‘The ear has been reattached. The attachment will most likely prove successful. Quite a clean detachment, involving only the exterior part of the ear. The tympanic membrane, the eardrum, has been compromised, although there appears to be no middle or inner ear damage. There may be some unilateral hearing loss.’
Sophie felt a wave of nausea. She looked at the person lying there, looking like an early Hollywood version of the Invisible Man. ‘How long will he be in the coma?’
‘Several days. Once you’ve stayed with him for a while, you might consider returning home. There can be little virtue in subjecting yourself and… is it a son or daughter?’
‘A daughter. Laura.’
He smiled. ‘There’s little to be gained in subjecting yourself and Laura to any more discomfort. So, I would suggest that you return home to wait. We’ll notify you of any changes in your husband’s condition. And, of course, you may phone in for updates. We’re hopeful that, although Mr Royston’s condition is critical, he will make a fair recovery.’
‘Fair?’
‘It’s unlikely that such an injury will not carry consequences, although many head injury patients do return to a normal life. He will probably need a period of rehabilitation. But let’s cross that bridge when the time comes, shall we?’
Sophie sighed. It was pointless asking anything else. Futile. Too many permutations of good news and bad news and nobody knowing. So, she thanked the surgeon and he left. She lingered for a while trying to deal with the tirade of thoughts that were crashing through her mind but she was too tired to organise them into any kind of logical order. It would be better if Laura woke in her own room. She wished she hadn’t insisted Katie left. She couldn’t phone her now: she was probably asleep, dreaming away the trauma she had been dragged into. She’d call a cab. There were approved numbers by reception. So, that’s what she did. The cab driver was apologetic about the fare. It was double rate after midnight. And it wasn’t officially morning until seven o’clock. Sophie shrugged: money was the least of her concerns. Of course, that situation was about to change.
* * *
Sophie suffered a restless couple of hours, drifting in and out of dreamy sleep, with each transition being filled with the kind of madness that revels in fear and doubt: Jonah’s detached ear lying in the gutter; Laura stolen from her pram; peeling Jonah’s bandages away and discovering that his head had degenerated into a mass of macaroni cheese; Sam Barnes unloading the dishwasher wearing nothing but her Cath Kidston apron. Right, enough was enough! She sat up and checked the alarm clock: seven twenty. Laura was stirring.
Sophie turned towards Jonah’s side of the bed, touched his cold pillow. She was used to sleeping alone when he was on his trips, but today his half of the bed looked more than unslept in. It looked left. Just like her. Last night she had been desperate to rationalise; today she wasn’t feeling that generous. Perhaps, even if his Exeter stopover had been legitimate, perhaps his clinking-glass supper had proved to be so enjoyable that he’d decided to embrace West Country life permanently. Perhaps that woman was his somebody else. Sophie pictured her sitting at home wondering why he hadn’t contacted her. Why he wasn’t there with her to start their new life together. Perhaps she’d been trying to call him. She needed to check Jonah’s mobile for incriminating evidence, but she didn’t want to do that right then. Instead, she concentrated on getting herself and Laura ready for the day, and that way she managed to put off thinking until almost nine thirty, when she phoned the hospital and was told that Jonah’s condition was unchanged.
The doorbell rang.
Sophie’s heart skipped several beats. She bundled Laura into her playpen then hurried through to the front door. This time her heart almost stopped completely: Officer Wilkes was standing on her top step, Officer Tyler on the pavement below, holding Laura’s car seat. Sophie wrung her hands. ‘Is it about Jonah? They said there was no change.’
Officer Wilkes held up his hand. ‘No, no. We gather Mr Royston is as well as can be expected. We’re returning your car seat.’ His attitude seemed to have mellowed. ‘And we were hoping you might be able to provide us with Mr Royston’s car details. There are a few problems related to yesterday’s traffic incident. If we could come inside?’
Sophie stepped back and directed the two officers into her lounge, invited them to take a seat, glanced at Officer Tyler, who gave her a convincing smile. OK, that was unexpected.
‘What’s this all about, Officer Wilkes?’
‘Ms Denham, might we ask how long Mr Royston has owned his vehicle? The black BMW?’
‘About three years, I think.’ How could they expect her to know such things at a time like this? ‘Isn’t the road tax up to date?’
‘No, no, the vehicle’s documents are in perfect order. The problem arises from the fact that the vehicle does not appear to belong to Mr Royston.’
Autopsy
‘James! I’m not interrupting anything am I?’
‘No, Sam. Come and join us. I… Good God, what happened to you? Have you been wrestling with international crime lords?’
‘I came off the bike. Is that the failed Caesar?’
‘Yes, minus the fauna.’
‘So, what can you tell me?’
‘Not that much, I’m afraid. Dental records, fingerprints, DNA… not previously on record. Actually, her teeth were perfect. Facial recognition provided nothing. There are indications of previous pregnancies. A nicely reworked low transverse C-section scar just above the pubic hairline. I missed that at the scene. The uterine wall seems to have ruptured along the site of a previous incision.’
‘Does that often happen?’
‘Under normal circumstances it rarely happens. Usually, it’s only when there’s an insufficient gap between pregnancies and the uterine scar fails to heal prior to subsequent implantation. Perhaps due to an infection. There’s no knowing the circumstances under which the previous procedures were carried out. How aseptic they were. We’re checking microbiology. There’s a lot to choose from given her circumstances of late. But in this case the rupture was undoubtedly due to a twin pregnancy with the attachment of a second placenta over a previous Caesarean scar. So, we’re looking at a case of placenta accreta in a multiple pregnancy, most likely a twin pregnancy. The detachment and subsequent rupture would have caused the haemorrhaging that necessitated the emergency section.’
‘So, you think at least three pregnancies including this twin pregnancy? How old would you say she is?’
‘Difficult to be sure. Skull sutures, epiphyseal fusion, tooth eruption… I wouldn’t place her much older than eighteen. Maybe younger.’
‘God Almighty! Do you think someone’s been using this child as a baby factory?’
‘She was well-nourished. No signs of long-term maltreatment. Although there’s bruising and recent, unhealed vaginal tears, possibly due to abusive sexual activity immediately prior to the start of labour or possibly during it.’
‘Good God, now there’s something to colour my dreams for a while.’
‘We’re checking for foreign DNA. The strange thing is there are no signs of older wounds. No signs of previous abuse. The recent injuries seem inconsistent. If this girl was part of the prostitution-baby-farming network you lot suspect, it would be unlikely that they would risk the sexual health of one of their breeding stock. In addition, the fact that the outfit behind this was organised enough to be able to call upon some reasonably competent surgical back-up, would not only suggest the involvement of individuals with more than a basic knowledge of obstetrics, but it would imply that there are others like her.’