I decided not to mention unwelcome nighttime visitors or men with twelve-centimeter knives.
“Thank you, Mr. Talbot,” said the psychiatrist. “I’m sure you will.”
His tone implied that he didn’t really believe it. He looked down and wrote more notes.
“Excuse me,” I said. He looked up. “I assure you that Sophie’s well-being is far more important to me than my work. I desperately want her home. And I will do everything within my power to ensure she remains safe and unharmed. I love my wife.”
I had sat all day holding Sophie’s hand, listening to these emotionally distant professionals discussing her most personal secrets in matter-of-fact detail, and now I quite surprised myself with the passion of my plea. But I did want Sophie home.
I realized that I wanted it very much indeed.
“Yes, Mr. Talbot,” said the psychiatrist, “I believe you do.” He smiled at Sophie, who went on holding my hand very tightly.
He went back to writing a few more notes before looking up. “Mrs. Talbot, Mr. Talbot, thank you both for your time. As you know, we shall have further discussion among us before we make our final decision. Today is Thursday. We should have an answer for you by tomorrow or Saturday.” He looked around at the other medical staff as if inquiring whether any of them had anything more to say. They didn’t.
“Thank you, then,” he said, rising to his feet, indicating that our time was up.
“Thank you,” said Sophie.
We stood up in turn and made our way out of the conference room.
“I thought that went quite well,” I said to her quietly.
“Did you?” she said.
“Yes,” I said, being upbeat. “Didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t like that psychiatrist much.”
“He seemed OK to me,” I said. “I’m sure it will be all right.”
We walked together, side by side, along the corridor towards her room.
“Do you really love me?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “Very much.”
She didn’t stop walking. But she did start smiling.
I spent the evening at the hospital with Sophie watching the television. Neither of us spoke about the assessment or what conclusion the medics might come to. Neither did we make any plans for the coming weeks. Twice in the past, we had been cruelly disappointed, having decided to go away together on holiday only to have the case conference rule against release.
Nowadays, we told ourselves that discharge was an unexpected bonus to be celebrated, but, deep down, we would still be devastated if they refused to allow her home this time. The new drug regime was working well, and Sophie was becoming less tired from the side effects as her body became used to the medications.
But neither of us wanted to tempt fate by discussing the matter, so we sat quietly watching a string of situation comedies on a golden-oldies TV channel.
Was I, in fact, being sensible in wanting Sophie to come home with so many unresolved issues surrounding my father?
John Smith, or whoever he was, had gone on ad infinitum about his blessed microcoder, but he hadn’t once mentioned any money. I wondered again if he even knew about the cash. He certainly did if he was working with Shifty-eyes. But had it been Shifty-eyes in the dark blue Ford? Or was there someone else? Maybe John really was from the Australian Racing Board, and there was a whole team behind him.
And what was the money for?
Where’s the money, Shifty-eyes had hissed at my father before he stabbed him. Had the money been due as payment? And for what? And why then had Shifty-eyes then killed my father when he was the only one who knew where it was?
I tried to remember every detail of the stabbing as my eyes watched yet another situation comedy about dysfunctional family life. They should film my family, I thought, except it wouldn’t be a comedy.
The man had run up and kicked me in the face, but he had then turned his attention solely to my father. It had clearly not been a robbery as I had first thought. Our attacker had taken no notice of me at all until I shouted for help and the party crowd had begun moving towards us.
I remembered my father telling the man to Go to hell and kicking him in the groin. That had made Shifty-eyes very angry, and he had retaliated by stabbing out with his knife. Perhaps he shouldn’t have done that. Maybe killing my father had been a big mistake. There were an awful lot of cheap hotels in London. I had been very lucky to have found the right one, and the more so because my father had registered using a name that was neither Talbot nor Grady. Without knowing that it was in Sussex Gardens, it would have been an impossible task.
“Shall we have some coffee?” Sophie asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“Yes,” I said. “That would be lovely. Shall I call the nurse?”
“No,” she replied. “Since last week, they’ve let me go down the corridor to the little kitchen. I’ll get it.”
“Do you need any help?” I asked her.
“Ned,” she replied, looking at me sideways, “I can make coffee on my own. I’ll be all right, you know. I won’t slit my wrists or anything.” She smiled at me. My heart now did the same flip-flop that it had all those years ago when we had first met and she had smiled at me.
“Are you sure?” I said.
“Positive. They might let me use the kitchen, but even they aren’t crazy enough to leave sharp knives lying round for us-the real crazies-to harm ourselves.” She laughed at her joke, and I laughed with her.
She had come a long way even during the last week, and she truly did seem better than ever this time.
“I am trying very hard, you know,” she said more seriously. “I haven’t missed a single dose of these new drugs, and I do honestly believe that they are helping. I feel really quite well now and ready again for the world.”
I stood up and hugged her. There were tears in my eyes.
“Go and get the coffee,” I said.
She went out the door, and I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. Tears of happiness and hope at last after so many of despair and hopelessness.
I thought about staying over at the hospital in their guest suite, but if I wasn’t confident enough to go home alone tonight what chance did I have of taking Sophie there tomorrow?
However, I was still quite wary as I pulled my Volvo into the parking area in front of the dark house. I sat in the car for a few moments looking all around for anything out of the ordinary. Everything seemed fine.
I quickly locked the car and made it safely to my front door.
There were a few letters and bills on the mat but no threatening notes or demands.
Calm down, I told myself.
I tried to, but it didn’t stop me going all around the house checking that the windows were fully closed and drawing the curtains in every room. I had been quite disturbed to think of Mr. John Smith looking through the window at me as I had vacuumed up the mess in the drawing room. He wouldn’t be spying on me again tonight. I made sure of that by not allowing the slightest chink of light to escape through the blinds in the kitchen.
I laid the booty from my father’s rucksack out on the kitchen table, as I had done the first night I’d found it, and sat there looking at it.
Why didn’t I deliver the whole lot to Detective Chief Inspector Llewellyn and let him sort it out? Wash my hands of the affair and get on with my life, which was complex enough without microcoders, forged RFIDs and shifty-eyed men with long, sharp knives?
A good part of me thought that was a great idea.
But it had disadvantages too. For a start, there would be the difficult task of explaining to the chief inspector why I hadn’t given him the stuff as soon as I had found it or even given him the necessary information so that he could have found it himself. I didn’t exactly think he would be very happy about that. He might, with good reason, charge me with obstructing the police, and then what protection would they afford me against a knife man? None whatsoever.