Authors: Peter Lovesey
Upon a Dark Night
U
PON A
D
ARK
N
IGHT
By the same author
WOBBLE TO DEATH
THE DETECTIVE WORE SILK DRAWERS
ABRACADAVER
MAD HATTER’S HOLIDAY
INVITATION TO A DYNAMITE PARTY
A CASE OF SPIRITS
SWING, SWING TOGETHER
WAXWORK
THE FALSE INSPECTOR DEW
KEYSTONE
ROUGH CIDER
BERTIE AND THE TINMAN
ON THE EDGE
BERTIE AND THE SEVEN BODIES
BERTIE AND THE CRIME OF PASSION
THE LAST DETECTIVE
THE SUMMONS
BLOODHOUNDS
DIAMOND SOLITAIRE
THE VAULT
THE REAPER
DIAMOND DUST
THE HOUSE SITTER
Short stories
BUTCHERS AND OTHER STORIES OF CRIME
THE CRIME OF MISS OYSTER BROWN AND OTHER STORIES
DO NOT EXCEED THE STATED DOSE
U
PON A
D
ARK
N
IGHT
Peter Lovesey
SOHO
Copyright © 1997 by Peter Lovesey
All rights reserved.
First published in Great Britain in 1997 by Little, Brown & Company
This edition published in the United States in 2005 by
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Lovesey, Peter
Upon a Dark Night / Peter Lovesey.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-56947-393-1
ISBN-10: 1-56947-393-5
1. Diamond, Peter (Fictitious character)-Fiction. 2. Private investigators-England-Bath-Fiction. 3. Bath (England)-Fiction. I. Title
PR6062.086 2005
| 823”.914-dc22 | 2004065089 |
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3
Contents
Part Two … Either by Suicide …
‘It has been said … that there are few situations in life that cannot be honourably settled, and without loss of time, either by suicide, a bag of gold, or by thrusting a despised antagonist over the edge of a precipice upon a dark night’
From
Kai Lung’s Golden Hours,
by Ernest Bramah (Grant Richards, 1922)
A young woman opened her eyes.
The view was blank, a white-out, a snowfall that covered everything. She shivered, more from fright than cold. Strangely she didn’t feel cold.
Troubled, she strained to see better, wondering if she could be mistaken about the snow. Was she looking out on an altogether different scene, like a mass of vapour, the effect you get from inside an aircraft climbing through dense cloud? She had no way of judging; there was just this blank, white mass. No point of reference and no perspective.
She didn’t know what to think.
The only movement was within her eyes, the floaters that drift fuzzily across the field of vision.
While she was struggling over the problem she became aware of something even more disturbing. The blank in her view was matched by a blank inside her brain. Whatever had once been there had gone. She didn’t know who she was, or where this was happening, or why.
Her loss of identity was total. She could recall nothing. To be deprived of a lifetime of experiences, left with no sense of self, is devastating. She didn’t even know which sex she belonged to.
It called for self-discovery of the most basic sort. Tentatively she explored her body with her hand, traced the swell of her breast and then moved down.
So, she told herself, at least I know I’m in that half of the human race.
A voice, close up, startled her. ‘Hey up.’
‘What’s that?’ said another. Both voices were female.
‘Sleeping Beauty just opened her eyes. She’s coming round, I think.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Have a look. What do you think?’
‘She looks well out to me.’
‘Her eyes were definitely open. We’d better call someone.’
‘I wouldn’t bother yet.’
‘They’re closed now, I grant you.’
‘What did I tell you?’
She had closed them because she was dazzled by the whiteness. Not, after all, the whiteness of snow. Nor of cloud. The snatch of conversation made that clear. Impressions were coming in fast. The sound quality of the voices suggested this was not happening in the open. She was warm, so she had to be indoors. She had been staring up at a ceiling. Lying on her back, on something soft, like a mattress. In a bed, then? With people watching her? She made an effort to open her eyes again, but her lids felt too heavy. She drifted back into limbo, her brain too muzzy to grapple any more with what had just been said.
Some time later there was pressure against her right eye, lifting the lid.
With it came a man’s voice, loud and close: ‘She’s well out. I’ll come back.’ He released the eye.
She dozed. For how long, it was impossible to estimate, because in no time at all, it seemed, the man’s thumb forced her eye open again. And now the white expanse in front of her had turned black.
‘What’s your name?’
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t use her voice.
‘Can you hear me? What’s your name?’
She was conscious of an invasive smell close to her face, making the eyes water.
She opened her other eye. They were holding a bottle to her nose and it smelt like ammonia. She tried to ask, ‘Where am I?’ but the words wouldn’t come.
He removed the thumb from her eye. The face peering into hers was black. Definitely black. It wasn’t only the contrast of the white background. He was so close she could feel his breath on her eyelashes, yet she couldn’t see him in any detail. ‘Try again,’ he urged her. ‘What’s your name?’
When she didn’t answer she heard him remark, ‘If this was a man, we would have found something in his pockets, a wallet, or credit cards, keys. You women will insist on carrying everything in a bag and when the wretched bag goes missing there’s nothing to identify you except the clothes you’re wearing.’
