34
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
“Did you go out today?” Cyrus asks.
I nod and watch him unpacking the Chinese takeaway, setting out the cardboard cartons and plastic trays.
“Where did you go?”
“To the shops.”
“What did you buy?”
“Nothing.”
I’m wrestling with the chopsticks, unable to make my fingers wrap around them. A spring roll drops in the dipping sauce, making a mess.
“Would you like a fork?” he asks.
“No!” I snap, hating that I can’t do something when he makes it look so easy.
“Did you catch the number 22 bus?” he asks.
“Something like that.”
Instantly I realize my mistake. There won’t be no number 22 bus. He’s caught me lying again, which means follow-up questions or accusations. Instead he acts like nothing is wrong.
“You should try the dumplings.”
I sniff at the container. “What’s in them?”
“They’re vegetarian.”
“How do you know it’s not dog? They eat dogs in China—and pandas.”
“I don’t think they eat pandas.”
I spear a dumpling with a chopstick and chew one corner before emptying the rest of the carton into my bowl.
Cyrus has poured himself a glass of wine.
“Can I have one?”
“You’re not eighteen.”
“Are we really still arguing about that?”
“I have it on the authority of a High Court judge.”
I take the last spring roll. Cyrus pours me half a glass of wine. I sip it tentatively—not liking the taste, but I don’t want him to know that.
“What did you do today?” I ask, not really interested.
“I interviewed some people.”
“About the Jodie Sheehan murder.”
“How did you know that?”
“You shouldn’t leave your shit lying around the house.”
“What shit?”
I shrug.
Cyrus suddenly realizes what he left in the library—the police interviews with Craig Farley.
“Did you find the DVDs?” he asks.
I admit to nothing. My silence says enough.
“Christ, Evie! That’s highly confidential material. It’s the basis of court proceedings. Evidence in a criminal trial.”
“Who am I going to tell?”
“That’s not the point.”
“You didn’t tell me the library was off-limits.”
“It should have been obvious.”
“Not to me,” I say. “I need the rules written down and posted on the wall. Staff only. Lights-out. Mealtimes. Chores. Lessons.”
Cyrus mutters something about putting a lock on the door, but I ignore him, spearing another dumpling with a single chopstick.
We eat in silence for a while.
“So, did he do it?” I ask.
“What do you think?”
I consider this for a moment. “By the end, I think he would have confessed to bombing Pearl Harbor.”
“OK, but was he telling the truth?”
“I don’t know.”
Cyrus looks perplexed and starts again. “I thought maybe because of your . . . ability . . . you might have been able to tell. I don’t know how it works—this thing you do, whether it comes and goes, or if it’s triggered by something.”
I hesitate, not sure of what I want to say or if I want to say anything at all. I can’t explain what I see. It is something in the face: a false note, a flicker, an invisible light . . .
“I have to be up close,” I whisper.
“Pardon?”
“For me to tell if someone is lying—I have to be close to them—in the same room, looking at their face. I can’t do it otherwise.”
“So not from a DVD?”
“Not unless it’s up close. Not accurately. I get a sense, that’s all.”
“What was your sense about Farley?”
“He knows what he did was wrong, but I’m not sure if what he did is what you think he did.”
Cyrus has stopped eating and is leaning forward. Why is he looking at me like that?
He seems to recognize my anxiety and pulls back, dropping the subject.
I clear the table and start washing the dishes, remembering to rinse the glasses in clean water to stop them streaking.
Cyrus picks up a tea towel. “I know you hate questions, but can I ask you one?”
I don’t respond.
“How long have you had this . . . this . . . ?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Was it before you became Evie Cormac?”
I nod.
“I know why it frightens you,” he says. “It would frighten me.”
“I thought you’d like to know if someone was lying. It would make your job easier.”
“I wouldn’t have a job at all.”
35
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Early morning. Lenny Parvel sends me a pager message. She wants to talk. I go to the library and open my laptop, waiting for her Skype call. Her image appears but only the top of her head. She curses and tilts the screen down, but it goes too far. I can see chin and the collar of her dressing gown. She adjusts it again, centering herself. Her husband, Nick, is in the background, making a cup of coffee. He’s wearing a T-shirt and boxers, showing off his hairy thighs. Nick is the hairiest man I’ve ever met, which is why Lenny calls him “Bear.”
“Hi, Cyrus,” he says, waving at the screen.
“Hi, Nick.”
“Will you put some clothes on,” says Lenny, covering the camera with her hand. I can hear them arguing, although not seriously. Nick sells medical equipment to doctors and clinics, but his hours are flexible. His two boys are at university or have graduated by now. They’re good lads. A credit.
Lenny removes her hand from the camera.
“I had a call from Ness last night. The toxicology results are in. Jodie Sheehan had no drugs or alcohol in her system.”
I sense there’s something more.
