Gone in the Night

He lay still for a moment, then gritted his teeth and tried to stand.

His blood roared around his body and the mild pounding in his head became ever more fierce. His head swam and he thought he might black out or throw up or both. More deep breathing. Tried to throw his mind elsewhere. Back to sunshine, to laughter, to the hazy feeling of happiness he couldn’t quite grasp.

Then, at least, he was standing straight. Only had one trainer on. Not good.

He shook his head, felt the loose teeth rattle. Spat out blood, but no teeth.

His body was stiff and weak. And it was fucking painful, especially his shoulder. He couldn’t move his arm properly. Had he broken it? Dislocated it? He tried to waggle his fingers and winced. Yep, that worked. Not broken then. Blood was running down his arm onto his fingers. He craned his neck to look. A nasty gash running from shoulder to elbow. Not only dislocated but sliced open. And it didn’t look great. Pieces of grit and mud and grass in the wound. He’d have to find somewhere to wash it.

Christ he felt sick. He started shaking again. Hot. Feverish. The shaking filled his body, stretched from the top of his head to his toes. Falling to his knees, he let the vomit spew out of him, retching until his ribs hurt and there was nothing more to come.

He closed his eyes.

He wanted, no needed – what? He had a memory of being given something, something that made him feel good. It made him feel good but also like a – zombie, that was it. Someone useless, without sense or a mind of their own. He’d been given it quite recently. Who by? Those men? He didn’t want to feel like that again, like his body and mind were jelly and nothing could make an impression on them. No, he wanted to feel like himself again, but somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind he knew he didn’t like that self. That self hurt people.

He stood up again. Slowly. Looked around. It was still dark, though the rain had abated. Right. He needed to get dry, to try and clean his wounds and to get some rest. Then maybe he could think about what he would do.

And at all costs he must avoid those men.

CHAPTER SEVEN

DAY TWO: MORNING

Alex stepped out of the Forum – a modern building constructed of glass that housed the city’s library, a café, a shop and television and radio studios – and into the grey and drizzly daylight. Norwich was getting ready for work, and people splashed to and fro huddled under umbrellas. The market stallholders were busy pulling back the awnings over their stalls and putting goods out on display – all manner of things from spare vacuum cleaner parts to high-end leather goods. The smells of bacon and coffee from the fast-food outlets wafted over to Alex, making her stomach rumble.

The interview down the line to BBC Scotland had gone well, even though she’d been stuck in a small cubbyhole behind the Norfolk radio station’s reception and had to imagine the jolly-voiced person at the other end of the microphone. Still, at least the presenter had read her book and had formed some interesting questions about it. He had even gone on to ask her about her other work, though obviously didn’t want it to get too serious, as he cut her off when she began to go down the mental health route. It seemed she was destined for evermore to be known for her love of coupons.

It made her back itchy. Ever since she had begun her career – one that was blown off course almost straightaway when she became pregnant after an unfortunate one-night stand in Ibiza – she had lurched from one freelance job to another. Heath was right, she had to get off her backside and find herself a project, a decent story. If she wanted to be taken seriously, she had to do something serious. Sure, she had won a lot of professional acclaim for that series on Internet suicide forums, but she knew she was only as good as her last article. Or book. And if she didn’t want to be remembered for all eternity for a book about finding and using money-off vouchers, then she had to get on with it and stop feeling sorry for herself. Give herself a new sense of purpose.

Alex yawned. Sleep had been elusive overnight, images of the crashed car and the broken man flashing through her mind. The blood. The look on his face. Frightened, not relieved when those people turned up to take him to the hospital. She had a nagging feeling that the whole set-up was wrong. Why hadn’t she been more insistent that they told her exactly where they were taking him? Too much drink. Befuddled brain, maybe.

And there had been no call from the police. There had been a crash, a man had been injured, she was a witness. The man in the coat said he would call the police. They would want to talk to her.

Then she remembered she had given one of the men her card. There was no excuse for them not to call. Right. She wasn’t going to wait, she was going to call round the hospitals – there weren’t that many in the area – and find out the state of the injured man. It had been, what? About eleven o’clock when she left Riders’ Farm. Allow about fifteen minutes for the walk down the road and then another three quarters of an hour for them to get to a hospital, so, it would be somewhere around midnight when he arrived, a bit longer if they went to the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital. She turned and went back into the Forum.

