Peter Lovesey - Upon A Dark Night

‘Not completely. You may well have suffered some retrograde amnesia as well, but that isn’t the problem you have right now.’

‘That’s a mental problem?’

‘Yes, but don’t look so alarmed. You’re not losing your marbles. The cause must have been external, some event that happened in your life.’

‘Recently?’

‘We can assume so. You’re sure you don’t recall anything prior to waking up in the hospital?’

‘Positive.’

‘Then I reckon it happened the same day. Would you like to see a psychotherapist? We can arrange it.’

She came out of the hospital with an appointment card in her back pocket and a totally different diagnosis from the one she’d expected. Something deeply upsetting… . Some emotional shock. She took the bus back to the centre of Bath and stopped at a teashop called the Lilliput to collect herself before seeing Imogen again.

What could have caused a shock so momentous in her life? A break-up with a man? People were ending relationships all the time. They didn’t lose their memories because of it. No, it had to be more traumatic, some terrible thing she had discovered about herself. A life-threatening illness, perhaps. Would that be enough to make one deny one’s existence? She thought not. And she felt well in herself. Even the sore ribs had improved. Then was it a matter of conscience? Some deeply shaming act. Even a crime. Was that what she wanted to remove herself from?

Tea was brought to the table. She left the pot standing a long time. While people at other tables chatted blithely about their grandchildren and last night’s television, Rose constructed a theory, a bleak, demeaning scenario. Far from being the victim of an accident, she was responsible for it. She pictured herself driving too fast along a country road, running over and killing a pedestrian. A child, perhaps, or an old person. Unable to cope with the shock and the upsurge of guilt, she suppressed it. Injured, but not seriously, she climbed out of the car and wandered the lanes in a state of amnesia. Eventually she blacked out and was found by the couple with the fish mascot on their car. They drove her to the Hinton Clinic. Because they didn’t want questions asked about themselves (they were having an affair) they left her in the car park confident that she would soon be found and taken inside.

She poured some lukewarm tea and sipped it.

There were flaws. If there was an accident victim lying dead beside an abandoned car, why hadn’t the police been alerted? They knew about her. They’d visited the Hinton Clinic the night she was brought in. They would surely have suspected a connection with the accident.

The tea was now too cold to drink. She left it, paid, and walked the short distance to Imogen’s office.

The first person she saw was Ada. Ada was the first person you would see anywhere. She was in the general office wagging a finger at Imogen. She swung around.

‘There you are at last, petal. We’ve waited the best part of two hours. Imogen’s had it up to here with me.’

Imogen didn’t deny this.

Rose said she didn’t know she’d kept anyone waiting.

Imogen asked, ‘How did you get on?’

‘They want me to see a psychotherapist.’

‘A nut doctor?’ said Ada in alarm. ‘Don’t go, blossom. They’ll have you in the funny farm as soon as look at you.’

Imogen rebuked her with, ‘Ada, that isn’t helpful.’

‘You haven’t been on the receiving end, ducky,’ said Ada. ‘I have, more times than I care to remember. “Remanded for a further month, pending psychiatric reports.” I’ve seen them all. The ones with bow-ties are the worst. And the women. Grey hair in buns and half-glasses. They’re all alike. Stay clear.’

‘The cranial injuries unit can’t help me,’ said Rose. She did her best to explain the distinction between the two sorts of amnesia.

‘Any trouble a woman gets, if you’re not actually missing a limb, you can bet they’ll tell you it’s psychological,’ said Ada. ‘And if you cave in and see the shrink, he’ll send you barking mad anyway.’

Imogen disagreed. She urged Rose to keep the appointment.

‘It’s three weeks away,’ said Rose. ‘Three weeks – I hope I’m right before then.’

Ada remained unimpressed. ‘We can get you right ourselves. Speaking of which, I have hotshit news for you, buttercup. Percy has struck gold. Well, silver, to be accurate. There’s a bloke in Westbury with a silver fish on his car. I’ve got a name and address.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ said Rose, transformed. ‘Westbury -where’s that?’

‘No distance at all. We can get the train from here. There’s still time.’

‘I’m short of money.’

‘Get it off Imogen. This is going to save them a bomb.’

‘And I don’t have anywhere to sleep tonight.’

Imogen solved both problems. She handed over thirty pounds from the contingency fund and she phoned a bed and breakfast place on Wellsway that took some of Avon’s homeless. Ada said she would help Rose with the move.

Imogen told Ada firmly that she wasn’t to go prospecting for better lodgings.

‘What do you think I am, always out for the main chance?’

Ada protested.

‘And don’t you dare walk out with anything belonging to the house,’ Imogen warned her, unmoved.

Prospect Road, Westbury, was a long trek, they discovered, south of the town under the figure of the white horse once carved, now cemented, into Bratton Down. They spent some of Rose’s money taking a taxi from the railway station.

‘This man Dunkley-Brown is well known in the area, Percy told me,’ Ada started to explain, whereupon the taxi-driver joined in.

‘If it’s Ned Dunkley-Brown you mean, he were mayor of Bradford some years back. Powerful speaker in his time.’

‘He doesn’t mean that Bradford,’ Ada said for Rose’s benefit. ‘Bradford on Avon is a dinky little town not far from here.’ She asked the driver, ‘Politician, is he?’

‘Was. Don’t get much time for politics no more. Too busy testing the ale.’

‘Enjoys his bevvy, does he?’

‘You could say that. Him and his missus. If we catch them at home at this time of day, I’ll be surprised.’

He had no need to be surprised. No one came to the door of the large, detached house. Inside, a dog was barking. Ada said she would go exploring. She marched around the side as if she owned it. Presently, she called out from somewhere, ‘Come and look at this.’

Rose found her in the garage, jammed into a space between the wall and a large white car, her hand resting on the silver fish figurehead. she said with pride, ‘I knew we could bank on Percy.’

Rose’s heart-rate stepped up. ‘This must be the one.’

‘Funny-looking fish,’ Ada commented.

‘What do you mean?’

‘For a car, I mean. The fins stick up high. Not very streamlined.’

True, it was spikier than a trout, say, or a salmon. ‘It’s still a fish.’

‘Definitely.’

‘We’d better go,’ said Rose, suspicious that Ada might be planning some housebreaking. ‘We don’t want to get caught here.’

They had asked their driver to wait, and he offered to take them to the pub the Dunkley-Browns frequented. It wouldn’t have taken long to walk there, but Ada preferred travelling on wheels whenever possible. This had a useful result, because the driver once more picked up a point from their conversation.

‘That fish on D-B’s car? That’s a gudgeon.’

‘A what?’ said Ada.

‘Gudgeon. A freshwater fish. They’re small. Good for bait. Not much of a bite for supper, though. You know why he has it on his car, don’t you?’