Before becoming a novelist, Michael Robotham was an investigative journalist working across America, Australia and Britain. As a journalist and writer he has investigated notorious cases such as the serial killer couple Fred and Rosemary West. He has worked with clinical and forensic psychologists as they helped police investigate complex, psychologically driven crimes.
Michael’s 2004 debut thriller, The Suspect, sold more than 1 million copies around the world. It is the first of ten novels featuring clinical psychologist Joe O’Loughlin, who faces his own increasing battle with a potentially debilitating disease. Michael has also written four standalone thrillers. In 2015 he won the UK’s prestigious Crime Writers’ Association Gold Dagger Award with his standalone thriller Life or Death.
He lives in Sydney.
Also by Michael Robotham
Joe O’Loughlin series
The Suspect
The Drowning Man (aka Lost)
The Night Ferry
Shatter
Bleed for Me
The Wreckage
Say You’re Sorry
Watching You
Close Your Eyes
The Other Wife
Cyrus Haven series
Good Girl Bad Girl
Other fiction
Bombproof
Life or Death
The Secrets She Keeps
Copyright
Published by Sphere
ISBN: 978-0-7515-7348-0
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Bookwrite Pty 2020
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Sphere
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
About the Author
Also by Michael Robotham
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1: Cyrus
Chapter 2: Evie
Chapter 3: Cyrus
Chapter 4: Evie
Chapter 5: Cyrus
Chapter 6: Cyrus
Chapter 7: Cyrus
Chapter 8: Cyrus
Chapter 9: Evie
Chapter 10: Cyrus
Chapter 11: Evie
Chapter 12: Cyrus
Chapter 13: Evie
Chapter 14: Cyrus
Chapter 15: Evie
Chapter 16: Cyrus
Chapter 17: Cyrus
Chapter 18: Evie
Chapter 19: Cyrus
Chapter 20: Evie
Chapter 21: Evie
Chapter 22: Cyrus
Chapter 23: Evie
Chapter 24: Cyrus
Chapter 25: Evie
Chapter 26: Cyrus
Chapter 27: Cyrus
Chapter 28: Evie
Chapter 29: Cyrus
Chapter 30: Cyrus
Chapter 31: Evie
Chapter 32: Cyrus
Chapter 33: Evie
Chapter 34: Cyrus
Chapter 35: Evie
Chapter 36: Cyrus
Chapter 37: Evie
Chapter 38: Cyrus
Chapter 39: Evie
Chapter 40: Cyrus
Chapter 41: Evie
Chapter 42: Cyrus
Chapter 43: Evie
Chapter 44: Cyrus
Chapter 45: Evie
Chapter 46: Cyrus
Chapter 47: Evie
Chapter 48: Cyrus
Chapter 49: Evie
Chapter 50: Cyrus
Chapter 51: Cyrus
Chapter 52: Evie
Chapter 53: Cyrus
Chapter 54: Evie
Chapter 55: Cyrus
Chapter 56: Evie
Chapter 57: Cyrus
Chapter 58: Cyrus
Chapter 59: Evie
Chapter 60: Cyrus
Chapter 61: Evie
Chapter 62: Cyrus
Chapter 63: Evie
Chapter 64: Cyrus
Chapter 65: Cyrus
Chapter 66: Evie
Chapter 67: Cyrus
Chapter 68: Evie
Chapter 69: Cyrus
To my siblings, Jane, John and Andrew
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Like many of my previous novels, When She Was Good is written in the first person in the present tense with the story unfolding in real time. It is set in 2020 but was written before the global Covid-19 pandemic turned our lives upside down. For that reason, there is no mention of the virus or lockdowns or social distancing. It was too late to alter the story significantly, and it would have spoiled many of the most important plot elements of the novel. I hope this doesn’t distract from your reading experience and you can enjoy a world without the Coronavirus, at least for a few hours.
I am supported by a wonderful group of editors, agents, designers, marketing reps and publishers who work very hard to bring my stories to readers. Without them I’d be a grumpy hermit, surrounded by piles of unfinished manuscripts. I wish to acknowledge Rebecca Saunders, Colin Harrison, Lucy Malagoni, Mark Lucas and Richard Pine, who read the early manuscript and gave me their fearless and considered advice. None of it was welcomed, but every bit was appreciated.
As always, I wish to thank my backroom staff: daughters, Alex, Charlotte and Bella, who are spread all over the world, navigating their own paths. And my wife, Vivien, who is coming to terms with a near-empty nest; and being isolated with me. God love her, because I do.
Stay safe everybody. We will meet again.
There was a little girl,
And she had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good
She was very, very good,
And when she was bad she was horrid.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807–1882)
Nobody values the truth more highly than a liar.
ALBANIAN PROVERB
1
Cyrus
May 2020
Late spring. Morning cold. A small wooden boat emerges from the mist, sliding forward with each pull on the oars. The inner harbour is so mirror smooth it shows each ripple as it radiates outwards before stretching and breaking against the bow.
