When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

  Elias is struggling to keep his eyes open and doesn’t hear me say goodbye. Outside, in the corridor, I tell Dr Baillie to keep Thomas Sakr away from Rampton.

  ‘Who is he? Should I call the police?’

  ‘I’m doing it.’

  Lenny answers her mobile on the second ring. She’s in her car on the hands free.

  ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The Range Rover that was outside my house has showed up again.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At Rampton Hospital. Someone visited Elias yesterday afternoon, claiming to be an old school friend. He gave his name as Thomas Sakr and provided a driver’s licence as proof of identity.’ I rattle off the Chiswick address and his date of birth, but instinctively I know both will be fake. ‘Elias collapsed a few hours later. He’s in hospital on dialysis. The doctors think he ingested some sort of poison.’

  Lenny fires off more questions at me about the car and the driver.

  ‘I’ll send you the accreditation form and the driver’s licence,’ I say. ‘I think it’s the same man who visited Eileen Whitmore and went to Langford Hall looking for Evie Cormac.’

  Lenny swears quietly. ‘Why would he poison Elias?’

  ‘He’s sending me a message. He’s telling me he can reach me or anyone close to me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wants Evie Cormac and he thinks I know where she is.’

  51

  Cyrus

  The greatest faculty our minds possess is the ability to break apart and compartmentalise. It’s how we juggle multiple demands, and how we cope with pain and trauma. After my parents and sisters were killed, I was taken to see a string of therapists and grief counsellors and psychologists. One of them told me to take my memories and to lock them in a chest using heavy chains and padlocks, and to drop the chest into the deepest part of the ocean, beneath millions of tons of water.

  I tried that for a while, but it didn’t work. The memories are still with me. They are like wolves hunting me through the forest. I have hacked a clearing from the undergrowth and built a fire to keep them at bay, but I have to keep collecting wood or the fire will burn down and the wolves will creep closer.

  Jimmy Verbic isn’t one of the wolves. When my parents and sisters died, Jimmy arranged their funerals. He organised the cathedral, the cars, the burial plots and the reception afterwards. As the coffins were being wheeled out of the church, Jimmy put a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘If there’s anything you ever need, Cyrus, you come to me.’

  I need something from him now: answers. Why was his Silver Shadow parked at a country house where Eugene Green and Terry Boland were photographed together? How did he know that Angel Face was at a children’s home in Nottingham? And who, if anyone, did he tell?

  Jimmy has an office in one of the newest buildings in Nottingham – a gleaming tower with mirrored edges that overlooks the River Trent. Nearby is a second building, a matching tower still under construction. The concrete and metal skeleton is already in place, rising from the muddy worksite like a giant Meccano set, waiting for the outer walls to be slotted into place.

  Jimmy has a personal assistant who looks like she just stepped off a catwalk. Perfect skin. Perfect make-up. Perfect figure. Her name is Naomi and she insists that Jimmy is in meetings all day and can’t see me. I push past her, ignoring her protests, barging into Jimmy’s office. It’s empty.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ I say, sitting in Jimmy’s chair. ‘Give him a call. Tell him I’m here.’

  ‘I’ll call security.’

  ‘Tell him that. Tell him I’m being arrested.’

  She scowls angrily, her features having changed completely. Hands on hips, she spins back to her desk and picks up her phone. I prop my feet on Jimmy’s desk and admire the view.

  Naomi returns. ‘Mr Verbic has agreed to see you. He’s on site.’ She motions out of the window at the adjoining building where teams of men in high-vis vests and hardhats are perched on platforms and scaffolding walkways hundreds of feet above the ground.

  The construction site is surrounded by security fences plastered with glossy renderings of how the building will look when finished. I sign in to the site office and am told to wear a yellow hardhat and a red vest, which signifies that I’m a visitor. A foreman escorts me to a lift cage, past men who are pouring concrete on to metal formwork. They drop away as I am whisked up the side of the building and the cage doors are pulled open.

  ‘He’s over there,’ says the foreman, before he steps back into the lift and disappears.

  Ahead of me is a forest of evenly spaced metal pillars and riveted beams supporting the concrete roof. The outer edges are open to the elements, ready for the glass panels to arrive.

  I make my way around bags of rubble and sheets of plasterboard. I can hear the bark of rivet guns and the noise of engines, but nobody seems to be working on this floor. The workers are above and below us.

  ‘Over here, Cyrus,’ says Jimmy.

  I follow the sound of his voice until I find him standing near the edge of the building, with one foot propped on a pallet of copper pipes. I glance down. My heart lurches.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘Admiring the view,’ he answers.

  ‘It’s impressive.’

  ‘I could help you get into one of these apartments. They haven’t all been sold.’

  ‘Too rich for me.’

  ‘Not if you sold your palace.’ He laughs, showing his whitened teeth. It’s an electric smile, too perfect to be real. ‘What is so urgent that you barge in to my office and upset Naomi?’

  ‘You haven’t answered any of my calls.’

  ‘I’m a busy man.’

