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“Not my decision. My gut says that even with the taped confession, that one might be hard to make stick. But there’s plenty under the Computer Misuse Act. He’d compromised Watchdog and Puppydog to the point where they were effectively running twenty-four-hour surveillance on everyone who used the apps—camera, microphone, location, you name it. And he could be facing counterterrorism and espionage charges too, when we find out where the information was going.”
“So you’re closing in on whoever was behind this?” Hel asked.
Malik nodded. “Not my department, but between us, I think MI6 have a pretty good idea of who they’re dealing with, it’s just a matter of tracing back the digital bread crumbs. They’ll get what they can out of Cole, of course, and I’m sure there’ll be some horse trading regarding sentencing in exchange for testimony, but he’ll be going away for a long time, regardless of what he coughs up.”
I swallowed, feeling the tears brimming at the edges of my eyes, trying not to let them spill over.
“Thanks,” I whispered. “Thank you.”
Malik nodded, just once, rather brusquely, as if she too did not quite have the words for the moment.
“Well, look, we’ll have a few more questions, but they can wait until you’re feeling a bit stronger. For the moment, take care of yourself, Jack. And if you need anything…” She put a business card down on the bedside locker and tapped it. “Just call.”
“Thanks,” Hel said. She glanced at me, then stood up. “I’ll walk you out. I think Jack needs a rest. Is that okay, Jack?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and watched as the two women slipped through the gap in the curtains. I heard their footsteps fading as they walked up the ward, then a swing door opening and closing, and then silence.
I shut my eyes, feeling the hot tears I had been holding back for so long, ever since Gabe’s death, spill over, running down my cheeks. And a great sob seemed to rise up, a huge choking gout of grief that felt like it was ripping me apart from the inside.
It was over. It was really over. And I had no idea what to do next, what was left for me now. There was nothing else I could do for Gabe. There was no reason to keep going anymore, keep putting one foot in front of the other as I had forced myself to do, day after day after day, in the hopes of finding his killer.
I had found him—if not the person who’d held the knife, at least I’d found the person responsible for leading them to Gabe.
And now what? What did I have left?
I had wished I could cry so many times since Gabe’s death, and now the tears were here. They were coming thick and fast, and I didn’t seem to be able to stop them. They were running down my cheeks, soaking into the clean white sheets, and my chest hurt with it—not the decorous weeping I’d imagined, but great hacking sobs that seemed to be wrenched uncontrollably up from somewhere deep inside of me, tearing my heart and my throat as they came. It was a real, physical pain, one that pulled at the stitches at my side, tore at my heart.
“Hey,” a voice came from outside the curtains, and then the fabric twitched back. “Hey.”
A man was standing there in a nurse’s uniform, hands on hips, looking concerned. Behind him was a lunch trolley loaded with covered plates.
“What is all this?”
I couldn’t speak. I only shook my head, trying to get control over myself enough to say Please, I’m not hungry, leave me alone. But the words wouldn’t come, and the nurse moved across the cubicle to take my hand comfortingly in his.
“Come on now, there’s no need for all this!” His name badge said Harrison Carter. He had a Jamaican accent that reminded me of my elderly next-door neighbor in Salisbury Lane, the one whose wall I’d vaulted, and the memory of home made me sob harder. “We can’t have this. Are you in pain?”
I was, and the sobs were making it worse, but I shook my head. That wasn’t why I was crying, and no amount of morphine was going to stop this tsunami of grief for Gabe.
“Here,” Harrison said. He turned away, rummaging on his trolley, and then stood up, holding a plastic tray with a covered plate. “Have some lunch. There’s nothing like a bit of food to make everything feel better. I’ve got a lovely veggie shepherd’s pie.”
He held the tray out towards me, and a school-dinner waft of hot Quorn filled the cubicle. A wave of nausea rose up inside me so strong that I thought I might actually be sick, and I turned my face away, trying to get ahold of myself.
“Come on now,” Harrison said cajolingly to my back. “Can you not manage a bite for the sake of the baby?”
For a moment I thought I hadn’t heard right.
“I— What?” The tears had stopped, as abruptly as if I’d been slapped, and now I turned my head back to face the nurse, but he hadn’t noticed my shocked expression. He was talking as if I hadn’t spoken, smiling reassuringly.
“I can get a doctor if you’re worried, but it’s all looking good on the scan.”
I had to dig my nails into my palm, concentrating on that small pain so that I didn’t scream in his face about the knife in the side his words were twisting. This was too fucking cruel, a brutal reminder of all the possibilities that had died with Gabe. My throat, when I spoke, felt tight and raw with the unfairness of his mistake.
“I’m not pregnant.” The words were forced out through clenched teeth, each one hurting. “You have me mixed up with someone else.”
Harrison looked puzzled. He picked up the chart from the bottom of my bed and glanced down at it and then up at me.
“You are Jacintha Cross?”