Five minutes later and she was in the radio cubbyhole again. The man on reception had assured her that it wasn’t going to be used until lunchtime and said she was welcome to make her calls from there and could he have her autograph. For his mother. Of course.

She took her damp coat off again and settled down and spent fifteen frustrating minutes on the phone. No injured person had been brought in by one or two men at midnight to any of the hospitals she called – Norwich, Ipswich, Great Yarmouth and Bury St Edmunds. She even tried Colchester just in case. The only road traffic accident victims had been taken to hospital by ambulance.

‘Sorry, love,’ said a kind nurse at Colchester. ‘Are you sure you weren’t mistaken? Maybe the man wasn’t that badly hurt after all and they took him home.’

Had she been mistaken? Could the blood and bruising have been superficial? You did hear about people walking away from horrific crashes without a scratch on them – perhaps that was it?

No, he had definitely been in pain, definitely needed hospital treatment.

‘Maybe. Thank you for your help.’

‘I hope you find him, love.’

Her journalistic instincts were beginning to kick in. It didn’t smell right. How could someone seemingly so gravely injured disappear off the radar? The only explanation was if the men in the car hadn’t taken him to hospital at all. But why wouldn’t they? Perhaps the more pertinent question was: who were the men in the car? And how was she going to find that out?

Coffee, she thought, to help the brain function. She picked up her coat from the chair and looked at it. The same one she’d been wearing last night. And the injured man had pushed something into her hand that she’d stuffed into the pocket. Reaching inside, she took out a damp, crumpled piece of paper and carefully smoothed it out on the desk. The ink had run, blurring the letters and numbers, but she could just about make them out. A name and a phone number. She stared at it. No time like the present.

The phone was answered after the third ring. ‘Hello?’

‘Is that Cora?’ asked Alex.

‘Who is this, please?’ The voice on the other end was wary.

‘Cora, my name is Alex Devlin. A man gave me your name and number last night.’

‘What do you mean, a man gave you my name and number? What man?’ Wariness had given way to suspicion.

Alex hesitated. Something told her not to go into the events of last night on the phone. ‘Look. It’s a bit of a story. Can I come and see you?’

‘But I don’t know you. You could be anybody.’ Her tone was hostile. ‘And I’m busy. This is a scam.’

‘Wait.’ Alex didn’t want her to put the phone down. ‘I’m a journalist, Cora. I freelance mainly, you can google me. I’m quite harmless. Honestly.’ She injected a smile into her voice.

There was a silence at the other end of the phone. For a minute Alex thought Cora had hung up.

‘I see you,’ said Cora. ‘Articles for a London paper and a book on—’

‘Yes,’ Alex said hastily. ‘I know it doesn’t sound too serious, but I do know what I’m doing.’

‘Do you?’ Another silence. ‘Okay.’

‘Where are you? Only I’m in Norwich at the moment and I’d like to come as soon as possible.’ All at once she realized Cora could have been anywhere in the country.

‘I live in the city, on the Ipswich Road.’

Alex looked at her watch. ‘I can be with you in about ten minutes?’

In fact, it took less than that for Alex to find Cora’s flat, which was up two flights of stairs in a sixties block with tidy grounds. It was the second one along the walkway, with a honey-coloured wooden bench beneath the kitchen window and pots of straggly, struggling herbs by the door. She rang the bell.

A petite and too-thin woman with dark rings under her eyes and a blooming bruise on her cheekbone answered the door. She was wearing jeans tucked into Doc Martens and a sloppy black jumper. Her vibrant red hair was coiled messily on top of her head. She made Alex feel like an elephant.

‘Alex?’ Cora dragged deeply on the cigarette she held between two fingers.

Alex smiled. ‘Yes. Thanks for seeing me.’

‘You’d better come in out of the rain.’

The flat was clean and tidy with an overlying smell of smoke, but there were touches of colour and flamboyance in the shape of velvet cushions and rainbow throws. Dramatic photographs of landscapes were on the magnolia walls. Alex stared at them. They made her feel as though she was there, standing in that landscape.

