Entering the dining room, I find him sitting at a table nursing a cup of tea. He stands and bows in an old-fashioned way like he’s Prince Charles, which makes me smirk.
I take a moment to decide where I should sit. Opposite is best, so I can see his face.
Cyrus is smiling. He looks tired, like someone is blowing air into his eyes, making him blink.
“Why are you smiling?” I ask guardedly.
“I’m pleased to see you.”
I make a scoffing sound and study his face but cannot find a lie.
“I told you I’d come back. How have you been?”
I shrug.
Cyrus picks up a chocolate finger biscuit and nibbles one end.
“That’s not how you should eat them,” I say.
He looks at the biscuit.
“You have to bite off both ends. Then you can use it like a straw.”
“In my tea?”
“Exactly.”
Cyrus bends his head and sucks tea through the biscuit.
“Eat it before it gets too soggy,” I say.
He stuffs the biscuit into his mouth and chews, showing his chocolate-stained teeth. “That’s really good.”
“I don’t think you should try it at the Ritz.”
“Have you ever been to the Ritz?”
“Oh, all the time,” I say, putting on my posh voice. “I do so love their high tea—the scones and clotted cream and strawberry jam. Although, one doesn’t understand the point of cucumber sandwiches. They taste of nothing, don’t you think?”
“Do you lie a lot, Evie?”
“What do you consider a lot?”
“Enough for people to think you’re a liar.”
“I’ve been called worse.” I feel my jaw tighten. I don’t want Cyrus to be like the others. “So sometimes I lie, is that so weird? You’d lie as well if you were stuck in here. You’d make up stories. Amuse yourself.”
“What do you lie about?”
“Random stuff. I don’t even know why I do it half the time. It’s automatic—like sneezing. Sometimes I hear myself say something and I think, that’s not even remotely true—not even fucking close—but I still keep going. The other day, I told this new girl that my father is a treasure hunter looking for a Spanish galleon that sank in the Bermuda Triangle. I told Cordelia that I won a scholarship to a cheerleading school in California but had to turn it down because I’m on a no-fly list as a suspected terrorist. Stupid cow believed me.”
Cyrus laughs. He has a nice smile. It makes his eyes go crinkly at the sides.
“You want to play cards?” I ask, taking a deck from the pocket of my hoodie.
“OK.”
“Poker. Texas Hold’em. Is that all right?”
I divide, bridge, and flip the deck, overlapping the edges and sliding the cards together. I do it twice more before racking the deck loudly against the table. With a flick of my fingers, I deal, sending cards spinning across the Formica.
I peel up the corners and check the hole cards. Cyrus takes longer. He doesn’t play cards very often. I can tell from how he arranges them in his hand.
“What are we going to bet?” I ask.
“I don’t think we should gamble.”
“It’s poker. We have to bet.”
“Not money.”
“How about we gamble for questions?”
Cyrus agrees but looks at me suspiciously.
“This is called the flop,” I explain, putting three cards faceup on the table. “You want to bet?”
“Yes. I’ll bet one question.”
“I’ll match you.”
I deal another card and we go through the process again. Eventually, there are four questions on the table. I have two pair—aces and sevens, to his two kings.
I rub my hands together. “Right, let’s get started. Do you have any family?”
“A brother,” he replies.
“What about your parents?”
“They’re dead.”
“How did they die?”
“They were murdered.”
I look for the telltale signs that he’s lying but see nothing except sadness and regret.
“How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Who killed them?”
“You’ve had your four questions.”
Annoyed, I deal another hand. Win again.
“Who killed them?”
“My brother.”
I take a moment to digest the news. I wonder if I’m missing the lie but can see only the truth. I want to know the details. At the same time, I wish I could take my questions back and give Cyrus some privacy.
“I don’t want to play this game anymore,” I say, pushing my chair away from the table.
“But I didn’t get to ask a question.”
“You were never going to beat me.”
“Are you that good?”
“Yes.”
Inwardly, I curse my bravado. What have I got to boast about?
“You can ask me one thing,” I say softly. “But not my name or where I came from or anything about Terry.”
“What will you do if you get out of here?”
It’s always the same question, I think. “What do you want to be when you grow up, little girl?” It’s as if jobs come on racks like clothes, hanging up before you: butcher, baker, tinker, tailor, waitress, receptionist. Pick one. Try it on for size.
“I want to start my life,” I say. “I’ve spent six years in places like this. It’s my turn.”
“Your turn for what?”
“To be normal.”
13
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Looking at Evie now, it is difficult to picture the girl they discovered in a secret room six years ago. The child who came out at night and hid during the day; who stole food from neighboring houses, drank from garden hoses, and kept two Alsatians alive; who quite possibly heard a man being tortured to death and later watched his body putrefying.
Clearly intelligent, despite her lack of formal education. Every escape and failed fostering attempt had set Evie back academically, but she hadn’t fallen too far behind her peers. Dyslexia makes reading difficult, but she has good language and numeracy skills.
