Out of Time

Chapter One

Detective Inspector David Snow looked down at the unconscious woman on the hospital bed before him. They had done an excellent job of cleaning her up. She lay still, like a religious statue in a church, her pale skin the colour of the finest marble, the gentle rise and fall of her chest the only sign that life still clung to her body.

An old tramp was found dead in the hospital car park, bundled into a filthy army coat, and wedged under a car. A simple neglect case had become more sinister when they found the tramp's head cut off and shoved down the back of his trousers. So different to the other wrinkled and dirty body he had looked at earlier.

Snow wondered what the old tramp could have done to warrant such treatment. He was well-known around the hospital and described as a harmless old soul. The tenuous link to the woman in front of him indicated she might not be safe and would need Snow’s protection.

They knew little about her, and he wondered again what kind of woman she was. Now the blood and dirt had gone, she looked to be an attractive and middle-aged woman bordering on the ordinary, apart from her unruly hair, which seemed to crawl across the pillow like the roots of a willow.

Alone with the unconscious woman, Snow had an excellent opportunity to study her. In all the years since his wife’s death, he missed looking at a woman. He liked to imagine what kind of person they were. If they were kind or cruel, bossy, or timid, but for once, there were no clues on this woman’s face. A little determination in the set of her jaw gave him pause for thought.

According to Michael Barratt, the man who brought her here, her name was Kate Devereau, and she was an artist. Snow wondered if she could be the murderer due to the blood in the cottage where Michael Barratt had found her. As an estate agent, he had been arranging to have the place ready for Miss Devereau to rent and had no idea why she had found it necessary to be there.

It was all a little mysterious, compounded by the fact Michael Barratt looked as though he had been barbecued. His clothes were burned black in places, apart from his jacket, which was clean and several sizes too small and most likely didn’t belong to him. The back of his head and hands were raw and blistered, suggesting extensive burns to his body.

The estate agent kept asking after Kate, offering no explanation for his condition. He had no answer for what had happened to her except to say her health had not been good for a while. It would seem innocent enough if it weren’t for all the blood.

So why didn’t Snow believe him?

Given his state of him, Michael Barratt was in no position to convince David Snow of anything. He was always suspicious of everyone involved in his cases, and Snow couldn’t help but suspect Michael Barratt. The man was hiding something, for, despite his evident devotion to the unconscious woman, something didn’t feel right. He must know more than he said.

There had to be more to this case than these two people. The death of Miss Devereau’s brother Danny opened this case several weeks ago. Perhaps someone had an axe to grind? Someone cruel and malicious hell-bent on exacting revenge?

Snow walked over to the window, more for a change of scenery than to escape from the body of Kate Devereau. It was getting dark outside, and the lights in the car park were coming on one by one. With visiting time approaching, more cars were arriving, and he prayed nothing else would happen. He was tired but not looking forward to his retirement next year. His life seemed empty now; what would it be like then? He didn’t want to retire; he liked his job. It gave him a reason to get up every morning.

The idea that this woman may never regain consciousness was unsettling. He wanted this case solved and put away as soon as possible. The doctors could find no medical reason for the coma, or so they said. They had found sedatives in her system, but they should have worn off by now. Her heart was fine, and no sign of a stroke. Either she didn’t want to wake up, or she was faking.

Maybe if he pinched or touched her, took her by surprise, would she open her eyes? For whatever reason, and he couldn’t think of one, he couldn’t do it. He could hardly blame her for faking. Why weren’t there more people in her life?

Snow tended to suspect women more these days, just in case. He remembered one of his earlier cases involving one Gillian Anderton. How she had completely fooled them into believing her story. If it hadn’t been for his sergeant, Jim Harris, she would still be free.

Samantha Cameron managed Miss Devereau’s art but was only a business contact. Judging by the barbecued boyfriend, someone thought well of Kate Devereau, but how did she feel about him? So many questions would never be answered if she didn’t wake up.

He looked back to the bed, hoping to see her eyes open, but nothing had changed; she hadn’t moved at all.

What kind of woman are you, Kate Devereau?

Chapter Two

When she woke up and tried to open her eyes, nothing happened. They seemed to be glued shut. She was alone, no muffled sounds of someone breathing, nothing moving around even in the distance. Shouldn't she be hearing something?

Maybe her ears, along with her eyes, were refusing to work. Perhaps she should try seeing what else she couldn’t do. She tried to move her fingers, first one hand and then the other. The right hand seemed to tremble, and finally, one finger stirred a little. Disappointed, she gave up trying and concentrated on her other senses.

She sniffed. At first, she smelled nothing, almost adding another lost sense to the growing pile of hopelessness. But wait, she could smell something, something so slight she almost missed it. She sniffed again. Yes. The faint, unmistakable smell of clean linen and antiseptic gave her the idea she could be in a hospital.

She became aware that her eyes were trying to open, but nothing she did made them open any faster. Her head moved slightly, and she heard the sound her hair made against the pillow.

So, she wasn’t deaf and appeared to be lying on a bed, maybe in a hospital. She wondered what could have happened to her.

Her eyes were open now, and she searched around for clues. In the darkness, there were vague shapes but nothing she could recognise. She tried to shout, but no sound came out of her mouth. She summoned the strength to move her head again, but the effort made her giddy, so she gave up.

She had no idea what could have happened to her. She needed a drink of water, for her mouth tasted like dirty cotton wool. Her senses seemed to be working, but this knowledge was eclipsed by the hopelessness of being alone in the dark, unable to attract any help.

Realising she had no idea who she was came as a shock, and tears slid down the sides of her face and soaked into her hair.

She cried silently for a while, not that she could do otherwise. Her body was refusing to move, even in emotional desperation. Why couldn’t she remember anything? She wondered what kind of life she had before this; would it even be worth remembering?

