Lying Beside You, page 22
“Where are you going?”
“Radford Road Police Station.”
“I don’t want to be home alone with Elias.”
“He won’t hurt you, Evie.”
“Yeah, well, I read about that guy who they released from a psych hospital and within two months he’d killed and eaten three people.”
“Is that according to Google?”
“Yes, but it’s true.”
He changes the subject. “Do you want sourdough toast?”
I hold up two fingers, meaning slices. “Have you seen the sitting room? It’s full of crisp packets and soft drink cans and old Playboys which he must have found in the attic. You said he wasn’t allowed up there. You promised.”
“I’ll have a word.”
“I’m not cleaning up after him.”
“You don’t have to.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Walk Poppy. Study. Look for another job.” He pauses and says, “You could do me one favor. Elias needs to pick up his meds from a pharmacy.”
“I thought he wasn’t supposed to leave the house.”
“He can go with you. I have to let Rampton know.”
Clearly, this is a part of me “pulling my weight.” Maybe he’s also testing Elias. We’re like guinea pigs in some psychological experiment, or weird reality-TV show. Put the psycho and the freak girl together and see who blinks first—only I don’t think Elias would blink. He’s like a snake. Cold-blooded and lidless.
“I’m busy today,” I say, not meeting his gaze.
“Doing what?”
“All of the aforementioned tasks.”
“Your vocabulary is improving.”
“Fuck off!”
Cyrus laughs. “Do this for me.”
His eyes are kind and warm and lingering and I just want to hug him, which is weird because I don’t usually like touching people and I’m frightened that my skinny body and the pimple on my forehead will repel him.
The toaster pops up. He shrugs on his coat. I catch him at the door and hold out my hand.
“I need cash for petrol.”
“What about your money?”
“I bought a car and lost my job, and I’m doing you a favor.”
He puts a twenty-quid note on my outstretched palm. I motion with my fingers, and he adds another twenty.
“When will you be home?” I ask.
“Early as I can be.”
“If I get murdered in my bed, I’m going to come back and haunt you.”
“You haunt me now.”
After he’s gone, I take Poppy outside so she can do her morning business and scare away the squirrels. Elias doesn’t appear downstairs until almost midday, smelling like he’s drowned himself in cologne. He’s wearing the same baggy corduroy trousers, but a different shirt.
“Why do you dress like a boy?” he asks.
“Why do you smell like a pimp?” I reply.
Elias cups his hands over his mouth and sniffs his breath. What a moron!
He sits at the table and asks if we have any bacon and eggs. I tell him we have eggs.
“I’d like two poached.”
“This isn’t a hotel,” I say. “Get your own breakfast.”
Elias cocks his head to one side like Poppy does occasionally when she doesn’t understand a command.
“And clean up the sitting room. It’s a pigsty.”
“Don’t you have a cleaner?”
“Yeah, she comes in with the butler and the chauffeur.”
Ignoring me, he gets a box of cereal from the cupboard. When he sits down his cuffs ride up, revealing his ankle monitor locked around his pale shin. Self-consciously, he hides it from me.
“I used to wear one of those,” I say. “I was always escaping from the children’s home.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t like living there.”
“What happened to your parents?”
“What happened to yours?”
Boom! His face creases and I want to take the question back. Cyrus would call it a cheap shot, but I don’t know what makes a comeback cheap or expensive or just plain nasty.
“I’m supposed to take you to a pharmacy,” I say, changing the subject. “Are you ready to go?”
Elias takes a prescription from his pocket. “I have an address.”
The Queen’s Medical Centre isn’t far, but I take Poppy with me for added protection. She surrenders her usual front seat for Elias, who squeezes into Mouse, pressing his knees against the dashboard. Despite the cold, he lowers the window and holds out his hand, fingers wide, feeling the air push against his palm as we head along Derby Road, past Wollaton Park. Elias points out landmarks as though I’m new to the area, talking about places that served the best pizzas and fish and chips.
“I used to drive,” he says. “Got my license first time. Perfect score on my test.”
“Modest, aren’t you?”
My sarcasm bounces off him.
“I was saving to buy a car. Had my eye on a Subaru Impreza. Naught to sixty in six seconds. What does this do?”
“No idea.”
“You must get good mileage.”
“If you say so.”
I take the exit onto Clifton Boulevard and immediately turn left, following signs to the hospital. As we pass a cluster of parked ambulances we give way to a police car. Elias goes quiet at the sight of it.
We reach the visitor parking area. I point to the sign that says “Main Entrance.” Elias doesn’t move.
“You have to come with me,” he says. “I’m not allowed to be on my own.”
“Are you going to run away?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll wait here.”
He has beads of sweat on his top lip. He licks them away.
“I don’t need the medications today. I can come back another time.”
“Show me the prescription.”
He hands it to me. I crack my window and leave Poppy on the back seat. Elias catches up when I’m halfway across the parking lot. The automatic doors slide open and we follow the overhead signs to the pharmacy, which is on Floor B.
