‘Did you see his vehicle?’
Mrs Whitmore looks from face to face. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘What exactly did he say to you?’
‘He said that Hamish was dead and that it was suicide. I told him that was ridiculous and he said there would be an inquest. He asked if Hamish had a home office, or a computer, somewhere he might have left a suicide note.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I said Hamish had moved out and was living with Suzie and Jack.’
Lenny frowns and toys with her phone. ‘Excuse me, I have to make a call,’ she says, stepping out of the room into the hallway. I can hear her asking questions, but not the answers. She wants to know what officer came to this address and who authorised the visit.
Two minutes later, she returns to the room, but doesn’t bother taking a seat.
‘This detective who visited you – what did he look like?’
Mrs Whitmore pauses to think. ‘Late thirties. Tall. Fair-haired. He wore a nice suit and I remember he had very blue eyes.’
‘Anything else?’
She frowns. ‘He had a scar on his forehead shaped like a half-moon.’ She points to her own head.
‘Where did he sit?’
‘On the sofa.’
‘Did he touch anything?’
‘I made him a cup of tea.’
‘Where is the cup now?’
‘I washed it up.’ She’s growing agitated. ‘Why? Did I do something wrong? He seemed like a nice young man. He asked if Hamish was working on anything … if he had any files. He said these were now police property and he had to collect them.’
Lenny and I glance at each other.
‘What case was Hamish working on?’ I ask.
‘Eugene Green,’ says Jack.
‘The paedophile?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. Hamish helped catch him.’
‘It was the biggest case of his career,’ adds Suzie.
Lenny looks puzzled. ‘That case is closed. Green died in prison two months ago.’
I remember the newspaper headlines. THE BEAST IS DEAD, one of them said.
Green’s first victim was found on the North York Moors, which is why the papers called him the ‘Beast of Whitby’. He went on to rape and kill at least two more children, one of whom he lured into his van using kittens that he’d collected from a local animal shelter. He pleaded guilty to the murders, but died within a year, beaten to death in a prison exercise yard.
‘Why was Hamish interested in Green?’ I ask.
Jack glances at his mother-in-law, as though wondering how much he should say. ‘Hamish said there were missing pieces … things he couldn’t understand.’
Mrs Whitmore makes a huffing sound. ‘He turned his office into an incident room, with whiteboards and photographs of murdered children. Gave me the creeps. I didn’t want them in my house. I told him that.’
‘Where are the files now?’ I ask.
‘At our place,’ answers Jack.
‘That’s what I told the detective,’ says Mrs Whitmore. ‘He said he’d call Suzie in a few days and collect them.’
‘You gave him our address?’ asks Suzie, an edge entering her voice.
Lenny glances at me. I can see her mind working. ‘Where do you live?’
‘We have a flat in Salford.’
‘Is there anyone at home?’
‘Yeah, my mate, Harley Parker,’ says Jack. ‘I left him there. He was painting the kitchen.’
‘Call him!’
‘Will someone tell me what’s wrong?’ asks Mrs Whitmore, more anxious than angry.
Lenny crouches next to her armchair. ‘The man who came to see you earlier – I don’t think he was a police officer.’
‘But he had a warrant card.’
‘Did you look at it carefully?’
She doesn’t answer. Lenny takes her hand. ‘We don’t believe that your husband committed suicide.’
It takes a moment for the information to sink in and the ramifications to play out.
Meanwhile, Jack has been on his mobile. ‘Harley isn’t answering. He may have gone home.’
‘We’re going to need your address and your keys,’ says Lenny.
Jack reaches into his pocket. ‘I’m coming with you.’
7
Cyrus
Lenny is on the radio, issuing instructions and giving a description of the bogus detective: a white male, late thirties, six feet tall, with short-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and a scar on his forehead. She wants a forensic artist to sit with Eileen Whitmore to create a likeness.
Jack has been listening from the back seat. ‘If he wasn’t a copper – how did he know Eileen’s address? And how did he get a warrant card?’
