Losing You (20 page)

Andrews didn’t want to frighten the lad. He needed to reassure himself too. ‘I think there’s a chance,’ he replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the girl. So young, her whole damned life ahead of her. Would he ever get used to this? He had to hope not, because this life-shattering tragedy wasn’t something any normal person would ever want to get used to. It churned him up inside so badly that his doctor had told him he was in the wrong job.

‘Where’s the police car gone?’ Oliver asked.

Andrews said, ‘We have to close the road.’ He wouldn’t add that they were obliged to treat this with the same level and resourcing as a murder scene, regardless of whether or not the girl was dead. The lad was clearly spooked enough, he didn’t need any more.

‘You should go and sit in your car,’ he told Oliver. ‘You’re in shock and there’s nothing you can do here.’

‘Can you save her?’

‘We’re going to do our best, but you’ll have to help us, sweetheart,’ he told the girl. ‘You’ll have to fight with us, OK? We’ll all be here for you, every one of us, so don’t you go letting the side down, will you? The ambulance is here now. Can you hear it?’ Footsteps were running, the medics were upon them. ‘This is Bernie,’ he said as a
long-time colleague knelt down next to him. ‘He’s going to take care of everything, OK. Pam’s with him. She’s one of the best.’

‘Good job,’ Bernie whispered, pushing past Andrews. ‘Chopper’s on its way. Any signs?’

Andrews shook his head.

Pam already had the spinal board and collar.

‘Pelvic splint?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely,’ Bernie confirmed.

As Bernie began checking for vital signs and talking to the girl the same way Andrews had, Andrews drew back and turned to the boy. ‘Come on, son,’ he said, ‘we need to clear the scene.’

Oliver was about to go with him when Bernie shouted after Pam, ‘Oxygen, fast.’

Andrews’s hand tightened on Oliver’s shoulder.

‘Does that mean she’s breathing?’ Oliver cried desperately.

Andrews didn’t answer. He was aware of other vehicles pulling up around them, more police, paramedics, fire brigade, but he was listening to Bernie speaking to the girl.

‘It’s all right, my old love, it’s all right,’ Bernie was telling her as Pam set about attaching the oxygen and he started to move the girl’s broken body. ‘I’ll try not to hurt you now.’

As the girl’s leg was exposed Andrews’s eyes closed. The bone was jutting out of the skin. The splint for that would come later; what mattered now was getting air into her lungs and her body on to the spinal board.

The paramedics descended at speed. One took over the oxygen while the other helped Pam and Bernie to wrap a large red and blue belt around Lauren’s hips.

Andrews knew how vital it was to take care when trying to straighten the pelvis. Please God don’t let her be bleeding in there anywhere – if she was, chances were they wouldn’t be able to save her.

He didn’t even want to think about the injuries to her head.

By the time Bob Tillman was back from securing the
road the scene was teeming with people and lights, and the sound of the helicopter approaching was growing louder all the time. Andrews sat the boy in the back of the Polo and told him to wait. He wouldn’t mention a breath test yet, but the kid had to know it was going to happen.

By now the girl was tethered to the spinal board and supported by a collar. The oxygen mask was clamped to her face, an IV drip had been inserted into a vein. As the helicopter was waved in to the nearby field, Andrews found himself looking past all the life-saving equipment to her matted, yet beautiful hair. She was someone’s daughter, their pride and joy, perhaps even their reason for living.

Why did God do this to people? What good reason could there ever be to punish a parent like this?

‘Jackie Dennis is on her way,’ Tillman said, coming up behind him.

Andrews simply nodded. The Accident Investigation Unit was always mobilised to an incident such as this, and Inspector Jackie Dennis was nothing if not thorough.

The helimedics were out now, rushing to the girl and transporting her swiftly back to the craft. Once they were all inside, the pilot took the chopper up gently, tentatively, before swooping rapidly away into the night, leaving a remote country scene swarming with police officers, firemen, paramedics and investigators doing their jobs.

‘I guess we ought to get on with breathalysing the kid,’ Tillman said to Andrews. ‘Where is he?’

‘In his car.’ Andrews spotted a female officer heading his way. ‘We found a handbag in the Peugeot,’ she told him. ‘Indications are the girl’s name is Lauren Scott, eighteen, and she lives about four miles from here. She’s also got an organ-donor card in her wallet, which the hospital might want to know about.’

