Chapter 2

The girl, who they had dubbed Jane (as in Jane Doe from American cop shows), simply because the hospital needed something to call her for their records, spent the next seven days in the hospital room. When Fiona had shown an interest in the girl, Paul put her in charge of the investigation into who she was. Not that they were making any progress. They’d taken fingerprints and checked them against both the national and Interpol databases. Not that they expected any result from the exercise, it was purely a matter of making sure that they’d checked every nook and cranny, ticked every box for the satisfaction of the bureaucrats at HQ.

Peter spoke to his father over the weekend who promised to see Jane and evaluate her as soon as she came out. He pointed out that although he was still registered with the GMC, he had given up his licence to practice, which meant that he wouldn’t be able to refer her to others or write prescriptions.

She was discharged on day eight of her stay, without anywhere to go and with the clothes she stood up in and one change, both provided through the good offices of Doctor Mandy. Social Services had been their usual unhelpful selves.

Fiona had offered her the use of the sofa at her flat until she could get herself something sorted out, but before she could do that the police needed to establish her identity.

Fiona took her home with her to her flat at the end of her shift, it was on the outskirts of town; a small place, living room, bedroom, dining kitchen and bathroom.

“I’ll make us a hot drink,” Fiona said as Jane put her bag down on the sofa, “then we’ll decide on what we’re going to do about food.”

They ate pasta and meatballs in a tomato sauce, which Jane decided she liked, a lot, and then settled they settled down in front of the TV. Jane soon developed a love for game shows and factual programmes. Also it seemed, she was a sponge that soaked up knowledge.

On her second night at Fiona’s Peter had arranged for the two of them to have dinner with his dad. Just an introduction and a chance for his dad to see her in an informal atmosphere. He picked her up from Fiona’s at 6:30 and drove the short distance to his dad’s house. Like I mentioned, Ponteford is a small town.

He didn’t knock, just opened the front door and led her in. She’d showered before Peter arrived and Fiona had helped her put on a light make-up, just eye-shadow and a pale rose lipstick, but she did look very lovely dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a sweatshirt.

“Dad, it’s me,” Peter called out, “I have Jane with me.”

“I’m in the kitchen,” his father replied, “make yourselves comfortable. Food will be twenty minutes; you know where the drinks cabinet is.”

Peter did, but since he was driving, he decided that he would restrict himself to a single glass of wine with his food.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, “while we wait for the food to be ready?”

“Coffee?” she asked. She had developed a liking for black coffee with three sugars while she had been in the hospital.

“If that’s what you want, yes,” he replied, “but I was thinking of something alcoholic.”

“What’s alcoholic?”

“A drink containing alcohol. Ethanol in particular which is what people have when they’re socialising.”

He was beginning to realise how difficult explaining things to people with no memories was. He also registered that her accent was becoming more English, even local, as the days passed. She was starting to speak like a Pontefordian.

Peter’s plan was to ask George, his dad, at some time to get a blood sample from Jane, so they could assess where in the world she came from but, he was thinking it would be better done after the two of them had gone through a couple of sessions and built some trust. He decided to bring it forward.

“Jane,” he said as he handed her coffee to her, “would it be all right if my dad was to take a sample of your blood? We could use it to tell us where in the world you came from and even pinpoint the region of that country.”

“Of course, Peter,” she said, “if that’s what you want.”

“It would help us find your family and reunite them with you.”

“That would be good,” she said, “wouldn’t it?”

She sounded doubtful about the wisdom of reuniting her with her family. This raised a thought, was she, perhaps escaping from an abusive situation? Something to investigate once they’d settled who she was and where she was from.

“It would be nice for you, unless well, unless they weren’t nice. Then I really couldn’t let you go back to them.”

“What would happen to me then?”

“Then we’d get you refugee papers, a job, somewhere to live and you could settle down here, in England. Perhaps even in Ponteford.”

“I think I’d like that,” she said, “perhaps if I did that you might be my mate. Or would you prefer Fiona for your mate.”

“Jane,” he replied, “Fiona is my colleague and I’m her boss; to have her for anything beyond a friend would be wrong and get both of us into trouble. As to you, I’m the senior Investigating officer in the case of your origins. I couldn’t have any sort of relationship like that with you, even if you weren’t far too young for me.”

Her reply of, “Oh, I see,” had a note of disappointment about it.