I walk to the counter, where a pharmacist in a blue medical smock has reading glasses hanging around her neck and a mole on her top lip. I explain that Elias needs a prescription filled. She glances at the form and back at Elias. I wonder if she can tell by looking at the prescription what’s wrong with him.
“That will be fifteen minutes. You can wait or come back. There’s a café in the foyer.”
We follow her directions, past an information desk, a florist, and a gift shop. Elias sneaks a glance at two nurses who are walking past us. He looks away when he notices me watching him and does that same creepy licking of his top lip. It’s freezing today. Why is he sweating?
Then I realize that he’s nervous. He’s not used to being in a busy place like a hospital. The café is the wrong choice. Instead, I find a bench hidden by potted palms. Elias sits with his knees together and head thrust forwards, arms against his sides, fingers hooked under his thighs.
“When did you start hearing voices?” I ask, making it sound like we’re talking about the weather, which is something I never do.
“When I was fourteen.”
“What did they say?”
“It wasn’t a voice at first. It was a scarecrow man. He used to visit me at night. He had a hessian sack for a head and holes for eyes and he used to scratch on my bedroom window with his fingers.”
“That was probably branches in the wind.”
“Yeah, that’s what my mum said. She asked Dad to trim the tree, but the scarecrow man was still there. Eventually, he moved inside. I would wake and find him leaning over my bed, breathing on my face. I couldn’t move or scream.”
“I’ve had dreams like that,” I say. “The nightmares where you think you’re awake, but you’re trapped in the dream.”
I’ve had other dreams where the monsters were real, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Somebody nearby laughs loudly. Elias flinches and wipes his top lip.
“One day he spoke to me.”
“What did he say?”
“ ‘He is going to kill them.’ ”
“Kill who?”
He shrugs. “I thought he was talking about someone else. I tried to ignore the voice. I pushed it away. I told myself it wasn’t real. But it started to follow me. I’d be at school, or mowing lawns, or down at the arcade, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I’d hear it. ‘He is going to kill them.’ It was always the same thing, like he was talking about someone else, but looking straight at me.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“I didn’t want them thinking I was crazy.”
“But you were.”
He is rocking slightly and his voice sounds groggy, like someone who hasn’t slept in a long time.
“I tried to make it stop. I locked myself away. I drank. I smoked hash. I exercised. Once I didn’t sleep for three days, but the voice kept whispering to me. It’s funny how you get used to something like that. Instead of persecuting me, the voice became my friend. It set me tasks. Unspoken ones. They were small to begin with. Steal something from a shop. Cut myself with a knife. Shave off my hair. I began to wonder if my life would get back to normal if I did what he said. I just had to give up control. Stop fighting. Let him win.”
“Do you still see the scarecrow man?” I ask.
“No.”
“Do you hear the voice?”
“Yes, but he has no control over me now. I am different. Stronger.”
I get an odd queasy feeling in my stomach. It’s not his answer that bothers me. For the first time, I can’t tell if he’s lying.
50 Cyrus
The atmosphere in the incident room has changed since my last visit. The celebrations have been replaced by disappointment and a faltering sense of desperation. With each passing hour, the chances of finding Daniela Linares alive have diminished, and some detectives have switched to recovery mode, expecting to find a body.
The task force has been broken into teams that are tackling different avenues of inquiry. Some are knocking on doors. Others are studying CCTV footage from traffic cameras and local businesses, trying to identify the car and driver that picked up Daniela from outside the Little Drummer.
Foley’s poker-playing mates have each been interviewed and warned about perjury, but nothing has dented his alibi for Friday night. His phone records and social media pages are being searched, along with postings on message boards and possible links to radical incel groups.
Hoyle notices my arrival. He breaks away from a group of colleagues, signaling for me to walk with him, moving with less swagger than before.
“I wanted to apologize for the way I reacted at our last meeting,” he says. “I’m never at my best when I’m dragged out of bed.”
“I didn’t take offense.”
Hoyle pushes through a swing door, holding it open for me.
“What about Paulie Brennan?” I ask.
“He hasn’t been home. We’re watching the house.”
“What does Marlene say?”
“She says we’re harassing her family and has threatened to lodge a complaint.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Not in the least. You met Paulie. What did you make of him?”
“Below average intelligence. Socially awkward. He hangs out with some dodgy mates.”
“Orlando Simpson and Rex Chande,” says Hoyle. “They’re members of the Blue Angels Motorcycle Club. Both have convictions for dealing.”
“Has anyone talked to Foley?” I ask.
“His lawyer is refusing us access.”
“Can you offer some sort of deal?”
“Not a chance.” We have reached the stairwell. “There is one possibility. Foley’s lawyer has agreed to a preliminary psych evaluation. I put your name forward.”
I don’t know why Foley would trust me, but Hoyle must be running out of options. Unlocking a man’s ego can be as simple as asking him to open a jar of pickles, or as complex as algebraic geometry, but a meeting with Foley is a start. If I can explore his state of mind, I can learn what psychological buttons might unlock his defenses.
“One more thing,” says Hoyle. “I have organized a TV reconstruction of Daniela Linares’s last hours. I was hoping Miss Cormac might take part.”
