He didn’t want to add, With a stab wound? Or ask whether the police had visited while he’d slept.

“I don’t know, I’m sorry. It was just you brought up to this ward. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Don’t worry,” Paul said quickly. “Leave it, it’s fine.”

She hesitated again before she left, flinging one more querying look over her shoulder. Paul struggled to sit up, a wave of protest sweeping through his muscles. He was exhausted. Close to breaking in a way there was no going back from. He couldn’t, though: He had to get out of here.

Now that he was alone, his head gradually clearing, he thought back over what had happened. The explosive sense of release as he’d sunk the knife into Daniel’s shoulder, followed all too quickly by panic and regret. Then a frantic attempt to stem the bleeding, a call to 999, a spiraling fear that he’d made things a thousand times worse. He couldn’t be responsible for another death, no matter how he felt about Daniel. There was already so much guilt to bear.

The nurse returned sooner than he’d expected, startling Paul out of his thoughts.

“The number was engaged,” she said. “I’ll try again later. Are you all right? You look extremely pale.”

“I’m okay.” Paul sank into his pillows, his heart thundering. He felt a deep twist of longing for Steph, wishing everything was as it had been only a few days ago, that maybe he’d just had a minor accident, like the time he’d come off his bike, and she was rushing from work to fetch him . . .

“One of the receptionists gave me this,” the nurse said, handing him an envelope with Paul Harlow written on it. “Apparently a woman dropped it off about an hour ago. She didn’t want to stick around, but asked us to pass it to you when you woke.”

Paul stared at it. Who on earth knew he was here but wouldn’t stay? He waited until the nurse had moved politely away before tearing open the envelope.

I’ll be waiting on the far side of the Blue Car Park.

45.

EMMA

She could still smell it. The dirty, sickly stench. She didn’t know if she was really smelling it anymore, or whether the memory was trapped in her nostrils.

Her first impulse, of course, had been to throw the revolting package into a bin far from her house. But then it had occurred to her that she might need the evidence. As repugnant as the idea was, she had to keep the stinking parcel, now quadruple-wrapped in plastic bags, until she had an opportunity to talk to the police.