‘Likely stolen or counterfeit,’ says Lenny, then under her breath, ‘or a library card.’
We’re driving through Salford, a former factory town once famous for spinning cotton and weaving silk until it was swallowed up by Greater Manchester. Now it’s better known for its gangs, racist attacks and post-industrial decay. If Manchester is grim, Salford is grimmer.
As we near the Seedley Park Estate, shuttered-up shops give way to railway yards and tower blocks. A single brick chimney rises above the rooftops like a lone tree in a nuclear winter.
‘Turn left at the next intersection,’ says Jack.
We pull into a parking spot outside a red-brick building that is built in a U-shape around a central quadrangle. There are external stairs at either end linked by passageways that overlook the communal space.
‘Harley must still be here,’ says Jack, pointing out a battered white van. ‘We’re on the second floor.’
Pushing through the entrance, we step past chained bicycles and folded prams before reaching the stairs and starting the climb. Someone has discarded an armchair on the landing, which we step around.
‘Fourth door along,’ says Jack.
Lenny goes ahead. I’m next. We pass a flat where a couple are arguing. Another has a TV set turned up loudly, to drown out the domestic dispute.
We’ve reached the flat. The door is slightly ajar. Lenny nudges it open with her foot and feels for a light switch.
‘Call your friend,’ she says, moving into the living room. Jack takes out his mobile and punches buttons. A phone responds. The ringtone is ‘Wonderwall’ by Oasis. It’s coming from the bedroom.
‘He’s still here,’ says Jack, yelling, ‘hey, Harley!’
Lenny holds him back, bracing her arm across the door, telling him to stay.
She looks at me. ‘You OK with this?’
I nod.
Using hand signals, she sends me towards the kitchen, while she skirts the opposite wall, heading in the direction of the ringtone. The flat isn’t large. Light from the living room spills across the linoleum floor of the kitchen. It creates a diagonal across the legs of a bearded young man sitting in a chair, facing away from me. His wrists and ankles are bound together with plastic ties.
‘Harley?’ I say, stepping around him. His head is cocked to one side and his eyes and mouth are open. For a moment, I think he might say something, but a garrotting wire has severed his windpipe.
Lenny’s name gets caught in my throat. I turn. She’s in the doorway. My shock registers on her face.
‘Ambulance?’ she asks.
I shake my head.
She steps into the room and pulls me away, raising her phone to her mouth. I catch only some of the words. ‘Deceased. Male. Homicide. Forensics.’
I keep seeing flashes of Harley’s face, particularly his bulging eyes and twisted mouth. There were paintbrushes in the sink. He was rinsing them when someone knocked on the door. He answered. The visitor had a police badge. Harley invited him inside. Turned his back.
I move through the other rooms. Most have been recently painted and some are still covered with dust sheets. The smallest of the bedrooms has a single bed and a clothing rail hung with shirts and trousers. This is where Hamish Whitmo
re was living. It has a small desk squeezed into the corner beneath the lone window. The drawers have been pulled out and searched. Empty manila folders are scattered on the floor. A laptop power cord is plugged into the socket, but the computer is gone.
Whitmore had a whiteboard fixed to the wall above the desk. It has the torn corners of photographs stuck beneath Sellotape. Hand-drawn lines make connections between the missing images. Some have names written beneath them. Samantha Doyle, Abbie Harper, Arjan Kulpa – all victims of Eugene Green. The other names are not familiar. Gina Messud and Patrick Comber. Missing maybe. Unsolved crimes.
I scan the whiteboard, wishing I had some table, or list of contents, to explain what it means. Without the photographs and other notes, the arrows have no context or meaning. It’s then I notice a new name, written in the bottom left-hand corner. Linked by a single red line, the words read:
Angel Face.
London.
2013.
8
Cyrus
The clock on the dashboard of the police car has ticked past midnight. Blue flashing lights are strobing across nearby yards and parked vehicles. Jack is sitting in the back seat, holding his head.