“Ness noticed that Jodie’s hormone levels were high and ran a test. She was pregnant—eleven weeks. Ness might be able to get DNA from the fetal material, but the lab work has to be done in America and could take a week or longer. Any fetal DNA will have half the father’s genes, which may be enough to identify someone.”
“Would Jodie have known she was pregnant?” I ask.
“Most girls are pretty good at keeping track—particularly in the age of smart phones.”
I pause, processing the information. It could have no bearing on Jodie’s murder. Then again, the degraded semen found on her thigh has added significance because it didn’t belong to Farley. It’s now more likely that Jodie had consensual sex earlier in the evening—with a boyfriend or a hookup. Five hours are still missing from her timeline.
I want to ask Lenny what she’s thinking, but there’s too much evidence against Farley for her to change her mind. And there’s now even less likelihood of an accomplice.
This isn’t about police ignoring new evidence. They are shoring up their case, ensuring the inconsistencies won’t jeopardize the prosecution. Lenny is thorough and diligent. More importantly, she’s honest. She doesn’t plant evidence or frame suspects, but neither does she chase rabbits down rabbit holes, wasting time and resources.
* * *
Knocking pipes signal that Evie is in the shower. She comes downstairs with her hair in a towel and her face set in a scowl.
“There’s no hot water?”
“Sorry. The pilot light went out. It’s a storage system—so it might take a while for the boiler to heat up.”
She utters a curse under her breath and notices that I’m dressed.
“Where are you going?”
“I have some people to see.”
“Can I come?�
��
“No.”
“I won’t get in the way. I’ll wait in the car or downstairs or wherever . . .”
Evie looks at me hopefully. She doesn’t want to spend another day on her own. Loneliness is not something I associate with Evie because she lives so completely in her head and makes no attempt to befriend people or socialize. Even so, I don’t want her spending another day in a creepy old house, going through my things. She should be outside, reintroducing herself to the world, broadening her horizons.
“Can you be ready in fifteen minutes?” I ask.
“I can be ready in five.”
* * *
Evie comes downstairs dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, a skivvy, and a denim shirt that she’s wearing like a jacket. I have a shirt like that, I think, although I don’t wear it often.
I have to sweep fallen leaves off the windscreen of my red Fiat, which has faded to a mottled pink. Pigeons have crapped all over the bonnet and someone has stuck a flyer beneath the wiper blades, advertising a clearance sale at a carpet showroom. Twice I’ve had towing notices from the local council because neighbors mistook my car for an abandoned vehicle.
“Nice,” says Evie, being facetious.
The engine doesn’t start the first time. I encourage it under my breath. It splutters and coughs like a consumptive smoker before idling so roughly we sway from side to side. I give it a moment to warm up.
“Can you teach me to drive?” asks Evie.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“The bus stop is two minutes from the house.”
“It will make me more independent.”
“You don’t have a car.”
“I could borrow this one.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
She folds her arms and looks out the window as we head along Derby Road past Wollaton Park. It’s early on a Sunday morning and the traffic is light.
“How did Jodie Sheehan die?” asks Evie.
“I can’t talk about the case.”
“Is it a state secret?”
“No.”
“Well then?”
I don’t respond.
“I’ve watched the interviews,” she says. “I know she was hit from behind.”
“You have to stop going through my stuff.”
Evie doesn’t reply. Instead she props her cowboy boots on the dashboard, above the glove compartment. We’re heading along Abbey Street, past the Priory Church, and onto Castle Boulevard, passing south of the city center.
“Does the CD player work?”
“No.”
“What about the radio?”
“I have to hit the right pothole.”
She sighs in disgust.
“The postmortem wasn’t definitive,” I say, answering her first question. “The pathologist couldn’t decide if she drowned or died of exposure.”
“Farley said he didn’t rape her,” says Evie, “but even if he whacked off into her hair it was a pretty sick act. A guy like that deserves to be locked up, you know, but I guess that doesn’t prove he killed her.”
“An innocent man would have tried to help her.”
“Sometimes we don’t have a choice.”
The statement rattles something inside me and I picture Terry Boland strapped to a chair having acid poured into his ears, while Evie listened to his screams.
I find a metered parking spot in the entertainment quarter of Nottingham and tell Evie to wait in the car.
“It’s cold. Can’t I come with you?”
“OK. But stay out of trouble.”
She joins me on the footpath, pulling up her collar and pocketing her hands. As we reach the corner, two young backpackers cross our path—a girl and a boy in their early twenties, who are talking excitedly in a different language. The girl laughs and calls the boy something. Evie stops and turns. For a moment I think she’s going to respond, but instead she watches the couple walk away.
“What made you turn around?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Was it something she said?”
“No.”
“She sounded Russian or Polish. Did you understand her?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“She looked familiar,” says Evie, and I don’t know whether to believe her or not. That’s the trouble with Evie. I risk reading clues into everything she does. Actions. Inactions. Silences. Shrugs.
