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I know those shoes.
She watches the last few moments of footage, reliving the pain at what he did to her as she sees it play out on the screen. The rage builds inside her.
Bastard.
You won’t get away with this.
Pushing herself up to standing, Jennie dresses as fast as she can. She blinks hard to stop the room from spinning. She’s still shaky, her stomach lurching at every movement, but she fights the nausea and keeps going.
How hadn’t she known he’d be capable of this?
Bugger the doctor wanting her to have half-hourly observations. She can’t wait around here another minute. Not when he’s out there. Not when he’s done this.
He could’ve killed her.
Maybe he thought he had.
Grabbing her bashed-up helmet from the chair, Jennie walks on shaky legs to the door and peers out. The place is heaving, patients in every bay, nurses and doctors hurrying between them. If she can make it out of A&E unseen, she should be able to grab a taxi from the rank outside.
Jennie takes a deep breath. Forces down the ever-present nausea. And opens the door.
There’s no time to waste.
Chapter 39
Twenty minutes later, Jennie hurries through the open-plan space towards DCI Campbell’s office. She keeps her gaze fixed straight ahead – she feels less sick that way – and ignores the shocked and concerned expressions on Zuri’s, Naomi’s and Steve’s faces.
Zuri calls after her, but Jennie keeps walking. She has to tell her boss what’s happened. She raises her good arm in a rather pathetic attempt at a wave. ‘I’m okay.’
She walks into Campbell’s office without knocking and collapses into the visitor’s chair opposite him.
The DCI looks up, initially surprised to see her, then hostile. Then his expression becomes increasingly horrified as he takes in the damage to her face and body. ‘Jennie, bloody hell. Shouldn’t you be at the hospital?’
For a moment she can’t speak as she swallows down another wave of nausea. Instead, she takes her phone from her pocket and opens the helmet camera app. Setting the phone down in front of the DCI she taps play on the footage. ‘You need to see this.’
As Campbell watches the video he becomes increasingly grim-faced. The action plays out. DS Martin Wright’s car hitting her bike. Jennie smacking down onto the tarmac. Martin’s distinctive Doc Marten shoes with the claret and blue laces approaching her as she lies prone on the road. His voice is clearly audible as he spits the word ‘bitch’ before kicking her twice in the stomach and ribs.
‘Bloody hell.’ The DCI grimaces as he watches the footage. ‘That sick bastard.’
Jennie’s gaze flits back to the open plan, checking to see if Martin has appeared, but there’s no sign of him. The more she’s here, the more on edge she’s feeling. Emotions ricochet inside her, anger and fear in equal measure, but she doesn’t let that deter her. ‘He tried to kill me, and it wasn’t the first time. There was an incident a few days ago when I was riding home when I realised a car was kerb-crawling behind me, and then a couple of days ago I saw someone in the shadows in my front garden, watching the house. I think both times were Martin too.’
Campbell looks appalled. ‘Can you forward this video to me? I’m going to put a call into Professional Standards and instigate criminal proceedings right away. I’ll see to it that Martin Wright never works another day in law enforcement.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ says Jennie, relief flooding through her. She glances towards the open-plan again. ‘Is he here?’
‘No, not now. After you briefed me on his conduct this morning, I pulled him in and suspended him pending a disciplinary investigation. Let’s just say it didn’t go well. He was ranting and raving about injustice, and I had to get him escorted out. He hasn’t been seen since.’ The DCI shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t see how infatuated he was with you. We only searched his desk after he’d left. If I’d done it while he was still here, I’d like to think we could have averted this.’ His gestures towards the helmet cam footage freeze-framed on Jennie’s phone.
Jennie frowns. ‘I don’t understand?’
‘We think DS Wright had been fixated on you for some time. When we searched his desk, we found stuff belonging to you.’ Campbell reaches down and picks up a cardboard archive box from the floor. Putting it on the desk, he slides it across to Jennie.
Lifting the lid, Jennie sees her silver pen, the oversized Friends coffee mug, a green scarf that went missing a couple of months ago, her pink stapler and her spare pair of cycling sunglasses. She stares at her lost belongings. Feels suddenly cold.
What the hell?
‘I never realised he’d taken my stuff,’ says Jennie, her voice shaky. ‘I thought with the stress of mum dying and trying to clear the house, I’d got more forgetful or something. But it was him?’
‘None of us realised,’ says the DCI, the regret clear in his tone. ‘DS Wright managed to keep his obsession under the radar for months.’
