When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘Sometimes guests want to bring in a particular chef or a sommelier or an expert deer stalker. They don’t often bring the full complement of staff, but I’m sure it happens.’

  Cyrus falls into step beside me as we follow her up the wide stone stairs into an entrance hall with a chequerboard pattern on the floor and tapestries hanging on the walls. A carved oak staircase rises to the upper floors. Two suits of armour are standing guard on either side of a stone fireplace that is large enough to be a small room.

  ‘We have eleven double bedrooms in the main house and a separate cottage that can sleep eight, four adults and four children,’ she explains, taking us from the entrance hall into a large dining room that is already set up for dinner with white linen, cutlery and different shaped glasses.

  ‘We seat thirty for dinner, but can cater for larger groups on the lawns, weddings and such, in summer of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I reach out and touch the handle of one of the knives. Amanda makes a tutting sound like a schoolteacher before repolishing the knife with a white cloth, removing my germs, or fingerprints.

  Without missing a beat, she moves on to a different room full of brown leather sofas and paintings of horses and hunting dogs.

  ‘This room hasn’t changed,’ she says, expecting Cyrus to agree.

  Is she flirting with him?

  ‘It’s just as I remember,’ he replies.

  Amanda opens double doors that lead to a semicircular sunroom with more tables and chairs and bench seats around the windows.

  ‘This is my favourite room,’ she says. ‘It’s a perfect winter suntrap.’

  We’re looking across the lawn down to a river, where white water is splashing over rocks. Cyrus is close to me. ‘Do you remember any of this?’

  I shake my head.

  Amanda turns. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’

  We stay close behind, listening to her give a history of the house and how each bedroom is named after a famous figure in Scottish history. Alexander Fleming. William Wallace. Alexander Graham Bell.

  ‘Do you remember what room you stayed in?’ she asks.

  ‘Robbie Burns,’ replies Cyrus.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  ‘That’s one of my favourites,’ says Amanda. ‘Not the best view, but it does have the claw-footed bath.’

  Cyrus keeps glancing at me, waiting for me to remember something, but I didn’t stay anywhere as grand as this. My bedroom had a single bed and a sink and a wardrobe.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ asks Amanda, sensing something is wrong.

  ‘Do you have smaller bedrooms?’ asks Cyrus.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘For children.’

  ‘No.’ She frowns, growing more suspicious.

  ‘I’m busting for the loo,’ I say, crossing my legs together, like I’m holding everything in.

  ‘You’ll have to go downstairs,’ she says. ‘There’s a ladies in the hallway opposite the dining room.’

  ‘Don’t be long,’ says Cyrus.

  I leave them in the Conan Doyle room and retrace my steps, down the stairs and along the hallway, past the dining room and the lounge and a games room with a snooker table and a dart board. I’m looking for the kitchen, which had twin ovens and smelled of bacon in the morning, which made me feel hungry, even though my stomach was cramping.

  The last door takes me there. I recognise the island bench and I can picture Terry leaning against it. A wooden frame is suspended from the ceiling, dangling with pots and pans. One door leads to a pantry with deep shelves holding tinned food and bags of rice, pasta and dried beans. A second door opens into a small boot room with a narrow staircase that twists back on itself as it climbs to the upper floor.

  I recognise the steps. I remember walking up them, with Uncle behind me. I make the climb again and walk along a corridor, passing the first door and stopping at the second. I reach for the handle. It’s unlocked.

  The room is unchanged. The bed, the wardrobe, the sink, the curtains are the same, but the smell is different. It reeks of aftershave and musk. It’s a man’s room now, with shirts and trousers in the wardrobe. I glance at the space between the wardrobe and the wall, remembering how I squeezed into the gap. It’s enough to hijack my thoughts … to take me back.

  Many things happened that night. Terrible things that I’ve tried to forget. Being woken. Being carried from the room. The bristles against my cheek. The sour breath and urgent fingers. The weight between my thighs. The hands. The hatred. When it was over, I was taken back to this room where I curled up on the bed. I woke some time later, with my stomach cramping. I thought I must be hungry, but the pain grew worse. Excruciating. What had they done to me?

