When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

I want to tell him to mind his own business, but I know that Jimmy means well. Ever since I lost my family, he has taken it upon himself to be my conscience when it comes to Elias.

  Jimmy came into my life in the days after the murders. He was the mayor of Nottingham, his first term of three, when he arranged the funerals. He didn’t know my family or me, but Jimmy took on the role as my protector or benefactor, watching over the rest of my childhood. He raised funds for my education and turned up at school plays, parent-teacher nights, speech days and my university graduation. I could call him my guardian angel, but he’s been more like a pothole filler, who has smoothed every bump along the road.

  Although no longer the lord mayor, Jimmy is still a city councillor and the sheriff of Nottingham, a ceremonial position rather than a keeper of law and order. He greets tourists, poses for photographs and promotes the Robin Hood legend.

  As we enter the clubhouse, he glad-hands members, asking about wives and children, using their first names. I grow tired of the niceties.

  ‘What’s this about, Councillor?’

  His smile loosens and he leads me to a table overlooking the 18th green where someone is flailing in a bunker. A waitress arrives and takes our order. I’m no longer hungry so ask for coffee and water. Jimmy looks disappointed. He quietly clears his throat.

  ‘An old acquaintance of mine died during the week. Hamish Whitmore.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Some years ago, he did me a great service. I had some property stolen. Items of no great value apart from my own sentimentality, but I was very grateful when he arranged to have them returned to me. After that we kept in touch. It was helpful having someone I could ask for advice on police matters.’

  ‘You have the chief constable on speed dial.’

  ‘He is a friend, not a contact. And in my experience the people in charge of large bureaucratic organisations rarely know what’s going on at the coalface.’ Jimmy’s tongue makes an appearance, wetting his top lip.

  ‘When did you last see Hamish Whitmore?’ I ask.

  ‘I went to his retirement dinner last October. Are you working on the case?’

  The question is delivered nonchalantly, as though we’re discussing the weather.

  ‘Lenny Parvel asked me to take a look at the murder scene.’

  ‘You’re sure it was murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But you have a theory.’

  I pause, wondering how much I should tell Jimmy, or why it should interest him.

  ‘Hamish was looking at one of his old cases – seeing if there was something he might have missed.’

  ‘Any case in particular?’

  ‘Eugene Green.’

  ‘The paedophile! I thought he was dead.’

  ‘Hamish believed Green might have had an accomplice. He thought it might explain discrepancies in the timeline.’

  ‘Have there been other victims?’

  ‘Children are missing.’

  Jimmy’s nod is barely perceptible, but I sense that I’m not telling him anything that he doesn’t already know.

  We lapse into silence that goes on for too long.

  ‘I’d like to help,’ he says finally. ‘I don’t know Mrs Whitmore, but I’d like to make sure she’s looked after. Perhaps you could make an introduction …’

  ‘Didn’t you meet her at the retirement dinner?’

  ‘There were two hundred people. Hamish was a popular man.’

  I tell Jimmy that I’ll pass on his request and get to my feet as the waiter arrives with my coffee and water.

  ‘Did Eugene Green have an accomplice?’ Jimmy asks.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I sense you have your own interest in the case.’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘Angel Face.’

  How could Jimmy possibly know that?

  Our eyes fix on each other for a beat too long. He laughs and puts a hand on my arm. ‘Relax, Cyrus. I’ve been a councillor for twelve years. It’s my business to know things that other people don’t – my rivals, my political enemies, even my friends.’

  ‘Her identity is secret,’ I say.

  ‘As it should be,’ he replies. ‘I knew that Angel Face was sent to a children’s home in Nottingham. I don’t know her new identity, but given her age, I assume she’s still in care.’

  ‘Why link me to her?’

  He shrugs. ‘A hunch. A lucky guess. You were a damaged child once. It’s why you became a psychologist. If anyone was going to stumble upon Angel Face, I suspected it might be you.’

