“And I’ll tell the team tomorrow morning first thing. Why don’t you tidy up here and take a week’s leave? We’ll find something else for you when you come back. Perhaps you can tidy up the Alexia Louszko murder?”
“You’ll be lucky if you see me here again.”
“That’s entirely your decision, Helen.”
Having said her piece, she left, flinging a cursory “Good night” over her shoulder. Helen watched her go, a riot of emotions firing through her as she realized the comprehensive nature of her defeat. She had been routed. The investigation and her career were now in ruins and there was nothing she could do about it.
101
She wouldn’t look at him. However much he begged her to, she wouldn’t look at him. Her eyes stared resolutely at the window, seeing nothing. Tony Bridges walked round to the other side of the bed, but as he neared Nicola’s line of vision, she swiveled her glance the other way. As she did so, tears ran down her cheeks.
Tony was crying too. He had started to weep before he’d even finished his confession. An overwhelming sense of shame had crept up on him, making his mea culpa faltering and ragged. He had seen alarm in Nicola’s eyes at first—concern perhaps that a family member had died or he’d lost his job—but slowly her eyes had hardened and narrowed as the nature of his crime became clear. So they remained apart in the small room, more apart than they had ever been in their whole married life.
What could he say to her? How could he make things right? He had sought in the arms of another woman something that his wife would never be able to give him.
“I know you probably hate me. And if you want me to leave, then I won’t fight you. But Iwantto be here. I’ve resigned from the force, so I can start to repair the damage I’ve done, make some changes to my life, be the husband you deserve.”
Nicola stared resolutely at the open doorway.
“I want to be how we were before. The early days when we never spent a night apart, lived in each other’s pockets. I... I made a big mistake and though I can never make up for it... I’d like it to be a new beginning for me. For us.”
Tony hung his head, once more ambushed by the possibility that Nicola would call time on their marriage and throw him out on the street. Why had he been so stupid? So selfish?
Still Nicola refused to react. In conversation, she would normally blink once for yes and twice for no, but so far her eyes had remained resolutely still. Her cheeks were wet, so Tony reached out to pat them dry with a tissue. Nicola closed her eyes and held them shut, refusing to look at him as he stroked her cheek.
“Maybe you’ll never want me again, but I want to try. I really want to try. I’m not going to force it on you and if you want me to go and get your mother now, tell her what’s happened, then I will. But if you want me, then let me try to make things better. No more nights apart, no more snatched conversations. No more caregivers, no more strangers. Just you, me... and Charles Dickens.”
He walked round to the head of the bed and for the first time today she didn’t look away.
“It’s up to you, love. I’m in your hands. Will you let me try?”
The silence in the room was all-consuming—all Tony could hear was his heart thumping. He felt like he was about to burst, but then Nicola’s eyelid finally moved.
It came down once and stayed shut.
102
The Student Counseling Centre was situated at the scruffy end of Highfield Road in Portswood. It was close to the University of Southampton campus, but also served students from Southampton Solent University and the National Oceanography Centre—if they could be bothered to trek that far north. DC Sanderson stood outside it now, rolling back and forth on the balls of her tired feet as she waited for Jackie Greene to turn up. Students are night owls and counselors are often kept up late as a result, but still it irritated Sanderson that Greene was late. She was a grown woman—the center’s head of service and its most experienced counselor—surely she could be on time for a meeting with the police?
When the overweight Ms. Greene eventually turned up, the reason for her tardiness quickly became clear. She didn’t really like the police. Was this because of her left-wing politics (there were National Union of Students and Greenpeace stickers all over her desktop computer) or her solidarity with the students, who she believed had been roughed up by the police during recent demonstrations against cutbacks at the university? Either way, she was not keen to help. But Sanderson didn’t mind. She was in a bad mood and up for a challenge.
“We are focusing on female students who are, or have been, sex workers. She probably uses drugs and alcohol, may be prone to violence, and we believe recently had a baby.”
“That’s a lot of ‘may’ and ‘probably,’” Greene replied unhelpfully. “Have you spoken to the local maternity units?”
“Of course, but your organization caters to the whole student population, and as such you’re best placed to help us,” Sanderson replied, dismissing Greene’s attempt to deflect her questions.
“What makes you think she’s a student?”
“We don’t know that she is. But she’s young, articulate and very computer literate. This is not some brainless kid who dropped out of school. This is someone who had—has—a lot to offer but has gone very badly off the rails. If she does or did have a baby, it’s essential we find her as soon as possible. We have an e-fit here that I’d like you to look at, to see if it jogs any memories.”
Jackie Greene took the e-fit.
“She’s probably heavily bruised or injured following a recent fight. If anyone like this has called or visited you—”
“I don’t recognize her.”
“Look again.”