The rowing boat follows the grey rock wall, past the fishing trawlers and yachts, until it reaches a narrow shingle beach. The lone occupant jumps out and drags the boat higher up the stones where it cants drunkenly sideways, looking clumsy on land. Elegance lost.
The hood of an anorak is pushed back and hair explodes from inside. True red hair. Red as flame. Red as the daybreak. She takes a hairband from her wrist, looping the tresses into a single bundle that falls down the centre of her back.
My breath has fogged up the window of my room. Tugging my sleeve over my fist, I wipe the small square pane of glass to get a better view. She’s finally here. I have been waiting six days. I have walked the footpaths, visited the lighthouse, and exhausted the menu at O’Neill’s Bar & Restaurant. I have read the morning newspapers and three discounted novels and listened to the local drunks tell me their life stories. Fishermen mostly, with hands as gnarled as knob
s of ginger and eyes that squint into brightness when there is no sun.
Leaning into the rowing boat, she pulls back a tarpaulin revealing plastic crates and cardboard boxes. This is her fortnightly shopping trip for supplies. With her hands full of boxes, she climbs the steps from the beach and crosses the cobblestones. My eyes follow her progress as she walks along the promenade, past shuttered kiosks and tourist shops towards a small supermarket with a light burning inside. Stepping over a bundle of newspapers, she knocks on the door. A middle-aged man, red-nosed and rosy-cheeked, raises a blind and nods in recognition. He turns the deadlock and ushers her inside, pausing to scan the street, looking for me perhaps. He knows I’ve been waiting.
Dressing quickly in jeans and a sweatshirt, I pull on my boots and descend the pub stairs to a side entrance. The air outside smells of drying seaweed and woodsmoke; and the distant hills are edged in orange where God has opened the furnace door and stoked the coals for a new day.
The bell jangles on a metal arm. The shopkeeper and the woman turn towards me. They’re each holding matching mugs of steam. She braces herself, as if ready to fight or flee, but holds her ground. She looks different from her photographs. Smaller. Her face is windburned and her hands are callused and her left thumbnail is blackened where she has jammed it between two hard objects.
‘Sacha Hopewell?’ I ask.
She reaches into the pocket of her anorak. For a moment, I imagine a weapon. A fishing knife or a can of mace.
‘My name is Cyrus Haven. I’m a psychologist. I wrote to you.’
‘That’s him,’ says the shopkeeper. ‘The one who’s been asking after you. Should I sic Roddy on to him?’
I don’t know if Roddy is a dog or a person.
Sacha pushes past me and begins collecting groceries from the shelves, loading a trolley, choosing sacks of rice and flour; tins of vegetables and stewed fruit. I follow her down the aisle. Strawberry jam. Long-life milk. Peanut butter.
‘Seven years ago, you found a child in a house in north London. She was hiding in a secret room.’
‘You have me mistaken for someone else,’ she says brusquely.
I pull a photograph from my jacket pocket. ‘This is you.’
She gives the image a cursory glance and continues collecting dry goods.
The picture shows a young special constable dressed in black leggings and a dark top. She’s carrying a filthy, feral child through the doors of a hospital. The young girl’s face is obscured by wild, matted hair, as she clings to Sacha like a koala to a tree.
I pull another photograph from my pocket.
‘This is what she looks like now.’
Sacha stops suddenly. She can’t help but look at the picture. She wants to know what became of that little girl: Angel Face. The girl in the box. A child then, a teenager now, the photograph shows her sitting on a concrete bench, wearing torn jeans and a baggy jumper with a hole in one elbow. Her hair is longer and dyed blonde. She scowls rather than smiles at the camera.
‘I have others,’ I say.
Sacha looks away, reaching past me and plucking a box of macaroni from the shelf.
‘Her name is Evie Cormac. She’s living in a secure children’s home.’
She grips the trolley and keeps moving.
‘I could go to prison for telling you any of this. There’s a Section 39 Order that forbids anybody from revealing her identity, or location, or taking pictures of her.’
I block her path. She steps around me. I match her movements. It’s like we’re dancing in the aisle.
‘Evie has never spoken about what happened to her in that house. That’s why I’m here. I want to hear your story.’
Sacha pushes past me. ‘Read the police reports.’
‘I need more.’
She has reached the cold section, where she slides open a chest freezer and begins rummaging inside.
‘How did you find me?’ she asks.
‘It wasn’t easy.’
‘Did my parents help you?’
‘They’re worried about you.’
‘You’ve put them in danger.’
‘How?’
Sacha doesn’t reply. She parks her trolley near the cash register and gets another. The red-nosed man is no longer at the counter, but I hear his footsteps on the floor above.
‘You can’t keep running,’ I say. ‘Who says I’m running?’
‘You’re hiding. I want to help.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Then let me help Evie. She’s different. Special.’
