malnourished state, while not dangerous, was consistent with some form of physical ordeal.
Dr. Beddoes asked if there was any physical evidence of violence or torture. Dr. Burns said that there were bruises around neck and wrists suggesting physical restraint.
Dr. Burns reported that the CAT scan showed no obvious cerebral lesions.
Professor Mulligan described his evaluation of Ms Devereaux. He announced his conclusion that her account of her post-traumatic amnesia was consistent with his examination.
Dr. Beddoes asked if he had found any objective, physical evidence of such injury and such amnesia. Professor Mulligan said that such findings were not relevant. There was an animated discussion between them not detailed here.
Dr. Beddoes gave her report on her assessment of Ms Devereaux. She found Ms Devereaux an articulate, intelligent, attractive subject. Her account of her ordeal was compelling and convincing. Further examination revealed that Ms Devereaux had been undergoing considerable stress in the months before the alleged ordeal. She had been under considerable pressure at her employment culminating in her being compelled to take a period of leave for stress-related reasons. This period of leave began shortly before, by Ms Devereaux's account, her period of imprisonment began. Her relationship with her boyfriend had also been a source of considerable strain, due to his excessive drinking and violent behaviour.
Dr. Beddoes reported that, on further examination, other relevant factors had come to light. Contrary to her own account, Ms Devereaux had a history of mental instability, and had indeed received medical treatment in the past. This she had failed to mention during her first interviews. She also had a history of reporting violence. Records showed that on one occasion she had called the police in response to a domestic disturbance. This was with her boyfriend.
She also had apparent difficulty in recalling these events. This was obviously comparable to her current reported amnesia. When these doubts began to appear in Dr. Beddoes' mind, she had consulted widely with others on the case in search of any independent, objective confirmation of Ms Devereaux's claim. There was none. Dr. Beddoes said it was her conclusion that Ms Devereaux's disorders were psychological in origin and that the best course of action was a course of cognitive therapy and medication.
Professor Mulligan asked about the marks found on Ms Devereaux's body and about her having been found in an emaciated state in an area of London distant from her home and work. Dr. Beddoes replied that Professor Mulligan was there for his expertise in certain narrow neurological matters.
Detective Chief Inspector Lovell asked if Dr. Beddoes was stating that no crime had been committed. Dr. Beddoes said that she was not certain of what might or might not have occurred between Ms Devereaux and her boyfriend. But she was certain that the kidnap was a fantasy. In her view, not a fabrication. It was a cry for help.
DCI Lovell said the immediate question was whether Ms Devereaux should be charged with wasting police time.
There was loud discussion. DI Cross stated that he was not yet ready to dismiss Ms Devereaux's account. Professor Mulligan asked Dr. Beddoes if she was aware that if she was wrong then the result would be to cut Ms Devereaux loose and expose her to mortal danger. There followed more agitated discussion not summarized here.
Professor Mulligan stated that he wished it to be entered into the record that he dissented from the prevailing decision of the meeting. He stated that if anything happened to Ms Devereaux it would be on the consciences of everybody at this meeting. (Susan
Barton excepted. Inserted on Professor Mulligan's instructions.) Professor Mulligan then left the meeting.
There was discussion as to how to proceed. DCI Lovell ordered DI Cross to halt the inquiry. Dr. Beddoes said she would immediately visit Ms Devereaux and discuss a therapeutic regime.
Dr. Beddoes thanked the other members of the meeting for their co-operation. She described it as a model of how medical and legal organizations should work together. Dr. Burns asked when Ms Devereaux's bed would be available.
Part Three
One
Walk. Just walk. One foot in front of the other. Don't stop, don't pause, don't look round. Keep your head up and your eyes ahead of you. Let faces blur. Pretend you know where you are going. People calling your name, but it's an echo of an echo, bouncing off the white walls. They're calling a stranger, not you. Don't listen. That's all over now, the listening and talking and doing what you're told. Being good. Keep walking. Not running, walking. Through those double doors, which slide silently open as you approach. No tears now. Don't cry. You are not mad, Abbie. You are not mad. Past the ambulances, the cars, the porters with their trolleys. Don't stop now. Step into the wide world. This is freedom, except you are not free. Not free, not safe. But not mad. You are not mad. And you are alive. Breathe in and out and walk forward now.
The sky was startlingly blue and the ground icy. The world glittered with cold. My cheeks burned with it, my eyes stung, and my fingers were numb where they gripped the plastic bag I was carrying. My feet, in their stupid slipshod shoes, crunched on the gravel. I stood outside the tall Victorian house, at the top of which was our flat - well, Terry's, really, but I'd lived in it for nearly two years now. It was me who'd painted our bedroom, opened up the fireplace, bought second-hand pieces of furniture and large mirrors and pictures and rugs and vases and the general clutter that made a place feel like home.
I tipped my head carefully to look up. The movement seemed to make pain spill over in my skull. The flat didn't appear particularly homely right now. It looked chilly and empty. The bathroom window was still cracked, and there were no lights on. The curtains in our bedroom were drawn, which meant either that Terry was sleeping off the kind of hangover that made him pasty-faced and sour-tempered, or that he'd not bothered to open them when he staggered out of bed that morning, late for work. I hoped it was the latter.
I tried the bell anyway. If I put my ear to the door, I could hear it far above me a spluttery ring because the battery was running out. It seemed to have been running out for months. I waited then tried again. I pushed open the metal letter-box and squinted inside to see if anyone was coming down the stairs, but could only see an empty strip of maroon carpet.
I retrieved the spare key hidden under the stone but I dropped it a couple of times before I managed to fit it into the lock with my frozen fingers. Even inside, in the hall, my breath steamed in the air. I hoped Terry had left the heating on, or that at least the water was hot enough for a bath. I was grubby and cold, and my body still felt as if everything had come loose inside. It was a poor kind of homecoming. The poorest, really.
It was an effort to go up the flights of stairs, past the flat on the first floor, where I could hear the sound of a television. My legs felt heavy and I was panting by the time I reached our door on the next floor up. I called out, as I turned the key. 'Hello? Hello, it's me. I'm back.' Nothing. 'Terry? Hello?'
Silence, except for the noise of a tap dripping in the bathroom. Suddenly, without warning, fear flooded me and I had to stop quite still, holding on to the door to steady my crumbling legs. I breathed deeply, in and out, until the fear had ebbed again, then stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind me.
I don't know what I noticed first. Probably it was just the mess: the muddy shoes on the living-room floor, unwashed dishes piled up in the sink, dead tulips drooping on the kitchen table, next to several empty bottles and an overflowing ashtray. Grimy surfaces, stale air. But then I saw that there were odd spaces here and there, where things should be but weren't. My CD player, for a start, which we'd always kept on a low table in the living room next to the little television. Except it wasn't a little television any longer, but a new big one. Automatically I looked next at the small desk in the corner of my room for my laptop and it, too, was gone. It was go an old one, a dinosaur in computer terms, but I groaned to think of the things stored in there that were lost all the email addresses, for a start, which I'd never made a note of anywhere else.
I sat down on the sofa, next to a pile of old newspapers and Terry's overcoat. Had we been robbed? Books seemed to be missing as well there were gaps all along the shelves. I tried to remember what had been there: a giant encyclopedia from the lower shelf; several novels from the shelf above; an anthology of poetry; the Good Pub Guide perhaps. Certainly a couple of cookery books.
I went into our bedroom. The bed was unmade; the jumbled-up duvet still held the shape of Terry's body. There was a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, along with two empty wine bottles. I opened the curtains to let in the dazzling sunshine, opened the window to feel the fierce, clean air blasting into the room, and then stared around.
