There is a pure white line of light above Hardy. An angel appears before him, a dazzling aureole edging her golden hair. Then the angel speaks with an Australian accent. ‘It’s all right,’ says Becca Fisher. ‘We’re getting you to the hospital.’ The white light suddenly reveals itself as the neon strip on an ambulance ceiling and Hardy tries to protest. Once they get him into hospital that’s it, it’s over. They’ll take one look at his records and they won’t let him out again. But the words won’t come, and he goes under again.
When he wakes up, his head throbs violently and there’s a sharp pain in the back of his hand where the drip’s going in. Becca Fisher is at his bedside: Hardy is suddenly acutely aware that he’s naked beneath a hospital gown.
‘Nine stitches,’ she says, setting aside her newspaper. ‘Took quite a crack. How’re you going?’
‘What am I doing here?’ he croaks. ‘What’re you doing here?’
‘You passed out. I found you on the bathroom floor. The person in the room under you heard the noise. Luckily.’ She holds up his wallet and his heart contracts painfully: she’s got it open on the little girl’s picture. Suddenly nudity seems like the preferable option. ‘This your daughter? She’s pretty.’ She doesn’t give him a chance to answer. ‘I was looking for your next of kin. I couldn’t find any, so I told them I was your wife. Look, I’m glad you’re OK and awake but I have to get back.’
Hardy thinks quickly. If they still think she’s his wife, maybe they’ll let him go with her. He tries to get out of bed. It’s much harder than he imagined. The pain in his head doubles, as though he’s left part of his skull behind on the pillow. He stumbles a little and tries to clutch at her hand.
‘You can’t tell anyone about this. This is my life,’ he begs. ‘Promise. They’ll take me off the case. I need to finish this case, Becca.’
He’s almost surprised to see her give it real consideration. She glances at the newspaper on the bed and whatever she sees seems to make up her mind.
‘On one condition: you get some proper medical help. ’Cause next time, someone might not find you.’
‘Thank you,’ he nods. He’ll agree to anything right now. Becca gets up to leave. ‘Can I have the paper?’
She hands him her copy of the Daily Herald on her way out.
MY DANNY, shouts the front page. EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH MOTHER OF TRAGIC DORSET BOY. Danny’s face beams out. Karen White’s picture accompanies her byline, the hack’s holy grail. He hopes she’s happy with herself.
Hardy opens the paper to find a double-page spread dominated not by Danny’s picture but by Beth’s, eyelashes batting at the lens. WHO WOULD TAKE MY BEAUTIFUL BOY FROM ME? she pleads in big block letters.
His eye is drawn to the boxed-off text on the right-hand page and his cracked skull feels like it is going to fall away from his brain.
DANNY: SANDBROOK LINK
There’s a ten-line précis of what happened at the trial and a picture of Pippa, in case they all needed reminding.
So this is what Karen White was waiting for: save it all up for one big splash. The gloves are off: the word is out. In a fucked-up way, it’s almost a relief. He grudgingly admires Karen White’s dedication to the Sandbrook families. She’s a pain in his arse, but you can’t say she doesn’t care. She’d probably make a good copper.
Sometimes a story comes together perfectly. Karen’s phone vibrates with messages of congratulation from colleagues, swiftly followed by ill-disguised attempts to steal her contacts. She’s doubly glad now she got to Olly Stevens first. His head might be turned by any one of the reporters currently on the 8.03 from Waterloo. To make sure, she invites him to breakfast in the Traders.
‘It’s great,’ he says over his eggs Benedict. ‘Captures Beth just right. But you know Maggie’s going to be pretty miffed.’
Karen’s not so sure. Maggie, like her, has Beth Latimer’s best interests at heart and will be well aware that one line in a national like the Herald is worth twenty pages in the Echo.
‘I’ll talk to her,’ says Karen. ‘Beth and Mark were desperate for people to know about the case. Think of the witnesses who might come forward. You’ll have to lean on Ellie, see if you can get an idea of how busy their phones are today.’
There’s the usual uncomfortable silence that arises whenever Karen suggests that Ollie exploit his relationship with the DS on the case. ‘Well,’ he says eventually, ‘Hardy certainly isn’t going to talk to us now.’ But he’s smiling. ‘So you’re the golden girl on your newsdesk, are you?’
‘The boss is officially happy,’ says Karen. Danvers didn’t actually tell her off, which is the next best thing. ‘And the rest of the papers are scrambling to catch up in the later editions. But the Herald has to own the story now. They’re asking what’s the follow-up? Who’s in the frame? We should talk about Jack Marshall.’
Their phones both beep at the same time. Olly glances at his and his face goes white. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he says, pushing back his chair and leaving the remainder of his breakfast untouched.
Karen doesn’t have time to wonder what he’s up to: she is distracted by the message on her own screen. It’s a text from Cate Gillespie:
Saw today’s paper. I cried my heart out for that poor mother.
Thank you for mentioning Pippa; it keeps her memory alive.
It’s so good to know you’re still fighting our corner.
Keep in touch. C x
Olly drives home so quickly that he almost takes the bend into their street on two wheels. He parks a few doors down from his house because the space directly outside is blocked by a huge van, a removals lorry really. Two gigantic men, all in black like nightclub bouncers, are taking the HD television and putting it in the back. He looks over their shoulders and cries in dismay to see his bike and his scooter impounded, along with his entire DVD library. He glances at the car where his laptop lies on the back seat. He knows from last time, and the time before that, that they’re not legally allowed to take anything he needs for work. They better not have had the printer.
‘Don’t be brave, son,’ says the taller of the two bailiffs, as though Olly was dancing around him with his fists up. Olly has no intention of being brave; not in that sense, anyway. But it does take courage to ring the only person who might be able to help them out.
‘They’re here again,’ he says when Ellie picks up. ‘They’ve taken my Vespa this time.’
‘Oh, Oliver,’ she says. ‘Is she still in Bournemouth?’
He looks through the net curtains to see a thin figure inside. ‘She’s here,’ he says. ‘Ellie, I hate to ask, but is there any way you could —’
‘No.’ She cuts him dead.
‘She’s really sorry,’ he improvises.
‘Is she bollocks,’ says Ellie. ‘I’m sorry, this is tough love. I’m sorry about your stuff, but I can’t keep bailing her out. Not after she —’ She stops herself mid-sentence.
‘I wish you’d talk to her. You’ve never fallen out like this before.’
Ellie’s tone is uncharacteristically harsh. ‘Oliver, I’m in the middle of a murder investigation, and I haven’t got any money left. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.’
The line goes dead.
Olly follows the smaller bailiff back into the house. Lucy is twisting her fingers in the now empty sitting room. Wires dangle from the wall where the television has been taken. She looks helpless as they take the Sky box, but as they unplug the wireless router she springs into life.
‘Don’t take that!’ she says, trying to grab it from the bailiff. ‘It’s not worth anything! What’ll you get for that, couple of quid on eBay?’
Olly prises it from her fingers and hands it to the bailiff.
‘Take it,’ he says. ‘Just fucking take it.’
Once the repo men are gone, he rounds on Lucy.
‘For God’s sake!’ he says. ‘You said you’d fixed it!’
‘It’s a mix-up,’ says Lucy. ‘They’ve got it wrong… oh, don’t do that face, you look like your bloody father when you do that.’
For a moment Olly looks as though he’s going to hit her. Then the fight goes out of him.
‘Mum, when is this going to stop?’ he asks. ‘Why don’t you understand the trouble we’re in?’