The kitchen table is covered in boxes of cereal and bowls of soggy flakes.
“We slept in this morning,” she explains, pointing to a chair. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“Thank you.”
She fills the kettle. I notice an array of postcards magnetized to the fridge with plastic fruit; images from New Orleans, Sydney, Mexico City, and Berlin.
“Have you been to all these places?”
“Heavens no.” She laughs. “They’re from my pen friends. I’ve been writing to some of them since I was eleven. My primary school started a program. We were twinned with schools around the world.” She is clearing the table as she talks. “One day, when I win the National Lottery, I’m going to visit them all—take a world tour. I know it’s a silly dream.”
“It’s not silly.”
Through the door, in the sitting room, I notice a gangly-looking youth with an electric guitar on his lap. He’s wearing headphones and his fingers are flicking up and down a fretboard, making music that only he can hear.
A girl is lying with her head next to his thigh, peering at her phone.
“My eldest, Aiden,” says Felicity, smiling. “I think the girl is Sophie, but I could be wrong. She’s here to comfort him. My children have become more popular since Jodie’s death.” She gives me a guilty look. “That’s probably a terrible thing to say.”
Aiden dips the guitar and drives to a head-rocking crescendo.
“Is he in a band?” I ask.
“God forbid! No!” She laughs. “He’s reading law at Cambridge next year. He won the Charter Scholarship. Fully funded.”
“That’s brilliant.”
“Isn’t it though. We’re so proud of him.”
She’s opening cupboards, searching for something. Finally she retrieves a packet of biscuits that is tucked behind cake tins and Tupperware boxes, hidden from her children.
“It isn’t easy getting out of this place. A lot of Aiden’s friends have gone straight from school onto the dole or are at risk of getting trapped in dead-end jobs at call centers or franchise stores. They’ll get some girl pregnant or marry too young out of boredom, or go into the family business, having promised themselves they never would. Not my Aiden. He’s going to be a lawyer in a big London firm with a house in Hampstead and a villa in Italy.”
“Sounds like you have it all planned out.”
Felicity laughs and her earrings sway.
“Where did you meet Bryan?” I ask.
“On the ice. I fell over. He picked me up. Cheesy, I know. It was my nineteenth birthday. I was with a group of girlfriends, but I forgot about them completely as Bryan held me around the waist and we skated. He made me feel like we could be Torvill and Dean.”
“Did he ever compete?”
“For a while but he didn’t have the support to make it to the top. Instead he turned to coaching. He taught Jodie how to skate. She took to it like a . . .” She looks for the right phrase. “Do penguins skate?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, she was a natural.”
Felicity opens the biscuits and arranges them on a plate. “People think figure skating is graceful and gentle, but you have to be hard as nails to survive. The injuries. The falls. Jodie could be a proper little madam when she lost a competition, blaming everyone but herself—the judges . . . Bryan . . . her mum.”
She jiggles teabags in two mugs.
“My sister-in-law is a complete saint. I can’t remember the last time she bought a new dress or had a holiday or got her hair done, but Jodie always had a new costume. Her skates cost a thousand quid a pair and she needed new ones every year. And don’t forget the ballet lessons, gymnastics, physio, and choreography. Bryan was coaching her for free, but it still cost a fortune.”
Felicity tucks hair behind her ear. It falls across her cheek immediately.
Aiden yells from the living room. “Hey, Mum, get us a Red Bull.”
“Get it yourself—I have company.”
Aiden mutters sullenly and appears in the kitchen. It’s the first time I’ve seen him up close. He has an almost genderless face, full of straight lines and sharp angles, except for large eyes and long dark lashes that brush his cheeks when he blinks. It gives him a strangely androgynous beauty.
“This is Cyrus Haven,” says Felicity. “He works with the police.”
“Are you a detective?”
“A psychologist.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says, without offering to shake my hand. Instead he takes a can of Red Bull from the fridge and goes back to the sofa and his guitar. The girl dangles her legs across his lap. Aiden pushes her feet away. She tries to nuzzle his neck, but he’s not interested. Eventually she picks up her phone and curls up on the opposite end of the sofa, looking bored.
Felicity settles again, curling her fingers around the mug and blowing gently across the top. “I thought Jodie would be fine, you know. She was going to make something of her life. She’d skate to Olympic glory, become famous and cash in.”
“Is there money in skating?”
“Oh yes. She could have become a TV presenter or done Disney On Ice shows in Las Vegas or gone on Dancing with the Stars. If I’d been given even a tenth of her talent . . .”
She doesn’t finish the statement, but I catch the hint of regret in her voice.
“What was your ambition?” I ask.
She smiles wistfully. “I’m not the ambitious type. I did once think of applying to British Airways to become a flight attendant, but then I met Bryan. We both wanted kids, but it proved harder than we hoped.”
“In what way?”
“I struggled to get pregnant. We used up all our savings on IVF. Maggie had Felix by then and I felt like such a failure. I didn’t have a career and I couldn’t have a baby.”
“What happened?”
She glances towards the sitting room. “Aiden came along like a gift from God. I was so relieved. Sometimes at parties when women ask me what I do, I feel guilty about being a stay-at-home mom and not having had a career. But I’m good at this. It’s all I ever wanted. It’s enough.”