“You want Evie on camera?”
“She’ll be playing herself.”
“Will you blur her face?”
“Why?”
“Her identity is protected. Nobody is allowed to publish her name, address, or any photographs.”
“What has that girl done to get that sort of protection?”
He knows I won’t answer.
“OK, but she wears the same clothes.”
Prime Time appears on the stairs, out of breath. “Paulie Brennan has just been sighted. He’s at Donington Park.”
* * *
I have never understood the appeal of motorsports. I don’t discount the skill and bravery it takes to hurl a machine around a circuit at two hundred miles an hour, but calling it a sport is like saying that Neil Armstrong was an athlete when he piloted Apollo 11 to the moon.
From what I’ve seen—which is admittedly very little—winning and losing often come down to the car rather than the person behind the wheel. All vehicles are not created equal. Then again, neither are yachts, nor polo ponies, nor football teams owned by oligarchs.
Donington Park is a circuit near Castle Donington in Leicestershire, about fifteen miles southwest of Nottingham. Today is an amateur race day, where motorheads and hobbyists get a chance to test their skills on a circuit normally used by superbikes and touring cars.
Dozens of drivers are trackside with their vehicles, waiting for their turn. Paulie Brennan is somewhere among them. Police in plain clothes are moving into the crowd, trying to recognize him. Hoyle and Lenny are in the lower seats of the grandstand, scanning the onlookers with binoculars.
I watch quietly, keeping my opinions to myself. Like everybody else, I want to know what Paulie was doing in the Little Drummer when Daniela Linares disappeared, but this isn’t the way to arrest him. He knew Maya, but there is no evidence he had any contact with Daniela. And his past acts of violence and criminal behavior have been spontaneous or self-serving—brawls in pub car parks, or nicking stuff from freight yards and warehouses.
Daniela’s abduction bothers me. If the killer is a sexual psychopath, he will be using these women to feed his fantasies, adding light and shade to events that he has already vividly imagined. In normal circumstances, Maya’s death should have been enough to keep him satisfied for weeks, or months, but instead he has taken a new victim within days. That suggests a rapid escalation, or a different motive.
Hoyle is communicating with officers on the track via a two-way radio, but there must be a hundred people in the starting area and pit lanes. I hear someone shout and see a scuffle break out. People are scattering. Paulie Brennan is dressed in a racing suit, carrying a helmet. He jumps into a hatchback with a painted number on the door. A detective reaches through the driver’s window and grabs the steering wheel, but the car accelerates along the pit lane, scattering the crowd, including a safety officer, who tumbles across the bonnet and bounces to his feet.
The Ford Focus accelerates into the straight, forcing another driver to brake hard and swerve out of the way. Paulie gets to the first corner and steers across the apron, bottoming out and creating a shower of sparks.
Hoyle is yelling into the two-way, demanding the track be cleared. Organizers begin waving other drivers into the pit lane, until only Paulie remains on the track. The circuit is two miles long with a series of corners and chicanes, as well as two hairpin bends, where cars must slow down. This is where police and marshals gather, waving a red flag, signaling for Paulie to pull over. He ignores them and flashes past, grinning beneath his helmet. Raising his middle finger.
A police car pulls onto the track, giving chase, but that only seems to encourage Paulie. Now it’s become a race. He roars along the straights, before braking hard, changing down through the gears, and steering the hatchback through each corner. Pedal down. More speed. Another circuit.
Safety cars are sent out to try to slow him down, but Paulie toys with them, weaving back and forth, before ducking inside them under brakes.
“Don’t chase him. You’re making this a contest,” I tell Lenny. “Let him get bored or run out of fuel.”
She looks at me helplessly. She’s not in charge.
Paulie’s hatchback roars past us again. Hoyle is arguing with the organizers, wanting them to deploy road spikes, but that’s not something they have at racetracks.
From my vantage point, I watch five cars being positioned across the tarmac, bumper to bumper. This is madness. They should be setting up the roadblock at the slowest part of the circuit, not the fastest corner.
Someone holds up a sign, warning Paulie to slow down as he weaves through a snaking chicane, both hands on the wheel, arms straight, eyes on the road. He’s in his element, driving towards a checkered flag. When he reaches the finishing straight, he accelerates, changing up through the gears. Hoyle is mid-track, with his arms raised, waving two red flags.
Taking a sharp line through the next corner, the hatchback bounces on the apron and fishtails as Paulie wrestles for control. At that moment, I imagine him looking up and seeing the cars ahead of him, straddling the track. He doesn’t slow down. He wrenches the wheel and steers towards the advertising hoardings that decorate the fences. He thinks there might be enough space between the last car and the safety railings. He’s wrong. I see a puff of smoke rise from the asphalt as he finally hits his brakes, but it’s too late. Rubber squeals and the car slews sideways. People are running for cover.
The crash seems to happen in slow motion, the crunch of metal on metal, and the final image of Paulie, raising his hands as the airbag explodes into his face and his head snaps forward and then back and the windscreen disintegrates around him, and the track becomes a junkyard.