  His face is open, yet inscrutable. I wish Evie were here to tell me what I’m missing. At the same time, I’ve never had reason to doubt Jimmy’s sincerity or his motives.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say.

  ‘But breakfast.’

  ‘Next time.’

  He holds out his arms, expecting me to come to him, like a son to a father.

  ‘You’ll talk to Eileen Whitmore?’

  ‘Yes.’

  18

  Evie

  I used to tell people I was left in a shoebox at a railway sorting office. At other times, it was in a charity clothing bin or a luggage locker at Heathrow. I’ve told people my family were gypsies, or circus acrobats, or pearl-divers, or big-game hunters, or con artists. No story is too far-fetched or outrageous.

  Cyrus says I lie because I want people to like me. He says I’m trying to impersonate someone interesting, but I don’t care about being believed or being liked. Things sound better when I lie about them. More authentic.

  I hear footsteps in the corridor and adjust my posture, touching my hair. Cyrus appears.

  ‘What happened to your lip,’ he asks. The swelling has gone down, but I still have a bruise.

  ‘I’ve been kissing too much arse,’ I say.

  He doesn’t even smile. So much for my killer line.

  There’s someone with him, a woman who hangs back, as if she’s waiting for permission to come into my room. I don’t recognise her at first, but then it comes to me in a rush and I get a lump in my throat that gets bigger every time I try to swallow.

  She smiles at me.

  ‘Hello, Evie.’

  I don’t know what I’m expected to say or do. Neither does she. She holds out her hand, but I don’t want to be touched or hugged.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, my voice rasping.

  ‘I came to see you.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to know my new name.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ says Cyrus. ‘You can trust her.’

  How do you know? I want to say. I trusted her once, but she abandoned me. They all do.

  Sacha is looking at me like I’m a cripple in a wheelchair.

  ‘You’re a young woman now,’ she says, stating the bleeding obvious. ‘You’re almost the same age as I was when I found you.’

  I want to puke.

  Her hair is longer and she’s older, but she’s still pretty and her dimple doesn’t completely disappear when she stops smiling. When we first met, I was going to stab her eyes out. Then I was going to stab myself. She convinced me to drop the knife. She gave me chocolate and lifted me on to her hip and carried me out of the house to the ambulance. It was my first human contact in months.

  Now she’s here again, acting like nothing has changed, chatting about the penguin dance and the games we played, making out we had so much fun. It was all tea and crumpets and lashings of ginger beer. Bullshit! She left me. She walked out.

  ‘They didn’t find your family,’ says Sacha. ‘That’s a shame.’

  What am I supposed to say to that?

  She tries again. ‘Cyrus tells me that you’re turning eighteen soon.’

  The silence is excruciating.

  Finally, I turn to Cyrus. ‘Why is she here?’

  ‘She wanted to meet you again.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  My anger
makes everybody uncomfortable.

  ‘Maybe we should get a cup of tea,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t want a cup of tea.’

  ‘Let’s go to the dining room. We can sit down. You can tell Sacha what’s happened over the past few years.’

  ‘After she abandoned me, you mean.’

  ‘I didn’t abandon you,’ Sacha says, looking hurt. ‘I was told to stay away. They said I was making things worse. They said you were becoming too attached to me … that it would make it harder for you to move on.’

  ‘Well, here I am,’ I say, opening my arms. ‘I guess it all worked out for the best.’

  The sarcasm catches them off guard and I feel the room shrink as my rage fills every corner and empty space. I can’t explain where it comes from, but seeing Sacha brings the memories rushing back; the sights, sounds and smells of death and decay. The unwanted touches. The faceless men. Why is she here? Cyrus promised me he wouldn’t look for them. They’ll kill him – just like they killed Terry.

  ‘I want you to go,’ I say, fists bunched, voice shaking.

  ‘Oh, come on, Evie, don’t be like that,’ says Cyrus. ‘You’re not being fair.’

  ‘Fair!’ I want to scream. Fair means equal. Equal means no difference. We both get the same. Even-steven. When has that ever applied to me?

