When She Was Good, page 22
I have fought the urge to join the search, preferring to hope Evie might contact me, seeking safety or familiarity if nothing else.
When I get home Sacha is working in the front garden, trying to make some semblance of order out of the jungle of overgrown shrubs and knee-high weeds. Dressed in one of my old shirts, she has tucked her jeans into Wellingtons and found a pair of thick gardening gloves to protect her hands.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say, amazed at how much she’s achieved.
“I was bored.”
She wipes her forehead with the back of her glove, pushing away loose strands of hair.
“How did you get the mower started?”
“I talked to it nicely,” she says wryly. “That was after I had changed the petrol, cleaned the spark plugs and the carburetor, and oiled all the moving parts.”
“You’re a woman of many talents.”
“I spent too much time in my dad’s garage, helping him restore old cars. He used to drive my mother mad washing engine parts in the sink.”
Poppy wakes from her sunny spot beneath the bay window, stretches like a geriatric, and trots towards me, sniffing at my hands and knees and thumping her tail against the air.
“This could be a beautiful garden,” says Sacha, wiping a smudge of mud from her cheek. “Someone loved it once.”
“My grandmother.”
“Where is she?”
“She and Granddad are living in Weymouth, on the south coast. This place is too big for me. I keep saying that I’ll sell when the market picks up, but I never do.”
“Newton’s first law,” says Sacha. “Unless acted upon by an external force, an object at rest remains at rest.”
“You’re saying I should move.”
“I’m saying that you don’t have enough reason to move.” Sacha blows at the same loose strand of hair that has fallen over her eyes. “Where have you been? You left in such a hurry.”
“A girl was murdered at Langford Hall. Evie Cormac is missing.”
Shock in her tone: “How?”
“They came for Evie but killed her friend Ruby.”
My voice has grown thick. Sacha wants to hear the whole story, but not in the garden. We go inside and she makes me sit down.
“Have you eaten? I’ll make you something.”
She pulls a loaf of sourdough from the bread bin and cuts two thick slices for the toaster. Meanwhile, I tell her the sequence of events, putting everything in the right order, hoping she might see something I’ve missed.
“This is my fault,” I say. “Evie told me they’d found her, but I didn’t believe her. I didn’t listen.”
Sacha touches my forearm. “You cannot blame yourself.”
“If I don’t believe her—who else will?”
As I drop my head and turn away, I feel Sacha’s arms slip around me from behind and wrap across my chest as she presses her face against my back. We stay that way, entwined like the vines that grow wild in my unkempt garden.
The toast pops up and Sacha releases me. She arranges slices of cheese on the sourdough and turns on the griller.
“Where will she go?”
“London, most likely.”
“Does she know anyone?”
“No.”
“What about money?”
“She might try to find a poker game, but I think she’ll get as far away from Nottingham as she can.”
Sacha opens the fridge and takes out a jar of pickles.
“The man who visited Langford Hall knew your name.”
“Yes.”
“How did he know about your friendship with Evie?”
It’s a good question. More important, who knows that she is Angel Face? There are court orders and D-notices forbidding anyone from revealing her background or publishing her photograph. Adam Guthrie, her case worker, introduced me to Evie in the first place and showed me her files. He told me that nobody else at Langford Hall knew about her past. Caroline Fairfax, Evie’s lawyer, is also aware of Evie’s history, but she knows the penalties for breaching court orders. Councilor Jimmy Verbic mentioned Angel Face when I saw him at the golf club. He knew that she’d been sent to a children’s home in Nottinghamshire but claimed not to know her new identity. Hamish Whitmore had written the name Angel Face on a whiteboard, but there is no evidence that he knew of her whereabouts. I also mentioned Angel Face to his partner Bob Menken but gave no other clues.
Sacha has been quietly moving around the kitchen, making me cheese on toast, which she cuts in half and sets before me.
“Eat and then get some rest. You look exhausted.”
I know she’s right, but if I close my eyes I’ll think of Evie. She’s like a splinter that has lodged under my skin, snagging at my mind, making every task and idea remind me of her.
The doorbell rings. My heart jerks. Poppy barks.
I glance through the spy hole, hoping to see Evie. Instead I get a bearded, shaven-headed Viking warrior who is pushing his face close to the fish-eye lens.
“Badger!” I exclaim, swinging open the door. “Did I miss an appointment?”
“You missed dinner, arsehole.”
“But that’s next…”
“Last Saturday.”
“Oh shit! Is Tilda upset?”
“Pissed at me, not you.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t remind you.”
He’s dressed in low-slung jeans and a jacket that looks like it came from a charity shop but is probably expensive.
“I’m so sorry. I completely forgot.”
“You didn’t miss much,” says Badger. “We talked about you anyway. Tilda invited her old housemate from university, Erica, whose spirit animal is a squirrel. Enough said.”
He steps inside and spies Sacha before doing a cartoon double take. A slow smile spreads across his face, reaching to the corners of his eyes and the pink edges of his ears.
“Aaaaah,” he says slowly, as though some mystery has been solved.
