(1995) By Any Name (3 page)

‘Please, sit down. That ankle of yours must be giving you trouble.’

‘Not much.’

Elizabeth noted that the patient’s voice had lost its electronic edge but was bland, neutral.

‘Do you know where you are?’ Dave asked.

‘In hospital – or so a nurse informed me.’

Dave sat on the only chair in the room. It was bolted to the floor. ‘What can you remember about yesterday?’

The patient frowned. ‘I recall being brought here in an ambulance. Being checked by a doctor in casualty.

Talking to you.’ He focused on Elizabeth. ‘I remember arriving in this ward.’ He continued to stare at Elizabeth. ‘And being sedated.’

‘You were exhausted, you needed sleep.’ She wished she hadn’t sounded quite so defensive.

‘Your name?’ Dave prompted.

The man shook his head.

‘Your work?

West’s frown deepened with concentration.

‘Think houses, villages, streets. Can you remember where you live?’ Dave tried one prompt after another.

He tossed off the names of well-known places in the locality; shops, pubs, restaurants, estates, all to no avail. When their patient showed signs of agitation and left the bed to limp to the window, he rose to his feet.

‘What causes loss of memory?’ West asked.

‘In short, trauma,’ Dave answered. ‘But try not to worry, in my experience it rarely lasts more than a day or two and we’re only just beginning treatment.

Meanwhile we have to call you something. The staff have christened you “John West”.’

‘I suppose it’s as good as any name.’

Elizabeth opened the door; the sister was outside with the police officers. ‘You have visitors, Mr Watson.’

Elizabeth smiled reassuringly at “John” before leaving. ‘I know it’s alarming, but as Mr Watson said, try not to worry. In a day or two everything should be back to normal.’

‘Will
normal
be better than this?’ he questioned acidly.

‘Hopefully.’ She closed the door and made a mental note not to toss off any more platitudes with those sceptical eyes analyzing her every word.

To Dave and Elizabeth’s surprise, it wasn’t only the police who were waiting for them in the conference room.

The hospital administrator, Julian Trist, effected the introductions.

‘Inspector Barnes and Sergeant Pickett from the local police. Lieutenant-Colonel Heddingham and Major Simmonds from the Ministry of Defence, Major Simmonds is an army psychiatrist. Gentlemen, our psychiatric consultant Mr David Watson and his registrar, Dr Elizabeth Santer.’ Julian pulled a chair out from under the table for Elizabeth. Dave sat next to her.

‘Our patient has been identified?’ Dave asked.

‘We’ve had no response, as yet, to our appeal for information regarding our man’s identity,’ the inspector informed them briskly.

‘Thank you for trying.’ Elizabeth tried not to sound bitter as she recalled the case of a vagrant who’d been brought in with amnesia two days before his death from pneumonia. He’d been left in the mortuary for six months before his body had been taken for cremation, bearing the label “
IDENTITY 
UNKNOWN”
.

‘Our people worked through the night.’ Sergeant Pickett flashed Elizabeth his most charming smile before opening the file in front of him. ‘They compared the blood and tissue smeared over him with the sample of his own blood taken by the admitting doctor. There were three distinct groups; his own, which is O, two AB negative, and one of those had foetal characteristics which means it came from a very young child.’

Elizabeth had tried to avoid speculating how the blood had been smeared over “John West”. She disliked the thought of a killer on her ward, much less a child-killer.

‘Have you found any bodies?’ Dave asked.

‘Not yet, but we’ve mounted an all-out search in the vicinity where he was found, including a house to house. The medical notes suggest our man could be suffering from… ’ the sergeant flipped through his notebook. ‘Trauma-induced amnesia, which – correct me if I’m wrong – means that if his memory loss is real, it’s been caused by something he’d rather forget.’

‘A simplified description, but one I’d go along with,’ Dave agreed.

‘In addition the doctor found several scars on his body, three of which appear to be healed bullet wounds. Apart from those he appears to be in the best of health?’

‘I’d say A1 fit. There’s no sign of injury or ailments apart from superficial cuts and his ankle sprain,’ Elizabeth concurred.

‘These scars, coupled with his military bearing suggest the possibility of an armed-forces background,’ the lieutenant-colonel barked.

