I'll Find You Page 8

  Tears glazed his eyes and he rubbed them hard. He had every right to be upset. Having his large bowel removed would change his life. The fact that it would also save his life was of little comfort to him right now.

  ‘Can’t he have something to calm him before he goes down to surgery?’ asked his wife. She was dressed immaculately for such an early hour of the day. Her hair was styled, her face made up, her clothes picked carefully. There were no leggings and loose tops for a long day visiting, which was what Emily usually saw.

  Dalloway nodded, a frown between his eyes. ‘Of course. He should already have had a pre-med tablet.’ He spotted Emily behind him. ‘Nurse Jacobs?’

  Emily quickly picked up the prescription chart at the end of the man’s bed. She had already given out the medicines. His was the last room she had been to. She could remember putting the yellow tablet in a medicine pot. Her eyes scanned the columns left to right and up and down, ending with today’s date. Her finger swept across the row of the ‘once only medication’ prescribed, before moving back to the tiny box where her initials should be. Only they weren’t. The box was blank.

  ‘Nurse Jacobs, has the patient had his pre-med?’

  Emily looked at the man in the bed for an answer. ‘Did I not give it to you?’

  ‘Surely you’d know whether you had?’ his wife answered tersely.

  ‘I don’t know, nurse. One day goes into the next here. I have seen you today, but to be honest, love, you could have given me anything, for all the notice I take.’

  ‘Well, that’s disappointing,’ the wife said bluntly, her eyes fixed on Emily. ‘Surely you would know if you had given my husband a tablet? Surely you sign for the drugs you give?’

  Emily felt her face flame. Her mouth was dry. She could remember the tablet. She was sure she had given it to him, so why hadn’t she signed for it? Why were her initials absent?

  ‘I’m sorry Mrs . . .’

  ‘Jeffries, for Christ sakes. You can’t even remember his bloody name. What sort of place are you people running here?’

  ‘Anna, calm down. If you were here long enough you’d see that they don’t have time to stand still. They’re rushed off their feet every second. And I don’t need anything to calm me. It’s not as if it’s the first time I’ve been to theatre.’ Neil Jeffries looked at Mr Dalloway. ‘I’m ready when you are.’

  Dalloway looked back at his patient, but not before casting a disparaging look at Emily. He smiled at the man. ‘I’ll see you shortly, then.’

  Back in the corridor he turned on her swiftly. ‘That was highly embarrassing. Did you give him his pre-med or not, Nurse Jacobs?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m sure I did. I remember seeing it in the medicine pot. I—’

  ‘Nurse Jacobs, you are beginning to worry me.’

  His words rooted her to the spot. Her mouth fell open.

  ‘Mr Patel’s operation had to be cancelled yesterday morning. It seems that he was not kept nil by mouth and had eaten. My understanding is that he was your patient. He came in the night before for the very reason of keeping him nil by mouth.’

  Emily felt her stomach clench and she trembled as she tried to recollect yesterday morning, but her mind was a blur. She remembered admitting him, inserting a cannula into his fat arm. She remembered her conversation with Sister Barrows. The rest of the night had passed without incident. She handed out the morning medications, helped with the early-morning tea round, handed over the patients to the day staff. For the life of her she could not remember giving any fluids or food to Mr Patel.

  ‘I don’t understand. He was nil by mouth. I would never have given him anything to eat. I’m positive that I didn’t.’

  ‘The same way that you’re sure you gave Mr Jeffries his pre-med? Are you unwell, Nurse Jacobs? Sister Barrows has some concerns.’

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘No, Mr Dalloway. I’m perfectly fine. Just tired and a little confused by this morning’s events.’

  He looked at her sternly. ‘May I then suggest you take the rest of the day off and go home?’

  ‘Go home?’ Her voice was shrill with alarm.

  ‘Yes. I can’t afford to put this hospital’s reputation at risk. I’m giving you the easy way out here. Simply go home sick. See your GP even; to see if you’re fit to work.’

