I order the fillet steak, medium rare, with a peppercorn sauce on the side. We share a salad.
Waiting for our meals to arrive, Evie picks up her drink and leans back in her chair. She holds the glass to her lips, studying me over the rim.
“Any thoughts on what you might like to do?” I say, making conversation.
Evie considers this for a bit, giving the question a sense of gravity.
“I could work with animals.”
“You mean like a veterinary assistant?”
“Or a dog walker. I saw one today. She had six dogs in the park and a van with the company logo on the side.”
“You don’t have a driving license.”
“I know.”
“We could apply for a provisional one.”
Her face brightens. “Really?”
“All we need is a birth certificate or a passport.”
“I don’t have anything like that.”
“But the court gave you a new identity.”
“Without papers.”
This information surprises me, but Evie seems resigned to the fact. It’s another reminder that she has no official past beyond a secret room in a murder house. Most people belong somewhere. They have a family, a school, a neighborhood, and a country. They share interests, join groups, support teams, vote for parties, and form tribes. Evie has none of this.
“I’ll see what I can do about getting you a license,” I say, not sure of who I can call. Maybe Caroline Fairfax can help.
We’ve almost finished eating when my pager beeps and Lenny’s number appears on-screen. I call her from a pay phone near the cigarette machine.
“Bryan Whitaker didn’t break,” she says, “but we’ll have another crack at him in the morning. Sex with a minor is worth two years, but I want him for more than that.”
I hear loud music in the background. She pauses for a moment, telling someone to turn the volume down. She’s back.
“The boffins managed to isolate Jodie Sheehan’s burner phone. It was purchased a month ago as a job lot of six phones from an eBay seller. The signal puts Jodie at the fireworks and the fish-and-chip shop and at Jimmy Verbic’s party.”
“How long did she stay?”
“Fifteen minutes, give or take. Most likely she was delivering drugs for Felix, but I’m leaving that out of my report.”
“Does Verbic frighten you that much?”
“Yes,” she says bluntly. “There were two hundred guests and, for all we know, one of them was the chief constable.”
I can see her point. “Where did Jodie go when she left Verbic’s place?”
“The signal shows she walked to Old Market Square and caught the ten o’clock tram towards Clifton South. She got off the tram at Ruddington Lane, probably heading for the Whitaker house, which is ten minutes away. She used the pedestrian underpass beneath the A52 and walked along Somerton Avenue.”
“What time was that?”
“A quarter to eleven.”
“Tasmin Whitaker said Jodie didn’t arrive.”
“According to the signal, Jodie spent nearly three hours at the house, which puts Bryan Whitaker on the hook. Her phone stopped transmitting just before two a.m.”
“Where?”
“Best approximation—on the footbridge.”
The facts are starting to fit the timeline. Whitaker came home from his AA meeting and found Jodie at the house or had arranged to meet her there. They had sex. Maybe she tried to blackmail him. They argued. He followed her. She finished up dead.
* * *
Evie is waiting for me at the table, where the bill is sitting on a saucer with a single mint. Evie is sucking on the other one. I open my wallet and take out a card.
“Thank you,” she says, rubbing a lock of hair between her forefinger and thumb.
“My pleasure.”
“I’ll find a way to repay you.”
“You don’t have to.”
We take our coats from hooks beside the stairs and get a blast of frigid air as we step outside. A clear day means a cold night. Evie puts her arm through mine. It feels self-conscious, as though she’s unsure how I’ll react. Our hips and shoulders bump together as we walk.
“What is Claire like?”
“Nice,” I say, feeling the tameness of the word.
“Is she pretty?”
“Yes.”
“She must be very smart to be a lawyer.”
“Yes, she is.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you think you’ll get married?”
“I don’t know if we’re still together.”
“Not to her, necessarily . . . to someone else.”
“Maybe.”
Evie tries to walk on her toes, putting one foot in front of the other, like a catwalk model.
Reaching the house, I unlock the front door, standing back to let her pass me. Suddenly, she pushes herself against me in a reckless hug. My whole body stiffens. Undeterred, Evie kisses me. It’s not so much a kiss as a wrestling hold, or a spin-the-bottle attempt by someone who has practiced for hours on the back of her hand.
I push her away. She tries again. This time I’m firmer, shoving her hard, holding her at arm’s length.
“Don’t do that!” I snap. The color drains from her face. “What’s got into you?”
“You think I’m ugly.”
“No.”
“I’m damaged goods.”
“Of course not.”
“Bullshit!”
“Look at me, Evie. Ask the question again.”
“Do you think I’m damaged goods?”
“No.”
“Do you think I’m ugly?”
“No.”
She believes me now.
“Why then?” she asks.
“It’s unprofessional.”
“You’re not my shrink.”
“I’m your guardian.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“It can’t happen, Evie.”
“How long do I have to wait?”
“It’s not a matter of time. It’s never going to happen. Ever.”
Evie studies my face and sees that I’m telling the truth. It makes her angry. Embarrassed. Humiliated.
I should have seen this coming. I did. I feared her physical proximity and how my actions could be misinterpreted or misconstrued. Evie has been lost in the system for years, labeled “a management problem” to be controlled, not listened to. Then I come along, someone who doesn’t make demands or rush to judgment or punish her for mistakes. If anything, I’ve rewarded her worst behavior because I know where it comes from. This must be enormously attractive to someone like Evie.
We’re still on the doorstep. Every fiber of her seems ready to flee or fight or have the ground swallow her up. She slaps me hard across the face.
“What was that for?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry. You can hit me back.” She braces herself.
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
57
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
Foolish girl!
Stupid girl!
My hand is stinging from the slap and Cyrus has finger marks on his cheek, outlined in white, as if my hand had been covered in chalk dust when I hit him.
I rock from foot to foot, unable to look in his eyes, frightened of what I might see. He turned cold the moment I kissed him. He didn’t want to touch me, not my face, not my mouth, not my body. Of course not. Other men have touched me and kissed me and done things that didn’t feel right. I thought that if I did it with someone like Cyrus it would feel different. It wouldn’t be wicked. It wouldn’t be wrong.
“I’ll get you some ice,” I say.
“No. I’m fine.”
“I keep messing things up.”
“We won’t mention it again.”
Why doesn’t he get angry? Why won’t he hit me?
He hasn’t shut the door.
“Are you leaving?” I ask.
“Just for a while.”
“Because of me?”
“No. The police have tracked Jodie Sheehan’s last movements. I thought I might retrace her steps.”
“Can I come?”
“It’s a tram ride—nothing exciting.”
“I want to.”
Cyrus hesitates.
Please let me come! Please let me come!
He nods. I breathe again and say, “I’m sorry about before.”
“Before?”
“The kiss.”
“What kiss?”
An Uber drops us in central Nottingham, opposite a grand Victorian house that looks like it’s made from white marzipan. Mist has turned the streetlights into fuzzy yellow balls that seem to hang from invisible strings.
I’ve been quiet on the journey, still angry at myself. What was I thinking! He’s not handsome. He’s one of them—the white coats. A shrink. Ugh!
We’re standing on the side of the road, wrapped up against the cold.
“What was Jodie doing here?” I ask.
Cyrus nods into the darkness. “She went to a party up the road.”
I recognize a half-truth.
“Was she delivering for Felix?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
We’re walking down Regent Street, retracing Jodie’s steps. Occasionally I have to skip or add an extra step to keep up with him.
As we near the center of the city there are more people, spilling out of pubs, bars, restaurants, and fast food places that smell of piri piri chicken, hamburgers, pizzas, and kebabs. We pass the city library and cross Old Market Square to the tram stop in the shadow of the council house. A dozen people are waiting, some of them drunk, others kissing, a few studying their phones.
“She caught the next one,” says Cyrus, checking the time. He buys tickets from a machine.
Five minutes pass and a modern-looking tram ghosts into view, pulling up at the platform. We sit near the front, side by side. I’m not sure if I should talk or if Cyrus needs quiet to concentrate. When he’s thinking his brow furrows and his eyes take on the color of green sea glass as though he’s searching for an idea or listening to a distant, unseen object that is broadcasting information to him.
The tram heads east along Cheapside and turns south when it reaches Weekday Cross. I know some of these places from day trips away from Langford Hall.
“They have cameras,” I say, pointing above the driver’s head. “Do you think someone followed her?”
“Maybe.”
I pull my feet up and wrap my arms around my shins.
“Did you know your brother was sick?” I ask. “When he killed your family, I mean.”
“He’d been on medication since he was sixteen.”
“Do you blame him for what happened?”
“No.”
“Mmmmmm,” I say, making it clear I don’t believe him. “Where is Elias now?”
“A place called Rampton. It’s a secure psychiatric hospital about an hour north of here.”
“Do you ever visit him?”
“Yes.”
He’s lying, but not completely.
“The last time I visited, Elias caused a scene because I didn’t bring him any jelly babies.”
“Jelly babies?”
“They’re his favorite, but visitors aren’t allowed to bring in food.”
“What happened to him after the murders?”
“He pleaded guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility.”
“Does that mean he can get out one day?”
“I suppose it does.”
“Is that why you became a psychologist?”
“People assume that.”
“What do you say?”
“I avoid self-analysis.”
That’s another lie.
“My grandparents wanted me to be a surgeon, but I chose psychology because it was the most difficult thing I could imagine doing.”
“Why?”
“Surgery has rules. The problems are tangible and technical, whereas psychology relies more on instinct and empathy. A surgeon can see his or her results and knows all the answers after the operation. He can declare a decision right or wrong, looking forwards and understanding backwards, which is how we all live. A psychologist has no such certainty. I cannot reach inside a brain and rearrange things. I cannot search for holes with my fingertips or repair damage with sutures and clamps. Yet that’s what I have to do—fix holes, paper over cracks, mend and compensate. I have to repair what’s broken using words and ideas and thoughts.”
