When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

  ‘I remember standing outside number seventy-nine, thinking how ordinary it appeared to be, you know. Neglected. Unloved. But it didn’t look like a house where a man had been tortured to death. The downpipes were streaked with rust and the windows needed painting and the garden was overgrown. Wisteria had gone wild during the summer, twisting and coiling up the front wall, creating a curtain of mauve flowers over the entrance.’

  ‘You have an artist’s eye,’ I say.

  Sacha smiles at me for the first time. ‘An art teacher once told me that. She said I could experience beauty mentally, as well as visually, seeing colour, depth and shadow where other people saw things in two dimensions.’

  ‘Did you want to be an artist?’

  ‘A long time ago.’

  She empties a sachet of sugar into her cup. Stirs.

  ‘I went up and down the road, knocking on doors, asking about the robberies, but all anyone wanted to talk about was the murder. They had the same questions: “Have you found the killer? Should we be worried?” They all had their theories, but none of them actually knew Terry Boland. He had lived in the house since February, but didn’t make their acquaintance. He waved. He walked his dogs. He kept to himself.

  ‘People cared more about those dogs than Boland. All those weeks he was dead upstairs, his two Alsatians were starving in a kennel in the back garden. Only they weren’t starving. Someone had to be feeding them. People said the killers must have come back, which means they cared more about the dogs than a human being.’

  The waitress emerges again from the kitchen. This time she brings a chalkboard and props it on a chair.

  ‘What about the robberies?’ I ask.

  ‘The most valuable thing stolen was a cashmere sweater, which a woman used to line her cat’s bed.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Apples, biscuits, scissors, breakfast cereal, candles, barley sugar, matches, magazines, dog food, socks, playing cards, liquorice allsorts … oh, yeah, and a snowdome of the Eiffel Tower. I remember that one because it belonged to a young boy who lived over the road.’

  ‘George.’

  ‘You’ve talked to him.’

  I nod.

  Sacha seems impressed with my research.

  ‘George was the only person who saw Angel Face. He thought he saw a boy in an upstairs window. George waved, but the child didn’t wave back.’

  Sacha orders porridge and berries, orange juice and more tea. I choose the full English breakfast and a double espresso.

  She is relaxed enough to take off her coat; I notice how her inner layers hug her body. She brushes stray strands of hair behind her ears. I’m trying to think who she reminds me of. An actress. Not a new one. Katharine Hepburn. My mother loved watching old movies.

  Sacha continues. ‘None of the neighbours could explain how the thief was getting in, but I suspected they were leaving their windows open or the doors unlocked. I rang my sergeant and gave him the list. He said it was kids and I should go home.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  Sacha shakes her head. Her hair seems to catch alight. ‘I was walking back to my car when I noticed two painters packing up their van. Number seventy-nine was being renovated and put up for sale. I got talking to a young bloke and his boss. The house was a mess when they arrived, they said. There were holes in the walls, broken pipes, ripped-up carpets. The smell was the worst thing.

  ‘The young guy, Toby, said the house was haunted because stuff had gone missing – a digital radio and a half-eaten sandwich. His boss laughed and said Toby could eat for England and had probably forgotten the sandwich.

  ‘“What about the marks on the ceiling?” said Toby. “We’ve painted the upstairs bathroom three times, but the ceiling keeps getting these black smudges, like someone is burning candles.”

  ‘“That’s because ghosts like holding séances,” joked his boss.

  ‘I asked them if I could look around. They gave me a guided tour. The floorboards had been sanded and varnished, including the stairs. I climbed to the upper floor and wandered from room to room. I looked at the bathroom ceiling.’ Sacha pivots and asks, ‘Why do people have double sinks? Do couples actually brush their teeth side by side?’

  ‘It’s so they don’t have arguments over who left the top off the toothpaste,’ I suggest.

  She smiles for the second time.

  ‘It was Friday afternoon and the painters were packing up for the weekend. I asked if I could borrow their keys and stay a while longer.’

