When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

She shakes her head. ‘He hasn’t been mentioned in any of the coverage, but neither have you.’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘Two men were shot dead in the Scottish Highlands, one of them a decorated detective. The Guardian ran a story today speculating that Menken was a dirty cop, and linked his death to the murder of Hamish Whitmore, suggesting it might be some form of payback.’

  ‘For what?’

  She shrugs. ‘What about Berendt?’

  ‘A disgraced soldier, court-martialled for war crimes in Afghanistan. He’s been linked to Whitmore’s murder, but no mention of any other deaths.’

  The police have taken two statements from me since I arrived at the hospital. I told them everything I knew, handing over the photographs of Eugene Green and Terry Boland at Dalgety Lodge, as well as the sealed plastic bag with Evie’s knickers. DNA tests on her blood will prove that she was at the lodge that weekend. Pathologists will be able to date the stains and the fabric, proving the timeline.

  As I made my statements and read the transcripts afterwards, I was surprised at how many pieces fitted together, not perfectly, but close enough.

  Fraser Manning likes to portray himself as a ‘man of mystery’, a philanthropist and a quiet achiever, when in reality, he is a spider at the centre of a web, wrapping people in silken coffins, to be devoured later. Using blackmail and extortion, he has corrupted police officers, politicians, business leaders, diplomats and public servants, all of whom have a weakness that Manning can exploit. Some are paedophiles and child molesters. Others are closet homosexuals, or masochists, or sadists, or drug addicts, or voyeurs, or have some hidden paraphilia, secret vice or sick fantasy that makes them easy marks for a high-functioning sociopath.

  Manning was almost caught thirteen years ago, when he raped the young daughter of his live-in maid in the US Virgin Islands. Charges were never laid and Manning disappeared, reinventing himself in the UK, with a new name and a new career. His association with Lord Everett gave him entry to the upper echelons of British society; and the prison charity provided him with foot-soldiers like Eugene Green and Terry Boland.

  Green kidnapped the children at Manning’s behest, which explains the missing weeks in their timelines and why Eugene didn’t recognise where their bodies were dumped. He was never there.

  Yet he confessed. What did Manning promise him to take the fall? Maybe it wasn’t a promise, but a threat, or a bribe. Eugene gave his mother enough money to buy her a flat in Leeds.

  This is the story I told the police – some of it provable, the rest speculation. It is up to Evie to do the rest. She can identify Manning as the man who kept her as a sex-slave and loaned her out to other paedophiles. She can tell police how she met Patrick Comber at Dalgety Lodge, only days after he was kidnapped from a shopping-centre car park in Sheffield.

  Sacha touches my fingers, bringing me back to the hospital room.

  ‘I lost you there for a while,’ she says. ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘No. Stay. I was daydreaming.’

  We talk about other things. Sacha has been to London to see her parents, who were so excited that her mother almost fainted when she opened the door.

  ‘They want me to come home,’ she says.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I owe them some daughter time.’

  ‘You should go.’

  ‘Would you miss me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She smiles and kisses my cheek. ‘You still have Evie.’

  66

  Evie

  I’m sitting on a swing in the garden, smoking a cigarette. Cyrus will be disappointed, but I’m punishing him for not visiting me, or calling. They have phones in hospitals, don’t they? I hope he’s OK.

  This is the only time they let me outside, when I smoke. That’s enough reason to start. I like being barefoot on the wet grass and feeling the cold slowly numb my toes. The daffodils are dying off, but other flowers are coming, and the air is full of insects that scatter when I walk by.

  The house is south-facing and gets the morning sun in this corner of the garden. There is also a resident cat called Zachariah, a tabby with a crooked tail. I’m more a dog person, but Zachariah is OK because he likes to sleep on the end of my bed and wakes me by putting his paw on my pillow.

  My only visitors have been the police and the shrinks and a doctor who prescribed me sleeping tablets. Somebody also came from the Home Office, whatever that means. She asked me where I was born and how I came to England. I didn’t tell her the whole story because nobody believes me when I tell them the truth. I can see it in their eyes. I can taste it in my mouth.

