Lying Beside You, page 13
“In here,” I shout.
Lenny appears.
I hold up the bear. “Another camera. It was most likely hooked up to the home Wi-Fi and accessed using a phone app, or a laptop. The batteries would have to be replaced every so often, but other than that, he could have been watching Maya from anywhere.”
“Where are the cameras?” asks Lenny. “He was searched when he left the house. He was only carrying a screwdriver and the house keys.”
I take a step towards the window and feel something small and brittle snap beneath the heel of my shoe. Bending to investigate, I find a shard of black plastic. The sash window is pulled shut but unlatched.
I’m moving. Out the door. Down the stairs. Lenny follows. We reach the kitchen and take the side door, along a short path to the garden. Stepping onto the muddy grass, I look up at Maya’s bedroom window, estimating the trajectory. I pull aside the branches of a shrub. Lying in the dirt, amid the dead leaves, are broken pieces of plastic, glass, and circuit board.
“We need to get hold of his computers and his phone,” I say.
“I’m on it.”
28 Evie
Mitch has been working inside, fixing my bedroom door, which doesn’t lock properly because this house seems to shift with the seasons, creaking and groaning as it inhales and exhales. Someone can close a door downstairs and my bedroom rug will ripple and bulge. It terrified me at first because I thought the place was haunted.
Having unscrewed the hinges, he lowers the door and props it between two chairs. Then he uses a tool that shaves off slivers of wood that curl and flutter to the floor like party streamers.
“What was jail like?” I ask, watching him from the attic steps.
“Slow.”
“What does that mean?”
“Everything comes down to time, but you learn to make it pass.”
“How?”
Mitch pauses and blows wood shavings from his wrist. “We humans are the only animals that worry about time. Other animals live in the continual present, with no sense of the past or the future. That’s what I learned to do in jail. I ate. I slept. I breathed. I worked. I lived in the continual present.”
“What job did you do?”
“In the laundry. It was OK in the winter, but a sweatshop in the summer. I also studied for a degree. Almost finished.”
“What degree?”
“English literature.”
“My least favorite subject.”
“Why?”
“I’m dyslexic.”
Mitch planes off another sliver of wood. “Did you hear about the dyslexic bank robber? He walked in and shouted, ‘Air in the hands, mother, this is a fuckup!’ ”
I laugh, even though dyslexics don’t mix up words when they speak.
Taking a square of sandpaper, Mitch rubs at the base of the door and checks it with a spirit level, before lifting it back into place. I hold it steady while he attaches the hinges.
“Where did you learn to do this?” I ask.
“My dad was good with his hands.”
“Where is he now?”
“Dead. Lung cancer. Smoked two packets a day.”
“How about your mum?”
“She remarried. Lives in Scotland.”
“Did she ever come and visit you?”
“Twice a year. I think she was embarrassed by me. I was the black sheep, not the prodigal son.”
“The who?”
“It’s a Bible story.”
“I like stories.”
“It’s about these two sons of a wealthy man. One of the brothers asks for his inheritance early and then parties hard, having a good time, living the high life. When the money runs out, he goes home, where the other brother has been working hard, looking after the farm and his old father. Instead of being treated like a waster for pissing away his inheritance, the son gets welcomed home like a hero, and they throw a party in his honor. The good son is working in the fields, and nobody bothers to tell him about the party. He’s forgotten.”
“That’s an awful story.”
“Yeah, I used to think like that,” says Mitch, smiling, “but I think I understand it now. The father said that his son was lost and now he’d been found. It’s about redemption and absolution.”
“I don’t believe in forgiving people who hurt me.”
“Has anyone ever hurt you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
Suddenly, I want to change the conversation because I don’t want Mitch treating me like I’m damaged goods.
“Tell me about Lilah,” I ask.
“She was nice. She worked as a nurse. Neonatal intensive care, looking after the preemie babies. It was a tough job. So much heartache.”
“But she saved lives.”
“Yeah, but she also had to watch some babies die, you know—the ones they couldn’t save. She said it was nature’s way, part of natural selection, but you can’t say that to grieving parents, can you?”
“I guess not.” I have no idea what natural selection is, but I don’t want to interrupt him.
“She talked about quitting nursing because someone made a mistake at the hospital and she took the blame, but I can’t imagine her doing anything else.”
“Where is she now?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
He tests the door, making sure it closes properly. “She used to own the flat where the attack happened. Her parents helped buy it for her. Maybe she moved back home, although I doubt that. She didn’t really like her old man. Said he was too controlling.”
“Are you angry at her?”
“No.”
“But if only she’d realized.”
“Do you know the two saddest words in the English language?”
I shake my head.
“If only.”
* * *
Later, when Mitch is putting another coat of paint on the side gate, I take a can of Red Bull to the library, where I open my laptop and type in his name.