“You want to heal the world,” I say.
“Or to save myself.”
The answer is too glib. Too neat.
“I think you don’t want to visit your brother,” I say. “You don’t want to look into his eyes and remember what he did. And it doesn’t matter how many times you remind yourself that he’s your brother and you should love him, it doesn’t change how you feel.”
Cyrus looks sad rather than angry. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“What?”
“That.”
The tram has been moving quietly between stops and the carriage has slowly emptied. It crossed a river and skirted a pond before the tracks straightened for a long stretch.
“This is us,” says Cyrus as it slows again.
Ruddington Lane has an uncovered platform bathed in a pale glow from trackside lights.
“This way,” says Cyrus.
We follow a concrete footpath, past rows of neat semidetached houses and cottages, most of which are dark except for security lights that trigger as we pass or the occasional grey flickering of a TV behind the curtains.
“Do you know who got Jodie pregnant?” I ask.
“Her uncle.”
“Did he rape her?”
“We don’t know.”
“What about Craig Farley?”
“I think he found Jodie’s body.”
“Alive?”
“Close to death.”
I make an mmmpph sound through my nostrils. “And people say I’m screwed up.”
58
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
The Whitakers’ house is dark except for a light upstairs behind a glowing square blind. I know the layout of these postwar bungalows. Three bedrooms and one bathroom on the upper floor with a narrow staircase that partially doubles back on itself. The ground floor has an entrance hall, sitting room, kitchen, laundry, and a dining area overlooking a patio and rear garden.
I try to picture Jodie arriving here that night. Smoke from bonfires and the smell of gunpowder must have lingered in the air.
“Jodie didn’t have a key,” I say out loud. “Tasmin had promised to leave the patio door unlocked.”
“Did she?” asks Evie.
“No. She wanted to punish Jodie for keeping secrets.”
“Is that why she walked home?”
According to the phone signals, Jodie spent three hours here. She must have knocked on the door or found another way inside. Perhaps Bryan Whitaker let her into the house.
I glance along the side path to the small silver caravan. Aiden told the police he was home that night but that he didn’t see Jodie. Surely he’d have a key to the house.
Headlights swing around the corner towards us, bleaching our faces white. Evie instinctively raises her hand to shield her eyes. I recognize the distinctive silhouette of a black cab. Dougal Sheehan doesn’t seem to notice us as he brakes hard and flings open the driver’s door. Moments later he’s hammering his fist on the front door while holding down a plastic button that chimes through the house.
Nobody answers. He grunts disgustedly and leaps over the low hedge before jogging down the side path towards the caravan.
“Aiden,” he yells. “Are you in there?”
He tries the handle. It’s locked. He
tries to break it off but fails. Dipping his head, he drives his shoulder into the side of the van, making it rock violently on rusty springs.
“Come out, you coward!”
“Stay here,” I say to Evie before sprinting across the road and down the path.
Dougal Sheehan has picked up a shovel and is trying to smash the back window of the caravan. He succeeds on his third attempt, sending glass exploding inwards. Stepping to the right, he starts on another window.
“Did you touch her?” he bellows. “Was it you?”
Aiden is trapped inside, calling for help. Felicity Whitaker appears from inside the house wearing a dressing gown and slippers. She throws herself at Dougal, grabbing at his arms, trying to wrestle the shovel from his hands. He pushes her away, sending her sprawling onto the grass. Up again, she hammers her fists on his back, yelling at him to leave Aiden alone.
“It was Bryan!” she sobs, breaking down. “It was Bryan.”
Dougal hurls the shovel at the caravan. It bounces off the door leaving a dent in the aluminum.
“I promise you. Please. Don’t blame Aiden.” Felicity has pulled him down to his knees, where she cradles his head against her chest, like a mother comforting a hurt child. Dougal wants to argue, but she puts a finger to his lips, saying, “Leave it be. It’s better that way.”
Another voice. Tasmin is standing on the patio in her pajamas. “Mummy? Is everything all right?”
“Go back to bed,” says Felicity, wiping her wet cheeks. She notices me for the first time. There is a beat of silence and a sharp light enters her eyes.
“What are you doing here?” she says accusingly. “Have you been spying on us?”
“No.”
Dougal has climbed to his feet. “Did you follow me?”
“I was tracing Jodie’s last movements.”
Felicity’s voice has changed to a harsh whisper. “You’re trespassing!”
I glance at Dougal, hoping for an explanation, asking, “What has Aiden done?”
“Get off this property!” yells Felicity. “Leave my family alone.”
Her face is twisted in fury and her fists are tightly bunched. She is half Dougal’s size, but I fear her more because she doesn’t seem rational.
Behind her, the caravan door bursts open and Aiden leaps from inside, almost spinning his legs in midair before he lands on the grass and takes off, sprinting down the side path and out onto the road, past the black cab and Evie Cormac. A small dark knapsack bounces loosely on his back.
Good Girl, Bad Girl Page 31
