‘I was in a speeding car,’ you say.

  ‘So no way of avoiding the duress,’ he says. ‘I’d say you have a good case. Can you describe the woman?’

  ‘I have no recollection of the woman being in the car, but the woman in the photographs was almost thirty, and blonde.’ You think about telling him that she had visited your room pretending to be a psychiatrist, but decide that would be a revelation too far. The same goes for the body in the boot.

  ‘How are the police getting on with their investigation?’ he asks.

  You hold up your leg so that he can see the handcuffs. ‘They’re holding me as a person of interest.’

  ‘Have they charged you with anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then they can’t do that.’

  ‘It’s a grey area,’ you say. ‘The choice is to stay here and help them with their enquiries, or be charged and behind bars.’

  He smiles. ‘And the food is better here?’

  You nod. ‘And I’m not going to get attacked in the shower. I am worried that things might change and they decide to charge me.’

  ‘With what, exactly?’

  You think about the body in the boot, but decide again not to mention it. ‘They haven’t discussed the charges with me,’ you say. ‘They’ve identified the owner of the car I was in, so they’re waiting to talk to him.’

  ‘And was anyone else hurt in the crash?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ you say.

  ‘Then I really don’t see that they have the right to threaten you with incarceration,’ he says. ‘What were their names, these detectives?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Emma Linklater and Detective Constable Harry Wilde.’

  He takes out a small notebook and scribbles in it. ‘Let me put out a few feelers,’ he says.

  ‘The problem is, Peter, even if they do release me I don’t know where I’d go.’

  ‘You have no memory at all of the crash?’

  ‘It’s worse than that. I can’t remember anything up until the moment I woke up in this bed. That includes my name, my date of birth, my education, my family. It’s as if a hard drive has been completely wiped.’

  ‘But you can create new memories?’

  ‘I remember everything that has happened to me since I woke up. That’s not a problem. In fact I have almost total recall of the last couple of days. But absolutely nothing prior to me waking up.’

  ‘And what do the doctors say should happen, recovery-wise?’

  ‘They seem confident that my memory will come back eventually. But so far, nothing.’

  He puts his notebook and pen away. ‘Look, I can’t promise anything, but let me talk to the investigating officers, at least I can get them to confirm where you stand arrest-wise. I’ll pop by tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate it,’ you say.

  He makes a clicking sound as if he was calling a dog, and leaves.

  You lie staring up at the ceiling, wondering if you should have told him about the dead body in the boot and that the woman waving the gun in the car had visited you in the hospital. The problem was that both issues required a hell of a lot of explaining, and just then you were short on explanations.

  CHAPTER 12

  You’re not sure what exactly woke you, but you open your eyes and squint at the figure standing at the bottom of your bed. ‘Adeya?’ you say sleepily.

  The figure moves towards you. It’s the psychiatrist, Maggie, wearing her white coat. She presses a finger to her lips. ‘Shush,’ she says. ‘Keep quiet.’

  You look over at the heart rate monitor. It’s 4am. ‘What are you doing here?’ you whisper.

  She has a black North Face backpack slung over one shoulder. ‘You need to come with me, Phil. I have to get you out of here.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ You lift your leg so that she can see the handcuffs. ‘First of all, I’m chained to the bed. Second of all, there’s a policeman outside that door, and third of all, go where? I don’t know where I live. I don’t even know my own name.’

  Maggie puts the backpack on the bed by your feet and holds up a key. She waggles it in front of you, then unlocks the cuff around your ankle. She picks up the backpack and thrusts it at you. ‘There’s some clothes. I took a guess at your size but we can get you some new gear tomorrow.’

  ‘Who are you?’ you whisper.

  ‘I’m your best hope,’ she says. ‘Cancel that, I’m your only hope. The cops are going to realise that the guy who owns the car and the body in the boot are one and the same. And when the gunshot residue test on your hands comes back positive, the cops will put two and two together and get five.’

  ‘And how can you know for sure that the GSR test will be positive?’ you ask.

  ‘Because I saw you fire the shot that killed him,’ she says.