There aren’t many stories. One from the Nottingham Post:
A 30-year-old film editor has appeared in court charged with sexually assaulting a Nottingham nurse. Mitchell Coates of Portland Road confirmed his name, date of birth, and address, but no pleas were entered. He was granted bail with conditions and his case was sent to Nottingham Crown Court, in Canal Street, to be heard on February 12.
I look for more stories. Seven months later, there was a trial.
A neighbor who terrorized a young nurse, cutting off her clothes and sexually assaulting her, has been sentenced to eight years in prison.
Mitchell Coates, 30, lived upstairs from the victim and had a key to her flat. Traces of his DNA were found on her bed and on a pillowcase used to cover her head during the attack. An item of jewelry, lost during the struggle, was later found in his washing machine.
The jury at Nottingham Crown Court was told that Coates was lying in wait for his neighbor when she arrived home shortly before midnight. She was attacked from behind and lost consciousness, before waking hours later with her arms and legs bound, her head covered, and her clothes lying on the floor.
In sentencing, the judge set a non-parole period of six years, and described Coates as a violent, arrogant, and controlling bully who had terrorized and humiliated a young woman.
“Your lack of remorse and refusal to admit your crimes has ensured you will spend a considerable period behind bars.”
I can’t imagine Mitch being violent or arrogant or controlling. Why can’t people see what I can see?
The only other mention of the crime is a feature article about the most dangerous streets in Nottingham. Home Office figures had named the Arboretum as the worst area, with more than four hundred violent crimes in the previous twelve months. Among those highlighted was the sexual assault of a young nurse who lived in Portland Road. It must be her.
29 Cyrus
Melody Sterling is singing a nursery rhyme to the wet-cheeked child on her lap. Her daughter. Victoria. Around her, the police are at work. Belongings are being picked up and examined. Books riffled. Drawers opened. Furniture moved. Carpets peeled back.
Something falls and breaks above our heads.
“They’ll be gone soon,” I say apologetically.
“But what are they looking for?”
“Electronic equipment. Computers. iPads. Phones. USB sticks. Memory cards.”
“Is this about Maya? What has Dean done?”
“We found evidence of spy cameras in Maya’s bedroom and bathroom. We believe your husband placed them there.”
Melody’s mouth opens, ready to argue, to defend him, but something makes her stop. Instead, her shoulders sag and her head drops as the air leaves her lungs. I wait as she processes this new information, watching her face change as she moves from denial to shock, and to cold hard anger.
“Where were the cameras?” she asks.
“One was in the smoke alarm in Maya’s bathroom and the other was in a teddy bear on a shelf in her bedroom.”
“The Paddington Bear?”
“Yes.”
“Dean gave that to Maya for her last birthday. He used to tease her about her collection of stuffed toys, saying she’d never grow up.”
“Is teasing all that he did to her?”
Melody doesn’t answer immediately. The light fitting on the ceiling shakes as detectives move from room to room.
“When Dean and I first started dating, he would joke about how he couldn’t tell Maya and me apart. He had this fantasy that one night we’d switch places and Maya would be in his bed and not me.
“He always laughed, as though he was teasing me or trying to make me jealous, but I knew that a part of him wanted her…” The words dry up. “It’s not as though we were ever identical. I’ve always carried more weight, particularly since the pregnancy.” She pushes hair from Victoria’s forehead and kisses her cheek. “I once saw a documentary on twins. Even though we share the same genes, some of those genes can be influenced by outside events, getting turned on or off. Illness. Stress. Exercise. Nutrition. Smoking. Maya had pneumonia when she was four and I had a staph infection when I was eight. Maybe that’s why she was skinny and I’m like this.”
I want to tell her to be kinder to herself, but depression is part of the grieving process. She rocks Victoria in her arms. The toddler is struggling to stay awake.
“Dean seemed to lose interest in sleeping with me after Victoria was born. I tried to spice things up, arranging date nights and romantic dinners. Maya would come and babysit, but Dean was more interested in talking to her about her sex life—living vicariously through her adventures—imagining that he was single and available.
“I guess we all want that sometimes, but I hated how it made me feel—like he’d married the wrong twin.” The words get caught in her throat. “But he isn’t a killer. He would never hurt Maya.”
“He filmed her.”
“That makes him a sleaze—and if he had ever tried anything, Maya would have sent him packing.”
“You trust your sister.”
“More than my husband.”
Something else topples upstairs.
“They’ll pay for any damage,” I say. “And put everything back.”
“Not everything,” says Melody, talking about more than furniture.
Hoyle walks into the kitchen like a gunslinger entering a saloon. Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he pulls up a chair and sits on it backwards, propping his elbows on the backrest.
“Where was your husband on the night your father died?”
“In Leeds. He drove up on Sunday afternoon.” Melody looks from face to face, wanting us to believe her. “He’s working on a big project. A block of flats. A dozen bathrooms. Kitchens. Laundries. He’s been staying in Leeds during the week and coming home on weekends.”
