The Lost

Chapter 7

‘Come on, you can do it.’

I can’t. I really can’t. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. Doing his best.

‘You’re doing great. Just a bit more.’

You call this great?

Sunni eased his leg fractionally more.

‘Jesus!’ Jonah slapped the padded bench, tears leaking from his eyes.

‘OK. I think we’ve done enough for one day.’

Jonah nodded weakly.

‘I know it might not seem like it, but you’re doing really well,’ Sunni said.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘Yeah, feels like it.’

‘You’ve had a bad injury, so it’s going to take time,’ she told him. ‘That’s normal. But take it from me, we are making progress.’

Progress. Having someone manipulate his leg, trying to bend it a few millimetres at a time, while he broke out in a clammy sweat and tried not to yell out loud at the pain. He’d been shocked the first time he’d seen his knee without its dressings. It was purple and swollen to twice its normal size, with stitched wounds criss-crossing its misshapen surface. It looked like an offcut from a butcher’s shop, something a dog had been chewing on, rather than part of him.

The orthopaedic surgeon had been briskly realistic. Jonah’s knee had suffered the sort of trauma seen in motorbike accidents. The patella had shattered, and there was also damage to the ligaments and tendons. The surgeon sounded pleased with himself as he’d described rebuilding the patella, securing the displaced bone fragments with titanium screws and wire. But the damage was extensive. Further operations might be required, though that would be assessed in a few months’ time, when the joint had had time to heal. Either way, Jonah should be prepared for recovery to be a long and painful haul.

Jonah had been trying not to think about his future, but that was becoming harder. There was talk of him being discharged in another day or two, but even the most optimistic prognosis made it clear he wouldn’t be returning to his team any time soon. Perhaps at all.

The prospect of that scared him.

‘The battle’s in here.’ Sunni tapped a finger against Jonah’s temple as he pushed himself upright on the bench. ‘Pain’s just your body’s way of telling you something’s wrong. It’s how you deal with it that matters.’

It was just hard to believe that when it hurt so much.

Still, at least he was mobile again. To start with he’d been pushed to his physio sessions in a wheelchair, but now he could make it there and back on elbow crutches. This was his second week in hospital, and as he swung himself along the familiar corridor to his room, he thought how quickly he’d adapted to its routines and rhythms. It helped that he was allowed visitors now. There had been formal visits from his bosses, right up to the Chief Superintendent, and from a Police Federation representative checking on his welfare. And it had been good to see some of his team again, especially Khan and Nolan. It was a reminder that the normal world outside the hospital still existed.

They’d also been able to tell him more about the larger fallout following the events at the quayside. The murders at Slaughter Quay had made national headlines, accompanied by the predictable media glee over the quayside’s name. The general assumption was that it was part of an undercover op that had gone tragically wrong, something the enquiry team’s PR machine had evidently done nothing to deny.

But there were precious few details in the news stories Jonah read. The formal police statements were little more than platitudes, vowing to bring those responsible to justice. That even extended to Gavin. His death was now officially regarded as a ‘no body’ murder, and much had been made in the press of the fact that his killers hadn’t been found. Yet while the media coverage portrayed him as a hero who’d died trying to save others, the police tributes to him seemed oddly low-key. There were no off-the-record theories as to the killer’s identity or motives; no unattributed quotes from anonymous sources. With so many question marks hanging over the case, the official policy seemed to be to say as little as possible rather than admit ignorance. Starve the story of oxygen and let the press fill the vacuum with speculation.

At least Jonah’s own involvement had been largely overlooked. There were references to ‘an unnamed police officer’ who’d been injured, but little else. And the three unidentified warehouse victims received even less attention. According to rumours passed on by Khan and Nolan, each of them had been clubbed, then wrapped up in polythene sheeting while they were still alive. Cause of death had been asphyxiation, aggravated in the young woman’s case by dehydration and organ failure. The polythene hadn’t only been to conceal the bodies prior to their disposal. It had been the means of execution.

But Khan and Nolan had been unable to tell him any more than that. Although the three victims hadn’t been identified, that didn’t prevent the media from concluding they must be illegal migrants, probably killed by the same traffickers who’d smuggled them into the country. Nadine’s first name and possible Middle Eastern ancestry had been made public, but without a photograph to humanise her, she and the two other victims became little more than a footnote. Their deaths had prompted press calls to crack down on organised crime gangs, and predictable criticism of UK borders and immigration policy. Yet the outrage somehow overlooked the fact that three individuals had died brutal, senseless deaths.

