When She Was Good, page 21
The volume is adjusted. I hear the visitor ask about me and the receptionist mentions Evie’s first name. The man clicks his fingers, as though searching for her surname. “Yeah, that’s her,” he says.
Evie told me she recognized his voice. I shouldn’t have doubted her. Traumatic memories are like snapshots preserved like fossils beneath layers of sediment and rock. I can remember every detail of the evening I came home from football practice and found my family dead. The sights, sounds, smells are still with me, playing on a continuous loop.
My thoughts are interrupted by a booming voice coming from the foyer. Somebody is barking orders and demanding to see DS Parvel. Timothy Heller-Smith, the assistant chief constable, has arrived. He and Lenny have a mutual loathing for each other that stems from a mixture of competitive jealousy and misogyny.
Emerging from the control room, I see Heller-Smith shouting at a junior officer for some indiscretion. He looks more like a politician than a senior police officer, dressed in a suit rather than a uniform, with his dyed black hair so heavily oiled and combed back across his scalp with such care that I can see every tooth mark.
Lenny appears from along the corridor, pushing back the hood of her coveralls.
“Since I’m up so fucking early, make my morning,” says Heller-Smith.
“One girl is dead—another missing,” says Lenny. “I’m informing their next of kin.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“The missing girl may have been the intended target.”
Heller-Smith frowns, clearly surprised by the news.
Lenny glances past him and our eyes meet for a fraction of a second. She doesn’t want me dragged into this, because Heller-Smith doesn’t like psychologists, or maybe it’s just me.
Lenny explains the likely sequence of events.
“You’re making this sound like a gangland hit,” says Heller-Smith. “Why would a teenage girl be targeted?”
“We’re still trying to establish the motive,” says Lenny.
“Are you sure of the victim’s identity?” asks Heller-Smith. “Who identified her?”
“Cyrus Haven knows both girls, sir. He’s a regular visitor to Langford Hall.”
I clear my throat. Heller-Smith turns.
“Look what Schrödinger’s cat dragged in,” he says, looking pleased with the pun. I’m sure Heller-Smith doesn’t know the first thing about Schrödinger, but I won’t give him any more reason to dislike me.
“This dead girl—you’re sure it’s Ruby Doyle?”
“Yes.”
“Why would Evie Cormac run?”
“She’s frightened.”
“Maybe these men came here to bust her out.”
“I don’t believe so.”
Heller-Smith sniffs at the air as though he’s caught a whiff of something unpleasant and turns to Lenny.
“Look to see if she had a boyfriend on the outside. I want to know everything about this girl—who she’s called, who visits her, where she came from. And I want it on my desk by midday.”
Lenny nods.
The senior officer turns and strides out the automatic doors, raising a phone to his ear. I catch the first few words of the conversation as he begins briefing someone.
In the meantime, a dog-squad officer in blue coveralls and heavy boots arrives in the foyer, escorted by a detective.
“The dogs have picked up a scent, boss. She was on Moorbridge Lane, about half a mile from here, but left the road at Stanton Gate. She’s on the canal towpath.”
“Heading in which direction?” asks Lenny.
“South.”
Lenny looks at the time. It’s been four hours. Evie could be ten miles away.
“OK, I want cars at every bridge, flyover, and canal gate,” she says, pulling off her coveralls. Her civilian clothes are underneath. “And I want officers checking every bus and train station. Show her photograph to commuters and talk to staff. Someone else will be looking for Evie Cormac. We have to find her before they do.”
She summons two detective sergeants to follow her as she strides to her car. As I try to keep up, I pass Heller-Smith outside the main doors. He’s on his phone, but the tone of his voice has changed. I catch only a few words: “… the wrong fucking girl,” he mutters before he catches me looking and turns away.
43 EVIE
I’m standing on the walkway of a bridge, peering over the side. The canal is twenty feet below me, where mist hangs over the water like smoke trapped in a glass bottle. I’m cold but it’s better now that I’m moving.
I’ve run away before from Langford Hall, but usually I head straight for the nearest station and catch the first train, regardless of the direction it’s traveling. Distance is the key. Putting miles between them and me. I didn’t count on the tracker dogs. That’s never happened before.
The towpath is paved with asphalt and pitted in places, where tree roots have broken through or puddles have frozen and thawed.
I draw level with a canal lock, where enormous metal doors are holding back the water. Narrow boats are moored on either side, most of them closed up for the winter. I can hear trains passing but the railway line is hidden behind the trees.
I walk for another hour past fields and farmhouses. The sky is growing light and a jogger emerges from the mist. Long and lean, wearing brightly colored Lycra shorts, he says good morning as he passes. I see him again on his return leg and he says, “Lovely morning,” as though the day has improved between the greetings.
The next jogger has a dog, a husky, who lopes alongside her with its tongue lolling from side to side. I think of Poppy and my heart aches. Two middle-aged men, walking rather than running, pass by but I don’t make eye contact.
The sun is fully up, warming my face as I reach an old stone bridge with an arch underneath, where a family of swans seems to be living. More people are using the towpath, Keiths and Kaths and Jacks and Jills—all of them unaware of what happened last night, how a girl died instead of me. My best friend.
Factories have replaced the fields. Houses replace the factories. Some with small boats tethered to the bank, covered in tarpaulins that are dotted with duck shit.
I’m passing another narrow boat moored to the bank when a bare-chested man steps off. Cursing the cold, he dances from one bare foot to the other. He’s carrying a small white dog that he sets down on the grass.
“Shit or get back on the boat,” he says, but the dog ignores him and sniffs at the nearest tree. “Oh, come on. I’m freezing my bollocks off.”
The man’s chest is covered in curly white hair, but his head is mostly bald, apart from a white tuft above each ear.
The dog finally squats on a patch of grass with a look of intense concentration, but nothing happens.
“Yeah, that’s right. You’re bunged up. That’s what happens when you eat a whole block of cheddar. You have to be the dumbest dog on the…”
He notices me and stops, raising an arm across his chest to cover his nipples.
“Pardon me, miss. I didn’t expect…”
“That’s OK.”
The dog bounds towards me, yapping and leaping around my knees. I try to pat her but she’s too hard to catch.
“What’s her name?”
“Gertrude.”
“What breed?”
“A shih tzu—name says it all.”
“She’s gorgeous.”
“She’s constipated.”
A kettle begins whistling from the belly of the boat, growing louder in the quiet of the morning.
“Damn!” he says.
“I’ll watch Gertrude.”
“Great. Won’t be a tick. I’m Marty, by the way.”
He clambers onto the boat and disappears through a wooden hatch. I hear him talking to himself while he opens and closes cupboards. He reemerges a few minutes later carrying the kettle and two tin mugs with the tags of tea bags hanging over the rims.
“Fancy a cuppa?”
“Sure.”
He’s put on some clothes: a tatty sweater, khaki trousers, and sheepskin boots that are stained with oil. He pulls an old tobacco tin from his pocket full of sugar and polishes a teaspoon on the front of his jumper and offers them to me.
“Sugar?”
“No, thank you.” I motion to the boat. “Is this where you live?”
“Home sweet home.”
“Does she have a name?”
“The Happy Divorcee. My wife got the house.” He grins and shows me a gap in his teeth. Gertrude sniffs at my boots and nudges my hand.
“What brings you out this early?” Marty asks.
“I stayed at a friend’s house last night.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Yeah. We had a fight.”
“Is he worth fighting over?”
“No.”
“Then you’re well rid of him.”
It’s strange when I lie to someone and watch to see if they swallow it completely or show any signs of doubt. Marty has one of those faces that is so open and easy to read like I’m looking at pictures in a children’s book.
I glance along the narrow boat, where an old bicycle is chained to one of the side railings and a small herb garden is growing vertically from a metal frame. Two solar panels are propped on the roof of the main cabin, tilted to face the sun.
“I’m not completely self-sufficient,” he explains, “but I like being off the grid because it stops them spying on me.”
“Who?”
“The government.”
He gazes up into the clear sky as though we might be under surveillance even now by satellites or drones.
“Hey! You hungry?” he asks.
He doesn’t wait for an answer before disappearing belowdecks and comes back with a glass jar full of biscuits. “I made them myself,” he says. “My mother’s recipe. Nothing she couldn’t make. Sponge cakes. Flans. Tarts. Biscuits. She could have cooked for royalty.”
I take a biscuit, which is hard on the outside and soft in the center, with dark chocolate bits that melt in my mouth. I don’t realize I’m hungry until I start eating. I pull off my boots and examine a blister on my left heel.
“You should put a plaster on that,” Marty says. “I can get you one.”
It means another trip into the belly of the boat. He returns and peels the paper backing from the sticking plaster, before pressing it gently on my heel.
“Where is home for you?” he asks.
“London.”
“I know London pretty well. Where do you live?”
I try to make up an address, but names suddenly desert me, and I say the first thing that jumps into my head.
“Trafalgar Square.”
“You live at Trafalgar Square!”
“Near there.”
“Maybe Buckingham Palace, or Clarence House.”
He’s teasing me, but not in a way that makes me angry.
“You haven’t told me your name,” he says.
“Evie.”
“Would you like to go on a cruise, Evie? I’m heading downstream, but there’s a winding hole up ahead where I can turn around.”
“I really should be getting home,” I say, glancing back the way I’ve come. It’s then that I notice a group of men in the distance. They’re too far away to see clearly, but two of them are holding dogs.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I say, leaping onto the boat. “Can we go that way?”
“Certainly. You hold on to Gertrude while I cast off.”
He’s taking too long to unhook the mooring lines.
“Please hurry.”
“What’s the rush?”
“No reason.”
“The thing about narrow boats is that they don’t go anywhere quickly.”
Marty unhooks the last of the ropes and jumps on board. He starts the engine in a puff of fumes and leans on the rudder, easing us into the center of the canal. Gertrude runs to the bow, where she stands like a hood ornament, barking at the ducks.
I glance back and see that we’re pulling farther away from the men and the dogs. They have reached the edge of the canal where the narrow boat was moored. The dogs are jinking back and forth along the bank, noses to the ground, looking for my scent.