  In the end she feigned a migraine, though it was only a partial untruth as a hammering inside her skull tapped hard with every push of the pedals she made as she cycled home. She was distraught at having to finish her shift so abruptly. She rode through the park and her eyes met her sister’s eyes as they stared out at her from one of the posters she’d put up. She had never felt more alone.

  ‘Are you pleased now, Zoe?’ she whispered bitterly. ‘Have I not been punished enough?’

  Chapter Twelve

  With a mug of mint tea cradled in her palms, Emily gazed around her sitting room in a daze. The room was silent and bathed in morning sunlight. She had been home for ten minutes and had made herself tea, shrugged off her uniform and was still trying to come to terms with the fact that at only nine o’clock in the morning she had already been to work and was now back home – in disgrace. Dalloway was worried about her and that was enough to set her nerves on edge. Her job could be on the line. She had seen how easily they had got rid of Jim Lanning when he had cocked up. She was still new in her job, in the probationary period; her employment could be terminated if they thought her unsuitable.

  She remembered shaking the tablet into a medicine pot, remembered checking Mr Jeffries’ prescription chart and was then interrupted to take a call from a relative wanting an update on her mother’s condition. She had locked the medicine trolley and gone to speak to the woman. The tablet would still be inside the medicine trolley, sitting innocently in the medicine pot, never having been given, which is why she hadn’t signed for it. It was a simple error, and could happen to any nurse. Interruptions during medicine rounds had caused many a drug error. It was the reason for trying to introduce the wearing of red tabards during drug rounds with the words DRUG ROUND IN PROGRESS. PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB emblazoned on the back. Emily had never worn one and was aware that some patients and relatives had viewed the message negatively. They seemed to think it was the only good time to ask a nurse a question.

  Emily picked up her mobile and dialled the ward number. She was in luck when Ricky answered. ‘Sorry for disturbing you, Ricky. I wonder if you can just check something for me?’

  ‘Hey you, how are you? Barrows said you went home sick.’

  ‘I’m OK, just a stinking headache. Sorry to bail out on you guys.’

  ‘It’s OK. We’re doing fine. What’s up?’

  ‘Ricky, do you think you could open the medicine trolley and just check to see if there’s a medicine pot sitting there with a yellow tablet in it?’

  ‘Hang on a sec.’

  Emily could hear the background noise of the ward as she waited. There was another phone ringing, a call bell ringing and voices close to the desk talking. Ricky’s voice was back in her ear. ‘Yep, yellow tablet in medicine pot. What do you want me to do with it?’

  She sighed with relief. ‘Ditch it, please.’

  ‘I will do and hey, don’t worry about Mr Patel, he’s going down to theatre later. So everything is OK.’

  When the call ended she felt calmer. At least one mystery had been solved. Though she was embarrassed that others thought it her fault that Mr Patel didn’t go to theatre yesterday. She had no recollection of even checking on him prior to finishing her shift, which was a worry. She must have, even if it was just a quick peek at him. It was the stress of the last two weeks that had done this; it had exhausted her and to boot, she’d been sleepwalking during the night, something she hadn’t done in a very long time. She found the evidence this morning: a cold mug of tea, still full, sitting where she’d placed it on the draining board. By the look of the darker colour, settled in the bottom of the mug, she’d used cold water from the tap and not b
oiled water from a kettle. It was ridiculous and unfair to have only one day off between finishing nights and starting back on days. No wonder she was sleepwalking and couldn’t think straight. She felt punch-drunk. To add to the stress, Dalloway thought her unfit for work. With her mobile still in her hand she made a call to her GP surgery. She’d try and get an appointment for today and beg Monica, her doctor, to declare her fit for work, if necessary.

  The receptionist found her a cancelled appointment for two o’clock. She had no idea how she would fill the hours until then. Her flat was immaculate, her laundry basket empty of both washing and ironing. She could watch television or read a book, but neither inspired her. She could just rest, as Dalloway suggested, and maybe sleep. ‘What do you think I should do?’ Her eyes swung to where Zoe’s photo was, in pride of place on the second shelf on her bookcase. It was the perfect position because at night she could switch on a battery candle to cast a glow on Zoe’s face. Except the photograph wasn’t there. Emily gazed around the room. The last time she had touched it was after her session with Eric, when she’d come back to the flat and cried, picking up the photo and saying cruel things to Zoe. She was sure she had placed it back down, that she hadn’t wandered around and put it somewhere else. Walking from corner to corner, she checked down by the sides of her sofa and underneath it. She looked behind cushions, under a newspaper. She went into her bedroom, which was as uncluttered as her sitting room, but it wasn’t there. The kitchen and bathroom proved the same. For good measure she looked in the fridge, freezer, microwave and oven.

