When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

  I wash my face under a nearby tap, before making my way into town, where I find an early-opening café and buy a toasted sandwich and a cup of tea. The boy behind the counter keeps looking at me. He’s about my age, maybe a year older, and I make him nervous because he asks me twice if I want brown bread or white.

  Eating at a table near the front window, I watch people walking towards the station, or waiting at the bus stop, women with wet hair from the shower and men in suits and overcoats. I can go anywhere I want. London. Edinburgh. Manchester. Why does freedom feel so small, like something has ended rather than begun?

  As I finish my tea, I make a spur-of-the-moment decision. I’ll go to London, but I want to see Poppy first. I want to say goodbye because I might never see her again. A small part of me wants to see Cyrus, but I fear he’ll send me back to Langford Hall. And even if he let me stay, I’d be putting him in danger.

  Long Eaton Railway Station only has two platforms and a dual set of tracks. A lady in the ticket office calls me ‘pet’ and gives me directions. I need to catch an East Midlands train to Beeston and then a bus from Alexandra Crescent.

  I walk to the far end of the platform, away from the early-morning commuters, who are buying coffee and hot chocolate from a kiosk. I’m nervous standing in the open, convinced that people are watching me. Head down, hood up, I count the change in my pockets using my fingertips.

  The rails hum and then rattle. A train appears and stops. I step inside a half-empty carriage and take a seat near the window. The train is moving, gathering speed, passing into a wetlands area full of ponds and marshes. I have a memory of visiting here on a day trip from Langford Hall. It’s some sort of nature reserve named after that guy on TV, who looks like everybody’s favourite grandfather. The next station is called Attenborough, which is the old guy’s name.

  Only one person steps on board – a middle-aged man in a baggy suit with eyebrows that are darker than his hair. He hides behind a newspaper. The front page has a photograph of Ruby beneath a headline: TEEN DIES AT NOTTS CARE HOME. Lower down, in smaller letters: SECOND GIRL MISSING.

  I move closer, craning my neck, trying to read the story, but the man makes a hmmmff sound, snapping the pages and glaring at me. Instead of going back to his paper, he keeps staring at me as though we might have met before. I duck my head and move away. The next time I look up the man is texting on his phone and keeping one eye on me. Something is wrong.

  I’m standing with my back to him when I sense that he’s behind me.

  ‘You want this?’ he asks, holding out the newspaper. I don’t answer.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He tucks it under his arm.

  ‘Yes,’ I blurt.

  As I reach for it, he grabs my wrist, making me cry out in surprise rather than pain.

  ‘You’re her!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The girl in the news. The cops are looking for you.’

  ‘No.’

  I try to pull away, but he grips me tighter and shows me a photograph in the paper. My face is staring back at me – a mugshot from Langford Hall that makes me look like I’m a meth addict or a serial killer, or both.

  ‘That’s not me,’ I say. ‘Please. Let me go.’ I put on my little-girl voice.

  ‘I’ve already called the police. We’re getting off here.’

  The train is slowing down, pulling into a station. Faces flash past on the platform. Doors open. The man is still holding my wrist. I collapse to the ground, screaming, ‘Stop him! Rape! He’s hurting me. Help.’

  The man curses under his breath, telling me to get up. A bearded hipster guy in a leather jacket reacts before anyone else, ordering the man to let me go.

  ‘You got it wrong. She’s wanted by the police. I’ve called them.’

  ‘He tried to rape me,’ I sob. ‘He came up behind me and put his arm around my throat.’

  ‘I didn’t touch her.’

  ‘Ow! Ow! You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Let her go and we’ll sort this,’ says the hipster.

  ‘He groped me … he touched my boobs.’

  ‘I did no such thing!’ protests the older man, sounding less confident.

  ‘You’re not taking her off this train,’ says the hipster.

  ‘Where is the guard?’ a woman asks.

  ‘We should hold the train,’ her companion says.

  ‘You’re making a mistake,’ says the man. ‘Her picture is in the—’

  The statement gets cut off because someone has grabbed him from behind in a headlock, while the hipster karate chops at his arm until he lets me go.

  A woman helps me stand while her friend picks up the newspaper and looks at the front page. In that instant, I run, ducking under arms and dodging between bodies, out of the carriage and along the platform, ignoring the shouts from behind me.

  The Fat Controller is huffing and puffing towards me. I sidestep him easily and sprint towards the gates, up the stairs, across the pedestrian bridge. I dare to look back and see the passengers arguing on the platform.

  I cross the small parking area and pull at the pushbikes chained to railings, hoping one might have been left unlocked, but it’s no use. I take off again, running past a building site, a preschool, a garage, a pub …

  At the next intersection, I hear the police sirens. After pausing to get a fix on the sound, I choose the opposite direction, turning left and right through the streets, not bothering to look at their names.

  Eventually, the sirens fade and I stop in a park, doubled over and coughing like I’ve smoked a dozen cigarettes before breakfast. I find a park bench and lie down, staring up through the branches, waiting for my chest to stop hurting. Afterwards, I look for a tap and scoop water into my mouth with my hands.

  My mind slides and I remember drinking from hosepipes and taps after Terry died. Living on dog food and kitchen scraps and whatever else I could scavenge from rubbish bins and compost heaps.

  Sometimes people left a garden shed unlocked, or a garage, or even a door. I took things in order of necessity. Food came first – for the dogs and for me. When I came across money, I was careful to take only a small amount, never enough to flag the theft. Later, I took things that made my heart skip – a hairbrush with a pearl handle; a bottle shaped like an elephant; a Harry Potter book; a snowdome of the Eiffel Tower with silver glitter inside.

  I became good at navigating through houses in the dark, avoiding bedrooms, staying downstairs, making sure that everyone was asleep before I entered. One night I was almost caught by an old woman who lived in a house on the corner. She had grandchildren, who came to visit her on weekends, and I’d see them playing in her garden; having tea parties on blankets, with cupcakes and cordial. She had a grey cat called Alphie, who she called by tapping on a tin of cat food when she wanted him to come in for the night.

  I found a spare key under a garden gnome near her back steps. It was the early hours of Monday morning when I crept inside and found cupcakes in her fridge. I ate one and saved another for later. Holding the front of my dress to form a basket, I collected cans of cat food, baked beans and tinned peaches. I was about to leave when the old woman appeared in the doorway. She looked like a ghost in her white nightdress and curlers and face cream. For a moment she seemed to gawk at me but didn’t scream. As she reached for the light switch, I ducked beneath the table. Brightness lit up the kitchen. I hugged my knees and watched her shuffle past me in her slippers. She stopped at the sink and filled a glass of water, before turning back towards the stairs.

  ‘What a mess you’ve made,’ she said, stopping immediately above me. My heart thumped.

  She picked up a kitchen cloth and swept crumbs into the palm of her hand before brushing them into a pedal bin. As she turned back towards the door, I noticed the Coke-bottle glasses hanging on a chain around her neck. She hummed to herself and flicked off the lights, slowly climbing the stairs.

  As days passed, I explored further from the house. I discovered a twenty-four-hour petr
ol station on the main road, about four streets away. It was lit up like a fairground with coloured lights and shelves stacked with groceries and snacks. The same boy worked behind the counter every weekday night, but not on the weekend. He was Asian, with a mop of black hair that kept falling across his forehead when he studied the books that were always open between his elbows.

  Most of the customers were motorists buying fuel, but occasionally teenagers would come to buy sweets and cans of soft drink or flavoured milk. Whenever the automatic doors opened, I would get a whiff of the pies and sausage rolls that were inside a big silver pie-warmer.

  One night I summoned the courage to go inside. I walked up to the counter and asked for a pie, trying to sound grown-up.

  ‘It’s self-serve,’ the boy said, without looking up from his books.

  I waited. Not moving.

  He stopped reading. ‘You take a pie out of the warmer and put it in one of those bags.’ He pointed to a stack of white shiny paper bags on a hook.