  I felt something damp between my legs and touched it with my fingers. Saw the blood. Mrs Quinn had told me this would happen. She said that one day I’d bleed and it would be the death of me.

  At the same time, I remembered a day when Agnesa was allowed to leave school early and wasn’t at the gate to walk me home. Mama let her have a long hot bath and afterwards she lay in our parents’ bed with a hot-water bottle on her stomach. Mama said Agnesa had become a woman.

  ‘You have to be nice to your sister,’ she said. ‘I know you like to wrestle and run, but she can’t do that today. You can’t be rough.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s not a girl any more.’

  This is what she meant. I was curled in a tight ball, hugging my stomach, taking short breaths, rocking my head from side to side. The pain didn’t go away. It climbed the walls. It breathed through cracks in the floorboards. It hid in the shadows beneath the bed.

  After a while, I hobbled to the sink and I tried to clean up as best I could, stuffing toilet paper between my thighs, frightened that Uncle would find out and I’d be punished. If I was bleeding, he wouldn’t want me. None of them would.

  I balled up my knickers in my fist and looked for somewhere to hide them. The window wouldn’t open and the wardrobe was too tall. I ran my fingers over the top of the radiator and noticed the gap between the metal and the wall. I pushed the knickers into the space, using the end my toothbrush to jam them further out of sight.

  Seven years on, I press my forehead to the wall and shut one eye, looking at a broken strip of light at the back of the radiator. Something is still there, but I can’t reach it with my fingers.

  The door opens behind me. A male voice. ‘Hey! Who are you?’ He grabs me by the arm. His eyes are bright and mean. ‘What are you doing in my room?’

  I try to scream for Cyrus, but no sound comes out.

  62

  Cyrus

  ‘You’ve been lying since you got here,’ says Amanda with undisguised fury. ‘Were you going to rob us now, or come back later?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘What are you – some sort of modern-day Fagin, getting children to do your thieving?’

  ‘I’m not a child,’ protests Evie. ‘And I wasn’t stealing anything.’

  We’re in the kitchen where the island bench is keeping both sides apart. Amanda has been joined by a powerfully built man wearing chef’s whites, who looks eager to use his fists.

  ‘She was going throo mah things,’ he says in a thick Glaswegian accent.

  ‘I didn’t touch your stuff,’ says Evie.

  ‘This is all a misunderstanding,’ I say, reaching into my pocket.

  ‘Hands where I can see them,’ says the chef.

  ‘I’m getting a business card. I’m a forensic psychologist. I work for the police.’

  I slide the card across the bench. Amanda picks it up, reading it suspiciously. She turns it over, as though expecting more information.

  ‘Evie was here seven years ago,’ I say. ‘She slept in that room – the one you found her in.’

  ‘That’s a staff bedroom,’ says Amanda.

  ‘Not that week,’ I say.

  ‘Why all the lies and
sneaking around?’

  ‘She didn’t come here willingly. She was a prisoner.’

  Neither person reacts.

  ‘There was another child – a young boy called Patrick Comber. He was abducted in late November 2012. Evie saw him here. She talked to him.’

  ‘Ah wouldn’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth,’ says the chef.

  ‘I can prove it,’ says Evie. ‘I left something behind.’

  Amanda and the chef look at each other uncertainly.

  ‘I think we should call the police,’ says Amanda. ‘They can sort this out.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I say.

  This makes her hesitate even more. She makes a decision. ‘Show me.’

  We follow Evie upstairs to the small room. The chef stands close behind me, still itching for a chance to use his fists.

  Evie points to the radiator. ‘It’s behind there. I can’t reach it.’

  Amanda puts her head against the wall and peers behind the radiator. ‘I can see something. Fetch a wooden skewer from the kitchen.’

  The chef leaves and returns a few minutes later.

  ‘Let me do it,’ says Amanda. ‘My hands are smaller.’