I make the introductions and Badger bows a little as he takes Sacha’s hand. He looks at her wrist and along her arm, as though measuring her up for a suit or, in his case, a tattoo.
“Badger is my tattooist,” I say.
“You have a tattoo?”
Badger frowns. “You can’t exactly miss them.”
“More than one?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
Badger looks lost.
“Sacha is a friend. We’re not… together.”
“Oh. I see. Yes. Right. A friend.” He smiles again at Sacha. “Cyrus is my Sistine Chapel.”
“And that makes you…?”
“The Michelangelo of ink,” I say.
Badger tries not to blush, giving her an unconcerned shrug.
Sacha is intrigued, but I interrupt them both and usher Badger farther into the house.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Why are any of us here?” he asks playfully. “What is the meaning of our existence?”
Sacha is enjoying his performance. I feel a pang of jealousy but don’t know why.
“It took me a while, but I found that address you wanted,” says Badger. “Eugene Green’s mother lives in Leeds. A council house. She works at a laundromat near the university.” He hands me the address on a piece of paper and starts quizzing Sacha about how long she’s known me.
“Tilda will want the answers,” he explains. “If I don’t find out everything I can, she’ll send me back here. So how did you two meet?”
“We used to write to each other,” says Sacha, which isn’t a complete lie.
“How old-fashioned,” says Badger. “Pen pals.”
“Hardly,” I say, wanting to stop them talking while I still have some mystery left.
“Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?” I ask.
“Nah. I’m sweet. I can’t stay.”
“Will Tilda ever forgive me?”
“She likes orchids.”
Grabbing his jacket, Badger shrugs it over his shoulders. He’s at the door when he turns, as though he’s forgotten something. “What’s with the surveillance team?”
I look at him blankly.
“The car outside. Two-up. They’re parked on the corner.”
I go to the window of the library and lean close to the glass. A boxlike four-wheel drive is parked beneath the trees. The windows are so heavily tinted I can’t see anyone inside.
I follow Badger outside and wave as his van pulls away from the curb. Immediately I begin walking along the road towards the Range Rover. I’m thirty yards away when I hear the engine start. It edges away from the curb, moving slowly. I speed up. It matches me. I can’t see the driver’s face—just his eyes are in the side mirror. I’m running now but getting no closer. He’s toying with me. Playing a game.
I cut across a garden, trying to narrow the gap, but when he reaches the corner he steps on the accelerator and leaves me breathing in diesel fumes.
Back in the house I open my laptop and Skype call Lenny Parvel. She answers on her mobile.
“Are the police watching my house?” I ask.
“Pardon?”
“Have you ordered someone to watch my house?”
“I have every available officer looking for Evie Cormac.”
“There was a car outside.”
“A car. In Nottingham. That’s amazing.”
I ignore her facetiousness. “I took down the number. Can you run it through the computer?”
I can hear her muttering complaints as she types in the search. She comes back to me. “The plates belong to a silver Vauxhall Astra, registered to an address in Bristol.”
“It was a black Range Rover.”
“Well, either you jotted down the wrong number or the plates are stolen, or they’ve been cloned.”
“Cloned?”
“Some dodgy spare-parts shops will duplicate plates without looking at the vehicle logbooks. If you see the car again, call me before you chase it away.”
“They’re going to be looking for Evie when they discover she’s still alive,” I whisper, growing more circumspect. “You have to find her before they do, Lenny.”
“I’m doing my best.”
45 EVIE
Beams of afternoon sunshine angle through the edge of the curtains, dancing over my eyelids. I try to brush them away and roll over, falling off the narrow bench. It takes me a moment to realize where I am. The narrow boat has stopped moving. The door to the galley is closed. I think for a moment I might be a prisoner, but there’s a key on the inside.
I can smell meat cooking and hear Marty singing to himself on the deck. Climbing up the steps to the wheelhouse, I find him, beer in hand, marshaling sausages around a barbecue plate.
“I hope you’re not a vegetarian,” he says.
“I am,” I say. “Sorry.”
He glances at Gertrude and says, “I told you so.” And then adds, “Good thing I baked spuds as well.” Large balls of tinfoil are nestled in the glowing coals.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Eight o’clock. I didn’t know whether to wake you. You can still get a train to London. They run late.”
I look at the fading light. “Where are we?”
“On the outskirts of New Sawley. I don’t know if there’s an Old Sawley.”
There are narrow boats moored up and down the canal, taking up every available space. Some are like floating gardens, covered in plants and flowers, while others have balconies and statues and water features.
“What are they all doing here?” I ask.
“This is where the Erewash Canal ends,” says Marty, scratching his stomach through his faded rugby jumper. “To get any farther south we have to pass through Trent Lock and cross the Trent to the River Soar.” He turns a sausage. “The Happy Divorcee has never left this stretch of the canal. A more adventurous man might take you all the way to London, but that’s not me.”
“A less adventurous man wouldn’t have picked me up,” I say, trying to make him feel better. “How far are we from Nottingham?”
“About eight miles as the crow flies.” He motions towards a copse of trees in the distance.
“Are you stopping here for the night?” I ask.
“I am.”