  She opened the door to the spare bedroom, seeing Zoe’s wall and her stuff in bin liners and cardboard boxes on the bed opposite. On top of one of the bin liners, lying face down, was the photo frame. Had she put it there during the night? There was no other explanation for it. She must have. She picked it up and turned it over and felt her breath catch in her throat. A white envelope had been sellotaped to the glass. The envelope was unsealed. Emily lifted the flap and slid out a sheet of paper. Her eyes stretched wide, her body shook as she read the message:

  I’m not coming home Sis. Please stop looking for me. X

  *

  The new police enquiry office for Bath opened a couple of years ago opposite the old police station, on the same street, and was known as the One Stop Shop. The old police station on Manvers Street, closed after nearly fifty years, was now the property of the University of Bath. It felt strange that it was no longer the building for the police, the forecourt now empty of police vehicles. The visible presence of authority used to reassure Emily – perhaps because she always kept on the right side of the law and had no fear of seeing them. It was a shame to see it gone.

  She made her way to the reception desk. Pale blue and low, the countertop had a silky finish and shone clean and new. She could see clearly into the small office space, which made the whole experience of being inside the police station feel more friendly. On the back wall behind the desk was a map of the city centre, stamped with the Avon and Somerset Constabulary crest. A young female officer looked up at Emily, her black and white cravat loose, a small fan beside her teasing strands of her pale hair.

  ‘How may I help?’

  Emily didn’t recognise her and suspected that she was new. She knew most of the officers by name or face, having visited this place regularly last year. At one time she was so familiar with the layout, she could tell when the posters up on the walls had been changed or updated. She had not been here for a while, though, not since the six-month review of Zoe’s case in January of this year. She’d met up with Geraldine a handful of times since then, but their meetings hadn’t amounted to much more than a social chat about how Emily was doing.

  ‘I have an appointment with Detective Inspector Sutton.’

  The officer smiled politely. ‘Yes, she telephoned. She’ll be here shortly. Do take a seat.’

  Emily nodded and moved away from the desk. In her handbag, inside a clear polythene sandwich bag, was the envelope and note. She’d had the presence of mind to keep them protected only after she’d handled them, gripped them and breathed on them as she tried to inhale any scent left by Zoe. The shock was wearing off and questions were buzzing through her mind. Had Zoe come to her flat? Where was she? Why didn’t she come home? Did this mean she was alive? And how could she do this to her? Put her through a year of misery and fear and not knowing. Was Zoe that cruel?

  Being at the police station brought back the memories of those initial fear-filled days. Geraldine Sutton arriving at her parents’ home to meet the family of the missing girl. Police traipsing through at all times of the day to ask more questions or to keep them updated with what was going on. A policewoman named Ruth appeared most days at her parents’ home to act as family liaison officer and keep reporters away from the front door. In those first weeks they were hungry for a story that might suddenly get bigger. A body found. A murder investigation. Emily had moved back home temporarily for a couple of weeks to offer support and be around to help answer any questions, and she’d been grateful of the policewoman’s company. On the news channels Zoe’s image constantly stared back at them from the screen and Emily knew that if Zoe saw the photo their parents had picked to give to the police, she’d hate it, as it was one of her with a small blemish of an acne spot, on her forehead. Those first weeks of waiting and hoping that the police would find Zoe had been the most intense moments of Emily’s life. Then slowly, steadily, all the activity seemed to stop. The reporters disappeared. Ruth stopped coming. The police had no leads. Zoe had vanished into thin air.

