She is all mouth; impossibly dry, thick as wool. An eye open to a white room. Has she died? It is so white, perhaps this is the afterlife, in which case, it should have a better view. A broad picture window gives out onto leafless trees and the flat roofs of municipal buildings, the sky the colour of porridge. She has a headache which threatens to split her skull.
‘Here, you’ll need a drink.’
Someone is lifting her neck and she closes her mouth around a straw, the liquid so shocking it sears her temples.
‘You’re a lucky woman,’ he says.
She focuses her dehydrated eyes – first on his white coat, then the stethoscope, then his black stubble. He smells of coal tar soap. His tie is lying on her body. He straightens, places her cup on the bedside unit, and she can see his olive skin and dark eyebrows. Albanian or Middle Eastern, perhaps. She would like to rearrange her hair, wipe the crust from the corners of her mouth.
‘That was quite a blow to your head,’ he is saying. ‘Knocked you out cold. Might have been a punch, or you might’ve been struck with something. We were concerned the injury might cause a bleed into your brain – that’s why we kept you in overnight. How’re you feeling?’
‘Rough,’ she croaks.
He smiles. ‘We’re going to monitor you a bit longer, run some tests. I’m going to get you some paracetamol. Expect you’ve got a fierce headache, right?’ He is really nice-looking, though now she considers it, possibly about fifteen years younger than she is. ‘By the way, you’ve got a visitor.’
The doctor and Harriet dance round each other in the doorway. Manon closes her eyes, her head heavy on the pillow. She feels Harriet’s nervous energy lower into the plastic chair beside her bed, her hand coming to rest on Manon’s.
‘What happened?’ Manon whispers.
‘From the CCTV, looks like a kid – an addict, probably – was being opportunistic, saw you alone, liked the look of your handbag. What the hell were you doing—’
‘Not Tony Wright, then?’
‘No, in fact our beloved Tony came to your aid – called 999, saw off whoever’d done it. Anyway, this kid, who we will catch, don’t you worry, has seriously assaulted one of my police officers and has now got himself a police BlackBerry.’
‘Which is passcode-locked, so don’t panic. I’ll give a statement to CID. Let them get on with it.’
‘Hmm,’ Harriet murmurs sceptically. ‘Anyway, he’ll be going to prison for a really long time, which’ll sort out his habit one way or the other. What the fuck were you doing there on your own?’
‘Edith Hind was on Tony Wright’s authorised visitor list in Whitemoor.’
‘What the fuck?’
Manon nods. ‘He reckons they were friends.’
They are silent for a moment, contemplating this information.
‘Edith was visiting him? Voluntarily?’ says Harriet.
‘Apparently,’ says Manon. ‘Wilco Bennett, one of the screws at Whitemoor, is sending me his whole file. That’ll give us more.’
‘What were those calls about, then, in the week before she disappeared? Did Wright tell you?’
Manon has raised her head from the pillow, ‘He says, “Och, this ’n’ that. How youse doin?”’ She has put on an appalling Scots accent, to which Harriet grimaces and says, ‘Where’s he from, Bangladesh?’
‘Anyway, I don’t buy it,’ says Manon, head back on the pillow. ‘I think something was being set up.’
‘Like what – a deal? A meeting?’
‘Dunno. I think we’ve been looking at Wright all wrong. We’ve been assuming he harmed her when I think—’
The door has opened and there is Davy, his expression reserved.
‘I’ll have to pull him in – Wright, I mean. Question him about this,’ says Harriet. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you two to it.’
Davy has sat down on the plastic seat beside her bed. ‘Brought you these,’ he says, handing her garage forecourt flowers in clear cellophane.
‘Chrysanthemums,’ she says. She raises the bunch to her nose, sniffs. Frowns. The faint whiff of piss. She hates chrysanthemums and has evidently failed to rearrange her face because Davy says, ‘Back to your old self so soon.’
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’
‘S’all right. I bought them because I know you don’t like them.’
Her face crumples, dissolving in a sudden well of moisture. She didn’t think she had any wetness left in her dehydrated walnut of a head. ‘I’m so sorry, Davy. I’d never want to hurt you. You of all people, you’re the last person I’d ever … I’d ever …’ Childish judders, up and down. ‘You’re the best copper I know.’
‘I’m not though, am I? Always paddling too hard.’
‘Not lately,’ she says. ‘Lately you’ve seemed quite shirty.’
‘I’m weak,’ he says.
‘No you’re not, you’re not weak at all. Look at all the things you do for the kids at the centre, giving up your own time, when I say no to Fly at every opportunity. And the guilt you feel over Helena Reed when I can’t even look that in the face.’
Her eyes have filled again and she seeks his face. He looks back at her and smiles, as if her tears are apology enough.
‘Slept with Chloe last night,’ he says, sheepish.
‘Oh no,’ she says. ‘That’ll set you back. Comfort shag?’
He nods.