Something quite serious must have happened to her. People didn’t end up in the hospital minus a memory for no reason, frustrated to the point of fury with her brain for refusing to spill any beans. Not one word, or a scene, something she could recognise.

Right then, she would have welcomed a riddle, anything to prove her brain could work and would again.

A voice spoke to her in the darkness, although she was sure no one was there. It wanted to help her remember what happened last time, that it could be important. What did it mean by ‘last time’?

She looked around for something, anything, to prove this wouldn’t be a permanent state. It couldn’t be; if she were dead, she wouldn’t care if she could move or not.

This thought made her feel better, and she tried to lift her head again. It might as well have been glued to the pillow, for she couldn’t make it move.

She thought she heard a noise a long way off and wondered what it could be. A door slammed, or something dropped?

She tried to imagine where the door might be, for there had to be one somewhere. What could have been a memory appeared in her mind. She saw a small child wandering around a dark room, sliding her hands over the walls. The child seemed calm, but even as she watched, the moving hands became more urgent as the child failed to find what she sought.

What was she looking for?

Then she knew as if she had been this child.

She was searching for the light switch.

She tried to think what this could mean, but the giddiness returned, so she gave up. Could it be her imagination, but did it seem less dark on one side of the room? Could it be getting lighter?

The next time she opened her eyes, she could see daylight and two empty beds in a standard hospital room.

Outside, she could hear the hustle and bustle of hospital life. Trolleys clanged, and there were muffled voices and the squeak of rubber-soled shoes. Would anyone see her? Did they even know she was here and awake? There were no machines, tubes or wires attached to her, no reason she couldn’t move that she could see.

The door swung open as she tried to stretch her legs and move her feet. A nurse in what looked like pink pyjamas walked into the room, pushing a small trolley.

‘Well, you are awake, I see, she chirped. ‘And how are we feeling?’

She opened her mouth to answer, but her dry throat wouldn't allow it. There was a jug of water on the table near the bed, and she turned her head with difficulty to stare at it, hoping to show what her voice couldn't.

The nurse was too busy looking at the chart, which had been hanging at the foot of the bed. Finally, she looked up. ‘You must be thirsty, Kate. Would you like a drink of water?’

Kate?

When the woman poured water into a cup and walked closer to the bed, she realised the nurse had been speaking to her. She had to be Kate.

The water tasted awful, stale, and lukewarm. But as she drank, her hands moved to hold the cup, and this revelation meant far more than hearing her name.

She heard the strange voice again, comforted by the realisation it seemed to know her too.

The smooth plastic pen seemed strange in her hand. Why had she picked it up, and what did she think she could do with it?

She had bruises on her arms, a spectacular mass of deep purple and navy blue, like a stormy sky, but at least they were working now.

She had no idea why she had picked up the pen, but she shoved it under her pillow anyway.

Later that day, she suffered several painful attempts to get her leg muscles moving by a small, dark-haired female physiotherapist, whose nametag proved unreadable. Kate thought she detected annoyance on the woman’s face when her body refused to cooperate.

When the woman left the room, Kate stared at the clipboard on the bed. It appeared to have more than one sheet of paper on it. An idea began to form, but how could she get her hands on it when she couldn’t get out of bed?

‘If you try a little harder, anything might be possible.’

This time the voice sounded more than a little sarcastic. Kate found herself wondering if it could all be in her head. Normal people didn’t hear voices, did they? Did this mean she wasn’t normal?

But the voice was right. The paper did seem to be important. Maybe if she could reach it somehow, she would find out why.

Kate struggled to stretch her legs and feet, but they refused to budge. She kept trying until tears of frustration stung her eyes.

An orderly brought her a cup of tea, and as she drank it, her determination cut through the frustration, and she resolved to try even harder. The next time she tried to move her wasted muscles, they moved a little, thrilling Kate with the gradual improvement. At this rate, she thought, I will be out of this bed in no time.

After lunch, someone knocked on the door, and through the glass panel, Kate could see the dark outline of a man. None of the doctors ever knocked, so who could this be?

The door opened, and a dark-haired man with soulful grey eyes looked in at her. ‘Can I come in?’

Kate nodded, intrigued by the sad demeanour of the man.

He walked into the room, a tall, angular man in shabby blue jeans and a leather jacket. His dark hair needed a trim, and it would have been some time since anyone had cared for him.

‘Can I sit down?’ he said quietly, indicating the chair on the other side of the room.

Kate nodded again and watched as he walked across the room. She wondered what he wanted to say to her. He picked up the heavy chair as if it were made of balsa wood and sat down close to her bed; the smell of tobacco laced with the faint smell of aftershave wafting in her direction.

When he didn’t speak straight away, looking as if this could be the last place he wanted to be today, her insides shrank with fear. This was not going to be good. As far as she knew, no sad-faced relatives were clamouring to see her. If something terrible had happened to her, shouldn't she be feeling something?

He cleared his throat, the noise loud in the small room. ‘Detective Inspector Snow, Miss Devereau. They tell me you have no memory of your circumstances.’

He spoke softly, his voice deep and resonant. His name suited him, she thought, imagining deep snowdrifts, the way they always looked so soft until you landed in one.

Her brain continued to process what he had said. A detective? Her insides clenched again, and she knew he had terrible news.

The voice informed her that she was in no position to fret about bad news. Learning anything about her life could only be a good thing.

The name lit up her brain like a switch had been thrown. Devereau. The nurse had called her Kate. Kate Devereau.

Her brain didn’t respond. No memory of the name surfaced.

She must have looked puzzled, for he looked uncomfortable. ‘No bells ringing? No matter, they tell me it will start coming back soon.’

‘Who am I? Can you tell me?’ She didn’t want to know the answer but