Boots on the stairs. Another man appears in the doorway at the rear of the supermarket. Younger. Stronger. Bare-chested. He’s wearing sweatpants that hang so low on his hips I can see the top of his pubic hair. This must be Roddy.
‘That’s him,’ says the red-nosed man. ‘He’s been snooping around the village all week.’
Roddy reaches beneath the counter and retrieves a speargun with a polyamide handle and a stainless-steel harpoon. My first reaction is to almost laugh because the weapon is so unnecessary and out-of-place.
Roddy scowls. ‘Is he bothering you, Sacha?’
‘I can handle this,’ she replies.
Roddy rests the speargun against his shoulder like a soldier on parade.
‘Is he your ex?’
‘No.’
‘Want me to dump him off the dock?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
Roddy clearly has eyes for Sacha. Puppy love. She’s out of his league.
‘I’ll buy you breakfast,’ I say.
‘I can afford my own breakfast,’ she replies.
‘I know. I didn’t mean … Give me half an hour. Let me convince you.’
She takes toothpaste and mouthwash from the shelf. ‘If I tell you what happened, will you leave me alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘No phone calls. No letters. No visits. And you’ll let my family be.’
‘Agreed.’
Sacha leaves her shopping at the supermarket and tells the shopkeeper she won’t be long.
‘Want me to go with you?’ asks Roddy, scratching his navel.
‘No. It’s OK.’
The café is next to the post office in the same squat stone building, which overlooks a bridge and the tidal channel. Tables and chairs are arranged on the footpath, beneath a striped awning that is fringed with fairy lights. The menu is handwritten on a chalkboard.
A woman wearing an apron is righting upturned chairs and dusting them off.
‘Kitchen doesn’t open till seven,’ she says in a Cornish accent. ‘I can make you tea.’
‘Thank you,’ replies Sacha, who chooses a long, padded bench, facing the door, where she can scan the footpath and parking area. Old habits.
‘I’m alone,’ I say.
She regards me silently, sitting with her knees together and her hands on her lap.
‘It’s a pretty village,’ I say, glancing at the fishing boats and yachts. The first rays of sunshine are touching the tops of the masts. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘That’s not relevant,’ she replies, reaching into her pocket where she finds a small tube of lip-balm, which she smears on her lips.
‘Show me the pictures.’
I take out another four photographs and slide them across the table. The pictures show Evie as she is now, almost eighteen.
‘She dyes her hair a lot,’ I explain. ‘Different colours.’
‘Her eyes haven’t changed,’ says Sacha, running her thumb over Evie’s face, as though tracing the contours.
‘Her freckles come out in the summer,’ I say. ‘She hates them.’
‘I’d kill for her eyelashes.’
Sacha arranges the photographs side by side, changing the order to suit her eye, or some unspoken design. ‘Did they find her parents?’
‘No.’
‘What about DNA? Missing persons?’
‘They searched the world.’
‘What happened to her?�
�
‘She became a ward of court and was given a new name because nobody knew her real one.’
‘I thought for sure that someone would claim her.’
‘That’s why I’m here. I’m hoping Evie might have said something to you – given you some clue.’
‘You’re wasting your time.’
‘But you found her.’
‘That’s all.’
The next silence is longer. Sacha puts her hands in her pockets to stop them moving.
‘How much do you know?’ she asks.
‘I’ve read your statement. It’s two pages long.’
The swing doors open from the kitchen and two pots of tea are delivered. Sacha flips the hinged lid and jiggles her teabag up and down.
‘Have you been to the house?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘And read the police reports?’
I nod.
Sacha pours tea into her cup.
‘They found Terry Boland in the front bedroom upstairs. Bound to a chair. Gagged. He’d been tortured to death. Acid dripped in his ears. His eyelids burned away.’ She shudders. ‘It was the biggest murder investigation in years in north London. I was a special constable working out of Barnet Police Station. The incident room was on the first floor.
‘Boland had been dead for two months, which is why they took so long to identify his body. They released an artist’s impression of his face and his ex-wife called the hotline. Everybody was surprised when Boland’s name came up because he was so small-time – a rung above petty criminal, with a history of assault and burglary. Everybody was expecting some gangland connection.’
‘Were you involved in the investigation?’
‘God, no. A special constable is a general dogsbody, doing shit jobs and community liaison. I used to pass the homicide detectives on the stairs, or overhear them talking in the pub. When they couldn’t come up with any leads, they began suggesting Boland was a drug dealer who double-crossed the wrong people. The locals could rest easy because the bad guys were killing each other.’
‘What did you think?’
‘I wasn’t paid to think.’
‘Why were you sent to the murder house?’
‘Not the house – the road. The neighbours were complaining about stuff going missing. Bits and pieces stolen from garages and garden sheds. My sergeant sent me out to interview them as a public relations exercise. He called it “bread and circuses”: keeping the masses happy.
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