‘Are you a doctor, Maggie?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You don’t have a stethoscope.’

  She laughs, showing her pretty white teeth again. ‘I’m actually a psychiatrist,’ she says. ‘Just between you and me, I’ve never liked the sight of blood.’ She sits down on the side of the bed, which is when she notices the handcuffs. ‘Oh, is that really necessary?’ she asks.

  ‘The police say so, they say I’m helping them with their enquiries.’

  ‘And how is that going?’

  ‘Not well. I have no memory of anything that happened before the crash. Dr Mackenzie says that I have episodic retrograde amnesia.’

  ‘So he ran some tests, did he?’

  ‘A few Q&As, yes. I can remember facts and figures, but I have no memory of any experiences.’

  ‘So you don’t remember being in the car?’

  ‘Nope. I don’t remember getting in the car, I don’t remember driving it or being involved in a crash.’

  ‘And you don’t know if there was anyone else in the car with you?’ she asks.

  You shrug. ‘It’s all a blank.’

  ‘And before you were involved in the crash. Is there anything you remember? Anything at all?’

  ‘No. Nothing. It’s as if I was born the moment I woke up here. As if I didn’t exist before then.’

  ‘Well, it does happen,’ says Maggie. ‘It’s unusual, but it does happen.’

  ‘The scans say there is no brain damage.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she says. ‘But in an accident like the one you went through, the body is flooded with enkephalins, natural painkillers and hormones and neurotransmitters, as a sort of self-protection mechanism. Almost like being struck by lightning. It can be a real shock to the system.’

  ‘But my memories will come back, right?’

  ‘One would like to think so, yes. We can start a program of mental exercises, think of it as mind-mapping, which will help you file and index the memories as and when they return. It isn’t like a switch, where you flick it and all the memories are back. It will probably be a gradual process.’ She looks at the handcuffs again. ‘So you’re a flight risk?’ she says.

  ‘Apparently. Though I have no idea where I would run to.’

  ‘Have the police said what they think you have done?’

  ‘No. The officer outside said that there are detectives coming to interview me.’

  ‘Hopefully they’ll be able to shed light on what actually happened to you,’ she says. ‘It could well be that what happened was so traumatic that it caused the memory loss.’

  ‘Something other than the crash, you mean?’

  ‘Perhaps, but I’d only be guessing.’

  ‘You mean it was so bad that I blocked it out?’

  ‘That would be supposition,’ she says.

  ‘Somebody might have died,’ you say quietly. ‘Somebody died and so I don’t want to remember what happened because it was my fault.’

  She holds up her hands. ‘There’s no point in crossing bridges before you get to them,’ she says.

  ‘But that’s what you think, right?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, yes. Somebody might have died in the crash and your amnesia is your way of dealing with it. But let’s wait to hear what the detectives say.’ She pats your leg. ‘Don’t overthink it. You need to relax and get well.’ She stands up. ‘I’ll come back and see you tomorrow with a proposal for an exercise program.’

  You thank her and she flashes you another beaming smile before she leaves.

  CHAPTER 7

  After Maggie goes, you spend the time staring at the ceiling, trying to remember something, anything about your past. There’s nothing, not a single memory of anything that happened to you before you woke up in the hospital bed. You can’t remember your parents, you don’t know if you have siblings or if you have ever owned a pet. You don’t know if you went to university and you don’t know if you ever had a job. You must have worked somewhere, you must have done something to earn a living. You run through a list of professions. Doctor. Engineer. Teacher. Lawyer. Police Officer. Firefighter. Pilot. Chef. Architect. Software Developer. Journalist. Accountant. Electrician. Plumber. Mechanic. Pharmacist. Scientist. Vet. Librarian. Carpenter. None of them feels right. You hold up your hands. They don’t look soft but they don’t look as if they’ve done manual labour, there are no cuts or abrasions or callouses. Maybe you worked in an office?