  That’s what happened when the detectives were asking me questions. I could see how little they believed. Nothing I said was taken at face-value. My motives, my memories, my movements were treated with suspicion. How could I remember Patrick Comber, but not where I lived with Uncle? Why didn’t I know his name? Why did I keep hiding after Terry died? Why didn’t I go to the police? How did I survive? Who helped me? Who looked after the dogs?

  They didn’t believe that someone my age could have looked after herself, or Sid and Nancy. They thought I was covering for someone. An adult. It was the same when they asked me about Terry, trying to put words in my mouth. He must have kept me locked up and raped me.

  The woman from the Home Office didn’t believe that I grew up in a village in the mountains in Albania. I told her about our two-bedroom apartment and how Papa worked at the abattoir and I shared a bedroom with Agnesa. I told her about Mina and my Aunt Polina and our landlord Mr Berisha.

  I said she should look for Mina, who lives in a Roma slum beside the railway tracks where dogs roam the rubbish piles and shoes hang from the powerlines like electrocuted pigeons.

  I didn’t know the addresses for people and said that Mina’s house had wooden planks and sheets of iron; and one wall came from an advertising billboard, which had a picture of a beautiful woman in the passenger seat of a convertible. Every time you opened Mina’s front door, it felt like you were trapping the woman’s long blonde hair in the hinges, but she didn’t stop smiling.

  I told the Home Office woman all of this; how Papa died in an accident at the abattoir and how Aunt Polina came to stay with us. Normally Aunt Polina lived in the city and had a different boyfriend every time she visited. I knew them by their cars. Mr Ferrari and Mr Audi and Mr BMW. Mr Ferrari wore leather jackets and tight trousers and couldn’t afford the petrol, so he only drove his car on weekends or on special occasions.

  Aunt Polina had the nicest clothes – cocktail dresses and high heels and handbags with Italian names. Everybody knew how she made her money, but nobody would tell me. She went to Italy every summer and came back with newer and nicer clothes. My father called her a ‘strawberry picker’ but I didn’t think she was picking strawberries in those dresses.

  When Papa died, Aunt Polina told Mama that she could get plenty of work in Italy.

  ‘I don’t want that sort of work,’ Mama replied.

  ‘You could marry someone rich.’

  ‘I’m too old.’

  Agnesa was listening. She knew exactly what Aunt Polina meant. Why marry a boy who came from a poor family, when you could meet someone rich? Our landlord Mr Berisha had a son called Erjon, who was nineteen. He said he loved Agnesa and promised to marry her, but he only wanted ‘one thing’, according to Mama, and he managed to steal it from Agnesa, who would never get it back. Mama complained to Mr Berisha, who laughed at her.

  We didn’t go to Italy. Me and Mama and Agnes sold our furniture and packed our things and paid money to Mr Berisha, who organised a boat to England, a country full of palaces and princes and princesses, according to Agnesa. We took a bus to Spain and boarded the fishing trawler at a place called Cadaqués, smuggled on board at night. The fishermen made us hide in the hull where they normally kept the fish and the ice. It was full of wretched people, who vomited and cried and prayed for four days until we reached Scotland. Not
all of us. Only some.

  ‘What happened to your mother?’ asked the woman from the Home Office.

  ‘She died.’

  ‘What did they do with her body?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What about your sister?’

  ‘She married a handsome prince and lives in a palace.’

  ‘I’m being serious.’

  ‘I’m being hopeful.’

  The woman looked at me as though I was weird and said that someone from the Embassy had been to my village and couldn’t find any trace of Mina or her family; or my Aunt Polina, who was probably strawberry picking in Italy. I don’t know what she expected to find. I was nine years old when I left Albania. Everybody thinks I’m turning eighteen in September, but I’m already nineteen.

