‘I doubt a cop could afford a watch like that,’ says Wilde, gesturing at the Rolex.

  I ignore him and keep looking at Linklater. ‘I don’t know. But you are right, I do know a lot about the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. The handcuffs went on about six hours ago. I am formally requesting that they are removed now, but if not I insist that they are removed after the twenty four hours is up.’

  ‘I hear you, Phil. And as you are familiar with PACE you will know that we have the right to take your fingerprints and your DNA.’

  ‘I’m fine with that.’

  ‘And we will also do a skin swab.’

  ‘To check for gunshot residue?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘To see whether or not I fired a gun?’

  ‘It seems you are also very familiar with police procedures, Phil.’

  ‘Maybe I watch a lot of cop shows,’ you say.

  CHAPTER 8

  A woman in a blue suit takes a DNA sample from your mouth using a large cotton bud and then gets you to press your right index finger against a scanner attached to a mobile phone. ‘No match,’ she says to Inspector Linklater. She has a bored look on her pinched face, as if she has better things to do with her time.

  You know without asking that the device is an INK - Identity Not Known - and that it compares the fingerprint against the police’s database. The fact that she says no match means that you have never been in police custody and that you have never worked as a police officer.

  ‘You’re not in the system,’ Linklater says to you. ‘So we’re going to have to take all of your prints.’

  ‘You’ll need my permission as I haven’t been arrested,’ you say.

  ‘Do I have it?’ she says.

  ‘Of course,’ you say. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  The woman in the blue suit takes another scanner from her black bag and holds it out. She asks you to press the four fingers of your right hand against the screen, then your right thumb, then repeats the process with your left hand. It takes a few seconds and unlike the old system doesn’t leave you with messy ink on your fingers.

  Her final task is to swab your hands for gunshot residue, and she does that with two cotton buds, one for each hand, which she packs away in clear plastic tubes and scribbles on the labels. Then she packs away her gear, says goodbye to the inspector, and leaves. She’s wearing Nike trainers, you notice, and you figure that she probably does a lot of walking.

  ‘Well, the good news is that you don’t appear to be a criminal,’ says the inspector. ‘At least not one who has ever been caught.’

  ‘And it would have shown if I had been employed as a police officer anywhere in the country?’ you say.

  ‘In England and Wales,’ she says. ‘I’ll have to check about Police Scotland. They are sometimes a law unto themselves. No pun intended.’

  ‘So why do I know so much about the Police and Criminal Evidence Act? And that gizmo she used is called an INK - Identity Not Known. How do I know that? And how do I know that the system was first used by the Met in 2018 and before that police fingerprinting was done using a device called MobileID which was provided by the Home Office. Why can I remember all that and not know my own name?’

  ‘I talked to Dr Mackenzie about that, he said that different parts of the brain are responsible for different sorts of memories. I didn’t fully understand it, but he said it explained why you can form new memories and remember facts and figures, the problem lies in the part of the brain that holds your personal memories.’ She shrugs.

  ‘Or of course you could be faking it,’ says Detective Constable Wilde. He has spent the time standing by the door, his arms folded.

  ‘Did the doctor say that?’ you ask him.

  ‘He said anything is possible.’

  ‘If I could remember anything, I’d tell you,’ you say. ‘I’m not enjoying this experience. It’s as if I’ve lost more than thirty years of my life. I have no clue who or what I am.’

  ‘So you say,’ says Wilde. ‘I’m more interested in what the GSR test has to show. Forensics trumps recollections, every time.’

  ‘I have absolutely no recollection of holding a gun, never mind firing one.’

  ‘As I said, let’s see what the results are.’

  ‘Have any of your memories returned since you woke up?’ asks the inspector.

  You shake your head. ‘No. And it’s very frustrating.’

  ‘Whenever I can’t remember something, I try to relax and deliberately not think about it. Then my subconscious somehow manages to remember what I’d forgotten.’

  ‘I’ll give that a try,’ you say, even though you’ve tried everything. Nothing has helped to recover your lost memories.

  ‘We’ll be in to see you tomorrow,’ says the inspector. ‘Maybe a good night’s sleep will help.’

  You force a smile. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. You suspect the latter.

  The two detectives leave with Wilde flashing you a last hostile glare.

  It’s interesting that Inspector Linklater didn’t caution you or explain your rights. Not that it mattered, you are very aware of your rights.The police caution was to advise a suspect of their legal rights and the potential consequences of remaining silent or providing false information to the police. The usual wording was that you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.

  Did the fact that she didn’t give you the caution mean that she didn’t think you were a suspect? The handcuffs suggested otherwise.

  Her problem was that she didn’t have any evidence yet to show that you were responsible for the body in the boot. The GSR test would go some way to proving that one way or another. You close your eyes and try to remember whether you have fired a gun or not. You know what a gun looks like and you can imagine holding one, but you have no idea what it feels like to pull the trigger. But you don’t feel like a killer, you don’t feel like someone who could take another person’s life.

  You lose track of time as you lie on the bed staring up at the ceiling. There is a time code on the heart monitor but the digits are quite small and from where you are you have to screw up your eyes to read it. You drift in and out of sleep, probably as a result of the painkillers they are giving you. You keep trying to recall anything from your childhood but it’s a complete blank. You have zero memories of your mother and father, of your siblings if you have any, of the schools you must surely have attended. Nothing. Nada. Rien. Nichts. Niente. Niets. You are surprised at how many languages you can access but you seem only to be fluent in English, which is fine.

  The door opens and it’s Adeya, carrying a tray. ‘How are you this evening?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m good,’ you say.

  She puts the tray down on your table. It was a pasta dish that smelled of cheese, a garden salad, and a bread roll and butter, plus a bowl of fruit salad. She helps you sit up and as you smell the food you realise that you are very hungry. ‘I thought we’d stick with the vegetarian option.’

  ‘Fine with me,’ you say.

  ‘Has Dr Mackenzie been in?’

  ‘He hasn’t. But Dr Maggie dropped by. She says she’s going to draw up an exercise program for me.’

  She frowns. ‘Dr Maggie?’

  ‘She’s with the hospital’s neurological disorders unit.’

  ‘And she said she was a doctor?’

  ‘Well, a psychiatrist. She said she wasn’t a fan of blood.’

  Adeya’s frown has deepened. ‘I’ve never come across a Dr Maggie,’ she says.

  The door opens and Dr Mackenzie appears. He looks tired and his tie is loose around his neck. He smiles when he sees the tray. ‘Well it’s good to see that you haven’t lost your appetite,’ he says. He nods at the tray. ‘That looks good.’

  ‘Dr Mackenzie, do you know a doctor in the NDU called Maggie?’ asks Adeya.

  ‘Maggie? No. They’re all male doctors in the NDU. There was a woman last year, but she left.’

  ‘She didn’t actually say she was a doctor, she said she was a psychiatrist.’

  ‘No, that doesn’t make sense,’ he says. ‘They’re all doctors in the unit. Neurologists. Psychiatry is a different speciality and there are no psychiatrists in the NDU.’ He frowns. ‘You called her Dr Maggie. What was her surname?’

  ‘She didn’t tell me.’

  ‘What about her badge?’

  ‘She didn’t have a badge.’

  ‘And you’re sure she said she was with the NDU?’

  You nod. ‘Definitely.’

  He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Well that’s weird. I’ll check with the NDU but I’m sure I’d remember someone called Maggie. What did she want?’

  ‘She asked me a few questions about my memory loss and said she’d get back to me with some sort of program.’

  ‘Program?’

  ‘Exercises, I guess. Techniques to improve my memory. She said she’d be back tomorrow.’

  ‘I suppose she could have joined recently,’ he says.

  ‘I haven’t seen anyone called Maggie,’ says Adeya. ‘And as you said, they’re all guys at the NDU. It’s a very male unit. You can smell the testosterone from here.’

