Before It's Too Late (8 page)

“Morning!” He looked up to see Celia’s bright face. “Looks like you had a late one.”

“Hi,” was all he could manage. His mouth was dry and his head was pounding.

Celia had already gone to bed when he’d returned last night. He’d popped his head around the door, but her face was lost beneath the duvet, a habit she’d kept since childhood. Erik had lifted his head and thumped his tail a couple of times, but made no attempt to move from his comfortable position next to her.

Jackman had sidled through to his own room in the hope of tempting sleep. After half an hour of staring into the darkness, he remembered the file from Reilly and padded down to the lounge to examine the papers by lamplight. He didn’t recall the moment his eyes finally closed. The lamp still shone in the corner, its dull hue merging with the daylight that was now seeping into the room.

Celia moved forward, switched off the lamp and drew back the curtains. Instantly, Jackman jerked forward and shaded his eyes, “What time is it?”

“Five thirty. Love the air this time in the morning.”

Jackman let out another groan and sunk back into the sofa. Early mornings were another childhood trait that Celia had regained after a few teenage years of respite.

Paper crackled and shifted beneath him as Erik moved over the papers. “Awww, come on mate,” he said, gently pushing the dog aside.

By the time he’d reached down and pulled them into a shoddy pile, Celia had returned with two steaming mugs. “Extra strong,” she said. “Your favourite.”

“Thanks.”

She looked down at the nest of papers beside him. “You working on that missing girl?”

He blinked and stared at her through bleary eyes.

“I’ve seen it on the local news,” she said.

He stared at her, willing his brain to life. And as the cogs started to turn, the thought of his own daughter being home while young women were going missing in Stratford made him slightly uneasy. “Do me a favour?” he said in his softest tone. “Be extra careful while you’re out and about the next couple of days?”

“Yes, Dad.” She spoke the words slowly, an ounce of irritation in her voice.

“I’m serious. Don’t go anywhere alone. Especially after dark. Okay?”

She raised her eyes to the ceiling and gave a single, weary nod.

The fresh early morning breeze filtered in from the open French doors at the back of the room. They sipped their drinks in silence and as the caffeine worked its magic, Jackman felt the hazy cloud that filled his head start to disperse.

He turned back to Celia. “Sleep alright?”

“Not bad. Woke up on the edge of the bed this morning though. Erik clearly needs to be re-educated in the art of sharing.”

They both chuckled as Erik ambled back into the lounge, his tail circling. Celia reached down and rubbed his head.

Jackman rolled his shoulders. Despite being woken at such an early hour, Celia’s warmth and energy seemed to spread into every recess, every corner, transforming the house into a home once more. “What are you up to today?” he asked.

She sipped her coffee and licked her lips before she spoke, “Thought I’d look up Sam and Mikey. See what they’ve been up to.”

Jackman nodded. “How long are you here for?”

“I need to head back tomorrow lunchtime. It’s Adrian’s birthday too. I promised to take him out for a meal, and don’t look so forlorn, I’m back in two weeks and we have our holiday in Newquay, remember? We’ll have loads of time then.”

Jackman smiled guiltily. From a young age she always seemed to be able to read his mind. He swallowed his pride. “This Adrian. Errr… Serious, is it?”

“Dad!” She raised a hand. “I’m not doing this.”

“No, I didn’t mean that. Just wondered if you wanted to invite him here for a bit in the holidays?”

“I don’t know.” She took another sip of her coffee. “Maybe. His parents live in Exeter. It’s a long way and he doesn’t drive.”

Jackman planted his empty mug on the floor beside him and began sorting through the pile of papers on his lap. “He could join us in Newquay if you want?” he said, without looking up.

“Adrian? I don’t think so. He can’t even surf! Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll think of something for the summer. You can meet him then. As long as you promise to be nice.”

Celia rambled on, but Jackman wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on a single entry on Ellen Readman’s credit card statement. He’d seen that somewhere before.

Chapter
Fifteen

“Both the victims have a connection to The Thai Boat house,” Jackman said as he eased into his chair.