I spent last night going over her earliest interviews with social workers and counselors. They were searching for clues about her background, but Evie revealed almost nothing. She asked for food when she was hungry and water when she was thirsty. She didn’t start conversations or answer questions with more than a yes or no. Linguists and dialect experts were brought in to study her speech patterns and accent. One said that Evie had spent time in Scotland. Another detected possible eastern European traces in her voice, in particular how she made “rainbow” sound like “ranbow” and mixed up her tenses.
I don’t recognize any trace of an accent. Instead, I see a teenager with heightened defenses who trusts nobody. Right now she’s slouching in a chair, rolling her tongue, looking bored. Disengaged.
“Why do you wear so much makeup?” I ask.
“I hate my freckles. They make my face look dirty.”
“Your freckles are the best part.”
Evie looks at me with a mixture of hostility and disgust. She doesn’t like being complimented. Praise is for other people.
“You didn’t answer my question—what will you do?”
“I’ll get a job.”
“Doing what? Don’t say you’ll play poker.”
“There are professional poker players.”
“They have funds. A stake. Where will you live?”
“I’ll rent somewhere.”
“Do you know how much it costs to rent a flat? What about for electricity, gas, phone bills, the TV license fee?”
“I’ll get a room in a share house.”
“You don’t like people, Evie. You don’t trust them.”
She gives me a pitying stare. “Guthrie said you wanted to help me. Another fucking
lie. You’re like all the others.”
“No, Evie, but even if you had savings and a job and a place to stay, a judge might still not let you go. He’s going to ask for a mental health assessment, which means getting evidence from social workers, doctors, therapists . . .”
“Fuck them,” spits Evie. “I’m not a freak.”
“Nobody thinks that.”
“Yes, they do.”
Before I can respond, a clanging bell rattles the air, reverberating from speakers in different parts of the building.
“Lockdown,” says Evie. She’s on her feet. “I have to go back to my—”
Her words are cut short by a scream from the corridor. A woman stumbles through the door, holding her stomach. The front of her dress is changing color, growing darker towards her thighs and knees.
“He stabbed me,” she says disbelievingly. “Where did he get a knife?”
I pull her farther into the room. People are running. Two male orderlies flash past the open doorway and then retreat, just as quickly. “Knife!” yells one of them. “Stay back!”
A moment later a teenage boy appears, wild-eyed and wired, edging backwards into the room. He looks over his shoulder and spins around, pointing a knife at me. I raise my hands and retreat. He pushes the table across the doorway, barricading the entrance. Our escape.
I make the wounded woman sit down, telling her to stay calm.
“What’s your name?”
“Roberta.”
“You must keep still and keep pressure on the wound.” I show her how to make a fist and push it hard into her stomach.
“How are things, Brodie?” asks Evie, making it sound like they’re discussing the weather. The boy blinks at her, his thin face bubbling with acne and switching between rage and misery.
“The bitch! The fucking bitch!”
“What did she do?” asks Evie.
“Took my magazines.”
“Your porn?”
“It weren’t all p-p-porn,” stammers Brodie, wiping the back of his mouth. “This is f-f-fucked. This whole p-p-place.” His face folds like an accordion, grimacing and twitching.
“She needs a doctor,” I say, still crouched next to Roberta.
“I hope she d-d-dies,” says Brodie, carving at the air with the knife. The alarm is still clanging, almost drowning out his words.
Evie has moved closer. I tell her to stop.
“You want some of this?” says Brodie, swishing the blade at her face.
“You’re not going to stab me,” she responds, opening her arms as if saying, “Here I am.”
“Maybe I’ll f-f-fuck you first.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re an uppity b-b-bitch who thinks your shit don’t stink.”
“You barely know me.”
Davina and two male orderlies are standing in the doorway, watching in horrified silence. Evie has stepped closer. Her voice is calm, and nothing about her seems tense or uncertain.
“Please, stay back,” I tell her.
She ignores me and moves into range.
“Do you really hate me, Brodie? I don’t hate you. We’re all victims in here. Prisoners. Pawns. You say I never talk to you—I’m talking now. What do you want to say?”
“It d-d-doesn’t work like that.”
“What doesn’t?”
Brodie tries to speak, but the statement gets lost in his stuttering. He swallows and curses himself.
“How does it work?” asks Evie, who is standing next to him now. She takes Brodie’s wrist and pulls the knife towards her chest, pointing it at her heart. “This is the best place. One push and I’ll be dead.”
Brodie tries to pull the blade away. Evie holds it steady. She leans her head forward until her forehead touches his and they’re staring into each other’s eyes.
“If you do it quickly, I won’t feel a thing,” she whispers. “You’ll be doing me a favor.”
“I don’t hate you that much.”
“You called me an uppity bitch.”
“You d-d-don’t talk to people.”