Sexist, she thought. I’ll handbag you if I get the chance.
‘How are you doing, young lady? Ready to talk yet?’
She moved her lips uselessly. But even if she had found her voice, there was nothing she could tell the man. She wanted to ask questions, not answer them. Who was she? She had no clue. She could barely move. Couldn’t even turn on her side. Pain, sharp, sudden pain, stopped her from changing position.
‘Relax,’ said the man. ‘It’s easier if you relax.’
Easy for you to say so, she thought.
He lifted the sheet and held her hand. Bloody liberty, she thought, but she was powerless. ‘You were brought in last night,’ he told her. ‘You’re being looked after, but your people must be wondering where you are. What’s your name?’
She succeeded in mouthing the words, ‘Don’t know.’
‘Don’t know your own name?’
‘Can’t think.’
‘Amnesia,’ he told the women attendants. ‘It shouldn’t last long.’ He turned back to her. ‘Don’t fret. No need to worry. We’ll find out who you are soon enough. Are you in much pain? We can give you something if it’s really bad, but your head will clear quicker if we don’t.’
She moved her head to indicate that the pain was bearable.
He replaced her hand under the bedding and moved away.
She closed her eyes. Staying conscious so long had exhausted her.
Some time later, they tried again. They cranked up the top end of the bed and she was able to see more. She was lucid now, up to a point. Her memory was still a void.
She was in a small, clinically clean private ward, with partly closed Venetian blinds, two easy chairs, a TV attached to the wall, a bedside table with some kind of control panel. A glass jug of water. Facing her on the wall was a framed print of figures moving through a field of poppies, one of them holding a sunshade.
I can remember that this painting is by Monet, she thought. Claude Monet. I can remember a nineteenth-century artist’s name, so why can’t I remember my own?
The black man had a stethoscope hanging from his neck. He wore a short white jacket over a blue shirt and a loosely knotted striped tie. He was very much the junior doctor wanting to give reassurance, in his twenties, with a thin moustache. His voice had a Caribbean lilt.
‘Feeling any better yet?’
She said, ‘Yes.’ It came out as a whisper.
He seemed not to have heard. ‘I asked if you are feeling any better.’
‘I think so.’ She heard her own words.
Think so.
She wanted to sound more positive. Of course if her voice was functioning she had to be feeling better than before.
‘I’m Dr Whitfield,’ he told her, and waited.
She said nothing.
‘Well?’ he added.
‘What?’
‘We’d like to know your name.’
‘Oh.’
‘You’re a mystery. No identity. We need to know your name and address.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can’t remember?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Anything about yourself?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How you got here?’
‘No. How
did
I get here?’
‘You have no recall at all?’
‘Doctor, would you please tell me what’s the matter with me?’
‘It seems that you’ve been in an accident. Among other things, you’re experiencing amnesia. It’s temporary, I can promise you.’
‘What sort of accident?’
‘Not so serious as it might have been. A couple of cracked ribs. Abrasions to the legs and hips, some superficial cuts.’
‘How did this happen?’
‘You tell us.’
‘I can’t.’
He smiled. ‘We’re no wiser than you are. It could have been a traffic accident, but I wouldn’t swear to it. You may have fallen off a horse. Do you ride?’
‘No … I mean, I don’t know.’
‘It’s all a blank, is it?’
‘Someone must be able to help. Who brought me here?’
‘I wish we knew. You were found yesterday evening lying unconscious in the car park. By one of the visitors. We brought you inside and put you to bed. It was the obvious thing. This is a private hospital.’
‘Someone knocked me down in a hospital car park?’
He said quite sharply, ‘That doesn’t follow at all.’
She asked, ‘Who was this person who is supposed to have found me?’
‘There’s no “supposed” about it. A visitor. The wife of one of our long-term patients. We know her well. She wouldn’t have knocked you down. She was very concerned, and she was telling the truth, I’m certain.’
‘So someone else knocked me down. Some other visitor.’
‘Hold on. Don’t go jumping to conclusions.’
‘What else could have happened?’
‘Like I said, a fall from a horse. Or a ladder.’
‘In a hospital car park?’ she said in disbelief, her voice growing stronger as the strange facts of the story unfolded.
‘We think someone may have left you there in the expectation that you would be found and given medical attention.’
‘Brought me here, like some unwanted baby - what’s the word? - a foundling?’
‘That’s the general idea.’
‘And gone off without speaking to anyone? What kind of skunk does a thing like that?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s better than a hit-and-run. They just leave you in the road.’
‘You said this is a private hospital. Where?’
‘You’re in the Hinton Clinic, between Bath and Bristol, quite close to the M4. Do you know it? We’ve had car accident victims brought in before. Does any of this trigger a memory?’
She shook her head. It hurt.
‘You’ll get it all back soon enough,’ he promised her. ‘Parts of your brain are functioning efficiently, or you wouldn’t follow what I’m saving. You can remember words, you see, and quite difficult words, like “foundling”. Did you go to school round here?’