  And where did you live? The hospital is in London, so it would be fair to assume that you lived in the city. You think about London and realise you know a lot about the city. You can picture dozens of its landmark buildings. Buckingham Palace. The Houses of Parliament. The Shard, St Paul’s Cathedral. The Gherkin. Tower Bridge. The British Museum. The London Eye. The Royal Albert Hall. You have no problem picturing them but you can’t recall ever visiting any of them.

  The door opens and two men walk in. Immediately you know they are detectives. One is a man, in his forties wearing a black overcoat and a red scarf around his neck. His hair is receding and his scalp is flecked with freckles. The other is a woman in her thirties with short black hair and square-framed glasses. She is the one who opened the door and she is wearing a beige calf-length raincoat. Both coats are flecked with water so you figure it must be raining outside.

  The woman closes the door. ‘Mr Connolly?’ she says.

  ‘Maybe,’ you say.

  She frowns. ‘Maybe?’

  You hold up your left arm. ‘That’s the name on my wristband.’

  ‘James Connolly?’

  ‘That’s right. But it’s made up. So is the date of birth they’ve used.’

  Her frown deepens. ‘Made up?’

  ‘So are you saying that you gave a false name and date of birth when you arrived at the hospital?’ says the man.

  ‘No, when they brought me in, I was unconscious. I only woke up today.’

  ‘So why are you here under a false name?’ says the man.

  ‘Apparently if they don’t have a name and a date of birth, they assign them to you. It prevents mix-ups if there is more than one unknown patient.’ You hold up your left arm again. ‘So as far as the hospital is concerned, I’m James Connolly.’

  ‘And you can’t remember your date of birth?’

  ‘I can’t remember anything before the accident.’

  ‘That’s convenient,’ says the man. He has a gruff voice. Gravelly. As if he was getting over a cold.

  ‘I am Detective Inspector Emma Linklater,’ says the woman, taking a small black leather wallet from her pocket and flashing it at you. ‘I’m with the Metropolitan Police.’ The wallet disappears back into her pocket before you even have time to focus on it. She gestures at her colleague. ‘This is Detective Constable Harry Wilde. We’d like to speak to you about the crash you were involved in.’

  ‘I don’t remember anything about it,’ you say. ‘The first thing I remember is waking up in hospital today.’

  ‘You don’t remember being on the M25?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. According to the doctor, I have episodic retrograde amnesia.’

  The two detectives frown.

  ‘Basically I can’t remember anything that happened to me before the accident. I can remember things about the world, but I can’t remember my part in it. I know it sounds crazy, and it is. I don’t know who I am, I don’t know where I lived as a child, I have no memory of my family, I don’t know what I do for a living. It’s all a blank.’

  ‘That’s convenient,’ says Wilde. It’s the second time he’s said that but you don’t know what he’s getting at.

  ‘Actually, it’s bloody inconvenient,’ you say.

  ‘The car you were in, is it yours?’ asks Linklater.

  ‘I can’t remember anything about a car,’ you say. ‘I don’t even know if I can drive or not.’

  Wilde frowns. ‘That doesn’t make sense. How can you not know if you can drive or not?’

  ‘I know how to drive a car. I know that there’s an accelerator and a brake and a clutch and I know how gears work. But I don’t know if I have ever actually driven a car. And I certainly don’t know if I have a licence.’

  ‘You were driving the car that was involved in the RTA,’ says Wilde.

  ‘So I can drive, clearly,’ you say. ‘Though the fact that I was in an accident suggests I wasn’t a particularly good driver, doesn’t it?’

  Linklater’s eyes narrow. ‘Do you think this is funny?’ she asks.

  ‘No, of course not. But you keep asking me questions that I can’t answer.’

  ‘Or don’t want to answer,’ says Wilde.