  She slides the skewer down the wall and drags it sideways, hooking a small clump of stained fabric. I see what it is now – a pair of girl’s knickers, pale pink with blue flowers stitched into the edges.

  ‘Don’t touch them!’ I say suddenly. ‘I need a sealable plastic bag.’

  ‘I have some in the kitchen,’ says the chef.

  Amanda nods and he leaves the room.

  I take the wooden skewer from her. She looks lost. ‘What am I missing?’

  ‘They’re mine,’ says Evie. ‘I bled …’

  ‘These can prove that she was here,’ I say. ‘They can be tested.’

  Amanda glances at the underwear and back to me. ‘Are you saying she was …? Did she …?’

  ‘She was held here against her will. A prisoner. So was Patrick Comber.’

  ‘I think I should call the owners.’

  ‘First call the police. This is now a crime scene. It has to be cordoned off.’

  Amanda baulks at this. ‘No! I need to speak the owners. We have guests coming.’ In the next breath, she says, ‘I want you to leave. Take those with you.’ She motions to Evie’s underwear.

  ‘I need the names of everybody who was staying here that weekend,’ I say. ‘You must have records.’

  ‘It was a private party. I don’t have any names.’

  ‘Fraser Manning made the booking.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything until I talk to the owners.’

  ‘A boy is missing.’

  ‘Get off this property!’

  The chef has returned and I seal the knickers in plastic. He takes a step forwards and shoves me hard in the chest. ‘You heard her.’

  ‘You don’t understand …’

  He shoves me again.

  Minutes later I’m behind the wheel of van with Evie beside me. I hand her my phone.

  ‘Call the police.’

  She looks at the screen. ‘There’s no signal.’

  ‘Shit!’

  Starting the engine, I put the van into gear and circle the fountain, before driving through the stone gates on to the single-lane asphalt.

  ‘Keep checking the phone. The moment we get reception, call triple nine. I’ll do the talking.’

  Evie doesn’t respond. She’s looking over her shoulder. For a moment I think she’s catching a final glimpse of the lodge, but her eyes are wide and her mouth falls open. Something cold and metallic presses into my neck.

  ‘Eyes on the road or you die now.’

  63

  Evie

  The man is wearing a black ski-mask that covers all but his eyes, but he can’t disguise his voice. He’s the same man who searched for me in the house; who tortured Terry and who killed Ruby.

  He clicks the fingers on his left hand. ‘Give me the phone.’

  When I don’t react quickly enough, he slaps me hard across the side of my head, making my ears ring and my face sting. The phone tumbles out of my hands on to the floor beneath my feet.

  Cyrus reacts, trying to protect me, and the van veers off the road. The tyres dig into the muddy verge and we seem to be sliding sideways until he wrenches the steering wheel and we swerve back on the road, almost tipping over. The gun is pressed into my neck instead.

  ‘Do that again, and I’ll kill her,’ says the man. ‘Now pick it up.’ He motions to the phone.

  I have to unclip my seat belt to reach forward. He snatches the phone from me and flips it open, breaking it in half like he’s snapping a twig.

  ‘Lower the window.’

  I do as he asks and he throws the broken phone into the rushing air.

  ‘The police are coming,’ says Cyrus.

  ‘You had no signal, remember?’

  ‘The lodge was going to call them.’

  ‘They’ll be too late.’

  My face is hot where he hit me. I touch my cheek with my fingers. Cyrus glances at me. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Shut up,’ says the man.

  ‘You hurt her.’

  ‘Not another fucking word!’

  Cyrus has both hands on the wheel and keeps glancing in the rear-view mirror, trying to see the man’s face. Now he checks the side mirrors. I do the same. There’s a car behind us. I think for a moment it might be the police, or someone who can help us, but we’re being followed, not chased.

  My seat belt is still unbuckled. I could open the door and roll out. We’re not travelling so fast because the road is narrow and winding. Would I survive the fall? Or would I be crushed beneath the rear wheels of the van, or the car behind us?

