Lying Beside You, page 12
There are single guys on the pull, who act like roosters eyeing up the hens—young women in clingy dresses, sparkly tops, and tight jeans. Some are here to flirt, or be seen, or find love, or to sweet-talk a free cocktail before they go dancing at one of the clubs, which aren’t worth visiting until after midnight.
There are other groups. Husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, first dates and last dates. Brando calls them “punters” and acts like he owns the bar instead of managing the place. He’s working alongside two bartenders, Eric and Grady, who are bantering as they mix cocktails, pour wine, and pull pints.
My job is to collect glasses, wipe tables, and direct people to the loos. A trained monkey could do it. I’m also supposed to be on the lookout for pickpockets and bag snatchers.
Most of the people treat me like I’m invisible unless they want something.
“We don’t do table service,” I say for the umpteenth time.
A drunk guy in a red football shirt tries to hug me. I duck under his closing arms and navigate my way to the kitchen, carrying a tray of empty glasses. Backing through the swing doors, I enter an oasis of quiet, not calm. The chef is a big-bellied Geordie with a potty mouth and a fierce temper. Mostly, he yells at the small Filipino man who is packing and emptying the dishwasher.
I take a moment to catch my breath, slipping off my left shoe and massaging my toes. The chef yells across the kitchen. “Put yer fookin’ feet away. This is not a fookin’ foot spa.”
I give him the middle finger and smile, before pushing back through the doors. On the far side of the bar, I notice the bouncer signaling to Brando. Moments later, four police officers enter and move between the tables. Three are in uniform. The fourth is in a rumpled suit. A detective.
Brando meets him halfway. After a short discussion, the officers continue to mingle, stopping at each table. They’re showing people photographs. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a guy slinking through the kitchen doors. I hear the chef telling him the kitchen is off-limits, but he disappears out the fire door into a side alley before anyone can react.
I continue collecting glasses, until a constable steps in front of me. He’s holding a photograph.
“Hi, sorry to bother you, miss.”
“Don’t then,” I say, stepping around him.
“Do you recognize this woman?”
My automatic response is to shake my head, but I know that it’s Maya Kirk.
The constable has a dimpled chin and is standing so close that I can see the black hairs in his nose.
“We’re trying to trace her movements. She was in this area on Sunday night.”
“This is my first shift,” I say, collecting another empty glass.
He turns to a woman at the nearest table.
“How about you, miss, were you in the Lace Market last Sunday?”
The woman waves to her friend. “Hey, Toni. Have a look at this.” Toni slides off her stool and tugs her dress down over her thighs. “Oh, aren’t you the handsome one,” she says, eyeing the officer up and down.
Her friend shows her the photograph. “It’s that woman who got murdered near the abbey.”
“She was at the Lace Market last Sunday,” says the officer, who shows her a second photograph. “What about this man?”
“Is he the one who killed her?” asks Toni.
“I know that guy,” says her friend. “He’s always hanging around here like a bad smell. He told me he was a TV producer. Fat chance!”
“Is he dangerous?” asks Toni. “You’ll protect us, won’t you?” She squeezes the constable’s forearm. “You’re very strong.”
A half-full glass of wine topples from my tray and spills over her tits. She lets out a squeal and flaps at the front of her dress, giving me the stink eye.
“Oops!” I say, smiling apologetically.
Brando turns up, bringing paper towels. He offers Toni a free drink and all is forgiven. Clearly, he wants the police to leave because they’re killing the buzz of the place.
Five minutes later they’re gone but the energy level isn’t the same. Around midnight, I take a break, sitting on a step in the alley, rubbing my feet. The police are still on the footpath, showing photographs to late-night diners and people heading home.
Brando finds me. “You’re needed in the women’s loo. Take a mop and bucket.”
“I don’t get paid enough for this.”
“You haven’t been paid at all.”
Stepping back into the kitchen, I fill a bucket with hot soapy water and carry it to the loos. The pool of vomit is just inside the door. Someone must have tried and failed to make it to the toilets. Breathing through my mouth, I start mopping, but hear a retching sound. One of the cubicle doors is closed.
“Hello?”
No answer.
“Is everything OK?”
I crouch and peer beneath the lower half of the door. A woman is kneeling with her head over the toilet bowl. She has bundled a jacket beneath her knees, but her tights are torn. One sandal is lying next to her.
“We’re closing soon. You can’t stay here. Do you have friends outside?”
“They left to go dancing,” she slurs. “I’ll catch up with them.”
She retches again and spits into the bowl before getting unsteadily to her feet.
The door unlatches. She’s older than I imagined with short dark tousled hair and smeared makeup.
“I’ll be fine now,” she slurs, embarrassed. She picks up her jacket and walks unsteadily to the sink. Reaching out, she grips the sides and scoops water into her mouth. Spitting. Wiping. Adjusting her hair.
“I’m such a lightweight. I barely drank a thing.”
Her words are slow and slurred, but she’s trying hard to pronounce them clearly.
“Maybe it was the pizza we ate. Someone ordered anchovies.” She shudders and begins patting at the pockets of her jacket. “My phone. I had it with me.”