  You sigh because dealing with him is exhausting. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to answer,’ you say. ‘It’s because I don’t remember. I wish I did remember, because then I’d know who I am. For all I know, I’ve a family somewhere worried to death about me. So if I could remember what car I was driving, I’d tell you. If I could remember my real name, I’d tell you. What would I have to gain by pretending not to remember?’

  ‘That’s a very good question, isn't it?’ says Wilde and you figure that the question is rhetorical so you don’t answer.

  ‘What is the last thing you remember before the accident?’ asks Linklater.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You must remember something, surely? A movie that you saw? A meal that you ate? Your last holiday.’

  ‘No, Nothing. It’s as if I haven’t done anything before today.’

  ‘What was the last movie you saw?’

  ‘I don’t remember ever seeing a movie. Either in a cinema or on TV.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’ She shakes her head. ‘How can that be?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look, I know movies and movie stars. I know that Ryan Reynolds is Deadpool, but I don’t remember ever going to a cinema and seeing the movie. I know what Eastenders is but I can’t remember ever seeing it.’

  She smiles. ‘Well to be fair I’ve never watched Eastenders. Or Coronation Street. Or Holby City.’

  ‘But you know what they are? And who the stars are?’

  She nods. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well that’s what my memories are like. I can recall facts and figures, and events, but I can’t remember experiencing them. Earlier I was thinking about London landmarks and I can picture dozens, but I can’t remember actually visiting any of them.’

  ‘But you’re from London?’

  You shrug. ‘I don’t know. I’ve tried thinking about other cities but I don’t feel a connection with any of them. Look, can I ask you a question?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  You raise your right leg so she can see the handcuffs. ‘Why am I chained to the bed?’

  ‘It’s just a precaution,’ she says.

  ‘Against what?’

  ‘In case you decided to leave without talking to us.’

  ‘Where would I go, Inspector Linklater? I have no home to go to, not that I know of.’ You gesture at the drip. ‘And they’re still giving me blood.’

  ‘Yes, we spoke to your doctor. He says there’s no apparent damage to the brain.’

  ‘Yes, he told me that, too.’

  ‘Which means there’s no explanation for your memory loss.’

  ‘He said my memories might come back over the next few days.’

  ‘I won’t be holding my breath,’ growls Wilde.

  ‘What is your problem?’ you snap. ‘I was in an accident, I nearly died, and now I have amnesia. None of this is my fault so why are you so hostile?’

  ‘You don’t know whether the accident was your fault or not, do you?’ says Linklater. ‘Or are you now saying that you remember what happened?’

  ‘No, I’m not saying that. ‘

  ‘So you don’t know if you caused the crash, in fact you don’t know whether or not it was an accident. And you can’t say with any certainty that you nearly died.’ She says everything slowly, as if I might have trouble understanding her.

  ‘The fact that I’m lying here suggests that what happened wasn’t exactly good for my health,’ you say. You look back at Detective Constable Wilde. ‘You didn’t answer my question. Why the hostility?’

  He looks at his boss and something passes between them but you can’t figure out what it is.

  ‘Do you remember who else was in the car with you?’ Linklater asks.

  ‘I don’t even remember being in the car.’

  ‘And the boot. Do you have any idea what was in the boot of the car you were driving?’

  ‘You can ask as many questions as you want, Inspector Linklater. The answer will always be the same. I - do - not - remember.’

  She looks you in the eyes and nods. You can feel her weighing you up, like a piece of meat. ‘What would you say if I told you that earlier today we discovered a body in the boot of the car you were driving?’

  The room starts to spin and her voice sounds as if it’s reaching you down a very long tunnel. You open your mouth to speak but no words come out. A body? In the boot of the car?

  ‘Do you have anything to say about that, Mr Connolly?’ asks Wilde.

  ‘There’s nothing I can say, is there? I don’t remember the crash. I don’t remember being in the car.’ Your mouth has gone dry and you’re struggling to speak. There’s a glass of water on the table next to the bed and you reach for it. Your hand is trembling but neither of the cops help you. You grab the glass and drink some water as best you can. There’s a look of smug satisfaction on Wilde’s face as if he’s taking pleasure in your discomfort.