He turns another sausage with the tongs and this one slips off the grill and falls to the deck. Gertrude has been waiting for such an opportunity, but it’s too hot for her to eat so she bats it around with her paws.
“You did that on purpose,” I say.
Marty grins and tells me to fetch some plates.
We eat on deck, sitting on stools. People from the other boats wander past and say hello. They all seem to know Marty and chat easily about the weather and the price of diesel and whether the mooring fees will go up this year.
Marty is a talker, like Ruby, which is fine with me because I prefer to listen. He used to be a printer with his own shop, but the Internet took off and people didn’t need professional printers anymore.
“There’s loads of jobs like that,” he says. “Once there were blacksmiths in every village and lamplighters and rat catchers and switchboard operators.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“They even had knocker uppers,” says Marty. “Know what they did?”
“They got women pregnant.”
He laughs. “Nah, they used to wake people up before alarm clocks and mobile phones by knocking on their windows with long poles. Imagine that.”
I couldn’t.
“The world is getting faster just as I’m getting slower. I can’t keep up so I’ve stopped trying.” He pauses and looks at me. “How about you, young Evie? Do you want to make your mark on the world?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. How do I explain to him that I don’t want to leave a footprint or a fingerprint? I want the world to leave me alone. I don’t want someone else’s life or to take what they have. The three biggest lies in the world are these: it gets better; everything will be OK; and I’m here for you.
“Are you OK?” asks Marty.
“Yeah.”
“You went all quiet for a while.”
“Thinking.”
“You looked sad.”
I don’t answer.
We eat in silence. Butter melts on the soft center of the potatoes and the salad is dressed in vinegar and oil, salt and pepper. Marty offers me a beer.
“You don’t look old enough, but a good host should ask.”
“No, thank you.”
He hasn’t mentioned the police and why they were looking for me. He seems to accept that either I’ll tell him or I won’t. By the time we finish eating, storm clouds are gathering to the east, lighting up the horizon with flashes of orange. Soon the air is thick with the smell of rain.
“You’re welcome to stay here tonight,” says Marty, glancing skywards. “Otherwise there’s a train station at Long Eaton, about a mile from here. Best leave now, or you’ll get a wet tail.”
“Where will I sleep?” I ask.
“You have the main cabin. There’s a lock on the door.”
“What about you?”
“I got a lovely bunk in the aft cabin.” Almost as an afterthought, he says, “You’ll be safe here, Evie.”
I look at his face and know he’s not lying.
“I don’t suppose you have a bath,” I say.
“Nothing so fancy, but I can boil up a kettle.”
We clear away the plates, fold the chairs, and wash up. Fat drops of rain are sizzling on the coals of the barbecue as Marty checks the ropes and makes sure everything is tied down.
He boils a kettle of water and retreats to his cabin, giving me some privacy. I take off my blouse and wash my upper body with a warm cloth, feeling how quickly my skin grows cold. Peeling off my jeans, I sponge the rest of me and get dressed in the same clothes.
There are voices outside on the towpath. For a moment I panic, but it’s only a couple, caught in the rain, running and laughing, telling each other to be quiet.
“I’m finished,” I say. Marty comes out of his cabin and collects a sleeping bag from a cupboard below the stairs.
“Pancakes for breakfast,” he says. “You like blueberries or bananas?”
“Both.”
“Good. So do I.”
It’s still early, but I’m exhausted. I pick up a book from Marty’s shelves—a crime novel with yellowing pages and small print—but it doesn’t hold my attention. Turning off the light, I hear Marty snoring through the thin wall. Gertrude has stayed with me, curling up on the end of the bunk, keeping my feet warm.
* * *
Alone in the secret room, I had no way of telling how many days and nights had passed. I slept. I woke. I grew thirstier. Hungrier. I pressed my ear to the wooden panel, but there were no sounds of men arguing or searching. Instead I could hear Sid and Nancy whimpering and whining in the garden. Did they have food? Water?
It was late afternoon when I emerged from hiding, crawling into the bedroom, where dust motes floated in the bright cracks of light at the edges of the curtains. Terry’s body creaked and made other sounds that belonged to death. A blowfly lifted off his face and settled again. The smell of him made me retch, but I had nothing in my stomach to bring up.
In the bathroom I drank water from the tap, tilting my head so that it ran across my cheek and down my chin. I scrubbed my face and looked in the mirror. I looked hollow-eyed. Haunted. Maybe I was dead, I thought, a ghost.
A car passed outside. Terror rose in me again. I heard laughter and peered through the gap in the curtains. A family walked past the house. Mum. Dad. Two children.
When it grew dark, I opened the curtains properly and moonlight fell across Terry’s body. I didn’t turn on the lights. Instead I crept to the landing and peered through the spindles, imagining the men were waiting for me.
I crouched for so long my back grew stiff and I lost circulation in my legs. Sid and Nancy were still whining. I edged slowly down the stairs, pausing every few steps, listening.
The kitchen smelled of bleach and every surface had been scrubbed and cleaned. But the rest of the house was a mess, with holes in the walls and ripped carpets and broken furniture.
