Jimmy jealously guards his private life, despite his high profile and love of publicity. Over the years, he has dated a string of beauties: actresses, models and heiresses, always laughing off the rumours of marriage. Kissing but never telling. Occasionally, I have pondered whether he might be gay. He has some of the clichéd traits, his immaculate dress sense, flamboyance and love for the arts; but Jimmy can be all things to all people; just as comfortable in the cheap seats as in the corporate boxes; with a pint of Rock Bitter or a glass of champagne.
Lenny interrupts my thoughts.
‘I want to help you, Cyrus, but I can’t launch an investigation based on what you’re telling me. The Chief Constable would laugh me out of his office. Remember Operation Midland?’
She’s talking about allegations of a child sex ring involving high-profile politicians, military officers and diplomats. The case rested on the evidence of a single witness, who turned out to be lying. A two-year police investigation failed to find any evidence to support the allegations, which had destroyed lives and ruined reputations, and ultimately found the entire story a hoax. The witness, Carl Beech, was convicted of perverting the course of justice; and the police made humbling apologies, paying compensation that ran into millions.
‘It’s the same deal,’ says Lenny. ‘You have a lone witness.’
‘Who someone is trying to kill.’
‘Yes, and those people might have been caught if she had cooperated from the very beginning and told people her name and what happened to her. If she really wanted to stop her abusers she wouldn’t be hiding from us now.’
‘She’s frightened.’
‘We can protect her.’
‘Like you protected Ruby?’
The last question is unfair and I recognise the hurt in Lenny’s eyes.
‘Maybe it’s best if you leave, Cyrus, before we ruin this friendship.’
Lenny is holding the door open. I should stop now, but I want to ask another question.
‘On Thursday morning when Ruby was murdered, Timothy Heller-Smith showed up at Langford Hall. How did he know about the murder?’
Lenny frowns. ‘Somebody at headquarters must have notified him.’
‘Is that unusual – having the assistant chief constable turn up at a murder scene at seven in the morning?’
‘Heller-Smith lives and breathes the job. He probably sleeps with a police scanner next to his bed. Why?’
I don’t answer. She waves her finger at me. ‘Don’t bullshit me, Cyrus.’
I want to stop myself before I go too far, but reason fails.
‘I overhead Heller-Smith on the phone at Langford Hall. He told someone, “They got the wrong fucking girl.” His exact words.’
‘They did get the wrong girl,’ says Lenny. ‘You said so yourself.’
‘You told Heller-Smith she may have been the intended target. Nothing more.’
Lenny scrubs roughly at her eyes. ‘Stop this now, Cyrus. You’ve never been a flat-earther or a fake moon-landing sort of guy, but now you’re spouting conspiracy theories about paedophile rings and faceless men. I’ve read Evie Cormac’s files. She’s a compulsive liar, yet you believe every word she’s told you. This has to stop or your career is over as a consultant for the Notts Police.’
There is a finality to the statement that makes me swallow my arguments and try to apologise, but Lenny pushes me into the corridor.
Her voice softens. ‘Go home, Cyrus. Get some sleep. You look like shit.’
49
Evie
The problem with taking side-streets is that I get lost too easily in the maze of roads with houses that all look the same. This is the second time I’ve passed a woman dressed in a khaki shirt on a ride-on mower who is driving up and down a bowling green that is smoother than a pool table. Is she cutting it or ironing it?
I shout. She kills the engine. Lowers her earmuffs.
‘I’m trying to find Wollaton Park,’ I say.
‘Starting from here?’
‘Yeah.’
She pushes a wad of chewing gum from one cheek to the other. ‘That’s a decent walk.’
She begins giving me directions, naming streets that I will never remember, while drawing them in the air. Finally, she says, ‘When you come to a big roundabout with a pub on one corner, you’ll know you’re getting close.’
