It was raining in London, just as Detective Inspector Bliss had predicted. It was still only 7 a.m., and, a few miles north of the city, the wet streets of Watford were alive with the bustle of commuters. The daily routine of the General Hospital was well underway—lives beginning and ending. Trudy hovered somewhere between.
Lisa McKenzie’s grasp on her daughter’s cold, flaccid hand had rarely been broken in the past four days, and, now she had something to cling to, the leg cramps no longer forced her to her feet. The excruciating pain was merely a welcome wake-up call whenever she dozed. Only the bathroom drew her away, then Peter would replace her and slide his daughter’s limp hand into his.
Peter fingered the diamond-studded brooches the policeman had dropped into his hand the previous evening. “LeClarc wants Trudy to have these—reckoned they had something to do with ancient religions, but they look like Nazi swastikas to me,” he had said. “Apparently she left them in the house.” The rest of Roger’s tearful message went undelivered. “Tell her these are symbols of the Sun God, and symbols of my love for her—tell her I’m sorry, I never meant to hurt her.”
“Oh! by the way,” the policeman had added as he turned to leave, “the Dutch have got the three blokes that picked LeClarc up in the North Sea.”
Peter, totally oblivious to the circumstances of Roger’s plight, merely shrugged, “Good—give them a medal.”
Peter had accepted the brooches absent-mindedly and signed for them in a daze. It was only after the policeman had departed he really thought about them. “I wonder where she got them?” he said to Lisa.
“They must’ve been in his house. She never had them at home.”
“Then why would he want Trudy to have them?”
“Do you think they’re valuable?”
“I would think so. They’re probably worth a lot, but I don’t know if I’d want Trudy to have his things after what he did to her.”
Lisa looked at Peter from under her eyelids. “Well, he won’t need them where he’s going.”
He understood and gave her a wink. “She can always sell them and buy herself something nice.”
A slight tremor tingled through Trudy’s hand. Lisa felt it.
“She moved,” Lisa said in a disbelieving tone, and glanced at her ex-husband. A few seconds later she felt it again. “There it is,” she said, a flood of excitement lifting her voice.
Peter quickly leaned over his daughter’s bed. “Trudy, love, can you hear me?”
“Her eyelids moved,” cried Lisa, although she wasn’t entirely sure.
Peter tried again, this time watching her eyelids, “Can you hear me?”
Her lips started to move, she was trying to say something. Lisa bent close and Trudy whispered, “I’m back, Mum.”
“Did you hear that, Peter?”
He had heard.
“I’m not dreaming am I? Please tell me I’m not dreaming.”
“You’re not dreaming, Lisa, Love,” he said quietly, lovingly.
The words sank in slowly. She looked deep into his eyes, seeking confirmation and found it. “Come home, Peter, please,” she breathed. “Come home.”
Peter’s answer would have been the affirmative but, before he could speak, the screech of an alarm pierced the air and brought a flurry of uniforms.
Ten minutes later the doctor and nurses stood back from Trudy’s bed in resignation. Adolf Hitler’s final victim had succumbed; Trudy’s war was over. Now Roger LeClarc’s battle would begin.