  I focus on Sacha. ‘You left your toothbrush behind. That’s why I thought you were coming back. I woke that night screaming, but you weren’t there.’

  ‘They told me not to say goodbye,’ she says, visibly shaking. ‘They didn’t want you getting upset, but I’ve never stopped wondering where you were, or what had happened.’

  ‘You couldn’t get away from me fast enough.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Feel free to do it again. There’s the door. Don’t let it hit your arse on the way out.’

  ‘I didn’t have a choice.’

  ‘Liar!’

  She gives me a pathetic look. ‘I’m sorry, Evie. If I could go back …’

  ‘What? You’d adopt me. You’d look after me.’

  Cyrus tries to interrupt. ‘How about that cup of tea?’

  ‘No! I want you both to leave.’

  ‘Sacha has come a long way.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s taken her seven years to get here.’

  Sacha stands. ‘I’ll go.’

  Cyrus tries to argue. He almost uses the word ‘fair’ again, but stops himself.

  ‘I know what you’re doing,’ I say. ‘You’re trying to find out who I am. You promised me you wouldn’t go looking, but you couldn’t help yourself. You think if you find enough pieces of me, you can put me together again, but I’m not broken, Cyrus.’

  He steps closer to the bed and touches the cuff of my jeans where it brushes my ankle.

  ‘It’s not just about you, Evie. There were others.’

  I want him to shut up.

  ‘Tell me about Patrick Comber.’

  Please stop talking.

  ‘You weren’t the first. You weren’t the last.’

  How dare you put this on me. You have no right.

  19

  Cyrus

  Sacha hasn’t said a word since we left Langford Hall. She walks with her head down, collar up, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her palm.

  ‘Evie didn’t mean what she said,’ I say.

  Silence.

  ‘I should have warned her you were coming.’

  We have reached the car. Sacha opens the door before I can do it for her. She pulls it closed and stares through the windscreen. I get behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition, not sure of where we go next.

  Sacha takes a deep breath and whispers, ‘I am a liar.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I told her that I didn’t have a choice about leaving her, but that’s not true. The psychiatrist treating Angel Face wanted me to stay on, but I chose to walk away because I was scared of getting too close to her. Everything Evie said about me was true.’

  Sacha turns to face me. ‘How did she know I was lying?’

  ‘Ah,’ I say, trying to frame an answer. ‘Evie is not like other people.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘She can tell when someone is lying.’

  Sacha looks at me doubtfully.

  ‘I don’t know how she does it. It could be visual or aural. Maybe she reads body language or hears something in voices. For all I know she can smell a lie or feel it in her bones.’

  ‘Is that even possible?’

  ‘When I was studying for my doctorate, I wrote my thesis on truth wizards. They’re rare, but they exist. About one in every five hundred people has an eighty per cent success rate at picking spoken falsehoods. Evie is an outlier. A one-off. She’s almost never wrong – not when she has a person in front of her.’

  ‘But if you’re right … if she can …’

  ‘I can’t let anybody know. If people discover what Evie can do, they’ll never let her go.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ says Sacha, her forehead creasing. ‘If you’re right …’

  ‘I am right.’

  Sacha lapses into silence, possibly pondering what it might mean to be Evie, to always know when someone is lying; or perhaps she’s mentally counting the lies she’s told to people, to me, to her parents, to her friends …

  My pager is vibrating. Unclipping it from my belt, I read the message. Badger has come up with an address for Terry Boland’s ex-wife. She is still living in Ipswich, which is three hours’ drive from here.

  Sacha’s overnight bag is on the back seat.

  ‘I can drop you at the train station,’ I say. ‘Or you could …’

  The statement is left hanging in the air.

  ‘Could what?’ she asks.

  ‘Come with me. Boland’s ex-wife might have some of the missing pieces and you know more about this case than I do.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Make this one trip. Afterwards, I’ll drive you back to Cornwall.’