Andrews’s heart gave a painful kick as though it wanted rid of the information, and all the knock-on effects about to come with it. ‘Radio it through,’ he told her. Then, ‘We’re going to need a family liaison officer.’

‘I’m a FLO,’ Tillman reminded him.

As Andrews looked at him he was ashamed of the relief he felt, knowing he wouldn’t have to face the parents himself. He was turning to retrieve the breathalyser kit from the unit car when someone shouted and two uniforms took off down the road, like a pair of stags on a hen night.

It was only a matter of seconds before they caught up with the lad, who, Andrews reckoned, had to be way too traumatised even to know where he was going, much less what he was hoping to prove by running away.

By the time his captors had returned him to the scene and dumped him in the back of a police car, Jackie Dennis had turned up and was unpacking her investigator’s kit. Leaving Tillman and the others to fill her in, Andrews stood over the open rear door of the Focus estate and looked down at the lad. How old could he be? Late teens, early twenties? He must be terrified out of his tiny mind.

‘Not the smartest move you’ve ever made,’ Andrews told him, ‘trying to run like that.’

The boy kept his head down.

‘OK, we best get this over with. For your information my name’s Clive Andrews, and you are ...’

‘Oliver Lomax,’ Oliver mumbled.

‘Right, Oliver. I expect you understand ...’

‘I have to make a call,’ Oliver interrupted. ‘Please, just one ...’

‘All in good time.’

‘No, you don’t understand. It’s my mother. I was on my way there when ... when all this happened. I think she’s going to try and kill herself ... She might already ... I have to stop her.’

Jesus Christ
, Andrews muttered to himself. ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked cautiously. He’d come across a lot of excuses before and this one wasn’t unique.

‘She rang me at the party I was at. She said she wanted to say goodbye, that it was better if she left ... Please, you have to let me call her.’

Deciding to give the lad the benefit of the doubt, Andrews said, ‘OK, give me your mother’s address, we’ll send someone round there.’

Oliver began to answer, then blanked.

Sensing him starting to panic, Andrews said, ‘Just take it nice and slow. What’s the house number?’

After jotting the details down, Andrews radioed them through, then standing back for Oliver to get out of the car, he said, ‘I’m afraid it’s time for us to talk about what happened here tonight, and that has to start with the obvious question: were you driving the car that hit her?’

Oliver’s mouth opened, but all that came out was a strangled sob.

‘That’s your car, the Polo?’ Andrews prompted.

Oliver nodded.

Andrews looked down at the form on his clipboard that required flawless completion. ‘This is all going to sound very formal now,’ he warned, ‘but I’m obliged by law to follow procedure to the letter. Do you understand that?’

Oliver’s head stayed down as he nodded.

After quickly filling in his own details, Oliver’s evident ethnic origin, and brief details of the incident, Andrews asked, ‘So, Oliver, when did you last consume alcohol?’

Oliver seemed to shrink away.

‘Come on now, let’s not make this any more difficult than it already is.’

‘Um, I don’t know. At the party. What time is it now?’

Andrews checked his watch. ‘One fifty-five,’ he answered. ‘And don’t lie, son, I promise it won’t help you in the long run.’

Swallowing hard, Oliver said, ‘I suppose it was about an hour ago.’

Since they were well past the twenty-minute requirement between last consumption and initial test, Andrews said, ‘OK, I want you to provide me with a specimen of breath for a breath test which I am empowered to require under the provisions of the Road Traffic Act 1988.’

Oliver wrapped his arms round his head as Andrews threw his clipboard into the car and produced the device for him to blow into.

‘You see this here,’ Andrews said, indicating the transparent tube sticking up from the gadget like an aerial.

Oliver glanced up.

‘I want you to take a nice deep breath and blow into it as hard as you can for as long as you can.’

Oliver took a step back. His face was chalk-white, his eyes glittering with a terrible fear. ‘What if I said no?’ he asked shakily.

Andrews cocked an eyebrow. ‘It wouldn’t be a good idea,’ he informed him.

‘But what would happen?’

‘Well, you could end up with a ban anyway and that would just be for starters, so come on now, don’t make this any harder for yourself.’

