As she hugged him back, she filled with anxiety. She was hurting badly, and never before had she felt so alone. The thought of people disbelieving her was hard to bear. Especially the police. The helium balloon floating beside her said ‘Get Well Soon’ on a Post-it note taped to the string, and she fondly suspected Fiona had pinched it from a sleeping patient. Get well from what, though? A knock on the head? A hard day at work? Did people honestly think she could make this up?
She eased back from him, looked him straight in the eye and told him bluntly: ‘There’s a killer on the loose. Not just a rapist. This man is a sadistic sicko. I need you to believe that last night is not a figment of my imagination, or caused by a blow to my head. I lay captured, Patrick, and the only thing that kept me sane was thinking about you. I certainly didn’t lie out in a car park for several hours. I lay in the hands of the scariest bastard you could ever imagine. And do you know what gets me most? It’s that the police are not prepared to investigate properly. They can’t accept that it could have happened. But I’ll have the CT and then we can move on with the most obvious conclusion – that I’ve lost my fucking mind.’
*
He insisted on being by her side while she had the CT scan. Protected by a lead-lined apron he had smiled at her as she disappeared into the tunnel.
His questions to the radiologist had been endless, his thought being that recent trauma to the brain may not show up so soon after the incident. A cerebral vascular accident doesn’t always show unless the haemorrhage has already occurred, he argued. A repeat of the scan in a few days time should surely follow, he suggested. Patiently the radiologist answered all the questions. He pointed out that not only was her scan normal, but that there wasn’t even a small bruise to the brain showing on the CT. Alex wanted to laugh as she saw the disappointment on Patrick’s face. Patrick clearly wanted there to be a cause other than what had actually happened. And who could blame him? It would be so much easier to accept.
There was tension in Patrick’s shoulders and the radiologist was quick to pick up on it. She was fond of Edward Downing and would be sorry when he retired at the end of the year. He was old school, a charming man who was always polite and cheerful and was probably one of the best radiologists in the country. He laughed good-naturedly and winked at Alex. ‘Of course, this doesn’t rule out nuttiness.’
‘Indeed it doesn’t,’ Patrick replied drily, before seeing Alex’s dismay. ‘I’m only joking.’
She squeezed his hand gratefully, unable to trust herself to speak. She would get through this. She had Patrick and Fiona and Caroline, of course. She was not alone in this nightmare.
As she and Patrick left the hospital in the early afternoon, he told her his plan. He’d already OK’d it with Caroline Cowan, and he’d cleared his own workload by bringing in a locum. They would have a holiday. A week away. Somewhere hot where they could lie on a beach, drink lethal cocktails and eat lots of delicious food. Where she could recharge her batteries. In her fragile state, Alex could only ponder on why everyone was in such a rush to whisk her away. Surely she should be available if the police wanted to question her further or if they made an arrest and captured this man? Surely in normal circumstances when a crime has been committed the victims don’t just up and go on holiday? And that, she suspected, was exactly why everyone was being so accommodating. Because they didn’t believe a crime had been committed. They didn’t believe she was a victim.
Chapter five
Ten days later, they flew into Gatwick airport on the return flight from Barbados with Virgin Atlantic, both lightly tanned, Patrick slightly fatter. He was in a jovial mood but she was a little sombre. He’d kept his in-flight fluorescent yellow socks on even after they landed, and the cabin crew smiled appropriately as he walked past them in his leather-strapped sandals. ‘Most comfortable socks I’ve ever worn,’ he said.
He walked several paces ahead of her through the terminal, full of energy, as he scanned the monitors for the conveyer belt from where they could collect their baggage.
Alex knew why he was in a good mood. Last night they’d had sex. She couldn’t call it making love, because she hadn’t felt loved. He had been generous with his caresses. Every part of her was given attention. He had held off from penetration for far longer than normal and she was on the verge of being ready, her skin and muscles relaxed and her bones melting. She had been ready even as he penetrated, until he whispered: ‘This isn’t so bad, is it .?.?.? It’s not as if .?.?.’ Then he’d breathed harshly, still holding back. ‘Your coil’s OK, isn’t it? It’s safe for me to come?’
So few words, but the hurt went deep. She analysed them over and over. This isn’t so bad. Did this mean in comparison to her imaginary rapist? Each thing he said betrayed his real feelings: It’s not as if .?.?.
Finish the sentence, she’d wanted to scream. Finish the fucking sentence. It’s not as if you were actually raped.
Last night was the only time they had had sex in the seven nights they were away. For the rest of the time she had blamed the shared bottle of wine at dinner time and the several cocktails that followed for her lack of interest and drive. Quickly diving under the sheet of one of the large twin beds, she had feigned drunken sleep each night until she heard his heavy snores. She’d then slipped down the back stairs of the colonial hotel to the private beach reserved for the guests. She’d walked its length, back and forth under the watchful eye of the hotel security guard, wishing the days away so that she could stop pretending that this was an ordinary holiday and that she was an ordinary tourist.
Patrick pushed their cases on a trolley, stopping at WHSmith. ‘We need some lemonade or Coke to go with the rum. Finish the holiday properly.’
‘We’ll buy some en route,’ she said tersely, trying hard to hide her annoyance. Even though it was his Land Rover that they’d used to travel to the airport, it obviously wasn’t going to be him driving. He’d drunk several glasses of wine on board, and in between meals had asked for lager.
He slept for most of the car journey, his seat in a reclined position and his feet in their yellow socks resting on his side of the dashboard. He roused when she pulled into the Chippenham service station, calling out as she hurried towards the building to use the toilet, ‘Don’t forget the Coke.’
She stood in the queue, with his Coke and some milk for the morning in her arms, desperately trying to shrug off the wave of depression. He had been easier to cope with in the sunshine, but every mile closer to home increased the sensations of dread. It was all right for him to forget why they had gone on holiday in the first place. It seemed that as far as he was concerned it was over and buried. It may well be that this was his way of coping, but his over-the-top joviality back at the airport and stupid requests like this felt like nails in her head.
She breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. Nearing the counter she scanned the newspapers. The front page of the Western Daily Press caught her attention:
Bath Nurse Still Missing
She leaned closer to read the report: