When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

  On and on it went, until Terry could make no more sounds. And I lay curled up in a ball, biting my fist, sobbing into an endless night.

  40

  Cyrus

  Someone is bashing on my front door and holding a finger against the doorbell. Red digits display the time: 03.30. Trouble. I fling open the door, wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Detective Sergeant Dave Curran looks at my naked legs and grins. ‘Nice set of pins. No wonder the boss fancies you.’

  I want to tell him to fuck off, but Sacha appears at the top of the stairs. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Go back to bed.’

  Dave’s smile gets even more lecherous. ‘Ooh, was I interrupting something?’

  ‘Who is it?’ asks Sacha.

  ‘Nobody,’ I reply, which is almost true. Dave Curran’s nickname at the serious operations unit is ‘Nobody’ because of his Teflon-like ability to avoid the fallout from any shit-storm. That makes Dave Curran perfect and, of course, ‘nobody is perfect’.

  ‘Lenny has been trying to reach you,’ he says. ‘There’s been an incident at Langford Hall. A girl is dead. Another missing.’

  My heart clenches. ‘Is it Evie?’

  ‘I don’t have a name, but the boss asked for you.’

  Upstairs, I dress quickly, my fingers fumbling with belt and buttons.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asks Sacha.

  I struggle to say Evie’s name, but it’s enough.

  ‘I’ll come.’

  ‘No.’

  The police car accelerates through the empty streets without flashing lights or a siren. Fear has become the overriding emotion in the bearpit of my stomach. Fear of losing Evie. Fear of what she’s done.

  As we approach Langford Hall, I see patrol cars and vans blocking the road. Two ambulances, doors open, are parked on the grass verge, along with a coroner’s van and a support truck with portable lights and gantries. A body needs examining and collecting.

  A uniformed constable directs us through the outer cordon to an inner one, where I’m logged into the scene. A plain-clothed detective meets me at the glass doors of the administration area. I look past him, searching the faces for Evie, whispering, ‘Please, please, please,’ over and over like it’s a murmured prayer.

  Lenny emerges from a room further along the corridor. I can’t tell which room, but she’s dressed from head to toe in a set of pale blue overalls worn by forensic officers.

  ‘Is it Evie?’ I ask, struggling to get the words out.

  ‘She hasn’t been formally identified,’ say Lenny, ‘but it’s Evie Cormac’s room.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘She was suffocated with a pillow.’

  My eyes swim. ‘What happened?’

  ‘A break-in. The night supervisor was attacked and tied up. He triggered the alarm after the intruders had gone.’ Lenny is walking and talking. ‘Two men wearing balaclavas. That’s the only description he could give us.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Hospital. He complained of chest pains.’ She signs a clipboard that is thrust under her nose. ‘I hate to ask … Are you willing to identify the body?’

  I nod, feeling dizzy.

  Another set of pale blue overalls is found, and I pull them over my jeans and sweatshirt, tightening the hood and tucking my hair inside. Every movement feels slow and heavy-footed, like I’m walking underwater.

  ‘Where are the residents?’ I ask.

  ‘Confined to their rooms until we talk to them. All except one. Ruby Doyle is missing.’

  ‘That’s Evie’s best friend,’ I say.

  ‘She may have done a runner when the doors were opened,’ says Lenny, ‘or they took her with them.’

  She hands me a pair of latex gloves and we step across duckboards that are spaced out along the corridor.

  Two forensic officers are working inside Evie’s room. One of them, a woman, is leaning over the bed. She straightens as we enter and I glimpse a teenage girl in pyjamas, lying on her back with a pillow partially covering her face. Blankets are bunched around her thighs.

  The pillow is lifted away. My breath gets caught between an exhalation and inhalation, between horror and relief.

  ‘It’s not her,’ I whisper. ‘It’s not Evie Cormac.’

  I notice the multiple studs and bands that pierce the pink shell of the girl’s ears, and how her hair is shaved on one side.

  ‘That’s Ruby Doyle.’

  She has pale bug-eyes and blue lips and someone has shaved off her eyebrows.

  In the same breath, I realise what it means: Evie is missing.

  ‘They took her!’

  ‘Who took her?’ asks Lenny.

  My mind skips between the details. If they came for Evie, why kill Ruby? That doesn’t make sense. What was she doing here? Ruby’s right arm is draped over the side of the bed, her fingers almost touching a stuffed hippo.

  I straighten and turn towards the door. ‘Where is Ruby’s room?’

  ‘Along the corridor,’ says Lenny, following me. We turn left and pass a number of identical-looking doors. Stepping inside a bedroom, I notice how pillows are arranged down the centre of the bed, beneath the covers. Anyone looking through the observation window would assume it was someone sleeping.

  ‘They were together,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ replies Lenny.

  ‘Sometimes Ruby slept with Evie,’ I say. ‘She had nightmares.’

  ‘When you say slept?’

  Lenny wants to know if they were lovers. Would Evie tell me? I don’t know. Would it surprise me? Probably not. She’d tell me almost anything if she thought it might shock me. That’s one of the weirdly counter-intuitive things about Evie – her ability to lie so easily, yet to recognise when others are lying to her.

  ‘Are you saying that Evie killed Ruby?’ asks Lenny.

  ‘No.’

  Spinning on my heels, I return to Evie’s room where the pathologist is scraping beneath Ruby’s fingernails and brushing lint from her hair. Concentrating on the scene, I notice how the cupboard is open and clothes have been pushed along the runner. These aren’t signs of a search.

  A pair of pyjama pants lies bunched on the floor. The cotton bottoms are printed with cartoon polar bears and they belong to Evie. I know because I bought them for her. Crouching on my haunches, I touch the pyjama bottoms and raise my fingertips, smelling the urine.

  ‘Is the mattress wet?’ I ask.

  The pathologist touches the fabric and shakes her head.

  I move to the adjoining bathroom and scan the white tiles, the sink, the toilet, the shower. The shower curtain has been pulled closed. I crouch and study the tiles. I smell urine again.

  Half thoughts are becoming whole. Two men disabled the night manager and used his security pass to unlock the office and access the control room. Having identified Evie’s room, they triggered the doors and came for her. Evie must have heard them coming and hid in the shower cubicle, crouching in the dark. Terrified. She listened to Ruby being killed. History on repeat. The girl in the secret room. A mouse in the walls.

  ‘They came to kill Evie,’ I whisper, ‘but they got the wrong girl.’

  ‘How can you possibly know that?’ asks Lenny.

  I point to the shower. ‘Evie heard them coming and came in here. She was so frightened she wet herself. Her pyjama bottoms are sodden.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘I think she waited until they’d gone and changed her clothes.’

  ‘They could still have kidnapped her.’

  ‘They didn’t come to kidnap her. They came to kill her.’

  Lenny stares at me in stunned confusion. It’s like I’m explaining a complex mathematical equation to someone who is still grappling with her four times tables. She grabs my forearm and pulls me out of the room and along the corridor as far as the dining room.

  She spins to face me. ‘Who is this girl?’

  I hesitate, unsure of how muc
h I’m allowed to say. She’ll find out soon enough. Files will have to be unsealed; names revealed.

  ‘Angel Face.’

  Frown lines write bold headlines on Lenny’s forehead. It’s her tabloid face, full of shock and awe.

  ‘You’re saying that Evie Cormac is Angel Face.’

  I nod.

  ‘Even if that’s true – it doesn’t explain this.’ Her voice is harsh and low. ‘Who wants her dead?’

  ‘She doesn’t know their names.’

  ‘Enough fucking riddles, Cyrus. What aren’t you telling me?’

  Again I hesitate. This time Lenny leans closer. She’s like a boxing referee standing over a fallen fighter, counting me out. Either I tell her the whole story or the fight is over, along with our friendship.