  ‘I got the impression she’d spoken to you,’ you say.

  ‘Well, that definitely didn’t happen. Was she pretty?’

  ‘She was, yes.’

  ‘Then I would definitely have remembered,’ he says. ‘Anyway. How are things? Any changes on the memory front?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘And you have acquired a police guard since I was last here. You haven’t been disruptive, have you?’

  ‘I’m a person of interest in a potential homicide case,’ you say. You raise your leg so that he can see the handcuffs. ‘So they don’t want me to go anywhere.’

  ‘Is that painful?’ he asks. ‘If it is, I could insist that it be removed.’

  ‘It’s okay, Adeya is going to put some plasters under it to stop it rubbing.’

  ‘Let me know if it becomes an issue,’ he says. ‘This homicide case? When did it happen?’

  ‘They found a body in the boot of the car I was driving.’

  His eyebrows head skywards. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘And how did the body get into the boot?’

  ‘That’s what the police want to know.’

  Realisation dawns and he nods. ‘And you don’t remember?’

  ‘Exactly. I wish I did. But it’s a complete blank.’

  ‘And nothing has come back to you? You don’t even remember your name?’

  ‘I’ve started calling him Phil,’ says Adeya.

  ‘Is that your....?’

  ‘No. She just thinks I look like a Phil. And I certainly don’t feel like a James. Or a Jimmy.’

  Dr Mackenzie chuckles. ‘That’s funny,’ he says. ‘Though I wouldn’t advise acting out roles, as it were. By behaving as if Phil was your real name, you run the risk of creating a false memory. So when you do start to recall your real name, you have a conflict.’

  ‘I didn’t think of that,’ you say.

  ‘It’s just something to bear in mind,’ he says. ‘Nothing coming back from your childhood? The faces of your parents?’

  You shake your head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And the crash? Can you remember anything about what happened?’

  ‘I don’t remember getting into the car, I don’t remember driving it, and I have no memory of crashing it. In fact I still don’t actually know what happened. No one has told me anything.’

  ‘Well they told you there was a dead body in the boot.’

  ‘I think they only told me that so that I wouldn’t make a fuss about being handcuffed to the bed.’

  ‘Make a fuss? What do you mean?’

  ‘The police can only hold you without charging you for twenty four hours. After that they have to charge you or let you go.’

  ‘But you’ve been here for longer than that already.’

  You smile. ‘True, but they would argue that the detention didn’t actually start until the handcuffs went on. In a way it’s good news.’

  ‘Good news?’

  ‘If they wanted to they could just charge me and put me behind bars.’ You smile. ‘I’m guessing the food is better here. And the scenery.’ You look across at Adeya and she blushes and averts her eyes.

  The doctor studies the chart and nods. ‘You’re on the mend,’ he says. ‘Your blood pressure is holding steady, it looks as if your spleen is recovering from the trauma. If you could give us another urine sample at some point, we’ll check for blood.’

  ‘Another sample? Did I give you one and forgot about it?’

  ‘We took some while you were in your coma,’ says the doctor. ‘We found blood then which is why we gave you the drip. But I’m expecting it to have cleared in which case we’d be happy enough to release you.’ He gestures at the handcuffs. ‘Obviously the police will need to be told.’ He pats you on the shoulder. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow. There might be ways of keeping you here a while longer.’

  The doctor heads out and you tuck into your spaghetti. It tastes good, better than good, it tastes amazing. But you have no memory of ever eating pasta before. It’s as if every experience you have is a first.

  ‘I got some plasters,’ says Adeya, moving the sheet away from your right foot. She takes a pack from her pocket, rips it open and gently places a dressing on your ankle, underneath the cuff. ‘I’ll use a couple, and I’ll leave more in the drawer in case you need them.’

  ‘You’re an angel, thank you.’

  ‘All part of the service,’ she says.

  ‘No,’ you say. ‘You’ve taken really good care of me, Adeya. Above and beyond the call of duty. You’ve even given me my name.’