It didn’t surprise Andrews when the boy started to cry, and he might have had some sympathy if a lovely young girl wasn’t now fighting for her life – if she hadn’t already lost it. ‘Come on, pull yourself together,’ he said, sharply. ‘Just do as you’re told and we can get out of here.’

Though the boy was shivering badly, he put enough force behind the breath to create a reading that didn’t surprise Andrews when it topped out at sixty-seven. Not quite twice the legal limit, but as near as damn it.

‘Did I fail?’ Oliver asked wretchedly.

‘Yes, son, I’m afraid you did, so now I’m arresting you under Section 5 of the Road Traffic Act 1988 on suspicion of driving a motor vehicle while exceeding the prescribed limit of alcohol in your blood, the prescribed limit being thirty-five micrograms of alcohol in 100 millilitres of breath.’

As he finished he was aware of someone coming to stand behind him, and turning he found Jackie Dennis, a short, serious-looking woman, nodding for him to follow her. Bob Tillman and the female officer stepped forward to usher Oliver to another car.

‘I’m sorry to do this to you, Clive,’ Jackie Dennis said, keeping her voice low, ‘but we both know you’re a FLO and I think you’re better equipped to handle this than Bob Tillman.’

Andrews felt a cold vacuum opening up inside him. ‘Please tell me you’re not saying ...?’

‘You have to go to the parents.’

He could accept that, almost, just as long as the girl ... ‘Tell me she’s not dead. I don’t want to hear ...’

Putting a hand on his arm, Jackie Dennis said, ‘The family deserves someone with your experience to break the news. Now, let’s get into the car for a minute, so we can talk it through before you go.’

Emma had woken several minutes ago, unsure whether it was a dream that had jolted her, or a noise outside. After the initial unease had passed she’d remained curled up in the armchair where she’d dozed off in front of the fire whilst reading. Her sixth sense seemed still to be listening out for whatever might have woken her, but apart from the yowling cry of a cat in the distance, and a car passing, there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary.

In the end she put her book aside and got up to go and make a hot drink. She’d intended to take it up to bed, but noticing how late it was she decided to continue waiting up for Lauren who, if her high spirits earlier were anything to go by, was probably going to come bursting through the door any minute full of every last detail of what had happened during the evening. Or she’d have worn herself out by now and so be ready to collapse straight into bed with a furry-hot water bottle and a plea not to be woken too early in the morning.

Whichever way was fine by Emma – she was awake enough now for a chat, or happy to carry on reading if Lauren did flake out on her. Sleep was going to be difficult when she’d already had a couple of hours, especially with so much churning round in her mind, the job, what she would do if she didn’t get it, how hard Lauren was working to pass her exams, whether she put too much pressure on Lauren to do well, plus a general unease about everything that seemed to be settling over her in dark, uncomfortable waves. She reminded herself of the ungodly hour and remembered something she’d read about it once: this was when logic stood in front of a distorting mirror and paranoia got gleefully to work.

But Lauren really should have been home by now. This was far too late for her to be out without at least ringing to say she’d gone to the party or had decided to stay over with Lucy or Melissa.

Going to check her mobile just in case she’d missed a text or voicemail, she found no messages and couldn’t stop her concern deepening. It really wasn’t like Lauren to be inconsiderate, though she had to admit that it wasn’t actually unheard of, so perhaps she should try ringing her.

Finding herself diverted to Lauren’s voicemail she felt a stab of anxiety and annoyance pierce straight through her common sense. Quickly reminding herself that Lauren could simply be out of range, or unable to hear the ringtone over the music, or perhaps even out of battery, she rang off and picked up her drink. Lauren’s credit would be fine, because Will took care of her monthly mobile bills, and she’d had enough money on her when she’d left to get a taxi home in case she broke down, or decided to have a drink after all.

If that had happened she’d have called – unless she’d managed to lose her phone.

Why had she taken her flute?

Nothing was quite making sense.

Perhaps she should try Melissa’s number to find out where they were.

Did Polly realise that Melissa wasn’t home yet, or had Polly tumbled straight into bed after their victorious quiz night, and was she even now lost in dreamland?

Glancing at the time again, Emma felt her head starting to spin with mounting unease.