  ‘Can you explain how there comes to be a body in the car that you were driving, Mr Connolly?’ says the inspector.

  ‘That’s not my name,’ you say. You finish drinking and put the glass back on the table.

  ‘So what do we call you?’ she asks.

  ‘Phil,’ you say.

  She frowns. ‘Phil? Is that your name?’

  ‘It’s a better name than Mr Connolly.’

  She is clearly confused but carries on regardless. ‘So, Phil, can you explain why there is a body in the boot of your car.’

  ‘You don’t know that it was my car, do you? Am I the registered owner?’

  ‘Very well, can you explain why there is a body in the boot of the car you were driving?’

  ‘What sort of body? A dead body, you mean?’

  ‘Bodies are generally dead, yes,’ she says.

  ‘And this one was very dead,’ says Wilde. ‘A single shot to the head.’

  ‘Do you own a gun, Mr Connolly?’ says the inspector. She corrects herself. ‘I mean, Phil. Do you own a gun, Phil?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ you say. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Is it possible that you do?’ she says.

  ‘Well of course anything is possible. Who is it? The body?’

  ‘We’re still checking,’ says the inspector. ‘It’s a man in his fifties. Balding. Heavyset. We’re checking his fingerprints and DNA.’

  ‘You think I killed him?’

  Linklater shrugs. ‘We’re making no assumptions, Phil.’

  You hold up your leg so that she can see the handcuffs. ‘I’d say this was an assumption.’

  ‘It’s a precaution,’ she says.

  ‘So you’re treating me as a suspect,’ you say. ‘If that’s the case, shouldn’t you be reading me my rights and interviewing me under caution?’

  ‘You’re not under arrest, Phil.’

  ‘But I am being detained. That’s what the handcuffs do. They detain me. Now the Police and Criminal Evidence Act of 1984 says that I cannot be detained without charge for more than 24 hours unless a police superintendent or a magistrate authorises an extension so the cuffs need to come off tomorrow. Have you applied for an extension?’

  ‘No, we haven’t,’ says the inspector. ‘At the moment you’re not a suspect, Phil. You’re a person of interest.’

  You smile at her. ‘I’m sure that you know that person of interest is not a legal category under PACE. It’s more of a descriptive term. A very woolly term, at that. It essentially refers to someone who may have information relevant to a criminal investigation, meaning they are not necessarily considered a suspect but could potentially be connected to the crime and may be interviewed to gather further details.’

  ‘Which is what we are doing here. Interviewing you to gather further details.’ She frowns. ‘You seem to know a lot about the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.’

  She’s right. You do. An awful lot. Which is surprising because you don’t ever recall reading it, never mind studying it. How do you know so much about the law? Are you a solicitor? You know the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, that’s clear. But what else do you know? You think about a will. A last will and testament. You can’t remember if you have one, but you can’t think what a will should contain. And you have no idea what paperwork is necessary when buying or selling a house, and you figure any solicitor would know that. So probably not a solicitor. Could you have been a police officer? Obviously you couldn’t have been in uniform at the time of the crash, so you would either be a plainclothes officer or off duty. Inspector Linklater will know as soon as she checks your fingerprints. All police officers in the UK are fingerprinted as part of the recruitment process, with their fingerprints stored on a police elimination database so that they can be excluded from crime. It was mandated by the Police Reform and Social Responsibility Act 2011, and you smile as you recall the Act. How many people outside the police would know that? Probably not many. So there is every chance that you are a police officer, or work within law enforcement. That has to be good news. Though it doesn’t explain why you were driving a car with a dead body in the boot.

  ‘Are you a solicitor, Phil?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t know what I do for a living.’

  ‘Could you be in the Job?’

  ‘The Job?’ you repeat.

  ‘Is it possible that you are a police officer? Or involved in law enforcement in some way?’