  ‘“Is that a direct order from the police?” Toby asked, making fun of me.

  ‘“I can’t really make orders,” I said. “It’s more of a request.”

  ‘“No wild parties.”

  ‘“I’m a police officer.”

  ‘“You can still have wild parties.”

  ‘“You haven’t met my friends.”

  ‘Toby’s boss gave me the keys and the van pulled away. I went upstairs and walked from room to room. I remember wondering why Terry Boland would rent such a big house. Four bedrooms in north London doesn’t come cheap. He paid six months in advance, in cash, using a fake name on the tenancy agreement.

  ‘I sat on the stairs for a few hours and then made a makeshift bed from the dust sheets, trying to stay warm. By midnight, I wished I’d gone home, or I had a pillow or a sleeping bag. I felt foolish. If someone at the station discovered I’d spent all night staking out an empty house, I’d have been the office punchline.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Sacha shrugs. ‘I fell asleep. I dreamed of Terry Boland with belts around his neck and forehead; acid being dripped into his ears. Do you think it feels cold at first – before the burning starts? Could he hear his own screams?’

  Sacha shivers and I notice the goose bumps on her arms.

  ‘I remember waking up, bashing my fist against my head trying to get acid out of my ears. That’s when I sensed that someone was watching me.’

  ‘In the house?’

  ‘Yeah. I called out. Nobody answered. I turned on the lights and searched the house from top to bottom. Nothing had changed except for a window above the kitchen sink. It was unlatched.’

  ‘And you’d left it locked.’

  ‘I couldn’t be completely sure.’

  The waitress interrupts, bringing our meals. Sacha blows on each spoonful of porridge and watches as I arrange my triangles of toast so that the baked beans don’t contaminate the eggs and the mushrooms don’t touch the bacon. It’s a military operation – marshalling food around my plate.

  ‘What are you, five?’ she asks.

  ‘I never grew out of it,’ I explain, embarrassed. ‘It’s an obsessive-compulsive disorder – a mild one.’

  ‘Does it have a name?’

  ‘Brumotactillophobia.’

  ‘You’re making that up.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How are you with Chinese food?’

  ‘I’m OK if meals are pre-mixed, like stir-fry and pasta. Breakfast is different.’

  ‘What happens if your baked beans touch your eggs? Is it bad luck, or something worse?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then what’s the point?’

  ‘I wish I could tell you.’

  Sacha looks baffled and laughs. She is lightening up; lowering her defences.

  ‘What happened at the house?’ I ask.

  ‘In the morning I drove home, showered and fell into bed, sleeping until early afternoon. My parents wanted to know where I’d spent the night. I told them I’d been on a stakeout, making it sound like I was doing important police work. Lying to them.

  ‘It was Saturday and I was due to go out with friends that night. Instead, I drove to a supermarket and picked up containers of talcum powder, extra batteries for my torch, orange juice and a family-sized chocolate bar. Near midnight, I went back to Hotham Road and quietly unlocked the door. I was wearing my gym gear – black leggings and a zip-up jacket and my trainers.

  ‘St
arting upstairs, I sprinkled talcum across the floor, down the stairs, along the hallway to the kitchen. I went from room to room, covering the bare floorboards in a fine coat of powder that was invisible when the lights were turned off. Afterwards, I locked up the house and went to my car, where I crawled into a sleeping bag, reclined the seat and nodded off.

  ‘A milkman woke me just after dawn – the rattle of bottles in crates. I let myself into the house and shone my torch over the floor. There were footprints leading in both directions, up and down the stairs, along the hallway to the kitchen. They stopped at the sink, below the window I found unlatched the night before. I followed the footprints, tracking them up the stairs and across the landing and into the main bedroom. They ended suddenly beneath the hanging rails of the walk-in wardrobe. It was like someone had vanished into thin air or been beamed up by Scotty.

