I leaned closer to see some sign of life. Beyond the tubes that covered much of his face, he did not appear to be sleeping. He was not in anything recognisable as sleep. It was in a state far deeper than sleep. I had never seen anyone look so far from life with their heart still beating.

Frayed striped pyjamas hung loosely on the tiny old man’s emaciated frame and I could see the white hair on the papery skin, and the rough tattoo just above his heart, smudged with the passing of the years.

6 - 6 - 44

The sixth of June 1944. D-Day. I tried to imagine Bert as the teenage soldier he had been, landing on that Normandy beach, but it felt like it was another lifetime. I took his hand, the one that didn’t have the tubes keeping him alive, and it was like holding a small bird, just delicate bones held by a thin layer of skin.

‘Oh, Bert,’ I said out loud. ‘What did that bastard do to you?’

The door opened and a nurse let in a young doctor. The nurse disappeared and the doctor came in, consulting his notes. He looked Greek or Turkish. Very young, very tired.

‘I’m Dr Safik.’

Turkish then, I thought. I stood up and shook hands, telling him my name as I showed him my warrant card. He really looked at it and I realised that he had already seen a few warrant cards in his short career.

‘Detective Constable Wolfe?’ He gave me back my warrant card. ‘By your rank, I’m assuming you’re not the Senior Investigating Officer?’

‘Acting.’

‘How can I help you? Presumably you’re not investigating the assault on Mr Page?’

‘I’m investigating the murder of Darren Donovan, the man who assaulted Mr Page.’ I looked at the old man in the hospital bed. I did not like saying Donovan’s name in this room. ‘What can you tell me about his visitors?’

Dr Safik’s mouth twitched with distaste.

‘He doesn’t have any, as far as I am aware. That’s not unusual these days. But it’s unusual for a man that attracted so much widespread sympathy as Mr Page.’ The young doctor almost smiled. ‘It didn’t appear to do him much good, did it? All that attention from the media.’

‘Does Mr Page have any chance of recovery?’

‘He’s in what we call a state of unrousable unconsciousness. Do you know what the Glasgow scoring system is, Detective?’

I shook my head.

‘It’s a numerical system used to assess the extent of a head injury. It’s based on motor response, eye opening and so on. A score of seven indicates a full coma.’ He glanced at the old man. ‘And Mr Page is a seven. Recovery at his age? It’s unlikely.’

‘And he has no visitors at all?’