Janus sat opposite, cradling a mug of milky tea in her hands. Her fringe fluttered as she blew across the top of the drink. She’d caught Jackman by surprise when she’d called in for an impromptu briefing en route to Leamington that morning. Luckily Celia’s coffee at daybreak meant he’d been in since before seven, although he had to borrow some milk off the ladies at the front desk for her tea.

“I found a Stratford number on Katie Sharp’s phone records, a month before she disappeared, and traced it there. The restaurant also appears on Ellen Readman’s credit card statement, a couple of weeks before she was reported missing.”

Janus inhaled deeply, but said nothing. She kept her eyes on Jackman.

“I emailed Reilly with the details this morning, but it does give me cause for concern,” Jackman continued. “It brings both cases to Stratford. And I found one of their menus in Min Li’s room at the college. We might have to brace ourselves for a link. All three women are around the same age, slim and dark-haired. Readman and Sharp disappeared for some time before their bodies were found. None of them have family close by.”

Janus exhaled loudly, pushed her glasses onto her forehead and rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger as she spoke, “Any more on the missing girl?”

Jackman gave her a summary of their actions from the day before. He finished up with the surveillance crews, which had relieved the weary detectives at Tom’s family home that morning.

“What are your thoughts?” she asked.

“The pregnancy casts a new light and gives Tom a possible motive. If she refused to abort, it threatened his future. It seems our best bet at the moment. I’m not convinced about any potential affair with the agent from the abortion clinic, but I’ve asked the guys to run some background checks, just in case. Of course, it also gives Min a reason to run away.”

“What does that leave us with?”

“The enhanced footage on the two vehicles – the van and BMW car – that were seen in the vicinity close to the time she left the pub should be through this morning. Hopefully then, we’ll have number plates and be able to trace the drivers. And we’re still tracking down people from the CCTV footage at the pub, and following up from the public appeal.”

“And the parents?”

“Russell is the family liaison officer. She spoke to them yesterday and they claim to have heard nothing. Obviously, we’ll be in touch again today. The biggest problem we have is victimology.”

“You’ve not heard from the Embassy yet?” Janus’ forehead creased into a frown.

“A report came through in the early hours – copies of his business accounts and his credit rating which all look in reasonable order. There’s very little on her background, and that of the family.”

Janus glanced at the floor a moment and then back at Jackman. When she spoke her words were carefully constructed. “Okay, Min Li has been missing for almost thirty-six hours. We’ve checked all the hospitals so we don’t think she’s been involved in an accident and her mental state doesn’t indicate that she might kill herself. So, we currently have three main lines of enquiry. One, now that we know about the pregnancy, she still may turn up on the college campus after taking herself off somewhere to cool down. Two, her disappearance is linked to the other cases. But I think it’s far too much of a stretch to make that decision yet. Three, somebody else has taken her. I’ll get Reilly’s team to focus on the restaurant this morning,” she continued, “see what that turns up. You continue with your enquiries.” She placed her hand on the desk in front of him and leant in closer. “Keep this to yourself for the moment. I don’t want anyone chatting in the street where ears are flapping. There’s already huge speculation in the media. On Warwick Radio this morning they mentioned Min Li’s disappearance in the same breath as Ellen Readman, although they were careful not to link directly. We certainly need to make some decisions and soon.” She paused for a moment. “Let’s see what today brings. Keep me updated on any developments.”

He nodded, expecting her to dash out of the office, off to another meeting, in her usual perfunctory manner. Instead she sat quite still and angled her head back. “There’s something else.” The pithiness in her voice hooked Jackman’s attention. “You’ve missed your last three sessions.”

Jackman sighed inwardly. Part of the agreement for him returning to work on full duties after the car accident was that he would attend weekly counselling sessions. He’d managed to push them back to fortnightly over the last few months. He was quite aware that he’d cancelled one or two. Was it really as many as the last three? “I’ve been busy.”

She pursed her lips. “That wasn’t the agreement.”

Jackman rolled his eyes.