  ‘You definitely look like a Phil,’ she says.

  ‘You know, if I do get my memory back and I do remember my real name, I think I’m going to keep calling myself Phil.’

  ‘Dr Mackenzie said that might not be a good idea,’ she says,

  ‘Ah, doctors don’t know everything.’

  Adeya puts two plasters under the handcuff, then nods as she admires her handiwork and then puts the rest of the plasters in the drawer of the bedside table.

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend, Adeya?’ you ask.

  ‘Not at the moment. No.’

  ‘Are you interviewing for the post?’

  ‘Am I what?’ she laughs and her hand flies up to cover her mouth. ‘You’re funny.’

  ‘I was thinking, you know, if I could perhaps apply.’

  ‘That’s a good idea in principle, but your CV is going to be problematic, isn't it?’ she says. ‘You don’t even have a date of birth. And for all we know there’s a wife and kids out there who are missing you and wondering where you are.’

  ‘I don’t feel married.’

  ‘You have no idea how many married men have said exactly that to me. Their wives don’t understand them. They live separate lives. They’re only staying together for the kids. Blah, blah, blah.’

  ‘Yes, but you know I’m not spinning you a line, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, yes. But I also know that you’ve no idea who you really are. And that’s no foundation for a relationship, is it?’

  ‘So you are looking for a relationship?’

  You grin but she wags a finger at you. ‘Let’s not go there,’ she says. ‘Once your memory comes back and you’re definitely free and single, then maybe we can talk.’

  You flash her a thumbs up. ‘It’s a date.’

  She shakes her head with a smile. ‘No, it’s not a date.’ She nods at your tray. ‘I do have other patients, you get stuck into your pasta and I’ll be back later to clear up.’

  ‘You’re right, I’ll need my strength,’ you say, and she is still chuckling as she leaves.

  CHAPTER 9

  You wake from sleep with a gasp and lie on your back, your whole body trembling. You’d been dreaming, but as you lie staring up at the ceiling, only fragments remain. You were in a car, grabbing at the steering wheel with both hands. The car was spinning through the air and you were screaming. The car hit something and the windscreen burst inwards and that was when you woke up. You can hear the beeping of your pulse. It’s fast. You look over at the heart rate monitor. It’s showing 98 bpm. That’s not good. You take slow, deep breaths and the number gradually drops. As your pulse slows, the memory of the dream fades until all you can remember is that you were in a car. Was it a real memory, or just information that the police had given you?

  You realise that your mouth is dry and you lean over to pick up a glass of water. As you drink you realise that you’re not attached to a drip any more. That has to be a good sign.

  The door opens and it’s Adeya, carrying a tray. ‘You slept well,’ she says. ‘The nurse on the night shift said that you fell asleep about nine so you slept for almost nine hours. How do you feel?’

  ‘Better,’ you say. ‘But I need the bathroom.’ You raise your right leg so that she can see the handcuff. ‘There’s just one problem.’

  ‘I can get you a bedpan.’

  ‘Please don’t. I’m not incontinent. I just need to get to the bathroom.’

  She puts the tray down on the over bed table. It looks good. Scrambled eggs, with fried potatoes and tomatoes, a small packet of Corn Flakes and a box of milk, and a yoghurt. ‘I can ask the policeman outside if he can help,’ she says.

  ‘Please,’ you say.

  She goes out and after a couple of minutes reappears with a uniformed constable in a hi-vis jacket. He smiles apologetically. ‘Yeah, I’m sorry but my instructions are that you are to remain handcuffed to the bed,’ he says. He’s younger than the officer from the previous day, probably in his early twenties, with a neatly-trimmed beard that he’s probably grown so that he looks older. His nametag says he’s a constable and that his name is Clive.

  ‘I hear you, but I really don’t want to use a bedpan,’ you say. You point to the open door that leads to the toilet. ‘It’s ensuite, I don’t have to leave the room.’ You look over at Adeya. ‘Is there a window in there?’