Dave sat back in his chair and eyed the army officers.

‘His background could be military,’ the police inspector agreed. ‘Or it could be terrorist. We’re running his fingerprints through our computers now but if he is a terrorist on some kind of mission, suicide or otherwise, we’re not expecting to find anything.

The organisations that employ operatives to do their dirty work for them have too many volunteers to draw on, to risk using a known suspect.’

‘If he is a member of the British armed forces, he’ll be reported missing sooner or later and you’ll have his description on file,’ Elizabeth interrupted.

‘We are combing our personnel records as we speak, Dr Santer. However, as the security situation in this country is particularly sensitive at present… ’

‘Particularly sensitive?’ Dave lifted his eyebrows.

‘I am referring to the peace conference. But after the events of the past few years our security forces are on constant alert for terrorists targeting civilian as well as military personnel,’ Heddingham asserted.

‘You really think he’s a terrorist?’ Elizabeth probed.

‘It’s an option we can’t afford to disregard.’

‘His English is impeccable.’

‘As is the English of many Oxford-educated sons of wealthy Arabs who fund Islamic extremist parties,’

Heddingham said testily. ‘Some even have blue eyes and a suntan from frequent holidays in the Middle East. He may appear British, Dr Santer, but he may also believe that dying for his cause will guarantee him a place in heaven. And the London and Madrid bombings have proved that this new breed of terrorist doesn’t give a damn who they take with them when they go.’ Realizing he’d been lecturing, the lieutenant-colonel modified his hectoring tone. ‘But, as yet we have nothing concrete. In the meantime, we are here at the request of the civilian authorities to see if we can shed some light on this man’s identity. Any suggestions you have that could help us to achieve that end would be most welcome.’

‘Dr Santer admitted him. I interviewed him for the first time this morning. What do you think, Elizabeth?’ Dave asked.

‘He’s lucid and can hold a conversation. He appears to function normally until you ask him a personal question.’

‘For example?’ Major Simmonds enquired earnestly.

‘His name, address or occupation,’ Elizabeth answered.

‘Do you think his amnesia is genuine?’

‘I have no reason to think otherwise.’

‘You have a record of your assessment?’

‘Of course. But, as Mr Watson explained, he only saw him for the first time this morning. And as the patient’s been on the ward for… ’ she glanced at her watch, ‘barely six hours, the record is not complete.’

‘Has he seen television or read today’s newspapers?’

‘No.’

‘Does he have access to radio or television?’

‘He has neither in his room, and as there are two policemen stationed outside his door he’s not had an opportunity to leave it.’ Elizabeth resented the questioning that she felt bordered on interrogation.

‘Have you tried hypnosis?’ Simmonds peered over his spectacles at Dave.

‘As Dr Santer said, he’s only been with us for a few hours, and he spent most of that time sleeping.’

‘You
do
use hypnosis in amnesia cases?’ Major Simmonds asked.

‘When I believe the patient’s condition warrants it, yes,’ Dave snapped, at what he took as implied criticism.

Oblivious to Dave’s irritation, Simmonds persevered. ‘To good effect?’

‘On occasions.’

‘I trust that you have no objection to co-operating with the police, and armed forces, Mr Watson?’ Trist checked the time. A meeting of the Trust Board was scheduled to begin in half an hour and he wanted to clear the conference room, arrange refreshments, and ensure everything was spick and span before it commenced.

‘I have no objection provided that either Dr Santer or myself are present at any interviews conducted by anyone other than internal hospital staff.’

‘That will be in order, as long as you both sign the Official Secrets Act,’ the lieutenant-colonel agreed.

‘Shall we schedule your interview with the patient after lunch, gentlemen?’ Dave left the table. ‘That will give us time to carry out our normal ward rounds.’

‘I think they know who he is; that’s why the army has been called in so quickly,’ Elizabeth declared as she sat opposite Dave in the staff canteen over the remains of a bacon sandwich.

‘Or it’s as the man said; they don’t know, but they’re not taking any chances. If they have checked all the military records and there’s no one missing… ’

‘Overnight?’ she questioned sceptically. ‘Besides, even if he was in the army, he could have been discharged months or even years ago.’

‘In which case there would be a record of his service.’ Watson pushed aside the remnants of his late breakfast of omelette and sausages. ‘What do you make of him?’