  It’s the last thing you expected to hear and it shocks you like a slap across the face. You stare at her, open-mouthed.

  ‘So, you need to get out of here now, because if they charge you and put you behind bars, you’ll be stuck there for a long, long time.’

  ‘Who are you?’ you repeat, louder this time.

  ‘I’m a friend,’ she says. ‘You don’t remember me, I understand that, so you’re going to have to trust me. I’m a friend and a colleague and I have your best interests at heart.’

  You frown. ‘Friend and colleague? How are we colleagues?’

  ‘We work together.’ She looks at her watch. ‘We’re wasting time,’ she says. ‘At some point Starsky and Hutch are going to be back here to arrest you and once you’re behind bars it’ll be a lot harder to get you out.’

  ‘Starsky and Hutch?’

  ‘Starsky and Hutch. Crockett and Tubbs. Morse and Lewis. Regan and Carter. Dalziel and Pascoe. Whichever double act it was that chained you to the bed. Once they have the GSR test and have ID’d the body, it’ll all be over for you.’

  ‘Why were you in the car with me? And why weren’t you hurt in the crash?’

  ‘Because unlike you I was wearing my seatbelt.’ She looks at her watch again. ‘We need to go, Phil.’

  ‘Is that my name? Phil?’

  ‘It’s the name you said you wanted to use, remember?’

  ‘So what is my real name?’

  ‘We don’t have time for this.’

  ‘Tell me my real name.’

  She glares at you for a couple of seconds, then visibly relaxes. ‘Fine. Your name is Tom.’

  ‘Tom what?’

  ‘Tom Fisher. I call you Fish.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s short for Fisher.’

  You think about that for a while. Tom. Tom Fisher. It sounds as alien as James Connolly. You don’t feel like a Tom. Or a James. Or a Jim. You feel like a Phil.

  ‘Fish, you need to get dressed.’

  You swing your feet over the side of the bed. ‘Can you call me Phil?’

  ‘Phil?’

  ‘Fish doesn’t sound right. I’ve gotten used to Phil.’

  ‘Yes. Fine. Whatever. Just get dressed.’ She switches off the monitors.

  You remove the sensors from your chest, the blood pressure sleeve from your arm and the oxygen sensor and pulse monitor from your finger. You put them to the side and unzip the backpack. Inside are a pair of jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, socks, boxer shorts and Reebok trainers. You pick up one of the trainers and look at it. You frown as you realise that you don’t know what size shoes you wear.

  She watches you as you remove your hospital robe. ‘Some privacy, please,’ you say.

  ‘Nothing I haven’t seen before, Fish,’ she says, and you wonder what she means by that. She grins and turns her back on you. You pull on the boxer shorts, then the jeans and the sweatshirt. They all fit perfectly. You put the socks on and slip on the Reeboks. They’re your size. ‘Everything fits,’ you say.

  ‘Of course they fit, they’re your clothes, Fish,’ she says. She’s clearly forgotten that you want her to call you Phil.

  You stand up and check yourself in the mirror above the sink. You haven’t shaved since you woke up and you have a light stubble that rasps as you run your hand across it. ‘You look lovely,’ she says. She picks up the backpack. ‘Now stick with me, keep your head down to avoid the CCTV cameras, especially in the lift, and if anyone comes near us, I’ll do the talking,’ she says. ‘We’re going to go out of the main entrance and there’ll be a white Volvo waiting for us. Okay?’

  You nod. ‘Okay.’

  She picks up the backpack and hands it to you. ‘Let’s go,’ she says, and opens the door.

  You follow her out. There’s a uniformed police officer slumped on a chair, snoring softly. ‘What did you do to him?’ you say.

  ‘He’ll be out for a few hours,’ she says.

  Two nurses walk down the corridor towards you. ‘I’ll make sure that we get a prescription sent around tomorrow,’ she says for their benefit. There’s a camera on the wall ahead of you so you look down at the floor as you walk under it.

  You reach the lifts and she presses the down button. A lift arrives within seconds and you both keep your heads down as you walk inside. The lift whisks you down to the ground floor and despite the early hour there are still plenty of people around. You flinch at the sound of aggressive shouting but it’s only a drunk trying to get access to the Accident and Emergency Department, his way blocked by a large security guard wearing a hi-vis jacket.

