I count the press vans out there. Five, by the looks of it: BBC East, BBC News, ITV, Channel 4, and Sky. I wonder where all the print journalists are.
I look back at the people in the lobby. The man in a Barbour jacket propped in the corner, his black scarf balled into a pillow as he naps. The teenager by the security guards, head bowed, texting. The middle-aged woman in a beige-colored suit sipping coffee in the café as she jots notes in a pad. A gaunt sharp-featured man whispering to a smartly dressed redhead in the coffee queue. Her eyes catch mine for a microsecond and she looks away, absorbed in what the man is telling her.
And I suddenly wonder ifeveryonehere is press.
15
THE MAN
DAY 1—NOT A WORD
Poole and Graceford arrive at the hospital nineteen minutes after the incident call goes out. They aren’t the responding officers, that’s the job of the King’s Lynn station. Poole and Graceford are here because, in some capacity, their unidentified suspect from the beach was involved in this new incident.
Their search on the beach was unsuccessful. No handy pile of clothes, no car keys or wallet, no shoes or coat. The identity of the man is still unknown. Trevor Kwasi, Princess Margaret Hospital’s head of security, makes his way over to meet them as soon as they enter.
“He’s gone down to the King’s Lynn station already,” Trevor informs them, hitching the waistband of his trousers, which is clearly in a losing battle with his comfortable girth. “His name was Mike Garrett. Adams and Rhys from King’s Lynn just took him. You just missed them.” He checks his watch, to clarify. “There’s still a King’s Lynn officer up on the ward, Mel Wheatly, she’s taking witness statements, if you guys want to make your way up.”
Graceford gives him a nod.
“I asked all the witnesses to hang about in case you lot need to talk to them too.”
From the initial radio call, Graceford and Poole had assumed the suspect was their unidentified man, but now they realize they were wrong.
Leading them up to Level 2, the security chief explains what he knows, which isn’t yet much.
“Mike Garrett was looking for a discharged patient, a guy called Martins. Apparently, Martins drove the car that hit Garrett’s car late last night. Drunk-driving incident. Garrett’s daughter died—she died en route here. Martins came away with only bruises. He was discharged into police custody shortly after admission. To be fair to him, he was broken up about it, called 999 himself from the scene. Anyway, Mike Garrett couldn’t handle the news. God knows what he would have actually done if he’d found Martins. And your guy, he somehow managed to sweet-talk Garrett into handing over his weapon. No struggle, nothing.”
“How? What exactly did he say to him?” Poole asks, frowning.
“Couldn’t tell you,” Trevor puffs, pausing on the half-flight landing to catch his breath. “I’ve been hearing some pretty mixed things from witnesses. I think your best bet witness-wise is a nurse called Rhoda, I’ll point her out to you once we’re up there. She was with your guy when it happened, so if anyone should know…” He shrugs and sets off again, leading them up.
“We’ll need to talk to the patient too, the man from the beach. Is he still on the ward or has he been moved?” Graceford asks.
“Er, well…here’s the thing. You can’t reallytalkto him.” Trevor gives a wry chuckle as he opens the Level 2 doors. “See, he’s not saying anything.”
“What do you mean, he’s not saying anything?” Poole asks sharply. “You mean he’s still not talking?”
“No. The officers from King’s Lynn tried. The nurses tried. Nothing.”
“Wait, Trevor, he’s not talking about the incident, or he’s not talking at all?” Graceford persists, her brow furrowed. “Like, he’s mute? You’ve got to be kidding me, Trev. You seriously think he’s mute?”
“Or maybe he’s not all there,” Trevor says. “I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. Maybe he’s done something and he’s just keeping schtum. How would I know? Or he’s foreign, he might not even speak the language. Might not understand what we’re saying. Immigrant or something.”
“Okay, well. Let’s not jump to any conclusions. The last thing we want is an immigration officer down here. We all know how much everyone loves those guys.” Graceford looks back to Poole. “Where’s the nearest detention center, Chris? Could he have come from there?”
“There’s Yarl’s Wood Immigration Removal Center in Bedford. Or maybe Fulton Hall Removal Center in Lincoln— but that’s too far. You think it’s likely, that he’s illegal?”
Graceford shrugs. “I hope not, for everyone’s sake. And I don’t know why he’d be on a beach up here. Unless there’s some new North Sea crossing route we don’t know about yet? I suppose he could have just paid for passage on a fishing boat. The Norwegians get pretty close to the coast here.”
“Surely we’d have found a life vest or something on the beach. There’s no way he could have made it in without one.”
Graceford nods in agreement; neither of them are convinced. Besides, the man they found didn’t look like a refugee, at least not like their ideas of one. But why would he be silent? Perhaps he has a reason to stay quiet.
A nurse looks up as they enter the ward, scanning their uniforms and expressions with weary eyes. She rises to greet them with a tentative smile. “How can I be of help, Officers?”
Rhoda leads them to one of the ward’s single-occupancy rooms, where the patient is lying in bed, his head turned away toward the window.
“Hello, stranger,” Rhoda says, tapping at the open door.
