When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

  ‘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 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 back 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.

  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 back 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 carburettor, 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 breadbin 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 that I’ve missed.

  ‘This is my fault,’ I say. ‘Evie told me that they’d fou
nd 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 grill.

  ‘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 importantly, who knew that she was 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. Councillor 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 spyhole, 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 edge 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 further 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 laundrette 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 box-like 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 kerb. 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 kerb, moving slowly. I speed up. It matches me. I can’t see the driver’s face – just his eyes 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 realise where I am. The narrowboat 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, marshalling 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 narrowboats 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 further 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.