The fridge rattles to life, as though punctuating the statement.
“I was hoping to ask you about Jodie,” I say.
“I thought the police had arrested someone.”
“They still have to prepare a case.”
Felicity nods.
“You watched her grow up,” I say.
“I was like her second mum.”
“What was she like?”
“Precious.”
I struggle with terms like “precious” or “treasure” or “princess,” because they tell me nothing. I need more. Was she flirtatious, brash, self-assured, or was she quiet, withdrawn, or self-conscious?
“She was very good to our Tasmin,” says Felicity.
“In what way?”
“Teenage girls can be very cruel. Tasmin has been bullied since she was in primary school. Don’t ask me why. I know she’s not the prettiest girl and she isn’t sporty or coordinated—her dance teachers used to hide her in the back row whenever they did recitals—but my girl has a good heart.”
Her voice has grown thick and she looks at her tea as though she’s forgotten whether she’s sugared it or not.
“Jodie stood up to the bullies. She made sure Tasmin was included.”
“Can I talk to Tasmin?”
Felicity glances at the ceiling. “She’s upstairs now. Some girls from school dropped round. They brought flowers.” I notice a ragged bunch of carnations in a vase. “It’s ironic really.”
“What is?”
“The same girls who used to exclude Tasmin now want to be her best friend. I’m not stupid. I know they’re up there now, pumping her for details, wanting to be involved.”
As if summoned by a bell, I hear running above my head and jostling on the stairs. Three teenage girls appear.
“We’re hungry,” says Tasmin, reaching for the biscuits. Felicity
slaps her hand away. “They’re for guests.”
“I got guests.”
“I could toast some crumpets.”
Tasmin looks at her friends hopefully, but the signals aren’t good.
Felicity points to a fruit bowl. “We have apples and a sad-looking banana.”
“It’s brown,” says Tasmin.
“It tastes the same.”
The taller of her friends is wearing a clingy top and a short denim skirt. Loitering in the doorway, she’s trying to catch Aiden’s attention, but he doesn’t look up.
“Hi, Aiden,” she says finally.
“Hi, Brianna,” he replies, glancing at her briefly before going back to his guitar.
The girl on the sofa glares at Brianna in response.
“This is Dr. Haven,” says Felicity. “He’s working with the police. He wants to ask you some questions about Jodie.”
Brianna immediately forgets Aiden and focuses on me.
“Are you a detective?”
“I work as a consultant.”
“I’m Olive,” says the other girl, not wanting to be left out. She has doll-like eyes and blond hair that curls in ringlets to her shoulders. They’re both prettier than Tasmin and she’s self-conscious around them.
“Did Jodie have lots of friends, or just a few close ones?” I ask.
“We were her best friends,” replies Brianna, who is clearly the queen bee.
“Was she a leader or a follower?” I ask.
The girls look perplexed. I haven’t framed the question well. I try again. “When the latest must-have fashion came out, who would get it first?”
“Me,” says Brianna.
“OK. And if someone dared you to do something crazy, who’s most likely to take up the dare?”
“Jodie,” says Tasmin, speaking for the first time.
“And if you were deciding what to do on the weekend, who came up with the ideas?”
“Jodie,” she says again.
“What sort of things did she like to do?”
“She was a really good figure skater,” says Olive, wanting to add something.
“Duh! Everybody knows that,” says Brianna.
“What else?”
“She liked dancing,” says Olive, looking hurt.
“Yes, dancing,” says Brianna. “She took classes, didn’t she?” They look at Tasmin, who nods.
“What kind of foods did she like?” I ask.
“Pizza and chocolate brownies and fruit smoothies,” says Brianna, clearly making things up.
“She wasn’t allowed to eat pizza,” says Felicity. “Maggie kept her on a strict diet.”
“She ate pizza sometimes,” counters Tasmin. “When Aunt Maggie wasn’t around.”
“What else did she do in secret?” I ask.
They glance at each other, less sure of the conversation.
“Did she have a boyfriend?”
“Toby Leith,” replies Brianna. “He’s in year twelve.”
Tasmin shakes her head. “Jodie thinks he’s an F-boy.”
“A what?” Felicity asks.
Tasmin blushes and looks at the floor.
“A guy who only wants one thing,” explains Brianna, nudging Olive.
“Were Jodie and Toby seeing each other?”
“They used to hook up.”
“It was one time,” protests Tasmin.
“It was more than once . . . first at Shelley Pollard’s party, then at the Goose Fair.”
“And at the movies,” adds Olive. “That day we saw Infinity War.”
“Was Toby at the fireworks?” I ask.
All the girls nod.
“Did Jodie talk to him?”
Tasmin hesitates. “Toby was teasing her. He snatched her tote bag and wouldn’t give it back.”
“What did Jodie do?”
“She slapped him in the face, but he just laughed. That’s when Father Patrick showed up.”
“Father Patrick?”
“Our parish priest,” explains Felicity.
“He made Toby give the bag back,” says Tasmin.
“Did Jodie talk to anyone else?”
