Lying Beside You, page 7
14 Evie
Some strange guy is mowing the lawn. He’s wearing jeans and a checked shirt and a red woolen hat that makes him look like a gnome.
“Who is he?” I ask.
“Someone who needs the work,” says Cyrus.
“But I’m supposed to mow the lawn.”
“Really?”
Only Cyrus could put that much sarcasm into a single word or turn a question into a statement. We’re in the kitchen, looking out the window, as the mower guy does the edges of the garden. He’s mid-thirties and walks with a limp.
“His name is Mitch,” says Cyrus. “He’ll be doing some odd jobs around the place. He can fix up the side gate and paint the window frames and maybe sort out your bedroom door.”
“Where did he come from?”
“He’s been in jail.”
“For what?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
“He was convicted of sexual assault.”
“And you want him fixing my bedroom door?”
“You said it was sticking—and he’s served his time.”
Mitch notices us watching him and stops the mower. He makes a drinking motion with his hand.
“Make him drink from the hose,” I say, feeling anxious.
“He won’t bite.”
“That’s not what I’m afraid of.”
Mitch comes to the door. His boots are caked in grass clippings. He slips them off. There are holes in his socks. Cyrus introduces us. Mitch nods shyly.
“Are you going to rape me?” I ask.
“Evie!” scolds Cyrus, who glares at me. He starts apologizing to Mitch, saying I should be ashamed for asking a question like that, but it’s the only question that matters because I’ll be able to tell if he’s lying.
Mitch is holding his hat in both hands. “I’m no threat, Evie. I didn’t hurt anyone.”
Cyrus is looking at me, waiting for me to apologize. I suddenly wonder if this is a setup. Mitch fills his glass again and is drinking. I move out of earshot, and whisper to Cyrus, “How can both of you be telling the truth?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said he was a rapist.”
“He was convicted of sexual assault.”
“Well, if he’s guilty—nobody told him.”
I can see Cyrus is troubled by this. Mitch rinses his glass and leaves it on the drainer.
“I’ll get back to work.”
“Evie will make you a sandwich later,” says Cyrus.
“I can walk to the shops.”
“She doesn’t mind,” says Cyrus, nudging me.
“Yeah, no trouble,” I say, when I mean the opposite.
Cyrus hates me lying, then forces me to do it.
The doorbell sounds. Cyrus motions with his head, expecting me to answer it. What am I—the maid and the butler?
I check the spy hole—force of habit—and see a fish-eye view of some guy with a crew cut that makes his head look like a bowling ball. I open the door.
“Does Cyrus Haven live here?” he asks, looking me up and down. I’m still in my pajamas, which makes me feel self-conscious.
“Who are you?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Hoyle.”
“What’s this about?”
He pushes past me into the hallway and calls out for Cyrus, who tells him to come through. It’s like an open house today—everybody is welcome, cops and criminals.
Cyrus pours Hoyle a coffee. I grab a bowl of cereal and pretend not to be listening. Mitch has gone back to the garden, where Poppy is following him around. Dogs are good judges of character.
“Foley showed up at a police station first thing,” says Hoyle. “He says he heard a report on the radio about Maya Kirk going missing.”
“Has he lawyered up?”
“Came with a solicitor. And here’s the thing—his real name is Anders Foley.”
“It was a fake profile?”
“He has multiples, as well as different social media pages.”
“The man is a player.”
“Or a predator.”
“What’s he said?”
“Nothing yet. I’m letting him stew. I want you there for the interview.”
Hoyle glances out the window, and Mitch chooses that moment to look back at the house. He and Hoyle seem to stare at each other.
“You’ve hired a gardener. Had him long?”
“No,” replies Cyrus.
“Where did you find him?”
“He pushed a flyer through the door.”
Another lie. And he complains about me.
Hoyle has a car waiting outside. Cyrus puts on his jacket and prepares to leave.
“What are your plans?” he asks.
“I have to buy a dress—for the new job.”
He opens his wallet and takes out a fifty-quid note. “And you pay me back.”
I slip the money into the pocket of my pajamas and watch him walk down the front path to the gate and the car. Hoyle opens the back door as though arresting him.
Upstairs, I get dressed into jeans and a sweatshirt. Afterwards, I sit on the back step, holding a mug of tea and watching Mitch at work. He pauses and cuts the engine, tipping the mower on its side and scraping wet grass from the blades.
“Did you call the police on me?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“The detective in the kitchen.”
“Oh, him. Cyrus works with the police as a consultant. Profiling. Sherlock Holmes stuff.”
Mitch wipes his hands on his jeans and tips the mower back onto its wheels.
“You recognized that detective, didn’t you?”
He doesn’t answer.
“He recognized you.”
Mitch shrugs. “Ancient history.”
He pulls on the cord and the mower splutters to life and roars, drowning out my next question.
15 Cyrus
Radford Road Police Station is a three-story redbrick building separated from the River Leen by a car park and waste ground. The interior of the building matches the façade—solid and functional, rather than welcoming. The interview suites are on the lower floor, adjacent to the charge room and holding cells.