  ‘Angel Face is a ward of court. She was given a new identity seven years ago because nobody ever learned her real name or age or where she came from. Evie has always refused to talk about what happened to her because she’s frightened that she’ll be found.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘She’s never said. Perhaps the people who abducted her in the first place. All I know for certain is that three days ago, somebody visited Langford Hall and asked about her. Evie overheard the conversation and recognised the man’s voice. She’d heard it before when Terry Boland was being tortured.’

  Lenny sits down at a dining table, breathing heavily.

  ‘Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to reveal Evie’s true identity. She’s protected by the courts.’

  ‘She was in danger.’

  ‘Nobody would have believed her.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I didn’t,’ I whisper. ‘I told her she was safe at Langford Hall.’

  A detective appears in the doorway, looking for Lenny. The centre manager has arrived.

  Mrs McCarthy is waiting in the foyer, flanked by two female constables who must have collected her from her home. Middle-aged, with sleep-tousled hair, she is still wearing her slippers.

  She asks about the children, concerned for their welfare.

  ‘They’re in their rooms,’ says Lenny. ‘We’ll need to take statements from them.’

  ‘Where’s Peter? Is he hurt?’

  ‘Your night supervisor has been taken to hospital with chest pains. It’s a precaution. He’ll be fine.’

  Mrs McCarthy looks past him. ‘The officers said …’

  ‘A girl is dead,’ says Lenny.

  Mrs McCarthy makes a sign of the cross and notices me for the first time. Her hand flies to her mouth and she whispers the name ‘Evie’.

  I shake my head.

  ‘We believe another girl was in Evie’s room,’ says Lenny.

  She frowns. ‘That’s not right. One person per room. We check …’

  ‘It was Ruby Doyle,’ I say.

  Mrs McCarthy snatches twice at the same breath and her eyes swim with tears. ‘Oh, her poor parents.’

  ‘I’ll need their contact details,’ says Lenny.

  ‘Where’s Evie? Is she here? Did she say what happened?’

  ‘We’re still looking for Evie Cormac,’ says Lenny.

  ‘Where has she gone? She’s not allowed to leave.’

  ‘Please, Mrs McCarthy. No more questions. Call any members of staff who live nearby and get them here, particularly any counsellors or social workers. We have to arrange interviews with the children and to search their rooms.’

  ‘Is that necessary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mrs McCarthy goes to her office, escorted by the female constables. Lenny watches her leaving and shifts her weight on to her toes, before dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘A teenage girl gets murdered in a council-run home and another is missing – this is a complete clusterfuck.’

  41

  Evie

  Darkness can be a blessing or a torment, a comfort or a burden. I am crouched beneath a hedge, half buried in fallen leaves and cut grass. From here I can see the police cars and ambulances and people in uniform, their faces bleached white by the spotlights.

  I haven’t run far. Not yet. I wanted to see who came to my funeral. I wanted to see who celebrated and who cried and who bagsied my stuff.

  Langford Hall is swimming with people who are streaming in and out. The fluorescent yellow of emergency workers. The dark suits of the detectives. The pale overalls of the forensic teams who look like ghosts.

  Poor Ruby. Dumb Ruby. Deep as a puddle. Thick as a plank. As friendly as a puppy. She’s dead because of me. I heard her die. I waited in the bathroom until the men had gone and other voices filled the corridors.

  ‘Why are the doors open?’ someone asked. ‘Where is everyone? What time it is? Is it a fire drill?’

  My pyjamas were soaked and clinging to my thighs. I peered through a crack in the bathroom door. Ruby’s eyes were open and one arm lay across her waist, another on the pillow. My pillow. Ruby with her piercings and her non-existent eyebrows. With her six brothers and sisters. Poor Ruby.

  They expected to find me. They think they killed me.

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t explain. I had to go. I peeled off my wet pyjamas and pulled on jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, along with my boots. I shoved a change of clothes into a small rucksack, along with a deck of cards and a wooden box of my mementos: buttons and coloured glass and pictures of Poppy.