We’re crossing Bolero Square to the National Ice Centre, a twin stadium building made of metal and glass. Pushing through the revolving doors, we step into a cavernous foyer dominated by a forty-foot-high poster montage celebrating British skating champions past and present.
A woman at the front desk looks up at Evie.
“Are you here for the academy trials?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer.
“Fill out this form. The changing rooms are through there. Don’t put your skates on until you’re on the ice.”
“She’s not a skater,” I explain. “I’m here to see Bryan Whitaker.”
“He’s coaching.”
“I can wait.”
Evie and I follow signs to an amphitheater the size of a concert hall with tiered seating on all sides, rising into darkness at the higher levels. The rink itself seems to glow from within, taking on a bluish tinge. A dozen skaters are warming up, gliding across the ice in graceful movements that look so effortless that a mere flick of their fingers sends them pirouetting or skating backwards. One of them accelerates, leaps, and spins, landing on a single blade, arms outstretched and back arched.
Most are dressed in tight black leggings and fitted tops. Training wear. I recognize Bryan Whitaker. He’s wearing an official-looking tracksuit and yelling instructions to a couple of the girls, who look to be thirteen or fourteen. Other coaches are working with their own students.
Whitaker claps his hands, signaling the girls to the side of the rink. He issues instructions. One of them shakes her head. He puts his hand on the back of her neck, pulling her face to his, touching foreheads, whispering, his eyes bright, a gold bracelet winking on his wrist.
The girl nods and skates away, pulling up at the far end of the rink. After taking a few deep breaths she sets off, swinging her arms as she builds up speed. She switches direction, skating backwards, and then switches again, leaping off one foot and spinning twice through the air with her arms across her chest before landing on her opposite foot and gliding in a graceful circle, unfurling her arms like wings.
Whitaker claps. The girl beams. He nods to the next skater, who sets off across the ice, accelerating with less confidence. Stiff. Nervous. I can see her steeling herself, telling herself to jump, but at the last moment she pulls out of the attempt and circles back, hitting her thigh angrily. She collects herself and tries again, her face a mask of determination, ice flicking from her skates, but she doesn’t have the speed when she leaps and spins. Her arms don’t cross. Her legs tangle. Balance lost, she lands heavily and shoots across the ice, thudding into the hoardings.
Whitaker goes to her. He picks her up. She’s crying. Hurt. He wipes her tears away and strokes her back like he’s petting an animal.
“Do you want to try again?”
She nods.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
She brushes ice from her knees and hips before skating back to her position. She tries again, looking even more determined. I don’t want her to fall. Neither does Evie.
“She should do one spin,” she whispers. “Two is too much.”
The girl launches herself forward, caught in a truncated twirl, before crashing and sliding across the ice. She gets up, ready to try again. Whitaker stops her.
“That’s enough for today, Lara. You’ll get it tomorrow.”
The girls glide towards the gate, chatting to each other. Whitaker goes to the side of the rink, where he picks up a clipboard and makes a note.
“You stay here,” I
tell Evie, who seems fascinated by the display.
Walking around the rink, I approach Bryan Whitaker. He’s a small man, with delicate hands and the posture of a ballet dancer.
“Dr. Haven,” he says, glancing up at me quickly and going back to the clipboard. “Bear with me.” He scribbles a further note. “Felicity said you’d dropped by. I heard that some of Tasmin’s friends were there.”
He steps through a gate and sits down to unlace his skates.
“A tough session,” I say.
“Not really. If Lara can’t land a double axel, she’ll never land a triple. And without a triple she’ll never compete at the top level.” He moves to his other boot. “Figure skating may look graceful, but the falls are brutal on body and soul.”
“Was it like that for Jodie?”
He seems to relish the question.
“Some skaters take two years to master a double axel. Jodie took a month. It’s a rare thing to find someone who can take the most difficult jump and within days make it look routine—like she could do it in her sleep.”
“Did you know Jodie was pregnant?”
Shock registers on his face. Perhaps Evie could tell if his reaction was genuine.
“She didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“What would you have done?”
“Arranged an abortion.”
“Without telling her parents?”
Whitaker pauses for a moment, glancing past me at the ice-resurfacing machine that is moving back and forth across the rink. “Maggie is very Catholic. She wouldn’t have agreed.”
“What about Dougal?”
“He would have found the bastard who got her pregnant and broken him in half.”
Several ice dancers are circling the rink, waiting for the machine to finish. Whitaker watches them move in tandem, arm in arm, kicking and gliding.
“Eight years ago, one of your students made an allegation that you photographed her while she was in the shower.”
“There were no photographs. I knocked. I didn’t think anyone was in the changing room.”
“Why were you even there?”
“One of the girls called me. She thought she’d left her wallet in the changing room. I went to check. I knocked. I thought it was empty. I apologized to the girl in question.”
Good Girl, Bad Girl Page 19
