The Perfect Girl

SAM

Nick George calls me back unexpectedly, as I’m sitting down in the waiting room at the hospital. They’re running late so I’m killing time by looking up the news on my phone to see if there’s anything out there yet about Maria.

‘BODYFOUNDATSTOKEBISHOPHOME’ it says on Bristol 24/7.

The only development on that is on the police breaking news website, which identifies the body as female, and in her thirties. They haven’t released Maria’s name yet, but it will surely be soon.

Nick doesn’t bother with pleasantries this time. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘I’m only going to tell you this one thing, and I shouldn’t even be doing that.’

I put my finger in my other ear because the receptionist is talking really loudly to an elderly man whose head is sagging, revealing the topography of the vertebrae in his neck.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Forensics found evidence of blood spatter in the house.’

‘No!’

‘I can’t tell you any more than that, and it’ll be days before they can ascertain for certain whose blood it is, or get any other results, but I thought you should know.’

‘God.’ I let this information sink in. The police forensics team does a simple test which shows up blood and semen at a scene instantly, even if it’s been cleaned away. It’s the only test that gives a swift result. Everything else must be sent away to be examined in the lab.

‘I’ve got to go. I hope it’s not going to get too bad for the family now.’

‘Where was the blood?’

‘Ypu know can’t tell you that, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this at all.’

I want to mine him for more information, but I don’t want to push my luck. ‘Thanks Nick. I appreciate it.’

‘It’s OK. I’m sorry, you know.’

I understand that it’s my health he’s referring to, not Maria Maisey’s death. This was a sympathy call, his way of stroking my brow, a nod from one man to another man’s misfortune.

Somebody taps my shoulder. It’s a nurse, holding my notes and a hospital gown.

‘Sorry, Nick I’ve got to go but I appreciate it, mate, I really do.’

The nurse shows me into a miniature cubicle where she hands me the gown and tells me to change into it. There’s a locker in the corridor, she says, where I can leave my stuff.

I get changed and, before I put my things in the locker, I try to phone Tessa but it goes straight to voicemail. The nurse hovers. The radiologist is ready for me, she says, we should hurry up.