Unwrapping the newspaper, I read about Bryan Whitaker’s arrest. The photograph shows him sitting in the back of a police car with a coat over his head, which means it could be anyone. The story gives details of his skating career and how he coached Jodie Sheehan since she could walk.
The doorbell starts ringing and doesn’t stop. Someone is holding his or her finger on the button. I answer, ready to complain, but a woman pushes past me, knocking me off balance.
“Where is he?”
“Cyrus isn’t here.”
She’s moving from room to room. Searching.
“Where’s Aiden?”
“They’ve gone to the police station.”
“Get them back!”
“What?”
“I said get them back.”
“I can’t.”
“GET THEM BACK!” she screams. Frantic. Desperate.
I flinch, backing away. “Cyrus doesn’t have a phone.”
She swallows a deep breath and apologizes. “Please. I have to talk to Aiden.”
This must be Felicity Whitaker, Aiden’s mother. She was at the house last night, but I didn’t meet her.
“I can send him a message.”
Mrs. Whitaker steps closer as I type on my phone.
“He has to bring Aiden. Nobody else. No police.”
I press send. The message disappears.
Poppy has come to the back door, whining and scratching, wanting to come inside.
“Who’s that?”
“My dog.”
“Where are you going?”
“To let her inside,” I say. “She won’t hurt you.”
“No! Leave her.”
The blanket has dropped from my shoulders. She looks at my pajamas.
“Are you his daughter?”
“What?”
She speaks slowly as though I’m retarded. “Are . . . you . . . his . . . daughter?”
“No. He’s . . . I’m . . . I’m a foster child.”
“Where is your mother?”
“Dead.”
The bluntness of my answer surprises her.
“What happened to her?”
“It doesn’t matter. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No.”
“I could make coffee.”
“No.”
She’s pacing back and forth, knocking her fist repeatedly against her head, as though trying to dislodge a thought. She’s mumbling. Poppy barks. I glance at the clock above the sink. Why hasn’t Cyrus called?
“Call him?” she says, pointing to my phone.
“I told you—he doesn’t have a mobile. I know it’s weird. He doesn’t have a landline either.”
“Don’t bullshit me, girlie. Call him.”
“I’m not lying.”
I realize that she’s going to hit me before it happens but can’t stop the blow. She backhands me across the face, knocking me sideways so that my head strikes the doorjamb. I slide down the wall, seeing sparks when I blink.
She takes hold of my ponytail and jerks my face around.
“Call him! Tell him not to bring the police. I want Aiden. Nobody else.”
62
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
I glance at my pager and see Evie’s number.
You have to bring Aiden home, says the message. A moment later, a second one arrives: No police.
I glance at Lenny.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Can I use your phone?”
I call Evie’s number, listening to it ring. She answers.
“Cyrus?”
“Is everything OK?”
“Bring him back! Now!” snarls Felicity Whitaker.
“Felicity?”
“I want Aiden.”
“He’s talking to the detectives.”
“Stop him!”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Tell him to shut up!”
“He’s at West Bridgford Police Station. Why don’t you come here and talk to him?”
“Bring him here.”
“I can’t do that.”
Silence for a long time, but I can hear her breathing.
“Are you there, Felicity? Let me talk to Evie.”
“Aiden’s done nothing wrong,” she blurts.
“I know.”
“Tell the police.”
“I will. Put Evie on the phone.”
“No! You’re not listening. Bring Aiden now.”
“He’ll be home soon.”
“Bring him, or she gets hurt . . . I’ll do it. I’ll kill her. I’ll kill myself. Bring Aiden, or she dies.”
The line goes dead. My heart is suddenly where my brain should be, the blood pounding behind my temples. Vaguely I’m aware of Lenny yelling orders across the near-empty incident room, calling for a tactical response team. No sirens. Radio silence.
In between firing off commands, she is asking me questions about Felicity Whitaker and the layout of the house. How many entrances or access points? Are the windows locked or unlocked? Could she be armed? How did she seem?
“Upset,” I say.
“Irrational?”
“Yes.”
“What about the girl, Evie—is she likely to panic or stay calm?”
I hesitate, trying to think. I remember the incident at Langford Hall when Evie disarmed Brodie. Back then she had been so calm it had bordered on serenity.
“She’ll look to escape,” I say.
We’re talking and moving, descending the stairs, into the parking area, where three unmarked police cars are waiting. Lenny pulls body armor from the boot of the first car and throws a black vest in my direction.
“It that really necessary?”
“You wear it, or you stay here.”
There are more questions on the journey, most of them about Felicity’s state of mind.
“Does she have any history of mental illness?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why take a hostage?”
“She doesn’t want Aiden talking to the police.”
“Why?”
“Maybe she’s worried this will jeopardize his future. He’s been offered a place at Cambridge to study law on a full scholarship.”
“Sleeping with his cousin won’t jeopardize anything.”
“Jodie was underage.”
“And he’s not much older.”
Lenny takes a call. I can hear only one side of the conversation.
“No helicopters . . . A drone? How noisy is it? . . . OK. Yeah . . . Evacuate whoever you can without alerting Mrs. Whitaker. Do it quietly.”
Lenny turns to me: “Do any of the neighboring properties overlook the front or back of the house?”
“The front, yes.”
“OK. We need a floor plan. You might have to sketch one. What room are they likely to be in?”
“The kitchen maybe. It’s at the back.”
We’re getting closer to Wollaton Park. My pager beeps. It’s another message from Evie.
Where are you?
63
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you.”
Mrs. Whitaker is fussing over me, looking for frozen peas in the freezer.
“I don’t normally, I mean, I never hit Aiden or Tasmin. I don’t know what came over me.”
Her eyes are jittering from side to side like she’s high on something. I’ve seen someone overdose before. And I’ve seen loads of kids suddenly kick off because they’re angry or hearing voices, but nothing like this.
“I’ll wait upstairs,” I say.
“No.”
“I should get dressed.”
“Stay here.”
“But I need the loo.”
I cross my legs as though I’m busting.
“There must be one downstairs.”
I reach for my phone, but she takes it from me.
“Wh
at if he calls?” I ask.
“I’ll answer it.”
The loo is off the laundry. I lock the door and glance at the window. It’s too small for me to crawl out. Maybe I can stay here until Cyrus arrives.
“I can’t hear anything happening,” she says from the far side of the door.
“You’re making me nervous.”
“Piss or get off the pot.”
My phone is ringing. She answers, asking, “Where’s Aiden?”
I don’t hear the reply, but it must be Cyrus.
After another pause, she knocks.
“He wants to talk to you. You have to tell him you’re OK.”
I unlock the door and step out. Cyrus is on speakerphone.
“Hey,” I say.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah.”
“Has she threatened you?” asks Cyrus.
Mrs. Whitaker interrupts. “She’s fine. Where’s Aiden?”
“You can come out and see him.”
“No!”
“He didn’t hurt Jodie. You don’t have to protect him. He’s giving the police a statement, that’s all.”
She curses under her breath. “No statements!”
“You can’t make demands.”
“I WANT MY SON!” she screams, grabbing a knife from the wooden block beside the stove.
“Please, stay calm,” says Cyrus.
“DON’T TELL ME TO BE CALM!”
“She has a knife!” I yell, ducking under her arm and bolting for the door. She grabs my hair and hauls me back, making me cry out in pain.
Cyrus has heard it all.
“Don’t hurt her,” he pleads. “Evie? Evie? Can you hear me?”
Mrs. Whitaker holds the knife to my neck. “Answer him.”
“I’m here.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
He exhales with relief, but doesn’t say anything for a while. It’s like he’s lost for words. Finally, he says, “Let me come inside, Felicity.”
“Not without Aiden.”
“How about we do a swap? Take me instead of Evie.”
“No.”
“She’s just a kid.”
“So is Aiden.”
“The police aren’t going to let him walk into a house where you’ve threatened someone—not when you’re holding a knife. Talk to me.”
“Get me Aiden. Then we’ll talk.”
64
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Police cars have been parked diagonally across the road to create a staggered series of checkpoints, each one closer than the next. The outer ring is a hundred yards from the house where uniformed officers are keeping spectators behind barricades. Most of them are neighbors who are no doubt filling the vacuum of uncertainty with breathless rumors of terrorism or a domestic siege.
“The hostage negotiator is still forty minutes away,” says Lenny.
“I’m trained,” I say.
“You’re personally involved.”
“I know the layout of the house. I know Felicity Whitaker.”
“I’m not giving her a second hostage.”
“What if she agrees to release Evie?”
“She just refused.”
More police are arriving. Men dressed in black wearing body armor and helmets, carrying rifles, battering rams, and shields. The head of the tactical response team is straight out of Hollywood casting, with chiseled features and a Clooneyesque haircut.
“We’ll be ready in fifteen,” he tells Lenny, who remains in overall command until negotiations are deemed to have failed.
“Do we have eyes?” she asks.
“We had a sighting in the kitchen, before the blinds were lowered,” says Edgar.
“What about ears?”
“The directional microphones aren’t picking up much.”
Lenny looks at me. “Phone her again.”
I dial Evie’s mobile. It goes to her voicemail. I try again. Nothing.
“Can we get Aiden here?” I ask.
“He’s on his way.”
Lenny motions towards the tactical response officers who are taking up positions behind hedges and parked cars and in neighboring properties with windows that overlook the house.
“What would you do?” she asks.
“Give her more time. She’s a middle-aged mother of two, not a wanted terrorist.”
Lenny gazes at the house as though contemplating tomorrow’s headlines. “OK, but first I want confirmation that Evie Cormac is unharmed.”
Grabbing a bullhorn from the front seat of her car, she signals for me to follow.
The birds have gone quiet and traffic noise drops away, leaving a soundtrack of our shoes crushing seedpods on the footpath. We reach the front gate. Lenny raises the megaphone.
“Mrs. Whitaker? I know you can hear me. I’m DCI Parvel. We met a few weeks ago.”
We wait. Watching. Nothing moves behind the curtains.
“Your son is on his way, but I can’t help you unless you help me. I need proof that Evie Cormac is safe and unharmed.”
The front door opens a crack. Felicity yells, “She’s safe.”
“I’ll need more than your word for it.”
The door opens wider and this time Evie emerges, dressed in her red flannelette pajamas, printed with penguins. She’s barefoot and looks younger than eighteen. Younger than fourteen. Too young.
Felicity Whitaker has her arm wrapped around Evie’s neck, crooked at the elbow, using her as a human shield. She’s holding a bottle of clear liquid in her right hand. She holds it aloft and begins emptying it over Evie. Fluid splashes across her head and shoulders . . . into her eyes. Evie screams, trying to cover her face. What is it? Paint thinners? Gasoline? Turpentine?
Evie tries to drop and roll, but Felicity holds her upright and tosses the empty bottle away. It bounces down the steps and rolls onto the grass. She pulls a cigarette lighter from her pocket and holds it against Evie’s cheek.
“You know what I want.”
The door closes.
65
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
My eyes are burning. My mouth, my nostrils, my ears, every hair follicle is on fire. It’s like red-hot wires have been driven through my pupils straight into my brain. I use my pajama sleeves to wipe at my eyes, but the liquid is all over me, soaking the fabric, clinging to my skin.
Dragged backwards along the hallway, I’m dumped in the library, where I curl up on the floor. More liquid is splashed across the desk and bookshelves, the fumes scalding my throat, making me gag.
“Why are you doing this?” I scream.
“They aren’t listening.”
“That’s not my fault.”
She grabs my hair again.
“How many entrances?”
“Two. Front and back.”
She pulls me from room to room, where she closes the blinds and curtains, checking the windows are locked.
“Water,” I plead. “My eyes.”
We’re in the kitchen. She holds my head over the sink and turns on the tap. I splash water onto my face but still can’t see properly. Bottles and cans are scattered across the floor. She has emptied the shelves in the laundry and kitchen, examining the labels, keeping some bottles and discarding others. I spent hours tidying those shelves, putting paints on one side and cleaning products on the other with the labels facing out.
She makes me sit down and unspools a roll of masking tape, wrapping it around my wrists and up my forearms.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Shut up!”
“I’m not Dr. Haven’s daughter. We’re not related.”
“You’re living here.”
“I’m visiting.”
“You must mean something to him.”
The statement jangles something inside me. Does Cyrus care about me? He must
do. He didn’t send me back to Langford Hall. He let me have Poppy. Darling Poppy. Poor Poppy. She’s whining from the back steps, wondering why she’s being ignored.
In a different life, in a different house, I listened to dogs barking as Terry was tortured to death. He stopped begging after a while. Then he stopped talking, which infuriated them even more. He groaned and cried, and I wished they would hurry. I wished they would finish. I wished his suffering would end.
I’ve heard people die before. Some hardly made a squeak, while others fought like drowning cats in a sack. My father. My mother. My sister. They left me alone with the nameless men and the faceless men. Only they do have names and they do have faces. And I remember every one of them. Next time I will pull the trigger. Next time I won’t hesitate.
66
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Lenny is yelling orders over the two-way, wanting fire crews in place and the gas and electricity turned off to the house. The nearest hospital burns unit is on stand-by. Her eyes spark with a fresh energy, as though she’s operating on a different level to everybody else, seeing several moves ahead.
“Where is Aiden Whitaker?”
“Ten minutes away,” replies Edgar.
“No sirens,” says Lenny. She glances at me. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“She’s desperate.”
“That’s obvious. Come on!”
“She’s delusional.”
“Why?”
“This is about Aiden. She’s protecting him.”
“Why?”
“Maybe she thinks he killed Jodie.”
“Did he? The kid could be playing us.”
“He’s not lying.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I can’t tell her about Evie and what she can do. Last night she asked me if I knew the killer’s name. She didn’t believe me when I said no. I thought she’d made a mistake and that she wasn’t infallible after all.
An idea rises from the depths of my unconscious mind, becoming clearer as it nears the surface. When I spoke to Maggie Sheehan at the church, she said that Felicity had struggled to get pregnant. It took her years of IVF—one failure after another. She almost went mad, Maggie said. Then Aiden arrived, her miracle child, and she projected onto him all her dreams and unfulfilled ambitions. A mother’s job is to protect her children, to keep them safe. Felicity is trying to shield Aiden, but what from?
Good Girl, Bad Girl Page 33