Fletcher and Bennet had been back to interview Jonah on two more occasions, neither any more pleasant than the first. The DI clearly thought he knew more than he was saying, and Jonah couldn’t blame him. There might not be any actual evidence against him — he was thankful he’d taken care not to get any of Gavin’s blood on him when he’d checked for a pulse. But the man he’d fought with still hadn’t been found, and apart from the single call from Gavin on his phone log, there wasn’t anything to corroborate Jonah’s version of events. It left him in limbo, uncertain if he was a suspect or not.

So far Fletcher wasn’t saying.

The walk from the physio suite was a long one. But, tired as he was, a heaviness descended on him when he came into view of his room. Although there was no longer a PC outside — the guard been quietly removed several days ago, which Jonah took as a good sign — the small windowless space felt like a cell. It was bad enough during the day, when the harsh fluorescent light showed every scuff mark and gave the room a timeless, purgatorial feel. It was even worse at night. Jonah hadn’t slept well in years, but since being in hospital he’d have welcomed his old insomnia. Closing his eyes now meant the cinema of his subconscious would start. He couldn’t recall much about the nightmares, except that he’d wake, terrified and gulping for air, convinced there was someone in there with him.

There never was.

By the time he reached his room, he was out of breath and sweating as though he’d been for a run. Wanting nothing more than to collapse onto his bed, he opened the door and then stopped.

A woman stood at the foot of the bed reading his medical charts. She was in her thirties, dressed in ordinary clothes rather than a nurse’s uniform or scrubs. She looked startled when he walked in but then smiled.

‘Hi. You must be Jonah. I’m Corinne Daly,’ she said, hooking the chart back on the bed rail.

From the way she’d said it, she seemed to think he’d recognise the name. He didn’t but tried to hide his ignorance as he went into the room.

‘I’m not scheduled for anything else today, am I? I’ve only just been for physio.’

‘No, but I was passing. And now you’re back I thought this might be a convenient time to talk.’

Jonah’s heart sank. He could guess now why she was there. ‘Are you a counsellor?’

He’d been offered counselling to help him deal with what had happened, and while he hadn’t taken it up he hadn’t actually declined, either. Although it was supposed to be voluntary, he’d been worried that refusal might count against any eventual return to work. He didn’t want to make it any more difficult than it already promised to be.

But he’d thought he’d have weeks to decide. He hadn’t expected to have it dropped on him like this.

The woman seemed to hesitate fractionally, though her smile never faltered. ‘I don’t call myself a counsellor, as such...’

Jonah didn’t care what she called herself. ‘Look, I’m really tired. Can’t it wait?’

‘Well, I suppose it could, but now I’m here...’

Jonah hesitated. The physio and long walk back had really taken it out of him, and the last thing he felt like was fielding questions about his state of mind. But it might be better to get it out of the way, at that. And who knew? It might even help him sleep better.

‘It’s not going to take too long, is it?’ he asked, going to sit on the bed.

‘Just as long as you want,’ she said, her smile brightening as she moved out of his way. ‘Do you want a hand?’

‘No thanks, I can manage.’ He leaned his crutches by the bed and lowered himself onto it, leg outstretched. He mustered a smile of his own. ‘So, how’s this work?’

‘Well, how about we start with you telling me how you’re feeling? And please, call me Corinne,’ she said, rummaging in her handbag for her phone. She held it up. ‘Mind if I record this?’

‘Uh, no, I suppose not.’

Sitting down in the chair next to the bed, she took off her jacket. She wasn’t how Jonah expected a counsellor to look. Her clothes would have looked more at home on a night out than a therapy session.

‘Sorry, still working out how to use it... There.’ She looked up from the phone’s screen. ‘Before I start, is it OK to call you Jonah or would you prefer Sergeant Colley?’

‘Jonah’s fine.’

‘And you’re sure you don’t mind me recording this?’

‘No, go ahead.’

‘Thanks, that’s brilliant.’ She had a nice smile, he realised. ‘So, you were telling me how you were feeling?’

‘OK. You know.’ He shrugged. ‘The knee hurts a bit.’

‘It must have been a very traumatic experience.’ She was looking at him with an expression of sympathy. ‘What was your first thought? When you went into the warehouse and saw the bodies?’