  Swallowing hard, she tried to calm herself. She had phoned Geraldine Sutton immediately and had asked to see her, telling her that she had found something. The detective had agreed to see her in the next hour. She had walked to the station on autopilot; blindly and numbed.

  Geraldine Sutton had several shopping bags in her hands when she arrived; shiny plastic and paper carrier bags advertising the shops she’d visited: Next, H&M, Karen Millen and House of Fraser. She nodded at Emily and walked over to the desk. ‘Can you put these in the office for me, please? I’ll collect them later.’ The officer took the bags and DI Sutton turned to greet Emily properly. ‘Sorry about that. I’m going to a wedding and nothing fits. You’d never believe when I started this job that I was a size ten.’

  Emily smiled. She thought Geraldine Sutton a very attractive woman. She was curvy, with skin that always looked slightly tanned and glowing, thick dark brown hair and a face that needed little makeup to enhance her big hazel eyes and full lips. The fact that she was overweight by a couple of stone didn’t detract from her attractiveness. Emily knew she was in her early forties and had two children under the age of four. She had been part of her life since Zoe went missing, and Emily had cried on this woman’s shoulders more than a few times.

  ‘So, you want to grab a cup of coffee somewhere?’ asked Geraldine. There was no interview room available at this enquiry office, so they would have to go to another station if an interview needed to be recorded, but for now a coffee shop would be fine. They had met a few times in such places when Emily wanted an update.

  They headed down Manvers Street, with the railway station in front of them, and crossed Brunel Square to a place called Graze, a large modern restaurant – bar that was built around the arches of the railway. It was a popular place for train spotters to hang out as the outdoor seating area fenced off by railings butted up against platform two at Bath Railway Station.

  A high-speed train pulled in, visible through a window. The carriage doors opened and a stream of passengers poured out. Past peak time in the morning, many of the crowd would be tourists coming to visit the famous city.

  The two women walked to the far end of the restaurant, to a table that had a half-circular leather couch where they could sit comfortably. Emily asked for mint tea, hoping the beverage would ease the tightness in her throat. Geraldine ordered a caramel latte and a round of toast. ‘I’m starving. I missed breakfast in t
he hope that I could squeeze into a size fourteen dress.’

  ‘You don’t need to lose weight,’ Emily said.

  ‘It’s alright for you to say that when you’re as slim as a reed.’ Geraldine looked at her properly. ‘Though I’m glad to say you no longer look like a puff of wind would blow you over. You look well, Emily.’

  She gave a self-deprecating look. ‘I’m getting there. Thanks for the flowers, by the way.’

  Geraldine had sent her flowers a month ago to mark the first anniversary, a small offering to lessen the sadness of her day, and Emily had been surprised, the gesture striking her as unusual that a police officer would do this, and she hoped it was not done out of guilt for not finding Zoe. The blame was not on her shoulders.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  A waiter arrived and placed down their drinks and the toast and they stayed quiet until he left them alone again.

  ‘So,’ Geraldine said. ‘What have you found?’

  Emily placed the polythene sandwich bag on the table. She had inserted the sheet of paper so that the message could be read through the clear cover.

  ‘Jesus. When did this arrive?’ Geraldine was staring at Emily in total surprise.

  ‘I found it at just gone nine this morning. I came back from work because I had a headache. I found it attached to a photo frame, with a photo of Zoe, which had been moved from its usual place in my flat.’ Emily didn’t mention it may have been she who had moved it. She didn’t want to confuse things.

  Geraldine’s mouth dropped open, her eyebrows rose high. ‘Your flat? Someone was in your flat? You mean, this wasn’t just posted through your door?’

  Emily took a shaky breath. ‘No.’

  Geraldine’s eyes fixed on the note in her hands. ‘I am totally surprised, I have to say. That’s not what I was expecting at all. Do you recognise her writing?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s all in capitals, so I don’t know. Maybe? She calls me Sis in it. It’s what she calls me. I’d have to find an old birthday card or something with her writing, to check it by. You’d think I’d know my own sister’s handwriting, but we only ever texted or Facebook-messaged. Everything we send today is done by typing something. I’d have to go through her stuff to see what I can find.’