‘Good, aren’t they?’ said Cora, nodding at the photos and handing Alex a mug of coffee. As her sleeve slipped back, Alex saw three swallows inked on the inside of her wrist.

‘Fabulous. Where are they from?’

‘They’re my brother’s work,’ she said, and Alex saw a darkness creep into her eyes. ‘Please, sit down and tell me why you’re here.’ She held herself slightly aloof.

Alex curled her hands around the mug, warming up. A washing machine whirred in the background. Cora obviously wasn’t one for small talk. ‘Last night I came across a car accident,’ she began, searching for the right words. ‘A man had been thrown out of a Land Rover. He was badly hurt.’

Cora was still. ‘I don’t see what that has got to do with me.’

‘He gave me a piece of paper. It had your name and telephone number on it. Could he be a relative? A friend?’

Cora didn’t move. ‘What did he look like?’

Alex knew that question would be coming, but it didn’t make it any easier. ‘Cora, it was difficult to see. It was dark, he was covered in blood. There was one thing though—’

‘Yes?’

Alex had thought about this. She had remembered feeling something strange as the man had thrust the piece of paper into her hand. ‘I think he only had three fingers and a thumb, or at least, there was something strange about his hand.’

Cora gave an intake of breath and stood up abruptly. She went over to the bookshelf. ‘Is this the man you saw?’

Alex took the photo frame from her. It was a picture of a young man in battle fatigues, smiling, looking fit and happy. From the looks of it, the photo had been taken in a desert army camp of some sort. Afghanistan, perhaps? She looked more closely. The thick black hair, the shape of the face. As she’d had when she’d seen him on the road, she felt a flicker of recognition. ‘I think it could be,’ she said. ‘He didn’t have any hair as such though – it was only stubble.’ Then she nodded. ‘I’m almost sure.’

Cora exhaled. ‘That’s my brother, Rick. He’s missing most of the little finger on his left hand. I’ve been looking for him. I haven’t seen him for two weeks. He had long hair and a beard last time I saw him.’

Alex shook her head. ‘No beard. No hair. Stubble on top. But I think it could have been him.’

Cora stood, stubbing out her cigarette. ‘Where is he? Which hospital did you take him to?’ Her eyes were feverish, she looked as though she was ready to break out into a sprint. ‘I’ll get my coat.’

Alex put out her hand to stay her. ‘That’s the thing, I didn’t take him to hospital.’

‘What do you mean?’

Alex tried to avoid Cora’s glare. ‘My phone had run out of battery, so I couldn’t call anyone. I was about to go for help when two men turned up. They said they would take him, make sure he was seen—’

‘So, which hospital?’ Cora rubbed her face, as if trying to keep herself alert.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Alex’s heart twisted, she could understand Cora’s desperation. And she felt so stupid – how could she have let it happen? ‘I don’t know. They didn’t say where they were taking him. I’ve rung hospitals all around the area, but without any luck. Could he have gone home?’

‘Home?’ The laugh Cora gave was harsh. ‘That’s just it, He doesn’t have a home.’

Alex was puzzled. Then, with a sudden insight, she got it. And she remembered where she had seen the man before. ‘He’s homeless, isn’t he? I’ve seen him around Norwich.’

‘Yes.’ That single word held years of pain. ‘But all this talking isn’t getting us anywhere near finding him. I’ll try the hospitals again. I’m a nurse, I know the way it works. Sometimes you might get hold of the wrong people or something. Did you try the James Paget at Gorleston? You probably forgot that one.’ Alex saw her hands shaking as she began to punch in numbers on her phone.

‘Cora—’

She looked at Alex, eyes blazing. ‘Let me do this. I need to know.’

Alex looked on helplessly. She knew she had done her best to find the man – Rick. She had spoken to every hospital press officer, even the chief exec of Ipswich who she was on friendly terms with. But Cora had to see for herself.

CHAPTER EIGHT

DAY TWO: MORNING

Detective Inspector Sam Slater jogged and splashed down the muddy path through the trees to the pedestrian crossing over the railway line. It was a miserable day, with lowering clouds and gusts of rain. A miserable day to kill yourself.