  I stood in front of the pie-warmer, wondering how to pick up a pie without burning my fingers, when I noticed the serving tongs. Sliding open the glass door, I chose the fattest pie and slid it into the bag.

  ‘You want sauce with that?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tomato sauce or brown sauce.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He had a strange sticky-out bit of hair that looked like a black feather on the top of his head. If he cut it off, he’d look more grown-up, I thought.

  ‘Five quid.’

  I counted out the coins, which were sticky from my fist.

  ‘Aren’t you a bit young to be up this late?’ he said.

  ‘My mum needed milk.’

  He looked at my empty hands. ‘You forgot the milk.’

  I cursed under my breath and went to the big silver fridge. I didn’t know if I had enough money, so I chose the smallest carton.

  ‘That’s chocolate milk.’

  ‘It’s what she likes.’

  ‘She sent you out at two in the morning to buy chocolate milk?’

  ‘And a pie.’

  I pushed more coins across the counter. He added them up and pushed one of them back. ‘That’s Australian money.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘It has a kangaroo on the side. See?’

  ‘What about the lady’s head?’

  ‘That’s the Queen, but it’s still Australian money. They have dollars, not pounds.’

  ‘I don’t have any more.’

  His big eyes shrank a little. ‘I’ll let it go this time if you promise to go straight home. It’s not safe for a little girl to be out so late.’

  ‘I’m older than you think,’ I said. ‘How old?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘You’re not fifteen,’ he sneered.

  ‘I’m small for my age.’

  ‘The runt of the litter.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s past your bedtime. Go straight home.’

  I left it a few nights before I went back again. I had more money and a better cover story. I told him my mum was home with my new baby brother and couldn’t leave him.

  After my third or fourth visit, the boy got used to me buying bags of dog food, pies and sausage rolls. His name was Ajay and he was studying to become an engineer.

  ‘What does an engineer do?’ I asked.

  ‘Lots of things. We can build bridges and design stuff.’

  The diagrams in the book looked like a different language, full of numbers and symbols.

  He asked me my name. I made one up.

  ‘Pringle.’

  ‘Like the crisps?’

  I nodded.

  ‘What’s your first name?’

  ‘Penny.’

  ‘Your name is Penny Pringle?’ He laughed.

  I felt my face grow hot and I changed the subject, pointing to the machine on the counter, which was full of coloured liquid and being stirred by a steel paddle.

  ‘That’s a Slush Puppie machine,’ he explained. ‘It’s crushed ice and sugary flavouring. You want one? It’ll freeze your brain.’

  ‘Why would I want to freeze my brain?’

  Ajay pressed a lever and half filled a cup. ‘You can have this one on the house.’

  I looked at the ceiling.

  ‘It’s a figure of speech,’ he explained, treating me like a moron.

  I took a sip and flavour exploded into my mouth. My face must have lit up because Ajay grinned.

  ‘Where do you go to school?’ he asked. ‘I bet you go to Camborne. No uniform. No homework. No set bedtimes. Cello and violin lessons. Are you one of them?’

  ‘No,’ I said, not understanding half of what he said, but not liking how he said it.

  ‘I went to Merton Boys,’ he said. ‘We used to beat up kids like you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re posh.’

  ‘What’s posh?’

  He laughed at me and looked at me more closely. ‘You’re right, you don’t look very posh. Who cuts your hair?’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell if you were a boy or a girl.’

  ‘I’m a girl.’

  ‘I know that now.’ He was toying with the pens on the counter. ‘Do you really live around the corner?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘With your mother?’

  I nodded.

  I could see in his eyes that he didn’t believe me.

  ‘Listen. Tomorrow I have to go through the fridges, throwing out food that’s past its use-by date. I do it every Friday. Normally I toss stuff straight in the bins, but I can save it for you.’

  ‘Do you ever throw away dog food?’ I asked.

  ‘Not usually, but I’ll see what I can do.’