Dinner was shepherd’s pie and roast vegetables. His dad had always been a good cook, but, since the death of his wife, Peter’s mother, and his retirement he had become an excellent one. An invitation to eat at George Ford’s house was one of the most sought after in town.

After dinner Peter cleared up and loaded the dishwasher. Left to himself George would have done the washing-up in the sink, his wife Margaret had insisted on buying the dishwasher and loved it. George just felt it was unnecessary and was convinced that hand washing left the dishes cleaner.

As he loaded the dishwasher he thought about what Jane had said, about him being her mate, or Fiona’s. First of all, he thought, it was a strange thing to ask, particularly of someone you hardly knew and secondly, why the word mate and not wife, or some other descriptor of the relationship?

Back in the living room after finishing, he found it empty, he guessed that his father had taken Jane to his study to talk to her. Medical ethics demanded it. Peter settled down in an easy chair and found the TV remote.

Peter was correct, when George and Jane had emerged from the dining room, he suggested that they use his study to talk in, trying to explain the concept of patient confidentiality. He opened the door and stood aside as she walked into the comfortably furnished room, lined with bookshelves. There was a mahogany desk, with a leather manager’s chair behind it, but nowhere in front. Instead one corner of the room was furnished with a round coffee table and three very comfortable chairs around it. Most people expressed surprise at there being no couch.

“Please. Take a seat Jane,” he said, indicating the chairs in the corner of the room. She sat and he sat at a slight angle to her. The three chairs were arranged so that no-one sat facing anyone else. It tended to make for a more relaxed atmosphere, as did the carefully chosen colour scheme of the room.

“Before we start is it all right with you if I record our conversation? That will help me when I do my assessment of what help you need.”

“Yes, please, whatever you need to do to help me find out who I am.”

“OK, now, we know you have no memories of who you are or where you’re from. Tell me what is the first thing that you remember?”

“Waking up, I was cold and I was lying on the ground, then I drifted off, back to sleep and I was being picked up and placed on some sort of bed. Moving. Then the inside of something moving very fast. Then, when we stopped I was wheeled into the, the hospital and the next time I woke up, Peter was there with Fiona.”

“Can you remember what your thoughts were all through that?”

“I was confused. Where was I, how did I get there, why didn’t I have my suit on?”

“Let’s just pause there for a moment, your suit, that was your actual thought, not your clothes.”

“Yes, definitely it was suit.”

George made a note on the pad he’d picked up from the table, using a Cross ATX fountain pen. Filled with green ink.

“That’s fine,” he said, “now tell me about your stay in the hospital, did you have any visitors, apart from the staff and, of course, Peter and Fiona.”

“No, nobody but them.”

“Now let’s think about your name, who named you Jane?”

“That was the woman at the hospital, Mansy, the doctor, because I didn’t have one she named me after a television character, Jane Doe.”

“The classic American cop show name for an unidentified female,” he mused.

“What is American?”

“It means from America. Do you know what America is?”

She shook her head, no.

“It’s an EU colony across the Western Ocean. We call that the Atlantic, they make a lot of films and TV shows there, mainly in their southern peninsula. The weather is very pleasant there.”

“I know nothing of it.”

“It looks like we’re going to have to teach you a lot of things that you don’t know, or rather, you’re going to have to re-learn them. But for now, let’s get these tests that Peter wants out of the way, then we can go back and he can take you home.”

By the time they finished taking the blood samples; it was after nine and Jane was looking a little fatigued. George led her back to the living room.

“Here, you are, Son,” George said as they entered the room, “take her home and let her get some sleep. She’s staying with Fiona, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Why when you have an extra bedroom?”

“Because I’m SIO on her case, it wouldn’t be appropriate and so far, Social Services have refused any form of help.”

“Then let me see whose arse I can sting into action tomorrow,” George replied, “I’m not without contacts in there.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Peter replied, “Jane, ready to go home?”

She looked up at me, I thought I saw hope in her eyes, hope of what?

“To Fiona’s,” he said, “I’m sorry, I can’t take you to my place, it would cause trouble at work. As it is, I’m going to have to take Fiona off the case.”

“Why?”

“The rules of police ethics, we can’t be involved in any case involving a member of our own family or household. I’ll reassign her tomorrow and find somebody else to act as my assistant.”

They said goodnight to George, Peter with a hug and Jane with both a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

The drive back to Fiona’s flat, short as it was, didn’t give much chance for conversation.