He reached the track, and, as he opened the gate festooned with warning notices and one giving out the number for the Samaritans, he saw that the train had come to a standstill about a hundred metres down the track. It was travelling towards Ipswich, probably carrying people to work in the town, or further afield to London. The air ambulance was preparing to land and Sam knew forensics would be along soon to gather up what was left of the body. He could imagine the scene on the train: commuters on their mobile phones cancelling meetings, phoning bosses to explain why they would be late. Because they would be late. Some would be complaining, demanding their Delay Repay forms and muttering about compensation. Few would spare much of a thought for the driver who had probably heard the dull thwack against the bottom of the train, a hollow crunch as metal hit flesh. He would probably hear that sound for the rest of his life and know that he had been the unwilling instrument in someone’s death.

Engineers in hi-vis tabards and safety helmets had turned up to check the train for damage before it would be allowed to move on.

Slater walked down the track and past the train.

She had been lying on the rails before she was hit, thought Slater. She had been decapitated, he could see that, and various limbs were strewn along the track, along with shreds of material. There were long streaks of blood along the line and on the clinker under the track. If he looked carefully near his feet, and he tried not to, he could see white bits of bone and grey brain matter. He wondered how much forensics would actually retrieve before the rain washed it all away. Not that it mattered. Railway suicides were cut and dried.

Police Constable Edwards was taping off the access onto the track, and Slater thought of the angry people waiting on platforms for trains that were either delayed or cancelled. That was the trouble. A delay for one person was another’s final journey.

Slater took one more look at the scene – at the engineers, the paramedics from the air ambulance and the train driver who was sitting by the side of the track oblivious to the rain. Soon there would be posies of flowers, ribbons and teddy bears – there were always teddy bears – by the crossing gates that would wither and turn brown and rot with time.

Nodding to Edwards and the extra officers who had turned up, Slater turned and jogged back down the muddy path which was now more churned up than ever.

CHAPTER NINE

DAY TWO: MORNING

Cora couldn’t stop her fingers from trembling as she began to dial the numbers of the hospitals in the area. She knew many of the nurses on shift well. Working on the bank – essentially freelancing – meant she had worked at hospitals all over East Anglia at one time or another. But ten frustrating minutes later, after some helpful calls and other downright hostile ones, Cora had drawn a blank. It was as Alex Devlin had said, no one of her brother’s age or description had been taken to A&E the previous night.

So where was he? What had happened to him? Why couldn’t he get in touch with her? And what was he doing on a lonely road in a Land Rover? She thought back to last night and the ‘warning’ she’d been given. She gingerly rubbed her cheekbone. There had been a reason for that. Whatever he was doing, he was getting close, whether she liked it or not.

She threw her phone onto the kitchen table. ‘Take me through it again,’ she demanded, tapping out another cigarette and lighting it. One day she would stop, just not now. She was so tired and her head was swimming. ‘If you don’t mind?’ she said suddenly, remembering her manners.

Alex took a deep breath.

Cora concentrated hard, occasionally blowing out smoke through the corner of her mouth as Alex told her what had happened once more, only interrupting for clarification.

‘And you’ve no idea who the men who took Rick away were?’ They didn’t sound like the same ones that had picked her up, and anyway, the timing was wrong.

‘None. I’m sorry I didn’t ask more questions. It had been a long day and I had been at this charity event at Riders’ Farm and—’

‘Riders’ Farm?’

‘Do you know it?’

Cora laughed harshly. ‘Oh yes. The brothers Grimm and the witch and the wizard.’

Alex raised her eyebrows. ‘Wow. Those are certainly some monikers.’

‘As rich as Croesus but with the morals of alley cats.’ She stopped. What was she saying? For all she knew this Alex Devlin might be best buddies with the Riders. ‘Sorry, that was a bit harsh. But they are big donors to one of the hospitals where I work. Everybody has to bend the knee when they walk past. And they love it. Smug bastards.’ She ground out her cigarette in a saucer. ‘They like women too. Correction. They like to control women. So I’ve heard.’ She added quickly.

‘I take it they’re not the most popular family around here?’

‘You could say that. Others might say they’ve brought employment to the area, tourists.’

‘But you say?’

The look on Alex’s face was open and friendly. But she was a journalist. And Cora didn’t want to be part of her story.