  Sacha glances at me out of the corner of her eye. ‘Don’t you have work to do? Patients to see?’

  ‘It’s the weekend.’

  After an age, she buckles her seat belt. ‘Do you know where the term wild-goose chase comes from? Shakespeare used it in Romeo and Juliet. It describes a search for something unattainable, or non-existent. A fool’s errand.’

  ‘I’ve always been a fool.’

  The drive to Ipswich takes us across the Midlands, through Peterborough and Cambridge. Sacha likes travelling with the windows open, her hair blowing around her face. We fill the time by talking about Terry Boland – shouting over the rushing air – discussing what we know and don’t know. His badly decomposed body was discovered six weeks before Sacha found Evie. Whoever killed him had cleaned up the house, dousing the floors and scrubbing the worktops with bleach, removing all trace of their presence.

  Police used facial recognition technology to produce an image of Boland, which triggered a call from his ex-wife. Once they had a name, they pieced together a history. Boland was born in Watford and orphaned at the age of eight, when his parents died in a head-on collision. In and out of foster care, he was arrested twice at sixteen for stealing cars. Later, he worked on the North Sea oil rigs and did stints as a delivery driver, barman and bouncer, living in Ipswich and Glasgow.

  He married Angela Harris, a publican’s daughter, when he was twenty-six. They had two boys before they divorced eight years later. No grounds were needed, or given. His second wife, a beauty therapist from Glasgow, ran off with a bodybuilder from her local gym, clearing out a joint bank account and taking his car. Boland tracked her down and took back the vehicle, pausing to beat up her new man with a tyre-iron. He was charged with malicious wounding, pleaded guilty and served eight months of a two-year sentence.

  Nobody knows how he came to meet Evie Cormac, but he rented the house in north London in February 2013, paying cash up front for the first six months. He used burner phones and drov
e a ten-year-old Vauxhall Astra, which he’d bought second-hand after answering an ad in a local paper.

  Initially, police speculated that Boland had been tortured and killed as part of a gangland feud. Later, when Angel Face emerged from her hiding place, they reasoned that he’d been murdered by vigilantes, who’d discovered his predilection for children. Nothing emerged to support either claim, but there were rumours of child porn having been found on a hard drive at the house.

  The address Badger provided is on the corner of a terraced street near Alexandra Park, in Ipswich. Building skips take up parking spaces in the road outside and scaffolding covers a house next door.

  I press my thumb on the old-fashioned doorbell. It echoes inside. We wait.

  ‘Maybe there’s nobody home,’ says Sacha.

  Then comes the sound of tapping, moving towards us.

  The door opens and an old woman stands with both her arms braced on a Zimmer frame.

  ‘What do you want?’ she shouts.

  ‘Is Mrs Boland home?’ I ask.

  ‘Who?’

  I notice her hearing aids and raise my voice.

  ‘Mrs Boland.’

  ‘She’s Angie and she divorced that prick years ago.’

  The old woman glares at us, as though issuing a challenge. A TV is blaring in the background. A game show.

  ‘Are you her mother?’ asks Sacha, smiling politely.

  ‘I’m her grandmother.’ She looks past us towards the road. ‘Are you one of them?’

  ‘Who?’ I ask.

  ‘The people who keep following her around.’

  ‘We’ve never met Angie.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she’s not here. And she won’t talk to you.’

  In the hallway behind her, I notice a phone table with a small corkboard on the wall. It has a calendar with dates blocked off, as well as a postcard for a pub called The Lord Nelson.

  ‘Does Angie still work behind the bar?’ I ask.

  ‘None of your business,’ says the old woman. ‘Now leave me alone. I’m missing my show.’

  The door slams shut, shaking the nearby windows.

  Sacha raises an eyebrow. ‘A pleasant old lady.’

  ‘A fairy-tale grandma.’

  ‘I feel sorry for the Big Bad Wolf.’

  We head back to my car, where I pull out a street directory.