‘We’ve known each other since primary school. We grew up two streets apart. We shared our first beer. Went to our first concert …’
‘Is Harley married?’ I ask.
‘Not yet.’ The words catch in his throat. ‘He and his girlfriend, Nicole, were going on a holiday next month to Sri Lanka. Harley was going to propose on Hikkaduwa Beach at sunset. He showed me the ring.’ Jack drops his head. ‘Oh, fucking fuck! Who’s going to tell her?’ He opens the side door and spits into the gutter, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
Lenny emerges from the block of flats, her hands thrust deep in her pockets. She jogs across the road.
‘I’m going to be a while,’ she says, addressing me. ‘I’ll get someone to drop you at your car.’
‘What about me?’ asks Jack.
‘You should go back to the Whitmore house. Be with your wife.’
I step out of the car and pull Lenny further away. Her features are set hard as though fixed by a wind change. A double murder with all the hallmarks of a professional hit. Trouble.
‘What was in those files?’ I ask. ‘Whitmore must have stumbled upon something.’
‘By sun-up this will be someone else’s case,’ she says. ‘The grown-ups will want to take it over. Xcalibre most likely.’
‘What if it’s not gang-related?’
‘Not much happens in Manchester without the gangs knowing or being involved.’
‘You saw the whiteboard. He was investigating Eugene Green.’
‘That case was closed.’
‘Why would a retired detective be interested in a convicted paedophile without a friend in the world?’
Lenny isn’t biting. Normally, she appreciates having a fresh set of eyes on a case – someone who isn’t the police or a lawyer – but this time she doesn’t want me involved.
‘It wouldn’t make him popular with his old colleagues,’ I say.
‘A copper didn’t do this.’
‘He had a warrant card.’
‘Maybe,’ she grunts. There is a sharpness in her tone. I’ve noticed it before whenever I’ve questioned the integrity or behaviour of the police. She circles the wagons, defending her own.
I want to talk about the names written on the whiteboard. Six children. Three of them were known victims of Eugene Green. Two other names I didn’t recognise, but they’re most likely missing children. The last name was Angel Face. I’ve read Evie Cormac’s files – there are volumes of them – and none of them mentions Eugene Green.
Lenny signals a young uniformed officer, giving him orders to take us back to Eileen Whitmore’s house and then drop me at my car, which is still at the warehouse where Hamish Whitmore died.
Jack and I ride in silence until we reach the house. The lights are still on downstairs. As the car slows, the curtains open and a pregnant silhouette is framed by the light of the bay window.
‘I knew she’d be awake,’ says Jack.
‘When is she due?’
‘Any day now.’ He hesitates before opening the car door. ‘What do I tell her?’
‘The truth. She’ll find out anyway.’
‘Did Hamish ever talk about Eugene Green – why he had doubts?’
‘He said it was like a puzzle that had to be solved. Not like a jigsaw. He saw it more as a Rubik’s Cube, you know, where you have to keep turning the sides and trying all the combinations, until the colours line up.’
‘He secured Green’s conviction.’
‘It was the biggest case of his career, but he wouldn’t let it rest. When Green died, Hamish went along to the funeral. Nobody else bothered showing up except for Green’s mum and some bloke she’s living with. Hamish talked to her afterwards. She wasn’t angry. She knew Eugene had done terrible things, but she said that somebody had twisted his mind. Manipulated him.’
‘All mothers make excuses for their children.’
‘Hamish thought so too, but she begged him to visit her and he came back with a box of stuff, convinced that he’d missed something.’
‘What stuff ?’
Jack’s shoulders lift and drop.
‘Whatever it was, he said it was too big for him. There were too many pieces. Too many players. Every time he followed a strand, it branched off into another six different directions.’
The front door opens. Suzie stands with one hand on her hip and the other on her stomach.
