Red Light by Graham Masterton

racing pages in the
Irish Sun
. The officer stood up when he saw her approaching, but she said, ‘You’re grand,’ and he sat down again.
    The girl already looked much better. She was sitting up in bed in a fresh pink nightdress watching television. The cornrows had been taken out of her hair and it had been washed and brushed into a black fluffy bush. She looked even prettier than she had when Katie had first seen her in the ambulance, but also much younger. She was really no more than a child.
    Katie lifted a chair over and sat beside her bed. ‘Well then,’ she said, ‘how are you feeling today?’
    The girl said nothing, but simply stared at her, twisting the sleeve of her nightdress.
    ‘Do you remember me from yesterday? I spoke to you in the ambulance. My name’s Katie. Look, I brought you some sweeties.’
    She held out the bag of Haribo jellies that she had bought at the hospital shop downstairs. The girl made no attempt to take them and so she laid them down on top of the blanket, on her lap.
    ‘Can you tell me your name?’ Katie asked her.
    The girl remained silent, but continued to stare.
    ‘I’ve come here to help you get better, and to find your family, if I can. Your mother and your father. Do you know where they are?’
    Still no response.
    ‘Do you know which country you came from? Was it somewhere in Africa? Somalia? Sierra Leone? Nigeria? The Congo?’
    The girl opened her mouth as if she were about to say something, but then she closed it again.
    Katie took hold of her hand and squeezed it and smiled at her. ‘Fair play to you, sweetheart, if you’re not ready to talk to me yet then that’s up to you. But it would be nice to know your name, so I know what to call you. Maybe I should give you a name for now. Maybe I should call you Isabelle. Do you like the name Isabelle? I first met you under the bells of Shandon, after all.’
    As Katie sat there, holding the girl’s hand, two large tears welled up in the girl’s eyes and slid down her cheeks. Katie reached over to the bedside table and tugged out a tissue for her and gently dabbed them away.
    ‘You’re going to be all right now, Isabelle. Nothing bad is going to happen to you ever again. You’re going to be taken care if. If we can’t find your parents, then we’ll find somebody kind to look after you, I promise.’
    At that moment a doctor came in through the door, holding a clipboard under his arm. He was small and neat and Indian, with a shiny bald head and a trim black beard.
    ‘Ah, detective superintendent! I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late! Anaphylactic shocks wait for no man, I’m afraid!’
    He held out his hand and said, ‘Dr Surupa. How are you? I believe we have met before. People are always being brought to me in a terrible condition, and you are always having to find out who did it to them.’
    He gave Isabelle a brief smile and then said to Katie, ‘Perhaps it is better if I speak to you outside.’
    They left the room and walked together along the corridor until they reached the window at the end, overlooking the car park.
    ‘She is under the supervision of Dr Corcoran, who is one of our six psychiatric consultants, and also a key nurse for her physical welfare. Dr Corcoran is a specialist in treating the trauma associated with cases of human-trafficking or sexual slavery. Unfortunately, in recent years these cases have become increasingly common. I suppose this is the price we pay for opening borders and giving people more freedom to move between one country and another.’
    ‘So how is she?’ asked Katie. ‘Has she spoken to anybody? She won’t say anything to me. She won’t even tell me her name, or where she came from.’
    Dr Surupa shook his head. ‘She is very deeply disturbed, and in Dr Corcoran’s opinion it may take weeks or even months for her to recover.’
    ‘According to the two men who found her, she said she was only thirteen years old.’
    ‘Well, having examined her, that seems likely,