“Loads of people. They were coming up to her all night.”
“Why?”
Tasmin shrugs.
Brianna grins at Olive and I sense an in-joke.
I focus on Tasmin. “Why did Jodie leave the fireworks?”
“Someone sent her a text and she said she had to go.”
“You told the police that Jodie went to get fish and chips.”
“That’s what she told me.”
“Did you know that Jodie was carrying a second phone?”
Tasmin doesn’t answer.
“Could she have arranged to meet someone?”
“I guess.”
“A new boyfriend?”
Tasmin looks at her mother with a hurt helplessness in her eyes. “I put some pajamas on her pillow. I thought she’d come back to ours, but she didn’t.” Her bottom lip trembles.
“When you woke and saw the bed was empty, what did you think?”
Tasmin is about to say something but Felicity interrupts. “We assumed she’d gone home.”
“Is that what you thought?” I ask Tasmin.
She nods.
“Did you look for her?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you go?”
Her mouth opens and closes. She swallows. She looks at her hands. “I went to Toby’s house. I thought Jodie might have gone there . . .”
“But you said she didn’t like him.”
“She sort of didn’t, but I knew she still did, you know.”
“Did you see Toby?”
She shrugs and mumbles. “He was with someone else.”
“Fuckboy,” whispers Brianna under her breath.
“Where would I find Toby Leith?” I ask.
“At the skate park. He’s there all the time,” says Brianna.
Olive raises her hand as though we’re in a classroom. “Did someone rape Jodie? Is that why . . . ?” She doesn’t finish.
“What makes you ask?”
She shakes her head, losing confidence.
Felicity visibly stiffens. “I’m not sure the girls need to know the details.”
“The police also found condoms in Jodie’s school locker,” I say.
“I knew it!” says Brianna, grinning wickedly. “You don’t get a guy like Toby unless you’re putting out.”
“Please don’t talk about Jodie like that,” says Felicity.
“I’m only telling the truth,” whines Brianna.
“I think you girls should leave.”
“Nooo,” complains Tasmin.
“It’s time the girls went home.”
Brianna tosses her hair. “Come on, Olive. This place gives me the creeps.” They’re in the hallway, but Brianna can’t resist a parting shot, this one directed at me. “People keep making Jodie out to be some sort of Disney princess, all pure and innocent. You should talk to her brother.”
“Why?”
Another laugh; another toss of her hair; and I feel like I’m fourteen again with braces on my teeth and a pimpled face that betrayed every humiliation like a Magic 8 Ball.
31
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
The girls have gone by the time I get outside. I wonder how much of their provocative posturing and the sly nudges were designed to shock me. When I was their age, I found girls intimidating because they seemed to be so much more self-aware and confident, capable of destroying me with a single shrug or curl of a top lip or toss of their hair.
One girl in particular, Karen Heinz, terrorized me more than the rest. Most of my schoolmates felt sorry for me after what had happened to my family, but Karen took it upon herself to belittle and humiliate me at every opportunity, as though she resented my tragic fame. I wish I could put it down to hormones or a shitty home life or a period that lasted until A Levels, but Karen was simply a bitch and
I hate the fact that I still hate her.
Retracing my steps to Silverdale Walk, I pass the footbridge and turn left at the fork, crossing the meadow and the tram tracks, before emerging at the edge of Forsyth Academy. The asphalt path is crumbling in places and partially covered in fallen leaves.
Ten minutes later, I reach Clifton—a slightly more upmarket area with neater gardens, newer cars, and fewer abandoned supermarket trolleys. Keeping the school grounds to my left, I follow Farnborough Road until I reach a sign for Clifton Skatepark. A dozen teenagers are riding the concrete ramps, curved walls, and jumps. I catch a whiff of something herbal in the air. One of them looks at me petulantly as he drags on a soggy spliff. Like the others, he’s wearing an unofficial “uniform”: baggy jeans, a sweatshirt, and a baseball cap.
I approach the nearest group. One girl. Four boys.
“I’m looking for Toby Leith.”
“And who are you?” asks the girl, trying to show her street cred by taking the lead.
A boy makes an oinking sound. The others laugh, but one glances over his shoulder and I know that Toby Leith must be nearby. A second group is racing BMX bikes on a series of parallel tracks that rise and fall over concrete jumps.
“Which one is he?” I ask.
The girl whistles. Decks are kicked into fists and bikes are propped on one foot. I pick out Toby because he’s helmet-less and hatless and cockier than the rest. Ignoring the signal, he rises on his pedals and drops almost vertically down a ramp, accelerating along the flat bottom and getting airborne as he takes each jump. When he reaches the far end, he rockets up a steep incline and spins in midair before landing with both wheels on the top of the ramp, fifty yards away.
“Can we talk?” I yell.
“You a reporter?”
“I’m a psychologist.”
“I don’t need a shrink.”
“I work with the police.”
“I already talked to the cops.”
“Then you know all the answers.” I look over the edge at the vertical drop. “It’s easier if you come to me.”
“I can hear you from here.”
“I hear Jodie was your girlfriend.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Your ex then.”
Good Girl, Bad Girl Page 17