  You keep your face to the ground as you follow Maggie to the sliding doors that lead outside. There are half a dozen ambulances lined up, waiting to deliver patients, and two police cars, blue lights flashing but sirens off. ‘This way,’ says Maggie, heading left. You keep pace with her. Ahead of you is a white Volvo. ‘Get in the back, and keep looking away from the cameras.’ she says.

  You pull open the rear door and climb in. You recognise the driver immediately. It’s Peter Thornton, the solicitor.

  ‘Move up,’ says Maggie and you shuffle along the seat. She gets in and pulls the door shut. Peter puts the car in gear and they pull away from the kerb. You look around. Nobody seems to be paying you any attention.

  ‘Any problems?’ asks Peter.

  ‘All good,’ says Maggie.

  You sigh and lean back in your seat. You have absolutely no idea what the hell is going on or who these people are, but at least you’re no longer chained to a bed.

  CHAPTER 13

  You look around, trying to work out which way the Volvo is heading. There isn’t much traffic around, it’s still dark but there are red streaks on the horizon suggesting that dawn isn’t far off. ‘Where are we going?’ you ask. The London Eye is off to your left, The Shard behind you. It looks as if Peter is preparing to cross the river.

  ‘Somewhere safe,’ says Maggie. ‘Somewhere the police won’t find you.’

  ‘What’s going on, Maggie?’ you ask. ‘And is Maggie your real name?’

  ‘I’m Maggie, Peter’s Peter, and you’re Fish. So that’s the introductions out of the way.’

  ‘Why did you break me out of the hospital?’

  ‘Because the police are only hours away from arresting you for the murder of Robbie Johnston.’

  ‘And you’re saying I killed him?’

  ‘You were holding the gun when it went off, Fish. That’s not to say that it was murder, or even manslaughter, but your memory loss means that there’s no way that you could ever mount a decent defence in a court of law.’

  ‘You said you were there when it happened. So you can explain to the cops, can’t you?’

  ‘Sadly, no. Not without opening up a whole can of worms that we would prefer stays well sealed, at least until we have our ducks in a row.’

  ‘Whose gun was it? The gun that killed him?’

  ‘It was his gun. You grabbed it and it went off.’

  ‘So it was self defence.’

  ‘It was a Glock. Glocks have...’

  ‘A safety trigger so it can’t be pulled accidentally. Yes, I know.’

  ‘So a plea of self defence isn’t going to cut it. Plus you’d have to explain why you didn’t call the cops there and then instead of shoving the body in the boot of the car.’

  ‘I put the body in the boot.’

  ‘You and Peter. Yes.’

  ‘Why did Johnston have a gun?’

  ‘That's a good question, Fish. We didn’t expect him to have one. It caught us all by surprise.’

  ‘And where did this happen?’ you ask.

  ‘Johnston’s house. It was Johnston’s car that you were driving.’

  ‘And why were we in his house?’

  ‘We were there to rob him,’ says Maggie. ‘We’re thieves, Fish. That’s what we do.’

  ‘Rob him of what? Watches? Cash?’

  ‘Seriously, you don’t remember any of this?’ asks Peter.

  ‘Not a thing,’ you say. ‘The first thing I remember is waking up in the hospital bed. Everything before that is a blank.’

  ‘You missed one hell of a ride,’ says Peter.

  ‘You remember the crash?’

  ‘Not really. The actual collision is a blur.’

  You nod thoughtfully as you consider what you’ve been told. ‘So we went to rob this Johnston guy?’

  ‘That was the plan, yes,’ says Maggie. ‘Funny how quickly the best laid plans can turn to shit.’

  ‘So who planned this?’

  ‘It was a joint effort. We each have our own particular set of skills. Like Liam Neeson and that Taken movie.’

  ‘He was a CIA guy in that movie. A preventer. Someone who stops bad things before they happen.’

  Maggie turns to look at you. ‘You said you had amnesia.’