“Where does he stay?”
“At a pub near the railway station. The Clayton.”
“Does your husband own a computer?”
“Yes. A laptop.”
“Where is it?”
“In the third bedroom. We use it as a study.”
“We didn’t find a computer,” says Hoyle.
Melody hesitates, clearly surprised.
“He also seems to have misplaced his phone,” says Hoyle.
She looks miserable. “I can’t help you.”
“Right! We’ll just keep looking,” says Hoyle, who bounces to his feet and smacks his hands together, making Melody jump. Victoria begins to cry. Melody quiets her quickly, rocking her gently until her eyes close and she falls asleep with her head resting against her mother’s chest. Behind them, the refrigerator is covered in crayon drawings and finger paintings. A tap drips. The clock ticks. The searchers have gone quiet.
“Does he have a secret place?” I ask.
Melody blinks at me.
“Everybody has one,” I explain. “Somewhere they put personal items of special value.”
She shakes her head.
“A workshop. A lockup. A caravan. A shed. A lower drawer. A shoebox. That’s where he’ll be hiding the memory card, or USB stick. He’s been watching Maya undressing, showering, sleeping.”
Melody wants to block her ears.
“Where is he?” she whispers.
“Outside, sitting in a police car.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“No.”
She bites her bottom lip, leaving carmine tooth marks on the soft pinkness of her skin.
“I can’t help you.”
* * *
Dean Sterling is in the back seat of the police car, eyes closed and head back—the same pose as before. When I open the door, he raises his cuffed hands and scratches his nose. “We have to stop meeting like this.”
I slide alongside him and take a stick of chewing gum from my pocket, offering him one.
“I’m going fishing tomorrow with my mates. Should I cancel?” he asks.
“I would.”
He nods, trying to appear unconcerned, but I can see the uncertainty in his bloodshot eyes and smell it on his skin.
“Lying to the police isn’t going to help you,” I say.
“Don’t look so serious. I didn’t kill anyone.”
“You keep saying that. I hope that alibi in Leeds holds up.”
“I was there,” says Dean, growing circumspect. “But I wasn’t staying at the pub.”
“Where were you staying?”
“With a friend.”
He watches me, waiting for the penny to drop. “Who is she?”
“A single mum, making ends meet. She’s a good girl. Decent. She’s had a tough time. Fella walked out on her when she was pregnant.”
“How did you meet?”
“Online.”
“Through a dating app?”
“Not exactly. She was looking for a sugar daddy. I know how that sounds but she’s not a prostitute—not really. She has a few regulars. Guys who help her out.”
“Out of the goodness of their hearts.”
A rictus smile creases his face.
“You should tell the police,” I say.
“I don’t want Melody knowing.”
“You either tell the truth, or they’ll charge you with obstruction, or worse.”
He blows some air into his cheeks and exhales. “If I give you her address, you could talk to Tessa and confirm my story. You could keep her name out of this.”
“Sounds like you care more about Tessa than you do Melody.”
Again, he grimaces. “If I admit to filming Maya, what happens to me?”
“You’ll be convicted of voyeurism and put on the Sex Offenders Register.”
“Will I go to prison?”
“The maximum sentence is two years, but if you cooperate and if you haven’t disseminated the footage—”
“I wiped the files.”
“What about footage from the night of the murder?”
“All gone.”
“That’s a shame,” I say. “You might have been able to do a deal.”
Dean seems to weigh up this information. His thoughts are self-serving, and he cares more about his own fate than Melody, or Tessa, or Maya for that matter. There is a long silence during which we watch police officers carrying bags of his clothes from the house.
“I’ve always fancied Maya, you know—the other sister. The forbidden fruit. I used to wonder if everything else was the same, you know. Underneath. Naked.”
My stomach churns.
“Maya was the naughty one, the sexy one. Melody was nice and neat and polite, but she never really did it for me, not in the sack. Know what I mean?”
You’re an arsehole, I want to say, but I keep listening in the hope that he might say something incriminating or less self-serving.
“When did you start filming Maya?” I ask.
He acts surprised. “Me? I didn’t film her.”
“You just said you wiped the files.”
“Which means you have no proof.”
“We have the broken cameras.”
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
He smiles, thinking he’s so clever.
“Are you going to give me Tessa’s name?”
“Will you keep her out of it?”
“I can’t make that sort of deal.”
“Well, find me someone who can.”
30 Evie
Elias is late. Rampton called and said his transport was delayed, making him sound like a package they’re delivering. Cyrus has been walking from room to room, adjusting a book on a shelf or a photograph in a frame. Now he’s checking the fridge.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
“No.” He shuts the fridge door. “A little.”
“Do you like him?”
“He is my brother.”
“Yeah, that’s a given, but do you like him? You don’t have to. There’s no rule. At Langford Hall there were kids who had shitty brothers and sisters.”
