'Sophie!'
I hurried inside, turning on the lights. There was no answer. I knew I should call the police but if I did I'd be told to wait outside until a car arrived.
That might be too late.
I quickly checked the downstairs rooms. They'd been ransacked, drawers and cupboards torn open and emptied, cushions flung off sofas and chairs. There was no sign of anyone so I ran upstairs. I noticed now that the carpet had wet patches on it, but I ignored it when I realized it was only water. All the doors at the top were closed, except for the bathroom. It was slightly ajar.
Through the gap I could see a pair of bare legs on the floor.
I rushed forward. A woman's body lay behind the door, blocking it so that I had to squeeze through. She was lying on her back, a towelling bathrobe fallen open. One arm was flung across her face, and a tangle of still-damp hair covered it further.
No blood. That was my first thought, but when I knelt beside her I saw that one side of her face was swollen in a livid purple bruise.
But even with that, and the fact that it was eight years since I'd last seen her, I still recognized Sophie Keller.
I moved aside the spill of hair and felt her throat. Her skin was cold but the pulse was steady. Thank God. I eased her into the recovery position, gently pulling the bathrobe down to cover her. There was no mobile reception, so I ran back down to the phone I'd seen in the kitchen. My voice wasn't quite steady as I called emergency
Hurrying back upstairs, I covered Sophie with a quilt from the bedroom. Then, sitting next to her on the hard floor, I took her hand and waited for the ambulance to arrive.
Chapter 11
I had to stay behind to give my statement while the ambulance ferried Sophie to hospital. I watched it go from the path just outside the front door, no siren yet but the blue light was bright and urgent, strobing through the dark branches as it disappeared up the lane.
It took nearly forty minutes for the first paramedics to arrive. During that time I'd not moved, sitting cramped on the bathroom floor with Sophie, talking to her constantly to reassure her that help was on the way, that everything would be all right. I'd no idea if she could even hear me. But there are different degrees of consciousness: if Sophie was aware on some level there was always a chance.
It wasn't as if there was anything else I could do.
The paramedics couldn't tell me much. Her vital signs were stable, which was something. But there was no knowing how serious the head trauma was, or if she had any other internal injuries. The police arrived as the ambulance crew were bringing her down the stairs. The blackness of the country night was broken by flashing lights, giving the bare trees in the orchard an eerie, spectral hue. I stood by helplessly as Sophie was carried out to the waiting ambulance, answering the flat-voiced questions of a policewoman. When she asked what my relationship was to Sophie I hesitated.
'I'm an old friend,' I said, not even sure if that was true.
As I'd waited for help to arrive I'd debated what to say. I'd no way of knowing if this had anything to do with Jerome Monk or not. The ransacked house looked like a burglary that had gone wrong, except for the timing. Sophie had called me asking for help, not long after Terry Connors had shown up to warn me of Monk's escape. And whoever had attacked her had done so before she could meet me and explain.
In the end I told the police everything, letting them decide whether or not to act on it. The policewoman's interest pricked up on hearing Monk's name, and so did her questions. Finally, frustrated with repeating 'I don't know,' I gave in to the inevitable.
'You need to call DI Terry Connors,' I told her.
I was loath to bring him into this, but I hadn't much choice. Feeling like a criminal myself, I sat in the back of the police car with the policewoman's partner while she made the call. Finally, she came back.
'OK, you can go.'
It wasn't what I'd expected. 'Doesn't he want to speak to me?'
'We've got your statement. Somebody'll be in touch.' She gave me a smile that wasn't unfriendly. 'I hope your friend's all right.'
So did I.
The ambulance was taking Sophie to hospital in Exeter. As I drove there myself I tried not to dwell on the fact that the last time I'd been on this route, eight years before, I'd been going to the mortuary. The hospital had undergone some modernization since then, but not so much that I couldn't recognize it. The receptionist behind the Emergency desk was an overweight woman with a neat fringe of greying hair. She frowned as she stared at her computer screen after I gave her Sophie's name.
'No one called that's been admitted tonight,' she said. 'You sure you've got the right hospital?'
I was about to argue when I realized my mistake. 'Sorry. Try Sophie Trask.'
She gave me an odd look but tapped at her keyboard. 'She was admitted to intensive care about an hour ago.'
Even when it's expected, there's still something ominous about the phrase intensive care. 'Can I find out how she is?'
'Are you a family member?'
'No, just a friend.'
'We're not allowed to give out that information unless you're the partner or a relative.'
I sighed, trying not to snap. 'I only want to know if she's all right.'
'I'm sorry. Perhaps if you phone tomorrow morning…'
Frustrated, I went back outside. The hospital was a black rectangle behind me as I returned to my car, the bright squares of its windows deceptively cheerful in the darkness. Now what? I'd have called Terry myself, but I didn't have his mobile number and I doubted he'd be at his desk at this time of night.
But there was no point in staying here. I hadn't packed for an overnight trip, and if anything happened I'd find out as quickly at home as anywhere else. Even so, it felt like running away as I started the car engine and left the hospital behind. I stopped at the first garage I came to and bought a sandwich and caffeine drink. One was tasteless, the other sickly sweet, but I'd had nothing to eat or drink since breakfast and it was a long drive back to London.
The day's events replayed in my head as I drove. I'd gone to meet Sophie expecting to have at least some questions answered. Now there were more than ever.
The roads were quiet and I made good time to start with, but then the rain increased into a deluge that hazed the road with spray, smearing the windscreen like Vaseline despite the furious efforts of the wipers. I was forced to slow down, peering to make out the road ahead as the tail lights of the cars in front were reduced to dull red smudges. The downpour eased as I reached the outskirts of London, but not before a tension headache had settled into my neck and temples. I squinted against the street lights and brightly lit shops, the glare made worse by their mirror images on the rain-shiny pavements.
It was a relief when I finally turned on to my own road and parked outside my flat. It was after midnight. There were no other lights on, which meant my neighbours were either out or asleep. Unlocking the door, I bent to retrieve the usual assortment of bills and fliers, and as I straightened I felt a sudden sensation of being watched.
I quickly turned round, but the dark street was empty. I realized I was holding my breath, waiting for something to shatter the quiet, and forced myself to relax.
You're tired and imagining things. It's nothing.
Still, as I closed the door I was annoyed at myself. It was over a year since I'd almost been killed on my own doorstep: I'd thought I was past flinching at shadows.
Obviously not.