  I press the burning end of my cigarette into the damp soil of the flowerbed, burying the butt in the dark loam. One of my minders – a policewoman – said I should plant something. She offered to buy me some seeds, but I won’t be here to see them germinate. I am tired of doing that. One day I’m going to plant something and be there to watch it grow.

  67

  Cyrus

  Lenny has come to see me. She’s wearing dark slacks and a silk shirt and has slicked back her hair so that it hugs her scalp. I watch her as she takes a seat and makes small talk, as if she can’t decide what role she’s playing: a police officer or my friend?

  Clearly, something is wrong and she doesn’t know how to tell me.

  ‘Ness and his team have extracted DNA from the underwear you found at Dalgety Lodge,’ she says. ‘The blood belonged to Evie Cormac.’

  ‘That proves she was there.’

  Lenny doesn’t answer.

  ‘Was there other DNA?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about at Manning’s house? Evie had a bedroom there. It was somewhere near Manchester. Have you managed to get a warrant?’

  ‘The house burned down seven years ago,’ says Lenny. ‘An electrical fire that destroyed the main house and the garage with six luxury cars – all insured.’

  ‘Mrs Quinn, the housekeeper, looked after Evie. She’ll confirm everything.’

  ‘Mrs Quinn has given us a statement. She denies that Evie was ever at the house. Says she never met her.’

  ‘Evie knew her name.’

  ‘Not enough.’

  ‘Manning must have other properties. You can get warrants …’ My voice is getting more and more strident.

  ‘We don’t have enough evidence to get more warrants.’

  ‘But Evie’s statement. Her DNA.’

  ‘We have proof she was at Dalgety House, that’s all.’

  ‘She recognised Manning’s photograph. He’s the man she called “Uncle”.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He was raping her and lending her out to other paedophiles. Terry Boland drove her around.’

  ‘That’s all in Evie’s statement,’ agrees Lenny, ‘but it’s not enough to establish probable cause, which is what I need to get a warrant.’

  ‘Put Evie on the witness stand. Let people hear what she has to say.’

  ‘The defence will paint her as a compulsive liar.’

  ‘She’s not lying. Somebody tried to kill her … and me.’

  Lenny looks heartbroken. ‘I believe her, Cyrus. I believe you. But the judge looked at her juvenile file and refused us any leeway to question Manning or to search his properties or seize his computers. Evie has run away from foster care. She’s been caught taking drugs and gambling. She’s made up stories. She’s assaulted people.’

  ‘She’s telling the truth now.’

  ‘And it’s not enough.’

  ‘What about Patrick Comber?’

  ‘We’ve searched the grounds of Dalgety Lodge and looked for traces of his DNA, but found nothing.’

  ‘There must be other witnesses. Other staff. You can offer them immunity.’

  ‘Fraser Manning is refusing to give us a guest list or release the names of anyone who worked that weekend.’

  ‘The flight from Liverpool John Lennon Airport, the initials …’

  ‘That’s all we have.’

  ‘You have the photographs of Eugene Green and Terry Boland. There were other men.’

  ‘We’ve identified five of them, all ex-cons. None of them recall seeing Evie Cormac or Patrick Comber.’

  I’m silent. Indignant. Fuming. ‘You’re telling me Fraser Manning is untouchable.’

  ‘I’m telling you that we don’t have enough to touch him, not yet, but we’re still looking. I have a team going over the Eugene Green files, trying to link him to Manning. We’re also reviewing other cases of missing children, which could throw up new leads.’

  Lenny wants to sound confident, but I know her too well. ‘You’re under pressure to wrap this up,’ I say.

  She doesn’t answer.

  ‘From Timothy Heller-Smith.’

  Again silence.

  ‘Higher?’

  Lenny doesn’t have to respond.

  I react angrily. ‘I’ll go to the newspapers. I’ll tell them about Manning’s secret past.’

  ‘You’re smarter than that, Cyrus. There’s not a newspaper in this country will touch this story when Evie Cormac is the source.’