  I tasted the copper in my mouth and saw something in the corner of his lips. He was lying to me, but I couldn’t tell whether it was about the dog food or something else.

  ‘You’ll come tomorrow, yeah?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Same time.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The next night I hid in a garden across the road and watched a man and a woman talking to Ajay. They seemed to be waiting for someone – for me. I didn’t see them leave. By then I’d gone home where I curled up between Sid and Nancy and dreamed of pies and sausage rolls.

  48

  Cyrus

  The mid-morning briefing at Sherwood Lodge, headquarters of the Nottinghamshire Police. Lenny is issuing new orders. The search for Evie is being scaled back because she has ‘slipped the net’ and the focus is shifting to the men who murdered Ruby Doyle.

  The CCTV footage from Langford Hall has been digitally enhanced and a language expert is listening to the audio trying to pick up on regional accents, or any clue that might help identify the killers. Meanwhile, a photograph of the man who visited Langford Hall asking about Evie is being run through databases using face-recognition software. The poor-quality image, taken from side-on, might still produce a name.

  When the briefing ends, I follow Lenny back to her office where she flicks through a stack of phone messages, deciding which of them are urgent or can wait. I wonder if she’s ignoring me on purpose or if she’s forgotten I’m sitting opposite her.

  ‘This belonged to Hamish Whitmore,’ I say, sliding the notebook across her desk.

  Lenny raises one eyebrow. ‘And you’ve been holding on to it.’

  ‘It only came into my possession a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Days?’

  ‘It was found in his daughter’s car. Hamish borrowed Suzie’s Subaru four days before he died. I think he knew he was being followed.’

  ‘Based upon?’

  ‘A hunch. He lied about his Maserati being serviced that day.’

  ‘You told me that psychologists don’t believe in hunches.’

  ‘No. I said we don’t rely on them.’

  Lenny isn’t happy about the notebook, but she listens as I expla
in my interpretation of the notes – the flight logs, call signs and company names. It could explain how missing children were moved around the country; and how individuals hid their identities behind shelf companies and off-shore addresses. It could also unlock the secret of where Evie comes from.

  As soon as I mention the name Phillip Everett, Lenny visibly tenses.

  ‘Do you know him?’ I ask.

  ‘By reputation. I get an allergic reaction when anyone with a title or political connections gets named in an investigation.’

  ‘You’re not intimidated by class.’

  ‘That’s true, but I happen to like my job.’

  I tell her about my visit to the charity, Out4Good. ‘I asked if Eugene Green or Terry Boland had worked for the charity, but they wouldn’t talk about what ex-prisoners they had employed. All I know for sure is that Hamish Whitmore asked the same questions and he was dead four days later.’

  ‘You can’t seriously think a charity is involved in this,’ she says. ‘You don’t even know what this is.’

  ‘Out4Good could be a cover. It’s the perfect way to recruit people with a particular skill set – a crooked accountant, a stand-over man, a safe-breaker, a drug supplier, a driver … A year before Terry Boland died, he was arrested for robbing a post office in Manchester. CCTV footage put him behind the wheel of the getaway car, and his fingerprints were on the stolen money, but before he could be charged, a silk turned up and Boland skated. Someone made the whole thing disappear.’

  Lenny sighs. ‘It’s not enough, Cyrus.’

  ‘Eugene Green and Terry Boland knew each other as teenagers. They were at the same children’s home in Wales and I have evidence they stayed in touch.’

  I ponder whether to show her the photograph, but I want to talk to Jimmy Verbic before I drop him into this. I owe him that much. He has been my friend for seventeen years. More than a friend. After my parents died, my grandparents did their best to raise me, but it was Jimmy who rescued me from my self-destructive ways, the cutting and the drugs and the alcohol. Without him, I might never have finished school, or gone to university. I might not be here at all.

  Jimmy was in the same place as Terry Boland and Eugene Green. Is that how he knew Angel Face? I cannot imagine how he could be involved – and he deserves the benefit of the doubt – but I feel sick inside when I imagine him there.