‘I, uh, I don’t know. It’s hard to describe.’

‘Can you try?’

Jonah rubbed the back of his neck, hating having to put it into words. ‘Shocked, I suppose.’

‘Can you describe it?’

Jonah had already done that more than enough times already. He could still feel the warehouse’s chill, smell the dank air as his footsteps echoed on the stone floor.

‘Can we come back to that later?’

Something that could have been disappointment flitted across her face, then passed. ‘Of course. But could you tell me how you felt? Were you scared?’

Jesus, what sort of a question was that? ‘It was an unknown situation,’ Jonah said, falling back on jargon.

‘Is that a yes?’

He searched for a way out, then shrugged. ‘If you like.’

‘Did you fear for your life?’

It was a clumsy thing for a counsellor to ask, but Jonah could guess now what this was leading up to. She was fishing for signs of PTSD. Trouble sleeping, mood swings. Flashbacks.

‘There wasn’t much time to think about it,’ he said, wishing he’d not agreed to this.

She nodded, as if he was finally telling her what she wanted to hear. ‘No, of course. I expect you just did what you had to?’

‘Uh, well...’

‘I realise your training would have helped in that sort of situation, but... Well, it must have been hard to deal with. I understand you knew the police officer who died, DS Gavin McKinney. In fact, he was best man at your wedding.’

Here we go again. ‘We knew each other years ago, but I hadn’t seen him in a long time.’

‘I see.’ Again, there was a hint of disappointment. ‘And the other victims. Can you tell me a little about them?’

‘No, sorry,’ Jonah said, kneading his eyes. He really wanted to lie down and sleep. ‘The only one I actually saw was the girl.’

‘The girl. Right.’ Daly quickly leafed through her notes. ‘This would be... Nadine, is that right?’

‘That’s what she told me.’

Daly blinked. ‘She was alive when you found her?’

Jonah was beginning to feel uncomfortable about this. ‘I don’t think I should be going into details like that.’

‘No, of course not,’ she said quickly. ‘But that must make it worse, finding one of the victims alive. And then being unable to save her. How does that make you feel?’

Suddenly Jonah found it hard to talk. He looked away. ‘Not great.’

‘Did she tell you anything else apart from her name?’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

It came out sharper than he’d intended, but even if he’d felt comfortable discussing that, he didn’t see how it was relevant now.

‘I was... I’m just trying to get an idea of how it might have affected you.’ Daly’s cheeks had reddened. She seemed flustered. ‘It must have been devastating. Especially after everything else you’ve been through.’

He thought he must have misunderstood. A counsellor couldn’t be this ham-fisted. ‘Everything else?’

‘Well, you’re no stranger to tragedy, are you? I mean, not after what happened to—’

‘I know what you mean.’ Jonah felt like he’d been clubbed. ‘That was completely different.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Daly was nodding earnestly. ‘But as a parent myself I can’t begin to imagine what that must have been like. Do you think you can ever get over something like that?’

‘What is this?’ Jonah’s growing anger and incredulity was giving way to a growing unease. All at once it hit him. ‘You’re not a counsellor, are you?’

The bright smile held for a moment longer, then she let it go. ‘I never said I was.’

Oh, shit. ‘You’re a reporter.’

‘I prefer journalist, but—’

‘Get out.’

‘Listen, Jonah, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong—’

‘Get out. Now, or I’ll call security.’

Daly’s face hardened. ‘And how would that look? “Firearms officer calls for hospital rent-a-cop to evict female journalist”. How do you think that’ll play out on social media?’

‘I don’t care.’ Without thinking, Jonah pushed himself off the bed, and pain lanced through his knee. His leg buckled, and he clutched at the bedside cabinet for support. ‘Fuck!’

‘Oh, God, are you all right?’ Daly made to help him but stopped when Jonah raised a warning hand.

‘Just... go, all right?’

She gave him one last worried look, then took a business card from her bag. She set it on the bed.

‘In case you want to get in touch. It’ll be worth your—’

‘Out. Now.’

Jonah braced his arms on the cabinet, trying to ride out the pain. He didn’t look up as he heard Daly go to the door, or when she went out. Only after it closed behind her did he raise his head. The empty room still smelled of her spiced perfume. He breathed it in, then let it out again as the extent of his blunder sank in.

Shit.