“Where did you have it last?”
“It was on the table. I would have picked it up.”
“Don’t panic. Where were you sitting?”
“At one of the booths.” She turns too quickly and stumbles. I catch her before she falls, letting go of the mop, which bounces loudly onto the tiles.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Daniela.”
“You sit down. I’ll look for your phone.”
I lead her into a cubicle and go back into the bar, where the crowd is thinning out. I peer under tables and chairs, looking in the darkest corners. I’m reluctant to get on my hands and knees—not on this floor. Botulism, Ebola, the plague, anything is possible.
I yell to Eric, “Did anyone hand in a phone?”
He relays the question to Grady, who answers with a shrug.
“Who lost a phone?” asks Brando.
“The woman in the bathroom.”
“The one who puked?”
“Yeah. Her friends left her.”
“Get her out of here.”
“How do I do that?”
“Call her a car.”
“She doesn’t have her phone.”
“I don’t care how you do it.”
I want to argue but Brando has already turned away. As I walk back to the loos, I hear Eric yelling my name. He’s holding up a mobile phone.
“It was next to the cash register. Someone must have handed it in.”
I swipe the screen, but it needs a passcode. Back in the bathroom, I hand the phone to Daniela, who looks relieved, but still pale and shaky. She slides off the back of the phone’s case and checks that her driver’s license and credit card are still tucked into a small compartment.
“I’ll order a car,” she says, but her fingers won’t do what she asks. I take the phone from her and finish the task. A map appears on the screen, showing the nearest available drivers. One of them accepts the request.
“Five minutes,” I say.
Daniela stands and leans against the cubicle door. When she sways forwards, I grab her around the waist to stop her falling. It makes me feel uncomfortable, but I don’t have a choice. Side by side, we navigate the narrow corridor and up the short flight of stairs, before reaching the bar. Empty glasses need collecting and tables need wiping. Brando wants me back working.
I signal that I’ll be two minutes and steer Daniela towards the main door. The bouncer, Hamid, holds it open for us and I help her outside, where the cold air seems to revive her and she stands on her own, gulping in each breath. She keeps thanking me and making excuses.
A car appears, traveling too quickly down the one-way street. The driver brakes hard when he sees us. He lowers the passenger window. “Car for Daniela.”
I open the rear door and Daniela ducks her head as she slumps onto the seat. I lean inside and clip on her seat belt.
“Do you have the address?” I ask.
“Stapleford,” says the driver. He taps the phone on the dashboard.
“Make sure she gets home,” I say.
“Consider it done.”
For the briefest moment, as the door closes, I feel something flutter in my stomach. Moments later, the car is moving away, disappearing around a corner.
Back in the bar, I continue working until a bell signals last orders. After a final rush, the bell rings again and the stragglers are coaxed and cajoled and bullied into leaving. The doors are locked. Glasses are collected. Dregs emptied. Tables wiped. Chairs stacked. Brando checks everything I do and points out things I’ve missed.
My final chore is to toss the trash into a dumpster in the alley. Brando hands each of the staff an envelope. Mine contains eighty quid, including tips. I send a text message to Morty, which he won’t read until he wakes.
I’ll buy your car. Give me until Monday.
27 Cyrus
Mitch is working inside the house, repairing one of the stairs to the attic, which has been sagging since my grandparents left me the place. He’s trying not to make too much noise because Evie didn’t get home until the early hours. I lay awake waiting for her, falling asleep only when I heard her bedroom door close.
Mitch isn’t much of a talker. He arrives at eight each morning and leaves at four. When I pay him, he lowers his head, as though embarrassed about taking my money.
At midday he breaks for a sandwich and sits on the back step with Poppy. I offer to make him a cup of tea.
“I’d rather have a shower,” he says.
I notice a bulging rucksack that is sitting beside the back door. Unlacing the top, he looks for a clean shirt, sniffing at several before pushing them back inside.
“Do you want to do a load of washing?” I ask.
“Tomorrow maybe.”
A sleeping bag is strapped to the rucksack.
“How are things at the boardinghouse?” I ask.
“The landlady asked me to leave.”
“Why?”
“The police came around. They were asking questions about that murdered woman.”
“Did you know her?”
“No, but I guess I’m on some list of sex offenders.” Mitch has found a clean shirt. “My landlady doesn’t like coppers. She says it makes her other lodgers nervous.”
“Where are you staying now?”
“Here and there.”
“Where did you sleep last night?”
“There’s a fire station on London Road that offers emergency shelter if the temperature drops below freezing.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“The car park on Queen Street is warm enough.”
“You should have said something.”
“Why? It’s not your concern.”
“You’re welcome to stay here for a few days,” I say, “until you finish the job.”
“You’ve done enough.”
“This place has five bedrooms.”
He chews on the inside of his cheek. “You should check with Evie.”
“If it makes you feel better.”
Mitch nods and climbs the stairs to the bathroom. Later, he reappears with damp hair and razor marks on his neck. This time he accepts a soft drink, which he barely touches, running his finger through the condensation on the can.
“I did a bit of reading on your case,” I say. “Who was the arresting officer?”
