The Last Life

Chapter Three

As Snow left the hospital it was dark and a soft drizzle was falling, the kind hell bent on soaking you to the skin. Wet tendrils snaked inside his collar and water interfered with his vision, giving him the impression he was in a goldfish bowl. He walked slowly, deep in thought, uncaring of the weather or his surroundings. He tried to think of an easy way to tell Kate Devereau, the alleged victim of his latest case, what had conspired to bring her to this hospital. Her memory had been scrubbed clean of incidents too awful for her brain to contemplate, and he didn't really want to be the one to put her straight. Maybe a WPC would be better.

Over the years, he had been instrumental in forcing people to relive some of the most evil, hateful things. Things so sad it would break a weaker heart than his.

It was possible she might not have been the victim in this case. Artists could be a weird bunch and usually unpredictable. Drugs of some kind had produced her amnesia, but the doctors had no way of knowing whether they had been self-administered. At this stage, they had no idea who they were dealing with, or her circumstances.

Something about the faint air of melancholy and way she looked at him, like a lonely child or an animal abused once too often, made him want to walk away. Most of his instincts were telling him she had to be the victim. Somewhere deep inside she knew what had happened, for he could see it reflected in her eyes.

She reminded him again of someone else, a long time ago. Before he met Anne, his wife; someone who had nearly ruined his career before he had even started to enjoy it.

He had been completely mistaken about the case, and not just him either. No one in the department, apart from Jim Harris, believed that Gillian Anderton was to blame for what happened to her family. The ME had confirmed it was carbon monoxide poisoning that had killed her husband and their two children and recorded it as accidental deaths. The mother had been distraught, bordering on hysterical, needing to be sedated repeatedly.

Snow had been ready to close the case, but Jim was adamant that something was wrong. He insisted the hysteria was false, that something else had gone on in that family.

They had double checked with the neighbours, their doctor, even the boys school. All reported a happy, normal family, no problems or worrying incidents, that it was such a terrible thing to happen to such a lovely family.

The inquest had been awful, one Snow would remember for some time. Gillian Anderton slowly fell apart as they watched, and Snow almost cried at the display of emotions the woman went through. Jim Harris suddenly said something strange. 'That was an Oscar winning performance...'

Something clicked in Snow's brain. Shouldn't the emotional hysteria be exhausted by now?

That was when he began to notice the furtive glances as the woman kept up her wailing. Could she be looking for someone?

As Snow's team began to ask different questions, someone mentioned seeing a man frequently visiting the house. A brother, they thought.

The day Snow confronted her with pictures of this brother, the hysteria magically stopped and she told him the truth. Their marriage had been a sham, a pretence they kept up for the sake of the children and the neighbours. Falling in love with one of the fathers from the school had changed all that. She began to detest her family for getting in the way of the happiness she knew was waiting for her. Desperation slowly came up with a plan, and she had stuffed rags into the gas boiler, effectively cutting off the ventilation, something she knew was fatal to anyone in the house.

At first, it all sounded like a fairy story to Snow. If it was true, why hadn't she died with them? Sometimes people assumed the blame, owned up to murder as some weird way of paying for being left behind.

They never discovered how she survived, but they did find the rags hidden behind the boiler. Maybe she sat up all night with the window open, but one thing was clear. Snow would never quite believe a woman's emotions again.

He physically shook the memory out of his mind, praying it would stay out. Nothing was going to get in the way of this case, not if he could help it.

Hopefully, Kate Devereau would find the truth buried in her subconscious without any help from him, as he really couldn't bear the thought of being the one to smash her temporary peace into a million pieces. Emotions never dictated how he felt, regardless of the case. You needed a strong resolve to do his job, and softness of any kind never got you anywhere.

As David Snow made his way across the car park, a man passed him, walking unsteadily with the help of crutches towards the revolving doors of the hospital entrance. Well dressed, but in obvious discomfort, he limped badly despite the support. Snow found himself watching the man make his way to the lifts. He looked like any other visitor, and the detective wondered idly who he had come to see.

When he reached his ancient Ford Cortina, he shook his head like a wet dog in an attempt to remove the excess water from his hair, glad to be going back to the safety of his office.

Once back in his untidy office, with a machine generated cup of undrinkable coffee in front of him, he began to sift through the pile of messages and unfinished cases on his desk. But his attention kept wandering back to Kate Devereau and her dark, haunted eyes and pale face, framed by a mane of unruly silver streaked hair. She was not a beautiful woman in the classic sense, but something about her appealed to Snow. Something he had encountered before in children, never an adult. The silent appeal for protection, something he knew she hadn't yet found if preliminary case notes were anything to go by.

He found it hard to believe the way she looked, so peaceful and quiet, as if all the terrible things written on the file in front of him had happened to someone else. She couldn't be the victim in all of this, it didn't seem possible.

The office door opened, and the noisy buzz of activity reached him, bringing him back to earth and the life of a detective inspector. His sergeant, Jim Harris, walked in, carrying two distinctive trademark cups of Costa's coffee. 'I thought you might appreciate something you can actually drink, Boss.'

Snow smiled at him, grateful for his thoughtfulness. Jim had worked for him for years, putting up with all of his moods and foul temper on the bad days, and usually far too many of those.

Jim Harris, a happily married family man had all the characteristics of a plain clothed Santa Claus. Although Snow often thought he resembled an aging Tin-tin, with his crazy tufts of ginger hair which refused to lie flat.

'That is kind of you, Jim.'

'How is the Devereau woman?'

'Not bad, under the circumstances...'

Well used to having to dig for information from his boss, Jim Harris often thought it might have been easier to get blood from a stone. 'Has she remembered anything yet?'

The Detective Inspector shook his head. 'Not a thing.'

'Well, wouldn't want to be there when she does. Do you need me for anything special this afternoon? Thought I would check out the estate agents...'

Snow shook his head slowly, trying to think and failing miserably. 'Good idea, Jim. I'll see you later...'

He sipped the hot coffee, enjoying the first uncomplicated event of the day...