“Quite honestly, Will, I couldn’t give a damn whether you attend or not. But I’ve got welfare on my back and I can do without it right now. They’ve arranged another session directly with the counsellor for you on Friday at 4.30pm. Just make sure you attend your session and keep your nose clean. Then we won’t need to waste time having this conversation again.” She jumped up and gathered her briefcase. “Right, I’m off. We’ll speak later.” And with that she disappeared out of the door.

Jackman sunk back into his chair. Bloody sessions, they encroached on his life and hung over him like a permanent raincloud.

That night, almost twelve months previous, would be forever branded on his brain. Travelling down the A46, heading back home after a party, Alice in the driving seat. He remembered it like it was yesterday – a beautiful clear night, stars illuminating the road like little cat’s eyes in the sky.

The car came from nowhere, rounded the corner, headlights that were more like strobe lights on full beam. It swerved across the carriageway like a bumper car, there wasn’t even time to hit the horn. They felt the full force of the smash, the rumble as the car rolled over and over, lights blinked and juddered. One moment Jackman was spinning in a vortex of coloured lights, being thrust around the car. The next, nothing. He looked over at Alice. Her head was wedged between the crushed roof of the Ford Focus and the steering wheel.

Jackman thought back to those early days and weeks after the accident. Having managed to reach across and feel the pulse in her neck, he knew Alice was alive. But despite all his insistence, they wouldn’t let him stay with her. He remembered being whipped away by the paramedics, rushed to hospital amidst loud sirens, his neck in a brace.

It wasn’t until much later he discovered that Alice was cut from the car and raced to hospital like himself. But unlike Jackman, whose injuries were mostly superficial, Alice hadn’t regained consciousness. A CAT scan discovered a blood clot on her brain. Emergency surgery followed. Brain damage was suspected, although nobody, not even the surgeon who carried out the surgery was able to predict a recovery.

The days and weeks of worry and fatigue that followed slowly sucked the energy out of him as he travelled back and forth to the hospital, walked up the steps, down the long corridor to the stroke unit, the shiny floor squeaking under his shoes. Celia trotted beside him, the dutiful daughter, having finished her first year of university exactly six days before the accident. The routine became automatic, programmed into his brain. Each time he paused to rub the antibacterial cleaner into his hands and check with the duty nurse for an update. Finally he entered his wife’s room where a plethora of machines pumped and bleeped and kept her alive.

For a while the outside world ceased to exist. He was stuck in a time warp, drifting through the days of hospital visits, bedside vigils, consultant appointments.

The diagnosis, when it finally arrived, changed everything. Suddenly, consultants weren’t talking test results and treatment, they were talking palliative care as the prognosis wasn’t good.

He recalled the specialist’s office on that day, four months after the accident. It was barely a box with a filing cabinet and a desk full of brown envelope files and loose paper notes. Dr Simmons had asked Jackman to sit down. The grooves around his eyes had deepened as he’d leaned forward and said, “As a result of the accident your wife sustained a brain haemorrhage in her basilar artery.” He’d lifted a hand to indicate the lower back part of his skull. “She is suffering from locked-in syndrome.”

The consultant’s fingers wove in and out of each other as he explained the condition that reduced her to the paralysed state she now endured. “While Alice is aware of what is going on around her, she has no control over her body. Even her eyes are in a state of permanent paralysis.”

“I have to be completely honest with you,” Dr Simmons had continued. “Currently, there is no known cure. Most patients pass within the first few months of onset and those that survive rarely regain functions. There have been incidents recorded of patients regaining some control and communicating via eye movements or even sniffs. There’s also been a few notable cases where a full recovery has been made,” he paused, “but they are extremely rare.”

The consultant’s words had tailed off into the room as he spoke about the need for permanent care for the future. Jackman could feel Celia’s fingers tighten around his forearm, the desperation that engulfed them both, the indelible reminder of his wife’s permanent condition and the fact that their life would never be the same again.

‘Aware of what is going on around her.’ Those words had clung to Jackman in his darkest hours afterwards. He couldn’t imagine anything worse – it was like being a caged animal, sheltered in every respect from the outside world, but with no control over your functions.