Dinner was delicious. I could really get used to Sheila’s cooking, especially after my regular diet of frozen pizzas and microwave dinners for one. On the whole, I was beginning to improve, although my head still hadn’t entirely cleared. The consultant did warn me that it would take six to eight weeks before I fully recovered. I knew what he meant, although I was determined I wouldn’t allow it to turn me into an invalid.
It was an enjoyable hour or so around the kitchen table; Connie was in good form, telling us about her day. She was becoming increasingly confident as the days passed, and the vision of her tormentor was fading. She was also becoming more and more taken – if that’s the right word – with young Steve Harrison. He never seemed to be away from the place, even when, I noticed, he was supposed to be off duty. Still, I didn’t see any harm in it, just so long as he remembered that his primary task was protecting her and not courting her.
Jim arrived just after seven, accompanied by Paul. When we went into Paul’s office he made a comment, jokingly, about my using his password to access the computer.
“You’re the one that gave it me, if I remember rightly!” I countered.
He shrugged philosophically. “Help yourself, Angie. Just don’t overdo things, will you?”
“Paul and I have been discussing how we might persuade Brownlaw to come out of hiding. He’s come up with an interesting idea that could possibly work. At the very least, he’ll be tempted. Tell her, Paul.”
“Well, you may remember, I predicted on the profile of this type of paedophile that he’ll more than likely have extremely extravagant tastes, in clothes, cars... all the luxuries. Now, I know we assumed he’s probably wealthy in his own right, but the standard profile also suggests that he tends to be innately avaricious. In other words, he can’t help himself when it comes down to sheer greed. So, Angie, my idea is to try and lure him into a trap.”
“Interesting,” I commented. “But just how do we go about that?”
“One way is to place an advert, prominently, in a number of local papers, purporting to come from a firm of solicitors, to the effect that they are seeking to find a Mr Arnold Brownlaw because they have information that would benefit him. You know the kind of thing: the implied suggestion will be that he has come into an inheritance and they need to contact him.”
I looked at him with only veiled astonishment. “You don’t really believe he’s going to respond to something as obvious as that, do you? Paul, this man’s not stupid; he’ll spot that a mile off… If anything it’ll do us more harm than good by alerting him to the fact that we’re on to him.”
“Why do you think he won’t respond?” Jim asked.
I shook my head in exasperation. “Firstly, because he has no known relatives, other than a distant uncle in Australia who’s had no contact with his nephew for more than 30 years, and who, by the way, made it abundantly clear he wanted nothing to do with Arnold. Secondly, ‘cause this Australian bloke’s got kids of his own, so they’d obviously be the primary beneficiaries. And, thirdly, his uncle’s still alive, and if I know that it won’t take our dear Arnold long to find it out either.
“So, all we’ll be doing is sending him a message that we now know his original identity, and that we’re hunting him. All this’ll do is warn him that we know his real name – whereas right now he has no idea what we know. Personally, Jim, I’d rather keep it that way; I think it would be wrong to alert him. If he thinks his cover’s blown I bet he’ll either go into hiding or just change his identity again.”
There was a prolonged silence after my minor outburst, until Paul said, cryptically, “You won’t help your recovery very much getting all worked up like that, Angie. But you obviously feel very strongly about it. What do you think, Jim?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. Ange has made some very good points, especially about his relatives – or lack of them – and I agree we shouldn’t send him a direct signal. Perhaps we should think about it some more; I still like the idea of laying a trap, but maybe we need something a bit more subtle. How about you, Ange? Do you think it’s worth progressing?”
“I’m not opposed to it,” I said. “But it’s going to have to be incredibly devious to trap Brownlaw. And remember: as Paul has told us frequently, this character is a control freak; he would somehow have to be convinced that he was calling the shots, not us.”
“Maybe that’s what we should concentrate on,” Paul added. “His compulsion to be in control all the time. Let me work on it some more, will you? I’ll see if I can come up with something more creative. Anyway, young lady, how are you feeling? By the sound of it, you’re in danger of overdoing it.”
“If I am, Paul, then – believe me – it’s only marginally. Most of the time I’m too knackered to do much, and my head’s still a long way from clearing. I’m told it could take up to six weeks before I’m back to normal.”
“It can do, yes, depending on the extent of the damage. It hasn’t stopped you identifying Arnold Brownlaw though; and, if you feel up to it tomorrow, help yourself to the computer – and my password, if you need it.” He grinned at that, as if he had just cracked a funny joke.
“Some joke!” I thought. Still, the computer was very helpful, and I wouldn’t have the same privacy at the station.
“Thanks, Paul,” I merely said. “Now, if both of you don’t mind, I really need to rest.”
And I wasn’t kidding, either. Another wave of exhaustion had come over me, and I was too tired even to think. I said my goodnights and retreated to my bedroom, grateful I didn’t have far to go. I didn’t even bother trying to read; I simply undressed, crawled into bed, and then turned the light off in relief.