An hour and several wrong turns later, I’m standing on Wollaton Vale opposite the Miller & Carter Steakhouse. Cyrus lives two streets from here, but I won’t risk approaching the house from the street in case someone is watching. Instead, I walk into Wollaton Park and circle the lake. I cross a field of blue flowers and enter a stand of enormous oak trees that are coming into leaf. When I reach the high wall that marks the boundary of the park, I follow it and study the rooflines of the houses on the opposite side until I recognise a familiar one.
Scrambling up a tree, I perch on a branch that overlooks the garden. If Cyrus isn’t home, he’ll have left Poppy outside. I spot her quickly enough because I know her favourite spots. She’s sunning herself beneath the kitchen window, almost camouflaged against the colour of the bricks.
Softly, I call her name. Her head lifts and her ears prick up. She sniffs at the air. I call her again and she sets off towards me, zigzagging down the garden with her nose to the ground. When she reaches the weathered stone wall, she raises her head and spies me in the branches. With a deep woof, she stands on her hind legs, planting her front paws on the stone wall, wagging her tail. Could she make it more obvious?
I tell her to be quiet. She barks again.
Sliding along the branch, I lower myself on to the top of the wall, balancing on the mossy bricks like a tightrope walker. I drop my bag into the garden and let myself down until my feet touch the ground. Poppy goes crazy, jumping around me. For the next ten minutes I forget everything. We run and chase and wrestle on the grass until we’re both exhausted and I fall on to my back. Poppy laps water from her bowl and flops down next to me.
I should leave before Cyrus gets home, but not yet. I know he keeps a spare key on top of the electricity meter box. I could let myself in and use the toilet; maybe get something to eat.
Poppy follows me as I collect the key, but I make her wait in the garden. As I walk through the house, I remember how I last saw it – filled with dust and smoke and fire. The kitchen has been rebuilt and redecorated since then with a new fridge and stove. He finally has a dishwasher. It’s about time. There are two coffee cups in the sink. Two plates. Sacha Hopewell must be staying. I hate how that makes me feel. Climbing the stairs, I find her clothes in my old room. Pyjamas beneath a pillow. Cyrus bought me that bed. I painted these walls. Suddenly angry, I think about peeing on her toothbrush or rubbing her pyjamas around the toilet bowl, but I don’t hate her that much. I don’t hate her at all. I hate my jealousy.
I move on to Cyrus’s room where his bedclothes are bunched and rumpled; his twin pillows tossed casually into place. I straighten things up and put away his running shoes and screw the lid on his toothpaste.
Next, I climb the narrow stairs to the attic, which is full of boxes and wooden chests and old suitcases that contain Cyrus’s childhood. I have been through some of the boxes and found his family photo albums and his school year books and programmes for school plays. In particular, I went looking for pictures of Cyrus before his family was killed, trying to see how the tragedy had changed him, or if it changed him. Did he look sadder? Was he lost? Could people see those things in me?
Pushing boxes aside, I crawl between them, and sit with my back against a chest of drawers, listening to the sounds drifting in from outside the house – someone chatting to a postman, a mother chiding a toddler to hurry up, an electric drill, music blaring from a car stereo.
Curling up on the floor, I close my eyes for a moment – not sleeping, resting, inhaling the loneliness and the smell of mothballs and yellowing paper; listening to the house creak and sigh, telling me its secrets.
The smell
from Terry’s body was so foul, that I didn’t go upstairs any more. I used air freshener to mask the worst of the stench and bug-spray to kill the flies; and after a few weeks I noticed a stain on the ceiling downstairs beneath Terry’s bedroom.
Every so often someone rang the doorbell or knocked, but I never answered. Later I’d find letters pushed through the flap, mostly reminders of overdue bills or threats to cut off the gas and electricity; or leaflets for lawn-mowing services, or pamphlets asking if I needed God in my life.
One day the neighbour next door raked up all the leaves and mowed the front garden. He knocked on the door first and yelled through the flap asking if anyone was at home. He didn’t clean up the back garden because he was probably frightened of Sid and Nancy.
In my heart, I knew that things couldn’t stay like this. Either the men would return or the owner of the house would want it back. I didn’t know what else to do. Terry told me not to trust anyone. He said the police would give me back to Uncle because they were on his side. I didn’t know there were sides, but Terry was clearly on mine.
One morning I heard Sid and Nancy barking and men arguing outside in the front garden. The doorbell rang. Someone knocked and called out. Faces peered through windows. I ran upstairs and crawled back into my secret room, sliding the panel shut.
The front door opened and I heard a man complaining about the torn carpets and broken walls. Heavy boots echoed on the stairs. Someone swore and shouted. Others came. Gagging at the smell. Yelling instructions into phones.
More people came. I knew it was the police because I heard their radios and their conversations. They began discussing how to get Terry’s body down the stairs. They didn’t know his name or how long he’d been dead, but they were going through his things, pushing clothes along the hangers and opening drawers.
After a long while, the house fell silent and I came out of hiding. Terry was gone and so were Sid and Nancy. Yellow tape was threaded across the doors and every smooth surface seemed to be covered in a fine black powder. Rugs and bedding had been taken away. I walked to the kitchen window and looked at the empty kennel outside.
I had no dogs to feed. No purpose. No reason.
I wake to the sound of a key in a lock; a door opening; a woman’s voice. Sacha is in the kitchen, talking to Poppy. She opens and closes cupboards, unpacking groceries, filling the fridge. I’m trapped now. Maybe I can sneak past her if she goes upstairs, or into the garden. In the meantime, I’ll have to stay here.
I’m used to waiting. I’m used to hiding. What’s another few hours?
50
Cyrus
Jimmy Verbic isn’t answering his phone. I have left messages on his voicemail and home answering machine, and called his office at least ten times, but he hasn’t responded. Jimmy treats his phone like an extra limb, which means he’s purposely avoiding me, or something is wrong.
I’m almost at his office when my pager beeps. It’s a message from Rampton Hospital, asking me to contact them immediately. I park near a phone kiosk in Angel Row and dial the number on screen. The call is transferred automatically until someone answers testily, a busy man interrupted.
I announce myself and his tone softens.
‘I’m Dr Jonathan Baillie, your brother’s case worker. Elias was admitted last night with a suspected infection. He was given a broad-spectrum antibiotic, but hasn’t responded as expected and his condition has worsened.’
‘When you say worsened?’
‘His kidneys are shutting down.’
I hear myself stuttering questions: ‘How? Why?’
‘We now suspect he has ingested something that has compromised his system.’
‘Has anyone else fallen ill?’
‘No.’
‘What could he have taken?’
‘We’re still trying to establish that.’
‘Surely you know what he’s eaten.’
‘We haven’t ruled out the possibility of self-harm. It could be a suicide attempt.’
‘That’s ridiculous. I saw Elias a week ago. He was more optimistic than I’d seen him in ages.’
‘These things can change very quickly,’ says Dr Baillie, who sounds distracted. He is talking to someone else. I hear the word ‘dialysis’ and feel an empty sensation, as my stomach drops away.
‘I’m on my way.’
The hospital wing of Rampton is in a separate annexe, a short walk from the main entrance. Dr Baillie meets me in the visitors’ waiting room. He’s a psychiatrist, not a physician, with a short-trimmed beard and hair shaved close to his scalp above his ears.
‘How is he?’ I ask.
‘Slightly improved. Conscious,’ says Dr Baillie, who motions for me to follow him. ‘They’re using activated charcoal to accelerate the transit of any possible poison, but it’s difficult to treat him effectively until they learn what toxin he ingested.’
‘What about long term?’
‘His kidneys are down to twenty per cent efficiency, but can recover if the damage doesn’t worsen.’
We’ve been pushing through doors and climbing a flight of stairs.
‘Could it have been accidental?’
‘That depends on the toxin. Nobody else at the hospital has shown any symptoms and Elias hasn’t interacted with anyone from the outside apart from yourself and Mr Sakr.’
‘Who?’
‘His old school friend. He visited yesterday.’
Elias doesn’t have any old school friends.
‘Has this person been before?’ I ask.
‘Not that I’m aware of. It was a telephone booking. He completed the documentation on his arrival.’
‘And he provided proof of his identity?’
‘Of course.’
‘Can I see the accreditation?’
Dr Baillie borrows a nearby computer terminal and logs into the system. The screen refreshes instantly and he steps back to let me view the page. The visitor, Thomas Sakr, provided a driver’s licence as proof of identity. It lists his date of birth as 4 October 1983 and an address in Chiswick, west London. The photograph shows a man with short-cropped hair and a V-shaped face. His lips look almost non-existent but are curled downward at the edges. I think back to the CCTV footage from Langford Hall. Is he the same man? I can’t be sure.
In the section marked ‘Purpose of Visit’ he’s written: ‘Old friends.’
‘Don’t you think it’s odd that Thomas Sakr has never visited Elias before now?’ I ask.
The question sounds accusatory and Dr Baillie grows defensive. ‘They seemed to know each other.’
‘You saw them together?’
He nods. ‘That’s how I know that nothing passed between them. They shook hands, that’s all.’
‘Did they have a cup of tea?’
‘Yes, but that came from our trolley.’
‘Have you tested the cups?’
My questions are beginning to irritate him. ‘Why would this person want to poison Elias?’
Ignoring him, I press on. ‘What did they talk about?’
‘They mentioned their school years and some of the old teachers. Elias talked about studying to be a lawyer. Your name came up.’
‘In what context?’
‘Mr Sakr remembered that Elias had a younger brother. Elias said you were a psychologist and that you lived in Nottingham in your grandparents’ house.’
‘Is that all?’
‘I think so. Why?’
‘I need to speak to my brother.’
Dr Baillie agrees reluctantly. We leave the nurses’ station and enter a ward where private rooms are arranged on either side of a corridor. A guard sits outside one of them, leaning on a chair. He’s wearing a collapsible baton on his belt and has a stack of motoring magazines beside him.
The room is in partial darkness. Elias is lying on a narrow, metal-framed bed with tubes hooked into his arms and groin. I notice the restraint bands across his chest.
‘Is that really necessary?’
&
nbsp; Dr Baillie doesn’t hesitate. ‘Your brother’s medications have no efficacy because his system is being flushed out.’
In other words, they’re worried he’ll suffer a psychotic episode and become violent.
Elias opens his eyes. Smiles.
‘Twice in a week. I’m a lucky boy,’ he slurs, half-asleep or heavily sedated.
‘Do you know what made you sick?’ I ask.
He shakes his head.
‘Did you swallow something? Pills?’
‘I’m always swallowing pills,’ he slurs. ‘White ones. Blue ones. Yellow ones.’
‘Anything you don’t normally take?’
‘No.’
‘Dr Baillie tells me you had a visitor – an old school friend.’
‘Tom. We were in the same maths class. He remembered Mr Gormley and Miss Powell and Mr Longstaff.’
‘Did you mention their names, or did he?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The teachers – who mentioned their names?’
‘Why does that matter?’
‘I don’t remember a Tom Sakr going to our school.’
‘You were too young,’ he says warily. ‘I can have friends, you know. Tom said he’d come back. Next time we’re going to play chess.’
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I’m glad you’ve found a friend.’
I give Elias a moment to relax before asking if Tom Sakr knew why Elias had been sent to Rampton.
‘He didn’t care.’
‘Did he ask about me?’
‘No, not really. He knew already.’
‘Really? How?’
‘He said he’d driven past your house. He said you were having the garden fixed up.’
An air bubble gets trapped in my throat. It hurts when I swallow. ‘He told you that?’
‘Yeah.’
I picture Sacha working in the garden. He was there, watching her. I turn quickly to Dr Baillie asking what car Thomas Sakr was driving, but I know the answer. It will be a dark-coloured Range Rover.
When She Was Good Page 25