‘Trauma-induced amnesia… ’

‘I didn’t ask for a case history. Granted, you haven’t spent much time with him, but it’s more than I have. You must have
some
thoughts.’

She stared down at her plate. ‘Even without the amnesia, I get the impression that he’d be a difficult person to get to know. The sort that keeps other people at arm’s length.’

‘Explain?’

‘I don’t think he’s accustomed to talking about himself, so I can’t imagine him being very different from the way he appears. Polite but aloof. Amnesia doesn’t usually change basic personality, so I think what we’re seeing, is what he is.’

‘I bow to your superior diagnostic talent. You can assess all that in a trauma-induced amnesiac.’

She laughed. ‘All right, sneer and call it female intuition if you must. I admit my diagnosis is not based on medical reasoning or logic.’

‘With Anna for a wife, the last thing I can afford to sneer at is woman’s intuition. More coffee?’

‘Please.’

He glanced at her as he went to the counter. He’d worked with Elizabeth for three years, and was fonder of her than he was of his own sister. Fond enough to have chosen her to be godmother to his twins. But if Elizabeth had one fault, it was that her life was work and vice-versa, and had been since the death of her husband.

What do you think Simmonds is planning on doing this afternoon?’ she asked when he returned with two plastic beakers.

Dave handed her the coffee. ‘He might be army and a major, but he’s also a psychiatrist. Presumably that means he’s received the same training as us, so I can’t see him deviating from accepted practice.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘You don’t trust him?’

‘I’ve a funny feeling about him – and that lieutenant-colonel.’

‘More intuition?’ Dave mocked gently.

‘It’s just that I’d prefer to tread softly with John West. You didn’t see the blood and brain tissue plastered all over him.’

‘You think we’re dealing with a killer?’

‘Or a witness?’ She recalled the piercing blue eyes, the full, sensual lips. Hard, yes, forbidding, yes, but there was something more to “John West”. Something she had difficulty squaring with what she knew of the psychological make-up of a killer.

CHAPTER TWO

After ward rounds, Elizabeth left Dave at the door to his office and took the lift to the seventh floor.

Gaining admittance to the ward she proceeded down the corridor. A single policeman on duty nodded as she passed him and entered the patient’s room. The man she now thought of as John West was standing, staring out of the window, an untouched plastic lunch tray abandoned on the table next to his bed. She glanced at the clean plastic fork and paper plate of congealing chilli, frosted with grease.

‘I can’t say I blame you.’

He turned and looked at her. ‘For what?’

‘Not wanting to eat that.’ She indicated the tray.

‘I hope I’ve eaten better.’

‘Judging by your state of health, I think we can guarantee that. What are your favourite foods?’

‘Smoked salmon on rye followed by T Bone steak with tossed green salad, onion rings and garlic bread.’

He looked at her intently. ‘It’s crazy, I know what I like to eat, but I don’t know my own name.’

‘Your taste in food is a start.’

‘Is that part of the technique?’

‘What?’ She picked up his chart from the foot of the bed.

‘Sudden unexpected questions.’

‘They can sometimes kick-start the memory.’

‘I don’t like the process.’

‘That particular question was hardly earth-shatteringly personal.’

‘But you’ll follow it up with one that is.’

‘We’re trying to help you.’

He turned away from her and resumed his study of the grey November day.

‘It’s dismal out there.’ She gazed at the gloomy vista of tower-blocks set in a sea of scabrous ground littered with the debris of fly tippers.

‘That’s the outskirts of London for you.’

‘You know where we are?’

‘I asked the nurse who brought my lunch.’

‘Maybe you prefer the countryside to the city.’

He had a sudden vision of rolling, bracken-garbed hillside in autumn. Golden brown curling leaves interspersed with vast swathes of dry saffron-coloured grass sweeping upwards to high peaks, only just visible beneath crowns of low-hanging cloud. Up there the air would be cool; clean and pure enough to intoxicate a man more than a dozen whiskies ever could. And all around, as far as the eye could see, smooth weathered hills ribboned with frothing streams water-falling down the slopes. At this time of the year, everything would be veiled in a mist that sometimes, but not always, obscured the icing of snow in the deeper valleys and higher pinnacles.