  ‘I studied the wardrobe, pushing aside hangers and running my fingers over the skirting boards. When I tapped on the plasterboard it made a hollow sound, so I wedged the blade of my pocketknife under the edge of the panel, levering it back and forth, making it move a little each time. I put my weight against the panel, but something seemed to be pushing against me. Eventually, I hooked my fingers through the widening gap and pulled hard. The plasterboard slid sideways, revealing a crawlspace behind the wardrobe. It was about eight feet long and five feet wide with a sloping ceiling that narrowed at the far end.

  I shone the torch across the floor and saw food wrappers, empty bottles of water, magazines, books, playing cards, a snow-dome of the Eiffel Tower. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I said. “I’m a police officer.”

  ‘Nobody answered, so I put the torch between my teeth and crawled through the hole on my hands and knees. The room seemed empty, except for a wooden box that was wedged between the ceiling and the floor. I moved closer, saying, “Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.”

  ‘When I reached the box, I shone my torch inside on to a bundle of rags, which began to move. The slowness became a rush and suddenly, this thing burst past me. I reached out and grabbed at the rags, which fell away in my fingers. Before I could react, the creature was gone. I had to backtrack through the panel into the bedroom. By that time, I could hear door handles being rattled and small fists hammering on the windows downstairs. I looked over the banister and saw a dark shape scuttling along the hallway to the sitting room. I followed the figure and saw legs poking from the fireplace, like a chimney sweep was trying to climb up.

  ‘“Hey!” I said and the figure spun around and snarled at me. I thought it was a boy at first, only it wasn’t a boy, it was a girl. She had a knife pressed to her chest, over her heart.

  ‘The sight of her … I’ll never forget. Her skin was so pale that the smudges of dirt on her cheeks looked like bruises; and her eyelashes and eyebrows were dark and doll-like. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans with a hole in one knee, and a woollen jumper with a polar bear woven on to the chest. I thought she was seven, maybe eight, possibly younger.

  ‘I was shocked by the state of her and by the knife. What sort of child threatens to stab herself ?’

  I don’t answer. Sacha’s eyes are closed, as though she’s replaying the scene in her mind.

  ‘“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said. “My name is Sacha. What’s yours?” She didn’t answer. When I reached into my pocket, she dug the point of the knife harder into her chest.’

  ‘“No, please don’t,” I said. “Are you hungry?” I pulled out the half-eaten chocolate bar. She didn’t move. I broke off a piece and popped it into my mouth.

  ‘“I love chocolate. It’s the only thing in the world I could never give up. Every Lent my mother makes me give up one of my favourite things as a sacrifice, you know. I’d happily choose Facebook or caffeine or gossiping, but my mother says it has to be chocolate. She’s very religious.”

  ‘We were ten feet apart. She was crouched in the fireplace. I was kneeling on the floor. I asked her if I could get up because my knees were hurting. I eased backwards and sat against the wall. Then I broke off another piece of chocolate before wrapping the bar and sliding it towards her across the floor. We stared at each for a while before she edged out her right foot and dragged the chocolate bar closer. She tore open the wrapping and stuffed so much chocolate into her mouth all at once, I thought she might choke.

  ‘I had so many questions. How long had she been there? Did she witness the murder? Did she hide from it? I remember making a sign of the cross and she mimicked me. I thought maybe she was raised a Catholic.’

  ‘That wasn’t in the file,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s no mention of her making a sign of the cross.’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘It’s new information.’

  I ask her to go on. Sacha glances out of the window. The sun is fully up, and fishing boats are returning to the bay, trailing seagulls behind them like white kites.

  ‘We must have sat there for more than an hour. I did all the talking. I told her about the talcum powder and the latch on the kitchen window. She gave me nothing. I took out my warrant card and held it up. I said it proved I was a special constable, which was almost the same as being a trainee police officer. I said I could protect her.’

  Sacha looks up from her empty bowl. ‘Do you know what she did?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘She gave me this look that laid me to waste inside. It was so full of despair, so bereft of hope. It was like dropping a stone into a dark well, waiting for it to hit the bottom, but it never does, it just keeps falling. That’s what frightened me. That and her voice, which came out all raspy and hoarse. She said, “Nobody can protect me.”’

