The Night Stalker (Detective Erika Foster 2)

‘Maybe the next time we meet should be outside work,’ he said with a grin.

Peterson looked between them, as Erika blushed red and was lost for words. ‘Thanks again!’ she said finally.

‘No probs. I hope it helps you catch this nasty bitch. I’ll be in touch online when you boot up your computer,’ he said, then got into his car.

‘I didn’t know you knew him so well,’ said Peterson, as they watched Lee’s car drive off along the promenade.

‘What’s it to you?’ asked Erika.

‘Nothing,’ he shrugged.

‘Good, let’s get back inside. I’m worried Keith is going to bottle out on us.’

72

Simone was buzzing with excitement as she walked to work. She’d taken the bus to King’s Cross and was walking through the back streets behind the station to the Queen Anne Hospital. She liked working nights, the feeling of going to work when so many were returning home. She was like a salmon, swimming against the tide. When she worked nights, she didn’t have to stress about not sleeping, about being alone in her house and vulnerable.

She didn’t have to stress about seeing things.

It was a warm, balmy evening and as she waited to cross the road she found that she was excited to see Mary again. The old lady was a fighter, and she’d still be there, Simone was sure. She’d brought presents for Mary: a picture frame for the photo with George and a new hairbrush. She was sure that Mary’s hair would be tangled.

A nasty, warm smell of urine and disposable nappies hit Simone’s nose as she walked the long corridor to Mary’s ward. A few nurses nodded at her, and she nodded back and exchanged pleasantries. Many of the nurses looked surprised to see the big grin on her usually sullen face.

When Simone reached the door to Mary’s room, she opened it without knocking and was shocked to see a smartly dressed elderly woman sitting in her chair, beside Mary’s bed. The woman’s hair was cut in a sleek silver bob. She wore crisp white slacks, black patent leather court shoes and a silk floral blouse. The bed was empty and Mary was sitting in a wheelchair beside the woman, dressed neatly in a pair of smart charcoal trousers and a houndstooth jacket. Her hair was neatly tied back with a red ribbon, and the woman was leaning down and helping put Mary’s feet into a pair of new shoes.

‘Who are you?’ asked Simone, looking between them. The woman slipped on Mary’s second shoe and stood. She was very tall.

‘Hi there, nurse,’ said the woman. She had a drawling American accent.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Simone sharply. ‘Does the doctor know you’re here?’

‘Yes, honey. I’m Dorothy Van Last, Mary’s sister. I’m here to take her home.’

‘Sister? I didn’t know Mary had a sister. You’re American!’

‘I was born here, honey, but I’ve been away from England a long time.’ Dorothy looked around the dingy hospital room. ‘Seems things haven’t changed much.’

‘But Mary,’ said Simone, ‘you belong here with… with us…’

Mary cleared her throat. ‘Who are you, dear?’ she asked, searching Simone’s face. Her voice was quavering and very frail.

‘I’m Nurse Simone. I’ve been caring for you.’

‘Have you? My sister heard from my neighbour that I was here. She flew all the way over from Boston. I don’t know what I’d have done if she didn’t come,’ said Mary, her voice weak.

‘But you’re… my… I was going to…’ started Simone, feeling her eyes start to water.

‘The doctor says she’s made quite the recovery,’ interrupted Dorothy. ‘I’m gonna stay with her until she’s better.’ She took the brake off Mary’s wheelchair and manoeuvred her round the bed.

‘But Mary…’ said Simone.

Mary peered up at her from the chair. ‘Who is this?’ she asked her sister.

‘She’s a nurse, Mary. They all look the same after a while. No offence, honey.’

Dorothy pushed the chair past Simone, out of the room and away down the corridor. Simone moved to the door and watched Mary being wheeled away. Mary didn’t even try to look round and see Simone. Then they rounded a corner and were gone.

Simone locked herself in one of the disabled toilets. She stood for a moment, shaking. She then opened her bag, pulled out the picture frame she’d bought for Mary and hit it repeatedly on the edge of the sink until it smashed. She stared at her reflection, anger growing inside her. She had been abandoned. Abandoned again.