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
Davina is pleading with Evie to step back, but nobody dares to move because the knife is so close to her heart. Brodie looks confused. Lost. He tries to pull away again. Evie groans, and I can’t tell if the knife has entered her chest.
“D-d-d-don’t—” Brodie stammers, but doesn’t get to finish the statement before Evie rams her forehead into his face. The crack of bone and spray of blood tell me she’s broken his nose. Brodie teeters back, uttering a curse, holding his face. The knife clatters to the floor.
Two male orderlies vault over the table and wrestle Brodie to the ground. Evie touches her forehead, as though concerned she might have a bruise. Then she bends and picks up the knife.
“Give it to me,” says Davina.
Evie caresses the blade almost lovingly before spinning it across her palm so the handle is facing Davina.
Moments later the paramedics arrive, calling out numbers and driving needles into Roberta’s veins, giving her fluids before strapping her to a stretcher and wheeling her through the reception area to a waiting ambulance.
I escort Evie back to her room, where she checks herself in the mirror, making sure that her makeup hasn’t smudged.
“Do you have a death wish?” I ask after a silence.
“He was never going to stab me.”
“How do you know?”
She sighs and shrugs wearily. “I could tell.”
14
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Lenny Parvel’s secretary, Antonia, is a plump, playful woman with cat-eye spectacles and wrists that jangle with multiple metal bracelets. Her desk is wedged between three filing cabinets that look like grey standing stones.
“Milk no sugar,” she says, bringing me a cup of tea. “Digestive or Hobnob?”
“Not for me.”
“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet. There’s nothing of you. Women like a little meat on the bone.” She winks at me wickedly and takes a biscuit.
I notice flat-packed boxes leaning against a wall.
“Are you moving?” I ask.
“Haven’t you heard? DCI Parvel is being transferred.”
“To where?”
“Uniformed operations.”
“She’s an investigator.”
“I don’t think she was given a choice.”
My surprise borders on shock. “Why?”
Antonia gives me an exaggerated shrug. “Nobody tells me anything.” Then she leans closer and whispers the name Heller-Smith.
Timothy Heller-Smith is the rising star of the Nottinghamshire Police, a future chief constable if the pundits are to be believed, as well as the conga line of hangers-on. Heller-Smith has overseen intelligence and operations for the past five years, claiming credit for a string of major drug busts and the arrest of a gang of British-born Islamists who had returned after fighting with ISIS in Syria.
There’s no way Lenny would have asked for a transfer. Ever since I’ve known her, she’s worked towards becoming a detective.
“If you ask me, Heller-Smith wants her out of the way,” whispers Antonia, brushing biscuit crumbs from the shelf of her bust.
“Why? Lenny isn’t a threat.”
“A lot of people are suggesting that the next chief constable should be a woman.” She taps her nose as if she’s giving me the name of a sure thing running in first race at Doncaster.
The office door swings open and Lenny emerges, shrugging on her overcoat. “There’s a car downstairs.”
“Where are we going?”
“Jodie Sheehan had a school locker.”
Lenny picks up keys at the front desk and we take a side door into the parking area. She presses the fob and waits for the telltale blink of lights to show her to the car.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
“About what?”
“Uniformed operations
.”
“We’re not married, Cyrus.”
“You love this job,” I say.
“We’re not talking about it.”
“Isn’t there something you can do?”
“Yeah. I can tell people to mind their own business.”
Lenny eases out of the car park and we head southwest along Rectory Road until we reach the West Bridgford Baptist Church and turn right towards the River Trent. It’s ten minutes before she speaks again.
“I’m thinking of retiring. I can take it next year and get a full pension.”
“And do what?”
“What do other people do? They travel, read books, binge-watch TV . . .”
“They die young.”
“Not all of them.”
There is another long pause before her shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. “There are some right bastards loose on this earth, Cyrus. And some of them are supposed to be on the side of the angels.”
* * *
Forsyth Academy takes up a corner of the Clifton Playing Fields less than five hundred yards from where Jodie’s body was found. Knocked down, rebuilt, and renamed eight years ago, it looks more like a germ warfare laboratory than a secondary school.
Lenny pulls up in front of a green electric barrier and presses the intercom, announcing herself to the office. The gate slides open and we drive past all-weather sports fields where boys in black trousers and untucked white shirts are playing football. Meanwhile, the girls are sitting on benches in the weak sunshine or clustered around tables in the quadrangle.
A young student comes to escort us, her blond ponytail swinging as she walks. A piece of colorful braided rope is tied around her wrist.
“Some of the girls are making them,” she explains. “They’re in memory of Jodie. Would you like one? They’re free.”
She reaches into her pocket and produces four similar-looking bracelets of different colors. I choose one. Mr. Graham appears, the executive head teacher.
“Thank you, Cassie,” he says, nodding to the girl. “That bracelet isn’t part of the official uniform.”
He notices me tying one around my wrist and lets the subject drop.
Good Girl, Bad Girl Page 8