Once again, I didn’t come round until mid-morning the next day, feeling like shit. “What the hell’s the matter with me?” I asked myself. I dragged myself out of bed and went off to the bathroom for a long, powerful shower, switching between hot and then cold until I felt a semblance of normality. Then it was off to the kitchen for a strong, black coffee, and two Panadol. I was tempted to go into Paul’s office and start again on the computer, but I really wasn’t up to it. Instead, I collared Connie, who was in her room studying, and persuaded her to join me for some fresh air.
“I don’t normally do this, you know,” she informed me when we were out of the house. “I mean, go out without my personal policeman!”
“So where is he today, then?”
“Day off. He’s a ‘she’ today – a Pauline Wilkins; she’s patrolling the grounds. Do you know her?”
“Don’t think so. What’s she like?”
“She’s nice, actually. But very serious. Someone should teach her about smiling – it’s good for you!”
“At the moment I prefer serious, Connie. Especially when she’s responsible for your safety.” I stopped to look at her. “You did tell her you were going out with me, didn’t you?”
She laughed, rather like a giggling schoolgirl. “I was tempted not to, purely out of mischief. But I didn’t have the nerve. “’Sides, it wouldn’t have been fair, would it?”
“No,” I agreed, “it wouldn’t. Apart from the fact you’d have dropped me in the shit.”
We were heading towards the town centre; it was a lovely day, with blue, cloudless skies, and there was a nice warming sun on my face. I was already enjoying the benefits of being outside, apart from which it was definitely helping my return to civilisation. Even my head was beginning to clear – for the first time in days. I felt a spring return to my step.
Connie tugged my arm as we were passing a coffee shop. “Fancy a coffee, Angie?”
“You mean you do,” I said, following her inside.
When we were seated she turned to me and said, “Did you notice him?”
“Notice who?” I asked, puzzled.
“The man in the car that’s been following us since we left Ashworth House. It was parked over the road when we came out. Don’t look now… but he’s parked on the other side of the road now. Hell, Angie; you’re the policeman, not me.”
“Policewoman, if you don’t mind. And, no, I haven’t noticed anyone following us. Are you sure you’re not imagining it?”
“Possibly. It’s just that a dark blue four-wheel drive’s been crawling along behind us since we left - and you know me and my paranoia.”
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“Because I wasn’t sure. I’m still not… but …look, there he goes. He’s driving away.”
She was right. There was a vehicle of that description pulling away from the opposite side of the road. I shot out of the café and into the road in an attempt to read his licence plate. It was covered in mud, completely concealing the registration – other than the letter ‘T’. I reached in my handbag for my mobile. Shit! I still hadn’t recovered it from Jim. I ran back into the café, breaking a heel on my shoe on the way, and asked for a phone, at the same time realising I had no coins with me either. I called 999, gave the police answering service my identity number, and asked for a pursuit vehicle to cover the area. But, by the time I was able to convince them this wasn’t a hoax our tracker was long gone. So I rang Jim, reversing the charges and giving the operator my name.
“What’s going on, Ange? Where’s your mobile? And where the hell are you calling from?”
“I’m in a café with Connie. And you’ve still got my bloody mobile! A blue four-wheel drive job just followed us here from Ashworth House. I’m pretty sure it was our man, Jim, but I couldn’t get any sense out of the emergency operator.” I went on to describe the circumstances, and also how his number plate had been deliberately covered with mud.
“He was heading towards the Robin Hood roundabout,” I informed him.
“Well, I didn’t expect him to go away. But either Brownlaw’s becoming increasingly bold or he’s getting terribly desperate. Look, I’ll put out an APB again on the vehicle; it may be easier to spot him if he keeps his number plate concealed.”
“‘Again’? How do you mean, ‘again’?”
“Well, we’re assuming it’s the same vehicle I told you about the other day. Remember, the guy sold it for cash and it’s yet to be registered with Swansea? We already have an alert out for that one. Leave it with me, Ange; I’ll call you later. But I have to tell you - that funny feeling I’ve had about this case still hasn’t gone. If anything, it’s getting stronger .”
“Any luck?” Connie asked as I returned to my by now cold coffee.
“All the luck seems to be going the wrong way at the moment.” I sighed heavily, feeling terribly disappointed.
“It won’t last for ever,” Connie assured me.
“No? I wish I had your confidence. Just one break, one mistake, is all we need. I only hope Jim’s right and the fucker’s getting more desperate.”
I glanced at Connie with what must have been puzzlement, because she was prompted to ask: “What? What have I done?”
I squeezed her arm in reassurance. “You haven’t done anything, my darling. It’s just that I wish we had some idea, some clue, why he’s so obsessed with you.”
“’Cause he’s afraid I’ll get my memory back and identify him. Can’t you see that?”
“I can, yes. But that raises a whole load of other questions. Like, how does he know you’ve lost your memory? And why’s he worried now that it might come back? I spend a lot of time with you, Connie, and I haven’t seen any sign of it. Oh, I know you’re much better than you were, but that isn’t quite the same as your memory returning.”