  ‘Manning raped an eight-year-old girl.’

  ‘The allegations were withdrawn. He was never charged.’

  ‘He changed his name.’

  ‘Which is not against the law.’ Lenny holds up her hand, telling me to stop and listen. ‘I’m not giving up, Cyrus. We can get this guy, but we have to piece a case together. It could take years, but we can bring him down.’

  ‘We don’t have years. Manning had Hamish Whitmore murdered. He sent someone to kill Evie. He’s not going to stop.’

  ‘We can keep her safe.’

  ‘How? Are you offering her witness protection? A new identity?’

  Lenny doesn’t answer.

  ‘I thought so.’

  I want to scream. I want to lash out. I made promises to Evie. I told her the truth would keep her safe … that Fraser Manning would be arrested and locked away. I was wrong. I have made things worse.

  ‘Does Evie know?’ I whisper.

  Lenny nods.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘It’s best if you—’

  ‘Tell me what she said.’

  ‘ “I told him so.” ’

  68

  Evie

  October 2020

  The old man is holding the front door, looking past me, as though expecting someone else, when he wasn’t expecting anyone at all.

  ‘Whatever you’re selling I’m not buying,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not selling anything.’

  ‘Then go away.’

  ‘Don’t be so rude.’

  He looks surprised.

  I thought he’d be younger. Stronger. What if he keels over from a heart attack, the moment I tell him?

  ‘What do you want?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m looking for Patrick Comber’s father.’

  ‘I’m his grandfather.’

  ‘I want his dad.’

  ‘Clayton is no longer with us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  The statement shocks me and the old man stops being so grumpy and opens the door wider.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asks.

  ‘How did he die?’ I ask. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘He took his own life.’

  ‘Because of Patrick?’

  The old man cocks his head to one side. ‘Why are you so interested?’

  ‘I had some information for him.’

  ‘Maybe I can help.’

  ‘I don’t think so. You’re too old.’

  ‘That’s not very polite.’

  ‘I’m not here to be polite,’ I say, disappointed with how this is going.

  ‘You’re a very rude young lady,’ he says. ‘Come ba
ck when you’ve learned some manners.’

  He’s about to close the door when I blurt: ‘I met Patrick. Your son … I mean your grandson.’

  I had a whole speech prepared and now I’ve coughed it up like a fur ball.

  His eyes disappear into his wrinkles. ‘Is this some sort of sick joke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I bet you’re one of those con-artists who talk your way into houses and rip off old people, stealing their pension books and their jewellery and their war medals. Well, I don’t have any money, or war medals.’

  ‘I’m not a thief,’ I say. ‘I’ve spent all day getting here. It’s taken me two buses and an hour of walking.’

  ‘Why? What do you want?’

  ‘To tell you about Patrick.’

  Mr Comber raises a bushy eyebrow, more puzzled than annoyed. He turns away from me, shuffling down a dark corridor with his broken tartan slippers slapping against his heels. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to follow, until he calls over his shoulder, ‘Come on, then. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  I watch while he potters around the kitchen, pulling mugs from cupboards, and opening a new box of teabags.

  ‘How old are you?’ he asks.

  ‘Officially, I’m eighteen.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’m really a year older.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  He takes a bottle of milk from the fridge and watches me spoon sugar into my tea. Counting.

  ‘Your teeth are going to rot.’

  ‘I don’t have a single filling,’ I say, tapping a finger against the enamel. ‘I bet you can’t say that.’

  ‘OK.’ He sighs. ‘Enough of the bullshit. Tell me about Patrick.’

  ‘I met him.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘After he was kidnapped.’

  Tears prickle in the old man’s eyes. ‘If someone put you up to this, it’s a cruel thing to do.’

  ‘People called him Paddy, but he had another name,’ I say. ‘A nickname.’

  Mr Comber seems to freeze, his wrinkled face stiff like cardboard.

  ‘His family called him Nemo,’ I say, ‘after the fish in the movie. He had one arm shorter than the other.’