‘He did mention the name of a place,’ says Jack, as he opens the car door. ‘A children’s home in Wales.’
‘Why was it important?’
‘He said Eugene Green had gone there.’
I hand him my business card with my pager number. He looks at the small square of cardboard and runs his thumb over the edges. ‘It could have been me, you know; I could have been at the flat, not Harley.’
At that moment he looks at me like a man who has lost trust in his own shadow. ‘Catch them, will you? Give me something to tell Nicole.’
9
Evie
Usually I get advance warning when Cyrus visits me at Langford Hall. He sends a message, or Davina yells along the corridor, making some crack about my boyfriend being here. Today he just turns up, waltzing into my room without knocking.
‘You can’t just burst in on me,’ I say angrily. ‘I could have been naked.’
‘The door was open.’
‘I could have been doing something private.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Masturbating.’
‘Were you masturbating?’
‘Ew! No.’
‘I could come back when you’re finished.’
‘Don’t be disgusting. I don’t have my face on.’
‘You don’t need make-up for me. I’ve told you that.’
I feel my cheeks flush and hate the feeling. Stupid girl. Foolish girl.
Cyrus laughs, which makes it worse. ‘You weren’t worried about being naked at the police station.’
‘That bitch told you!’
‘Caroline called and said you’d been mistakenly arrested, but it all worked out.’
‘The police are pigs.’
‘I work for the police.’
‘Yeah, well, enough said.’
He looks at me like a disappointed parent, only he’s not my parent, or my foster carer. He was once, but we managed to fuck that up.
‘Did you bring Poppy?’ I ask.
‘What do you think?’
I grab my hoodie.
‘Put some shoes on,’ he says.
‘I’m fine.’
I run barefoot along the corridor until I reach the nurses’ station. I tap on the glass. Davina looks up from her computer. I mouth the word ‘please’ and point to the outside door. Cyrus has caught up to me. Davina flashes him a smile. She fancies him, it’s
so bloody obvious. And she’s got a bloke at home and a baby boy.
She unlocks the door remotely. My beautiful black Labrador goes batshit crazy when she sees me, wagging her tail like she might break in half. She leaps into my arms, knocking me backwards, licking my laughing face. Poppy is the reason I stay sane. Poppy loves me unconditionally. Poppy is my family.
‘How have you been?’ asks Cyrus, when I finally sit on the bench next to him.
‘The same.’
‘Are you sleeping?’
‘Are you?’
We always start this way. Cyrus can’t help acting like a shrink, even when he tries to be normal. Langford Hall looks like a three-star motorway hotel from this angle, or a nursing home for dementia patients prone to wandering off. I throw a stick. Poppy chases.
‘Did you ever meet a man called Eugene Green?’ Cyrus asks, dropping in the question like we’re tossing pebbles into a pond.
‘Who’s he?’
He pulls out a photograph of a fat-faced man with steel-wool hair, red cheeks and a downturned mouth. It’s one of the photographs that police take when you get arrested, with a height chart at the side.
‘Recognise him?’
‘Nope.’
He has more photographs. He makes me look at each picture.
‘Why are you showing me these?’
He adds another image. I snatch a breath and look away, squeezing my eyes shut. When I open them again, it’s the same picture: a young boy is standing on a concrete ramp with one foot resting on a skateboard. He’s dressed in jeans and brightly coloured trainers, with different coloured laces on each shoe.
‘You’ve seen him.’ I can hear the excitement in Cyrus’s voice.
I shake my head.
‘You reacted, Evie.’
‘No.’
He touches my arm. I pull away.
‘His name is Patrick Comber. He went missing seven years ago. Eugene Green was suspected of taking him.’
‘Why don’t you ask this Eugene Green?’
‘I would, but he’s dead.’
I flinch.
‘Where did you see this boy?’ he asks.
‘I didn’t.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘How the fuck would you know?’ I explode. ‘I’m the one who can tell, remember?’
When She Was Good Page 5