“Your friend.”
“Who?”
“He came here the other day and saw me working in the garden, but I don’t think he recognized me.”
“Gary Hoyle.”
He nods. “He treated me like a scumbag rapist from the very beginning.”
“What do you mean?”
“Usual stuff. You’re walking, hands cuffed behind you, and a boot trips you up. Face-first. Nothing to break your fall. Either that, or they spit in your food, or leave the cell lights on all night, or wake you every few hours for a strip search.”
“Your DNA was found in Lilah’s flat.”
“She was my friend.”
“How did her earring get into your washing machine?”
“Maybe it was planted.”
“You think you were framed?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
I want to argue, but I’m aware that police will sometimes tilt the scales against a suspect. It might be a sin of omission—disposing of evidence or burying a detail that could muddy the minds of a jury. At other times it involves forcing the facts to fit a particular narrative.
I hear the side gate open. Evie has been walking Poppy in Wollaton Park. She’s wearing jeans and a large woolen coat that makes her look even smaller. Poppy drinks noisily from a metal bowl beneath the tap, and Evie hangs the harness on a hook in the laundry.
“Mitch is going to be staying with us for a few days. Is that OK with you?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
I glance at Mitch, who smiles and says, “Thank you, Evie.”
“No problem.”
She heads upstairs, but returns almost immediately, yelling, “Your phone was ringing.”
She shapes to throw. I yell no, but the handset is already tumbling through the air. Mitch plucks it out with his left hand, like he’s fielding at first slip.
“Good catch,” yells Evie.
Lenny has sent me a message.
Maya Kirk’s brother-in-law has been arrested for breaking into the crime scene. Meet me at the house.
Dean Sterling is sitting in the back seat of a police car, resting his eyes or asleep. When he hears my voice, he blinks at me and raises his handcuffed wrists. “Hey, Cracker, explain to these guys that it’s all a mistake.”
Ignoring him, I join Lenny at the mobile incident room, a police-liveried caravan parked in the driveway, where officers have been guarding the scene and quizzing locals who might have seen or heard something that night.
“Sterling was caught coming out the back door,” she says.
“How did he get inside?” I ask.
“He had a key.”
Sterling shouts from the car. “I was picking up my tools. I left them in the cupboard under the stairs.” He motions to me. “I told him.”
“And I said it was still a crime scene,” I reply.
“Yeah, but I got bills to pay; mouths to feed.”
He gives me a locker room grin, as though we’re both the same, working stiffs trying to do a job.
Lenny looks at me. “Did he mention the tools?”
“At the hospital.”
She seems to chew over this detail. She nods to the constable. “Cut him loose.” And then to Sterling, “Next time, do as you’re told.”
“There won’t be a next time,” he says. “Sorry to waste your time.”
The cuffs are keyed open. Dean rubs his wrists, before walking quickly to his van, which he deliberately parked farther along the street because he knew the police were guarding the house.
“What was he carrying when you arrested him?” I ask the constable, who has orange hair and freckles.
“Nothing. I mean, he had the house keys and a small screwdriver.”
“What about the tools he came to collect?”
“Told me he couldn’t find them.”
I look at Lenny. “Does that make sense to you?”
She takes the keys from the constable. “Time for a look.”
The house has been locked up since the forensic teams departed, but the signs of their presence are still everywhere—evidence markers and fingerprint powder and a missing section of carpet that once lay beneath Rohan Kirk’s body.
Moving along the main hallway, I check the cupboard beneath the stairs. Inside is a wine rack and a spillover pantry with canned goods, boxes of pasta, and jars of preserves.
“Not the sort of place you’d put tools,” I say. “A tile cutter is a heavy piece of kit.”
I move up the stairs to Maya’s en-suite bathroom, which smells freshly painted. The bath has been salvaged and reused but the folding glass shower screen looks new, along with the tap fittings. I crouch to examine the floor drain and notice scuff marks on the edge of the bathtub. A faint pattern has been left behind by the soles of work boots. Someone was standing on the bathtub. I glance up at the ceiling light, which doubles as a room heater. There is also a smoke alarm with a round plastic cover.
Lenny has joined me.
“What sort of screwdriver was he carrying?”
“A small Phillips head.”
“About yea big?” I ask, pointing to the smoke alarm.
“Yeah.”
Leaning one hand on her shoulder, I stand on the edge of the tub and reach up, twisting off the cover of the alarm, which would normally be secured by two small screws. Both are missing.
I turn the cover over in my hand. There is a battery, but no smoke detector.
“What is it?” asks Lenny.
“Best guess—a spy camera. The battery has been unplugged but the camera has gone.”
I put the cover into a plastic evidence bag while Lenny uses her phone to photograph the ceiling and the edge of the bath. She calls Hoyle, asking for a search warrant for Dean Sterling.
Meanwhile, I go to Maya’s bedroom and look for other likely hiding places. Eventually, my eyes settle on the shelf of stuffed animals near the window. The toys are lined up in order of size, but one of them, the Paddington Bear, is slightly askew. I pick it up and discover that the back has been ripped open and one of the glass eyes is missing.