Anders Foley has been waiting for two hours. I can hear his solicitor complaining to the desk sergeant about the delay, explaining that time is money and that she’s due in court at ten o’clock.
“You’re free to leave anytime,” says the sergeant.
“My client will leave with me.”
“That’s his prerogative, madam.”
The word “madam” is delivered with just the right amount of faux respect to infuriate the lawyer.
Anders Foley is sitting alone in the interview suite. I spend a few moments studying him through the one-way mirror, comparing him to the man described on his various dating profiles. Most people massage the truth when they create these personal online billboards. Foley’s three profiles were each worded differently, with carefully curated images designed to interest different women and cast the widest possible net.
His Anders Foley persona is an “action man,” or alpha male, who loves outdoor pursuits such as rock-climbing, windsurfing, and triathlons. “Andrew Foley” describes himself as shy and thoughtful and his ideal romantic evening is to prepare a home-cooked meal and to curl up on a sofa to watch a movie with a glass of wine. “Alex Foley”—the one Maya responded to—is a traveler and adventurer, who “loves getting lost in nature” and “exploring different cultures.”
None of these descriptions seems to equate with the figure I see on the far side of the glass. Dressed in skinny-legged jeans and a tight-bodied shirt, he is a decade older than the ages listed on his profiles. His hair is receding, creating a wasteland on his forehead, and his cheeks are pockmarked with old acne scars.
Lenny has joined me in the viewing room, pulling up a chair next to mine.
“Did he lie about his job?” I ask.
“No, he’s a freelance IT contractor. Works mainly for the university.”
“Any links to Maya?”
“Only the dating app.”
Hoyle enters the interview room, accompanied by DS Edgar. The solicitor follows them. Tall and thin, with hair pinned tightly to her scalp, she is dressed in a dark grey trouser suit and a white blouse.
Foley gets to his feet, smiling and holding out his hand, as though this is a social engagement. Neither detective takes up the offer.
“I don’t know how much I can help you,” he says. “I barely knew Maya.”
“Why have you referred to her in the past tense?” asks Hoyle.
Foley blinks at him. “Pardon?”
“Is Maya Kirk dead?”
“I have no idea…”
“Yet you referred to her in the past tense.”
Foley begins to stammer. “It was a slip of the tongue.” He looks at his solicitor, hoping for instructions.
Giana Camilleri introduces herself. “My client is here voluntarily. He heard Maya Kirk’s name mentioned on a radio report and has come forward. He wishes to help the police in any way he can.”
“Is that why he brought you along?” asks Hoyle.
“He has a right to legal counsel.”
“We only met once,” says Foley. “On Sunday night. We had a drink. We chatted. We parted ways.”
“Where did you meet?”
“A pub near the river. The Canalhouse.”
“How long did you stay?” asks Hoyle.
“About an hour. Then we walked into town and went to a few other bars. One of them was on Low Pavement. I can’t remember the names.”
“Who arranged the date?” asks Hoyle.
“We both did. We were texting each other and we talked on the phone.”
“About what?”
“Usual stuff. Likes. Dislikes. Family. Work. Music. I thought she was very chill and down-to-earth.”
“Did Maya tell you where she lived?”
“No.”
“What did you do with the texts?”
“I deleted them.”
“Why?”
“I liked Maya, but the chemistry wasn’t there, you know? You can tell, can’t you—if there’s a spark—but I just didn’t feel it with Maya.”
“When did you decide that?” asks Edgar.
“Almost immediately. We had a few drinks. We didn’t click. We said good-bye.”
“Maya left by herself?”
He nods resolutely.
“And that was the last time you saw her?”
“Yeah.”
Hoyle signals to Edgar, who produces a laptop and turns the screen to face Foley. “This is CCTV footage taken by a security camera on Sunday evening.”
Lenny points me to a nearby desktop computer and calls up the same footage. Although grainy and poorly lit, it clearly shows Maya standing on a footpath, struggling to get her arms through the sleeves of her coat. Foley helps her. She stumbles. He holds her up.
Hoyle continues, “We also have CCTV footage taken of you and Maya crossing St. Peter’s Square shortly before ten o’clock.”
Foley grows agitated. His relaxed, eager persona has been replaced by a prickly defensiveness.
“Yeah, OK, I was hoping we might kick on. I offered to buy Maya dinner and said we could go see a mate’s band. They play covers—Dire Straits, Oasis, Blur, that sort of stuff. Maya wasn’t interested.”
“Earlier, you said there was no chemistry. No spark.”
“We could still have a fun night.”
“Hook up, you mean?”
Foley doesn’t answer.
“Why is she stumbling?”
“She’d had a few drinks.”
“Are we going to find her fingerprints in your car?” asks Hoyle.
Foley hesitates and comes to a decision. “I offered to drive her home. It was the least I could do in the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?” asks Edgar.
“She was drunk. I was concerned.”
“Maya was in your car?”
“Only for a minute. She vomited. I kicked her out.”
“Charming,” says Edgar.
“Hey! I was trying to do the right thing.”
“When did you last see her?”