  2

  Evie

  Two dozen old codgers and blue-haired biddies are crowded around an upright piano singing ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’ like there’s no tomorrow. They’re clapping their hands and tapping their feet, belting out the chorus:

  Knees up, knees up, never let the breeze up

  Knees up Mother Brown

  What does that even mean? Maybe Mrs Brown isn’t wearing knickers. Maybe she’s gone commando. That’s enough to make me puke a little in my mouth.

  One old duck, who is browner than a pickled onion, dances towards me and tries to take my hand, wanting me to join in, but I pull away as though her age might be contagious.

  This is supposed to be our regular weekly outing from Langford Hall, but instead of going to the cinema or the shopping centre or ice-skating at the National Ice Centre, they’re making us visit a bunch of coffin-dodgers at a retirement home.

  ‘We’re giving back to the community,’ says Davina, who is chaperoning us for the day.

  ‘What did we take?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing. We’re being nice to old people.’

  ‘And by nice, you mean?’

  ‘You should talk to them.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Dying?’

  ‘Don’t be cruel.’

  I wrinkle my nose. ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘I can’t smell anything.’

  ‘Colostomy bags and pot-pourri. Eau de grandma.’

  Davina stifles a giggle, which makes it hard for her to get angry at me. She’s like our house-mother if we were from a boarding school, but Langford Hall is more institution than institute. They call it a secure children’s home because it’s full of delinquents, runaways and head cases: the cutters, biters, burners, pill-poppers, sociopaths and psychopaths. Tomorrow’s serial killers or CEOs.

  Ruby is one of them. She nudges me with her elbow, swapping chewing gum from one cheek to the other. ‘What are we supposed to do?’

  ‘Talk to them.’

  ‘I don’t even talk to my gran.’

  ‘Ask them about their childhoods,’ suggests Davina.

  ‘When they had pet dinosaurs,’ I say.

  Ruby thinks this is funny. She’s my best mate at Langford Hal
l. My only mate. She’s sixteen but looks older on account of her piercings and the fact that half her head is shaved tight to her scalp. Side-on, she can be two different people: either bald or with a full head of shoulder-length hair.

  ‘Hey! Check out Nathan,’ she says.

  On the far side of the room, Nathan is kneeling next to an old woman with a pudding-bowl haircut, who is holding her knitting across his shoulders, measuring it for size.

  The piano player launches into another song. ‘Roll out the barrel, we’ll have a barrel of fun.’ They all join in, jiggling their gammy knees and clapping their wrinkled hands. Some of the nurses are pulling people up to dance. A cute-looking black orderly is doing ‘the twist’ with a grandma who knows all the moves.

  An old guy appears in front of me. He’s dressed in a baggy suit with a blue silk handkerchief in the breast pocket.

  ‘What’s your name, young lady?’

  ‘Evie.’

  ‘I’m Duncan. Would you like to dance, Evie?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I can’t dance.’

  ‘Everybody can dance. You just need the right teacher.’

  Ruby cups her hand over my ear and whispers, ‘Watch out for his hands.’ She makes a groping motion.

  Davina interrupts. ‘Evie would love to dance.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Yes, you would.’ She gives me the stink eye, letting me know it’s not optional.

  Ruby thinks it’s funny until she gets asked to dance by someone even more ancient, wearing baggy corduroy trousers and a cravat. Why do old men have no bums? Where do they go?

  Ruby tells him to fuck off only he doesn’t react. Then I notice a flesh-coloured hearing aid in his earhole.

  ‘Do you want a red card?’ mutters Davina.

  ‘If he puts his hand on my arse, I’ll batter him,’ says Ruby, screwing up her face.

  Duncan leads me to the centre of the room where he bows and takes my right hand in his left and puts his other hand just above my waist, resting it there.