‘So this event,’ she said finally, ignoring Alex’s question, ‘who did you meet?’

‘Jamie Rider, among others.’

‘And what did you think of him?’ She lit another cigarette from the one she’d been smoking, trying to push away the memories of her mother sewing curtains for the Riders, babysitting those damn boys while leaving her and Rick to fend for themselves. Her mother baking scones for Marianne Rider’s coffee mornings. Her father tugging his forelock and calling Marianne Rider ‘Ma’am’ and Joe Rider ‘Sir’, as if they were the bloody queen and bloody Prince Phillip.

Alex narrowed her eyes. She looked as though she was about to say something, but then thought the better of it. ‘He was charming.’

‘Charming. Right.’ She nodded.

Alex leaned forward. ‘Why do I think you know the Riders better than you’re admitting to?’

‘King’s Lynn,’ Cora said, banging her forehead. ‘Why didn’t I think of them? It could be possible he was taken there. And I know several of the nurses in A&E.’

She picked up the phone and stabbed out a number.

‘Margot is phoning me back,’ she said after a minute’s chatting. ‘She thinks that they may have had someone brought in, so she’s going to check.’ Her leg was jiggling up and down. She slapped her hand on her thigh to stop it. ‘Tell me more about you, Alex. You’re from this part of the world, aren’t you?’

Alex nodded. ‘Yes I am. Sole Bay up the coast is where my heart is, but I needed a change, and thanks to people’s love of saving cash I was able to buy a flat in Woodbridge. So here I am.’

Cora nodded. ‘I did see it, when I looked you up. Your book, I mean. Sounds like a great idea. A bit like that woman who cooks on a shoestring or bootstrap. Jack somebody. It’s all about saving money.’ She looked away. ‘I also read about your sister and all that happened.’ She pulled on her cigarette wishing that damn phone would ring.

Alex didn’t flinch. ‘She’s had a tough time, but she’s doing well now. I’m proud of her.’

‘I’m proud of Rick,’ said Cora. ‘He’s had one or two problems, but we were dealing with them together, and—’ she chewed her lip. She had to be careful, Alex was too easy to speak to.

‘It must be difficult, with him being homeless.’

Alex’s voice was so gentle it almost made Cora cry, so she busied herself with the kettle and cups and a box of teabags. She wished that phone would bloody ring.

‘It’s not great, I have to say, but we manage.’

‘You manage?’

Careful. ‘We used to live around here, near the coast anyway, but had to leave when I was eighteen.’

‘Had to leave?’

Sharp.

Alex was too on the ball. ‘Sort of. Anyway, we were living near Bury St Edmunds and Rick was working on a farm. When I qualified as a nurse, Rick decided to sign up for the army.’

‘So, how did you get here?’

The kettle boiled. Steam curled under the kitchen cupboards. Cora poured water onto teabags in mugs. ‘Rick was here. I wanted to be near him, so I followed him to the city and managed to get on the bank. Plenty of work at the hospitals around here.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Everyone going off with stress, you see. They need agency nurses.’ She squished the teabags against the side of the mug, poured some milk in and handed one to Alex. ‘Sorry. More caffeine. Rick saw action in Afghanistan. Watched his friends get blown up, maimed. But it was on his second tour that the worst happened.’

‘Go on,’ said Alex.

She sighed. ‘There was a young girl – look, you’ve got to know that part of the reason they were out there, in Afghanistan, was to “capture hearts and minds”.’

Alex nodded. ‘I know. I read about that.’

‘They would give out sweets to the kids, help the women, helped the men if they could. And they were winning. They were.’

‘A young girl?’ prompted Alex.

Cora gripped her mug even tighter. ‘Rick was at some sort of checkpoint. The girl came towards him. She was fifteen at the most, he reckoned. But she was already beautiful. Lovely eyes. As she came closer, Rick said he saw tears in those eyes. She spread out her hands. And then—’

Cora stopped, took a deep breath, gathered her thoughts. Every time she told this story – and she tried not to tell it often – she had to damp down the tears, talk about it as though it had happened to someone else and not her brother.

‘She blew herself up.’

Alex drew a sharp breath.

Cora knew the stark brutality of her words was shocking, but there was no other way to say it.