  ‘I do. I can’t remember anything before the crash.’

  ‘But you can remember Liam Neeson in a movie? You know who he is and what the movie was about?’

  You nod. ‘I know, it sounds crazy.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense. Either you have amnesia or you don’t.’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that. I can remember the world, but I can’t remember anything personal. Family, friends, school, university, all of that is a blank. I remember the movie, but I have no idea where I saw it or who I was with.’

  Her eyes tighten. ‘If you’re lying to me, you’ll regret it.’

  ‘Why would I lie about something like that?’

  ‘You might be hiding something. That’s why.’

  ‘Hiding what?’

  She flashes you a tight smile. ‘This isn’t the place for that conversation,’ she says. ‘In the meantime, best you don’t say anything?’

  ‘I don’t understand what’s happening.’

  ‘What part of “don’t say anything” don’t you get?’ she asks.

  You mime locking your mouth and throwing away the imaginary key, but it doesn’t seem to amuse her. You settle back in the seat and wonder just how safe this so-called safe house is going to be.

  CHAPTER 14

  Peter presses a small black fob and the garage door rattles up. We’re parked in the driveway of a small semi-detached house in Greenwich, not far from the river, a new build by the look of it. Peter edges the Volvo forward and presses the fob again to close the door. A tennis ball hanging on a length of string bumps gently against the windscreen and Peter applies the brakes and switches off the engine.

  ‘What is this place?’ you ask.

  ‘Somewhere safe,’ says Maggie. ‘Away from prying eyes.’

  ‘What if they follow the car using number plate recognition?’

  ‘The car’s stolen, the plates are fake and there’s no CCTV either end of this road,’ says Peter. ‘We’re good.’

  He gets out of the car and opens a door that leads inside the house. You turn to Maggie. ‘What’s happening?’ you ask.

  ‘Let’s go inside and we can talk over a drink,’ she says.

  ‘This guy Peter isn’t a solicitor?’

  She smiles. ‘No, and I’m not a psychiatrist. We just said that so we could get in to the hospital to see you.’

  ‘Who are you? What are you? What is this all about?’’

  ‘I already told you, we’re thieves.’ She opens the door and climbs out. You do the same and follow her into the house. The door opens into the kitchen. Peter opens the fridge and takes out cans of lager. He tosses one to Maggie and another to you. No one seems to be bothering with glasses so you pop the tab and take a sip. It’s Fosters and you know that’s an Australian lager but you have no memory of ever having drunk one before.

  Peter heads into the hall and you follow him. He turns right into a sitting room with a low-slung grey sofa and two matching armchairs. The blinds are drawn and the room is in darkness so he flicks on the light switch. There’s a large television on one wall and a framed picture of dogs playing poker on another. Peter sits down in one of the armchairs and swings his feet up onto a coffee table littered with motoring magazines. You sit on the sofa and Maggie takes the remaining arm chair. ‘Home, sweet home,’ says Peter.

  ‘How long have you guys known me?’ you ask.

  Peter shrugs and looks over at Maggie. ‘Three years?’ he says.

  ‘A bit less,’ says Maggie. ‘Two and a half.’

  ‘And my name is Tom Fisher?’

  ‘That’s what you told us,’ says Peter. ‘I don’t see that you’d be lying.’

  ‘When I was in the car, I didn’t have a wallet or anything that could identify me.’

  ‘That’s the first rule of thieving,’ says Maggie. ‘Don’t carry ID. No ID, no wallet, no phone. Nothing that can identify you.’

  ‘And the second rule is not to carry a weapon,’ says Peter.

  ‘Because a weapon makes it burglary or armed robbery instead of just breaking and entering,’ you say.

  Peter frowns at you. ‘I thought you had amnesia,’ he says.

  ‘I do. I can remember stuff, facts and figures and the like, I just can’t remember things about my own life. I remember a lot of legal stuff. I thought maybe I was a lawyer.’

  Peter chuckles. ‘Crims need to know the law,’ he says and Maggie laughs.

  ‘Bloody right, they do,’ she says.

  ‘So we didn’t have guns?’ you ask.

 

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