Fears are growing for pregnant 23-year-old Amy Abbott. The staff nurse has been missing for four days. Amy was last seen on Sunday evening in Kingsmead Square. Wearing blue jeans, light green shirt and tan leather jacket, she—
Beeping sounds interrupted her, and then the voice of the shop assistant: ‘Two pounds eighty-nine, please.’
After handing over the money she wandered despondently back to the car.
On the last part of their journey she made a decision. She nudged Patrick awake when they pulled up outside his house and told him that she thought it best if they slept at their own places tonight. She needed to lie in because of night duty tomorrow, and he was back at work in the morning, so drinking rum might not be the best idea. She’d drop his car back round to him tomorrow. She said it all in a light tone and was relieved when he didn’t put up too much of a fight. Their parting kiss was brief and his wave casual, which suited her fine.
*
In her apartment she turned on every light, checked the windows were all firmly locked, and double-bolted the front door. She had chosen to live here for security and peace of mind. The entryphone system was linked to the main entrance door, which had been a major plus point.
With a large rum in her hand, she sat with her back against the living-room wall, the telephone beside her, and listened to her messages. Three from her mother, all about the final arrangements for the wedding next week. One from Caroline – cheerful, upbeat – hoping she had a good holiday and looking forward to her return.
The last recorded message had been left at five thirty.
‘Hello, this is a message for Dr Taylor. This is Maggie Fielding. I have your results back. I don’t normally give them over the telephone, but I’m sure you’re anxious to hear them. They’re all clear, Dr Taylor, so you can stop taking the antibiotics.’ There was a couple of seconds’ pause. ‘Look, if you want, I’m here to talk .?.?. Anytime. You have my extension, but here’s my home number and mobile just in case.’
Alex didn’t write the numbers down. Instead she saved the message. After a third rum she reached up and pulled a cushion from the couch and lay down on the floor. With her head propped on the cushion and her back flush against the living-room wall, she looked out into the brightly lit room with her eyes wide open.
Patrick hadn’t said he no longer believed her, yet the mere fact of not bringing up the subject at any time other than last night was beginning to tell. She wondered if he thought she’d experienced some form of psychosis, and whether it would be the easy option to allow him to draw this conclusion. She wondered if her colleagues were thinking something similar. Her mother and sister still didn’t even know about it.
And Maggie Fielding was offering her a chance to talk.
Alex knew that a professional counsellor would help her to separate fantasy from fact, dreams from reality – if she’d had some kind of breakdown, or if she’d imagined it.
But she knew she hadn’t. Her dress – she remembered how surprised she was to see it back on. When she pulled back the white sheet after Caroline sat her up on the trolley, she had stared at it in disbelief. Laura Best had pointed out that all the buttons were done up. And they were – every one of them. Heart-shaped and fiddly, they were all in their correct buttonholes. Yet not one of them noticed how clean it was. She had supposedly lain for more than three hours out on grass under trees. They had all said how bad the weather was. It had been cold and wet – not one of them had noticed that she was dry.
Chapter six
Alex reached down and tied the laces on her Nike trainers. She pocketed her stethoscope and tourniquet, pinned on her name badge, clipped a couple of pens to the V-neckline of her shirt, and then went and stood in front of the long mirror. Underneath her green tunic the waistband of the green trousers felt loose. She’d always been slim and toned from the running she did. She’d been second fastest sprinter in the 100 metres for two consecutive years at university, dipping to third when a sixteen-year-old girl took to the track for the first time on a cold summer’s day and set a campus record. Alex had read several articles written about her in the newspapers since those days, following the athlete’s meteoric rise to world champion after winning gold at the 2016 Olympics.
With her light tan and freshly washed tawny hair held up in a loop at the base of her neck, Alex looked well and full of vitality – at first glance. It was only on closer inspection, beneath the layer of concealer, that the black beneath her eyes was visible. She’d bathed her eyes in Optrex, and they sparkled, but it was only because of the determined look of brightness fixed on her face. Her cheeks ached from practised smiles.
Throughout the day she had fought off the temptation to have a stiff drink, but at the last moment, with her coat on and ready to leave the flat, her resolve weakened and she took a swig of Absolut vodka to wash down 2mg of diazepam. If she wasn’t careful, this could easily become a habit. Since the night of her abduction she had drunk every day. A holiday was an excuse to drink, but this nip before work couldn’t happen again. She would put it down to Dutch courage. A one-off.
With a deep breath, as ready as she ever would be, she left the changing room and stepped out onto the floor of the department.
It was Friday night and it was heaving. No one gave her a second glance. On the large whiteboard covering ‘majors’ patients a name was written in every cubicle space. Down the corridor, ambulance crews were waiting to offload their patients. A quick check on the computer showed her that ‘minors’ was equally busy. She saw Nathan Bell through the long glass partition windows of the doctors’ office, eating Doritos and tapping the keyboard, and wandered in to see if he was ready to do a handover.
He was bone thin and overly tall, unable to stay still even when he was sitting. His right foot tapped the ground continuously, causing his knee and thigh to jerk, which was probably how all the junk food he consumed was burned off. He’d been in the department for a year and had proved to be a sound doctor, but patients shied away from him. The port wine stain covering the left side of his face was shocking. Alex had wondered if he had ever explored the possibility of having laser treatment to diminish the deep red colour.
‘Be with you in a minute, but there’s no rush. I’m staying on until midnight.’
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Has someone gone off sick?’