Taking a seat in the wheelhouse, I listen to Marty talk about how he bought the narrow boat at an auction and spent five years fixing it up.
“Sleeps four in two cabins. Four-ring gas cooker. Drop-down table. Microwave. Twelve-volt fridge. All the creature comforts except for a TV, but there’s nothing I want to watch.”
As he talks we motor past more houses, some of which look expensive, with gardens that slope down to the water. I begin to relax and lean back, lifting my face to the sun.
“Something’s happening up ahead,” says Marty.
I look along the roof and see flashing blue lights on a road bridge above the canal. A police car has pulled up and two officers are peering over the edge of the bridge.
“Can I take a look inside?” I ask.
“Sure.”
I climb down three steps into the galley and dining area, which are finished in varnished wood and have floral cushions on the benches. Pulling the net curtain aside, I try to see the approaching bridge, but the angle is wrong.
Someone yells a greeting.
“Fine morning,” Marty replies.
They’re asking him to slow down. The engine begins to idle.
“We’re looking for a teenage girl. She was on the towpath,” says the policeman.
“A teenage girl,” repeats Marty, as though such things are a rarity. “What does she look like?”
“Light brown hair, slim build. Five three. She’s wearing jeans and a grey hooded sweatshirt.”
I’m five four, arsehole!
“Run away from home, has she?” asks Marty.
“Not exactly,” says the officer, “but we do have concerns for her safety.”
“How old is this girlie?”
“Seventeen, but she looks younger.”
Marty scratches his unshaven chin and glances down to where I’m hiding. I shake my head, pleading with my eyes.
“Has this girl done something wrong?”
“She has important information.”
“Important to whom?”
“I can’t discuss details of the case,” says the officer, sounding annoyed. “Have you seen a girl or not?”
“Well, I don’t recall seeing a runaway on the towpath, but I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
He engages the engine and the boat slides beneath the bridge and beyond. Fifty yards… seventy… ninety… Away. Safe.
I wait for a few minutes before I poke my head above deck.
“Thank you, Marty.”
“Did you steal something?”
“No.”
“Kill someone?”
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Storm in a teacup, eh? Tempest in a teapot?” He’s being sarcastic. “Speaking of which, put the kettle on. It’s time for another brew.”
After I’ve made him a cup of tea, I curl up on the padded bench in the galley and close my eyes. I tell myself not to sleep and to stay alert but my eyelids are heavy and it won’t hurt if I rest them for a moment. I’m not sleeping. I’m making a plan.
* * *
Instead of looking forward, I’m dragged back to the secret room behind the wardrobe. I don’t know how long I waited after the screaming had stopped and I couldn’t hear their voices. It was long enough for my lantern to fade and leave me in permanent darkness.
Hunger gnawed at my insides and the room stank so much I thought the smell would give me away. I had been using a bucket for a toilet and the lid didn’t seal properly.
Finally the silence and the blackness and my thirst became too much for me and I slid the panel aside and crawled into the bedroom. I saw Terry sitting in a chair, silhouetted against the light from the window. He was half-naked with his arms pulled behind his back, and a leather belt was holding his head in place, while another tied his ankles together where his bare feet rested on the floor. I whispered his name and thought for a moment he might turn his head and say something.
A diagonal shadow fell across his chest like a sash in a beauty pageant, and the sash seemed to be moving. I stepped closer to look at his face. A mistake. My hand flew to my mouth, muffling the scream. His eyes were holes. Black. Weeping. Bottomless. He was no longer Terry, no longer my gentle giant.
I touched his arm and suddenly his chest heaved and mouth opened, uttering a gurgling sound.
“Terry?” I said, touching his arm.
His lips parted and he made a different sound. A word. “Hide.”
Stumbling backwards, I collided with the wardrobe door, which slammed against the wall. Then I scuttled like a cockroach through the gap and slid the panel into place, pressing my back against it, hugging my knees.
There were heavy boots on the stairs.
“I heard it too,” said one of the men.
“What was it?” asked another.
“Fuck, he’s still alive,” said the first man. “Maybe he kicked the floor.”
“He didn’t make that noise. Search again. That bitch is somewhere.”
They began calling my name, saying things like, “Are you hungry? We have food. We’re not going to hurt you.” One of them sang, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
The wall shook. “I wanna knock this place down.”
“And bring everyone running.”
They kept searching, tipping up beds, ripping up carpets, hammering and tearing. Sometimes they were close… on the other side of the panel, pulling Terry’s clothes from hangers and tossing his shoes aside. I felt the walls shaking and dust falling from the ceiling beams. Blinking it away, I crawled into the box and wrapped myself in a muddle of hot blankets, waiting to be found.
44 CYRUS
The police dogs followed Evie’s trail as far as Sandiacre Lock before they lost her on the towpath. Divers are now searching the dark green waters in case she tried to cross and fell into the canal. I don’t think Evie drowned. I think she’s done what she always does—found a way to survive. She’s like a desert frog that hibernates for years until it rains, or a salamander that blends into its surroundings. She adapts. She endures.
