In her headset came the usual digital sequence of dialling. She looked that the script on the screen. Inside, she died a little. The embers of her dream life were barely glowing anymore. The line clicked, and the next number on the list was connected.
“Hello?”
“Hello, my name is Maria. I am calling on behalf of Whitty and Partners about an accident that you may have had recently?”
There was a moment of silence. This juncture was usually where the line went dead, or a torrent of abuse burst forth.
“I see.”
The caller, who had today chosen the name Maria, pressed on to the next hook in her libretto.
“If you have had a non-fault accident, you may be entitled to compensation – which Whitty and Partners can pursue on a no-win, no fee basis.”
Silence again.
“There was an accident, yes.”
Maria scanned the screen, yes, there it was. “And were you injured, sir?”
Again, Maria felt the cogs turning. She reviewed her script on the non-speaking.
“No, but my wife was.”
“And when was the accident, sir?”
“Last night.”
“Last night?” This was off-script. Maria tried to hide her surprise. Think. Centre. Calm. “Was this a workplace accident, sir?”
“No, it happened here, in the kitchen. Actually, she’s still laying on the floor.”
Silence fell again, only this time it was the would-be Maria who could not speak. She glanced around, hoping at least someone was listening in on the call.
“Perhaps I should end the call so that you can call an ambulance, sir.”
The line crackled, almost as if purveying laughter.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that Miss Davenport, I wouldn’t do that at all.”
Lucinda Davenport threw off her headset as if she had been electrocuted, chest heaving in shock and emotion. She needed air. The CCTV image that captured her leaving the building was the one that they played in the incident room.