  Ahead of us, a motor home is lumbering around a tight corner. Cyrus pulls into the passing bay.

  ‘Don’t stop. Keep moving,’ says the man in the mask.

  ‘There’s no room.’

  ‘He’ll pull over.’

  Cyrus speeds up. A couple is in the motor home. Old. Grey. The woman is driving, sitting up high like she’s behind the wheel of a bus. She has to brake hard and swerve to make room. Her husband is mouthing an obscenity and waving his hands. Cyrus weaves around them, not making eye contact.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asks.

  ‘Keep driving.’

  The man with the gun has leather gloves that hug his hands like a second skin. He reaches into his pocket and takes a different phone, holding it above his head, looking for a signal. He glances behind us at the car, making sure it’s still with us. Then he opens the lid of a military-style canteen and pulls up the bottom of the ski mask to uncover his lips. He drinks, but doesn’t bother rolling it down again.

  ‘I know who you are,’ says Cyrus. ‘John Paul Berendt.’

  The gunman wipes his mouth, but doesn’t answer.

  ‘The police identified you from CCTV footage. You’re wanted for three murders – maybe more.’

  ‘Are you a lawyer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sound like one.’

  ‘The police will be watching the airports and ferry terminals. They know about the private jet flights.’

  He smacks Cyrus in the side of the head with such force that his skull bounces against the side window. Cyrus touches his left ear with his fingertips, checking for blood, but he doesn’t stop talking.

  ‘Maybe you don’t have a plan. That’s why most people get caught. They forget what comes after the crime.’

  Cyrus gets another smack. His ear is bleeding properly now. I want him to shut up.

  ‘Let Evie go. You could drop her off. Take me instead.’

  The gunman ignores him and looks at me, suddenly interested. ‘Where were you hiding?’ he asks.

  I look at him blankly.

  ‘At the house – when we found Terry – where were you hiding?’

  ‘In the walls.’

  He smiles painfully. ‘I knew you were there. I could smell you.’<
br />
  Cyrus interrupts him. ‘We know about Fraser Manning.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your boss.’

  ‘I don’t have a boss.’

  ‘Someone is paying you.’

  ‘You should have left the girl alone. She doesn’t belong to you.’

  ‘She doesn’t belong to anyone,’ says Cyrus. ‘You can’t own people. This is the twenty-first century.’

  He laughs and tells Cyrus to get down off his soapbox.

  ‘Eugene Green kidnapped children for your boss,’ says Cyrus.

  ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘But you’re implicated. You’re part of the conspiracy.’

  Another laugh. A proper one. I feel the spray on the back of my neck.

  ‘You need to understand something, Mr Haven. Nobody can touch any of us. It wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference what she says.’ He points the gun at me. ‘It will never get to court. She will never give that evidence.’

  ‘There will be other witnesses. Evie has injuries. She was raped.’

  ‘Terry Boland raped her.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ I say.

  ‘Who is going to believe you? What judge? What jury? You’re a little wog girl, who barely knows her own name.’

  Another car is approaching us. The driver pulls over to let us pass. He flashes his headlights. I notice Cyrus flicking at one of the levers on the steering wheel.

  ‘Don’t try to be clever,’ says the man in the mask, ducking down behind the seats, but keeping the barrel of the gun pressed below Cyrus’s left ear.

  We’re passing the car. The driver waves. I wave back and mouth the word ‘help’, but he smiles and carries on. I want to scream, but it’s too late.

  A thought enters my mind, a memory of Terry at the kitchen table, forcing my fingers around the handle of a pistol, telling me to aim at his chest and pull the trigger. He said that it didn’t matter how fast and how strong I was; or how well I could aim. It always came back to self-belief. ‘Fight like your life depends upon it, because it will,’ he said. ‘Fight like a demon. Fight like a rat in a corner. Fight like a caged lion. Just don’t hesitate.’

  The man in the mask leans between the seats. ‘The turn-off is up ahead. Over the next rise. On the right.’