“She was walking towards the taxi rank on Wheeler Gate.”
“And then what?”
“I went home.”
“What about your mate’s band?”
“They’re pretty shite.”
Edgar smiles, but Hoyle doesn’t find it funny. Lenny has scrawled something on a piece of paper, which she hands to a female constable. Moments later, the same constable knocks on the door of the interview suite and passes the note to Hoyle. He glances at it quickly and crushes it in his fist. Instead, he opens a green manila folder and reads from a single page.
“Tell us about Alice Shelley.”
Foley frowns and looks at his solicitor. “Who?”
“August two years ago, you took Alice for a drive to Sherwood Forest. You pulled up at a secluded spot and unzipped your pants. Alice said she wasn’t interested. You didn’t listen. You began masturbating. When she tried to phone for help you threw her handset out the window.”
Foley’s face reddens and his shoulders grow rounded. He looks to his solicitor, expecting her to intervene.
“My client has come here voluntarily to talk about Maya Kirk,” she says. “Any other material is irrelevant unless you’d like to charge him.”
Hoyle ignores her. “Alice was held against her will and sexually assaulted.”
“That was consensual,” says Foley.
“You locked the car doors. You soiled her clothes and afterwards gave her a tissue to clean herself up.”
“It was a misunderstanding.”
“You kept her prisoner.”
Camilleri gets to her feet. “I think that’s enough. We’re leaving.”
“Did Maya Kirk say no to you? Did that make you angry?”
“My client will not be answering any more questions,” says Camilleri. “Come on, Anders.”
Foley gets to his feet.
“We’re going to find more CCTV footage,” says Hoyle. “And we’re going to pick apart your life. If we discover that you’ve been lying to us, I will personally kick down your door and put you in handcuffs.”
Solicitor and suspect have gone. Hoyle looks at his reflection in the mirror and shrugs, aware he has an audience.
“Any thoughts?” asks Lenny.
“He doesn’t like women very much,” I reply.
“Are you talking about Foley?”
“No.”
16 Evie
I don’t own any dresses. They belong to my past life, when men and women would bring me clothes and dress me up, making me pretend to be a daughter, or an orphan, or a waif, or a schoolgirl, or some other character from their sick fantasies.
Before that, my dresses were mainly hand-me-downs from Agnesa, which were always too big because I was small for my age. The runt of the litter, according to Papa, who said it in a nice way. Agnesa had the curves and the cheekbones. I got the funny elbows and llama eyelashes.
For the past hour I’ve been looking in dress shop windows and wandering between department stores in the Victoria Centre, trying to summon the courage to actually try something on. Posh shops intimidate me. I don’t know what it is exactly—the peacock-like assistants or the choice of clothes or the featureless mannequins or the perfumed air. I suspect it’s because the boutiques are so classy that I feel like I’m trespassing.
Normally, I love shopping malls—the escalators and the fountains and the food court, the unlimited things to buy. I once saw a film about a man who got trapped in an airport, unable to return to his home country, so he lived in the terminal building. He had everything he needed—shops, cafés, arcade games, friends. I couldn’t understand why he wanted to leave. I would have stayed there forever.
My mobile sends me an alert. It’s a message from my dating app. A Constable Lowry wants me to contact him urgently. He’s given me a number. It’s probably spam. I delete his message.
I continue walking past the same boutique, but this time I turn left and enter the hallowed ground. The clothes are displayed like works of art. Color-coordinated and accessorized. The two assistants look emaciated and bored shitless.
“Are you lost?” asks the older one.
“No,” I reply, spying myself in the mirror. I see what they see—my torn jeans and hooded sweatshirt, my botched attempt to put highlights in my hair. They’ll think I’m a shoplifter, or a time waster.
“I’m just looking,” I mumble.
Her colleague is younger, wearing sling-back heels that make her butt stick out in a tight black dress. I couldn’t wear something like that. I wouldn’t want to.
“I’m Riviera,” she says. “I’m your fashion advisor. If you need any help with sizing I can—”
“No, I’m good,” I say, pushing back hangers and pretending to read the labels. They’re watching me.
After a while, I unhook a simple black dress with a nipped-in waist and short sleeves.
“That’s a ten. You’ll need an eight,” says Riviera.
I put it back. She chooses another.
“This one is more a cocktail dress. Mid-thigh length. Satin with pleats. Sleeveless. Very sexy. You could try it on.”
Before I can answer, she drapes it over her arm and leads me to the changing rooms. For a moment, I think she’s going to follow me inside and watch me undress, but she points me to a booth. I latch the door. I’m alone. I sit on the bench and unlace my boots to pull off my jeans, which seems to take an age. I can picture the two women talking about me. Sniggering. Stripped down to my bra and knickers, I avoid looking at myself in the mirror. I don’t like seeing myself naked, or in underwear. I don’t like my pale blotchy skin and the cigarette burns on my back.
Unzipping the dress, I lift it over my head. The fabric slides over my shoulders and down my sides. I reach behind me to pull up the zipper before brushing my hands down my hips and turning to the mirror.
