt,’ she said.
‘Mmm?’
‘What do people look like when they’ve died of hypothermia?’
He turned towards her. ‘You really want to know?’
‘Yes – as probably today I’m going to be faced with it.’
He lay back, folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. ‘Do you mean what happens to them?’
‘Yes. Will he have suffered?’
He shook his head. ‘No. They initially start to shiver; their skin goes white and cold. Peripheral shutdown.’ He turned his head. ‘Confusion sets in, slurred speech, sometimes rapid breathing and they feel tired. Basically they just fall asleep.’
‘It sounds peaceful.’
‘Basically,’ he repeated, ‘it is a peaceful death.’ And then he couldn’t resist. ‘If you do find him, Jo, you’d better warn the team. Sometimes they look dead but they aren’t. Just in a state of suspended animation. When you warm them up they start breathing again. The mortuary resurrections? Often the result of hypothermia.’
‘Thank you. At least I know more about the probable death of our old man.’ She put the tray on the side table and threw back the covers. ‘Time I got on with finding him then – unless he’s already turned up, dead or alive.’
And with that she headed off for her morning shower.