Ryan smiled slowly. There was no lasting damage to Lowerson’s brain.
“We’re waiting for the autopsy to come back. Faulkner’s running his samples. But … there’s a possible connection with Keir Edwards.”
Lowerson searched Ryan’s face for any sign of distress, but he only saw resolve.
“If it turns out to be someone else, then it’s a long time to wait to kill again.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Ryan approved. “That’s why I asked Phillips to look into like crimes. We’ve found several other missing girls who fit the physical type.”
“Whichever way the cookie crumbles, it looks like we’ve got another serial on our hands,” Lowerson mused, with a hint of excitement. Ryan rolled his eyes. Attempted murder and grievous bodily harm couldn’t dim Jack Lowerson’s enthusiasm for detection.
“You’re a morbid bastard,” he joked.
“Yeah, great, isn’t it? There’s only so much Murder, She Wrote that one person can stomach before needing the real thing.”
With an eye on the time and the growing tiredness on Lowerson’s face, Ryan rose from the mint green wingback visitor’s chair.
“Any idea how much longer until they let you out?”
Jack shrugged.
“Another few days, maybe. They’re running brain scans, to double check there’s nothing amiss. They’re a bit concerned about the amnesia.”
“You still don’t remember what happened?”
A shadow passed across Jack’s face.
“No,” he shook his head. “The last thing I remember is seeing the greenhouse in Ingles’ garden on Holy Island, thinking ‘Morning Glory!’ and then the lights went out.”
“It might come to you, when you least expect it.”
Jack’s fingers became restless, tugging at the sheet, folding and re-folding it as he struggled.
“I have nightmares,” he said. “But when I wake up, I can’t remember what they were.”
Ryan put a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Get some rest. We need you back on the team.”
Jack watched his SIO leave and almost called him back. The sound rose up in his throat, desperate to find voice.
But these walls had ears, and they heard everything, just as he had done while he had lain on the ground bleeding and seemingly unconscious. The pain had eventually numbed his mind and darkness had fallen, but not before he had heard a voice he recognised.
Fear was like a heavy blanket and he slumped back against the pillows, tears pooling in his eyes.
So long as he couldn’t remember, he was safe.
CHAPTER 9
Colin Hart leaned carefully over his mother and began the process of unwinding the puss-soaked bandages which covered the sores on her ankles and calves. She wasn’t very lucid today; in fact, she was fast asleep and snoring, which was probably for the best. Her bed was her world, now. When it had become clear that she was getting less mobile than before, even with the mobility scooter that was now sitting rusting on the driveway, she had gradually taken to spending more time atop the grand four-poster bed she had demanded that he buy for her.
He didn’t mind, really. Only the best, for the woman who had given up everything for him. Scrimped and saved to send him to a good school, to take care of him when his no-good father had left them. He had lost count of the amount of times he had been reminded of his good fortune in having Geraldine Hart for a mother.
He tried to ignore the foul smell of the infected bedsores as the bandages eventually came off. He always wore gloves these days, partly to prevent further infection and partly because he just didn’t want the oozing fluid to come in contact with his hands.
He washed them regularly, just in case, with strong surgical soap.
He took out a ball of fresh gauze dressing and began the process of re-bandaging. Not too tight, not too loose, otherwise she would complain. He tried not to notice the sallow, sagging flesh of her skin, or the way the folds wobbled as he manipulated her leg. He tried not to be repulsed by it, but his hands trembled slightly at the effort.
Process complete, he left her sleeping in the musty bedroom, which always carried an unpleasant odour because she refused to allow the windows to be opened. He headed instead for the sitting room he had adapted into his personal library-cum-office. It was a haven in comparison to the chintzy-covered room he had left behind. The walls were plain, the furnishings neutral. Everything was easy on the eye and, consequently, on the mind.
He needed to clock in a few hours’ work, which he was able to do remotely from home. That was the beauty of working as an online stockbroker and he was glad he had made the conscious decision to change profession. It allowed him to be at home to care for his mother, which was only right and proper.