  All the while, Ruby was staring at me, accusing me, blaming me. I wanted to reach out and close her eyelids, but I knew I’d crumble if I touched her. Instead, I took a pillow and rested it over her face.

  People were filling the corridors.

  ‘Someone opened the doors,’ said Nathan.

  ‘We should raid the kitchen,’ said Russell.

  ‘Maybe we should stay in our rooms,’ said Claire, ever the voice of reason, the adult.

  I lifted the hood over my head and slipped past them, moving quickly to the nursing station and the first set of security doors.

  Nathan called after me. ‘Where are you going? You can’t just leave.’

  ‘Tell them I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Any of this.’

  I reached the front desk. The night manager sat on the floor with a cotton shopping bag over his head. I pressed the wall button and the outer doors unlocked. Jogging down the steps, I crossed the parking area and ducked under the boom gate, crunching gravel beneath my boots.

  A voice in my head kept saying, This is not my fault. This is not my fault. I should be dead, not Ruby, but this isn’t on me.

  I reached the road and crossed into the shadows beneath the trees, crawling under the hedge, trying to still my heart, but the blood was pounding in my ears, telling me to run.

  Cyrus came in a police car. He looked distraught, and I could picture him as the boy who lost his family all those years ago. I didn’t have time to leave him a note, but he’ll know by now that I’m not dead. He might think they’ve taken me, but he’ll work it out eventually.

  He says I’m too clever by half, but Cyrus is smart and there’s a difference between being smart and clever. Smart means you know lots of shit. Clever means you can pretend you know it. Cyrus is smart, but not very clever. I’m too clever for my own good.

  What would I have written if I had left him a note?

  I told you so.

  I said this was going to happen, but he didn’t believe me. He promised me I was safer at Langford Hall than anywhere else, but he didn’t understand. He’s never understood how much I know and what I’ve seen; what’s been done to me.

  Yes, I tell lies occasionally, but I wasn’t making this shit up. I wasn’t ‘catastrophising’ – one of his favourite words for teenagers who turn molehills into mountains.

  Cyrus will know I didn’t kill her, but he won’t be able to find me. I have sixty-five pounds and a travel card, which will get me as far as London, or Edinburgh, but isn’t enough to la
st a week.

  I could ask Cyrus for money. Would he help me? I like to think he would, but Terry told me that I shouldn’t trust anyone. I might be in love with Cyrus, although I’m not sure if I’m capable of caring that much about another human being. I know I wouldn’t kill for love. I wouldn’t piss on love if it was on fire. I wouldn’t give love the time of day. I wouldn’t cross the road for love, or give up my seat on a bus, or share my last slice of pizza. But I would do all those things for Cyrus. Maybe that makes it more than love.

  Another vehicle arrives. A small van with mesh windows. The driver is in dark blue overalls. He opens the back door and two dogs leap off the back tray, sniffing at the ground and the wheels of the van. The handler clips dog-leads on to their collars. They’re Alsatians, just like Sid and Nancy. The police are going to give them a piece of my clothing – maybe my pyjamas – and have them search for me. I can’t stay any longer. My funeral is over.

  I slide backwards from the hedge and crouch beneath the windows of a house until I reach the next fence. I climb over and drop down, crossing another garden, before climbing a new fence. When I’m far enough away from Langford Hall, I cut back to the road, avoiding the streetlights and sticking to the shadows. The streets are unfamiliar in darkness. The houses are quiet. The world asleep.

  I don’t have a plan – not yet – but I can’t go back to Langford Hall. If they found me once they can find me again.

  42

  Cyrus

  Lenny and I are sitting in the security control room at Langford Hall, watching a young technician flick his fingers across a computer keyboard with all the skill of a concert pianist.

  ‘This is Justy,’ says Lenny. ‘He’s our resident computer whisperer.’

  The young man blushes slightly and a mop of black hair drops over his eyes as he types. On the surrounding desks, TV screens have been shattered or torn from their fittings and the floor is covered in broken glass and plastic.