  ‘How did you know about Angel Face?’

  ‘You’ve asked me that already.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  He half sighs and takes a seat on a stack of plasterboard sheets. ‘I’ve been a city councillor for twelve years. Children’s homes are a county responsibility. I heard a whisper that Angel Face had been sent to Nottinghamshire, but I didn’t know where or what name she was using.’

  ‘You guessed?’

  ‘I put two and two together. With your background, I thought you might come across her.’

  ‘What do you mean by “my background”?’

  ‘You and she have certain things in common.’

  ‘I was never sexually abused or imprisoned.’

  ‘You lost your family. Hers was never found.’

  Jimmy tries to frown, but his forehead remains smooth and shiny, devoid of emotion. The needle. Botox.

  ‘Why are you here, Cyrus?’ he asks.

  ‘Evie Cormac is missing.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Angel Face.’

  He hesitates, unsure of how to respond.

  ‘Another girl at the same children’s home was murdered. Ruby Doyle.’

  ‘I heard about that on the radio,’ says Jimmy, shaken. ‘I’ve asked the council for a full review of security at Langford Hall.’

  Slipping my hand into my jacket pocket, I touch the photographs that are inside – the ones from Eugene Green’s phone. I’ve had the images printed out and enlarged, so that the faces and the vehicles are easier to identify. Bob Menken once accused Hamish Whitmore of chasing rabbits down rabbit holes. Is that what I’m doing? I’ve already jeopardised my friendship with Lenny and now I’m going to accuse someone equally close to me of being involved in this.

  I pull the photographs from my pocket and show the first one. Jimmy glances at it quickly. Confidently. He intends to look away, but his eyes are held by the scene of beaters gathered on the lawn of a country house, waiting for the shoot to begin. He recognises the house. I can see it in his eyes.

  ‘What am I looking at?’ he asks, but something has changed in his voice.

  ‘That man is Eugene Green,’ I say. ‘He was convicted of kidnapping and killing at least three children.’ I point to another figure in the
photograph. ‘And that is Terry Boland, who was tortured to death in the house where Angel Face was found living in a secret room.’

  ‘Why are you showing me this?’

  I take out the second image. The same men. A different angle. Vehicles in the background.

  Jimmy’s eyes scan the scene, as though searching for some detail that makes it different. He finds it. The Silver Shadow.

  ‘Where was it taken?’ I ask.

  ‘You have to believe me, Cyrus. I was a guest. I was invited for the weekend.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I had nothing to do with those men,’ he whispers, his voice dry and cracking. ‘I had no idea …’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  He paces back and forth, before pausing near the edge and peering over the side at the workers and machines that are seven floors below us.

  ‘Don’t ask me, Cyrus. Burn the photographs. Walk away.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘These people … they will crush you.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  The wind has picked up, buffeting against us. Jimmy seems to lean into it, letting it hold him upright.

  ‘They will ruin me,’ he whispers.

  ‘Have you done something wrong?’

  ‘Not what you think.’

  ‘Then you have nothing to fear.’

  He laughs bitterly and tries to spit but cannot summon the saliva.

  ‘Are they friends of yours?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Business acquaintances?’

  ‘Not directly.’

  Jimmy’s boots are now inches from the drop.

  ‘Come away from there,’ I say. ‘Sit down. Talk to me.’

  He doesn’t move.

  ‘Where is the house?’

  ‘Scotland.’

  ‘What was the weekend?’

  ‘A gathering. An introduction. An initiation.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Some of us were being tested.’

  I wait for him to explain, but he stares at the ground below. ‘Do you know how many people run this country, Cyrus?’

  ‘You mean politicians?’

  ‘God no!’ He laughs wryly. ‘Our elected representatives have no power. They are captives of the electoral cycle; opportunists and egomaniacs who couldn’t find their arses with both hands. Occasionally, they make a decision of some import, but usually mess that up. Look at the Brexit debacle. We are governed by morons, Cyrus, but still we endure and some of us prosper.

  ‘It’s the same everywhere. Look at America. At war with itself. Split down the middle. Politicians come and go, but the civil service is eternal – the bureaucrats, mandarins and permanent secretaries, these are the real powerbrokers and kingmakers. Conspiracy theorists like to believe that these unelected public servants are pursuing their own nefarious agenda, part of the so-called “Deep State”, which denies the wishes of good, decent, God-fearing Christians. Either that or they think society is controlled by a cabal of the super-rich, who are deviously plotting at Davos or the Bohemian Grove to enrich themselves by polluting the planet, or stealing our savings, or taking our jobs offshore, or fabricating a climate change emergency. This is Marvel comic stuff. James Bond fiction.’

  Another gust of wind buffets against Jimmy, who almost loses his balance for a moment. The toes of his black brogues are sticking out over the edge. I want to reach out and pull him back, but I’m scared I might cause him to fall.

  ‘The real power belongs to the people who control information,’ he says, still staring at the ground. ‘Individuals who can suppress stories, fix problems, spin news and plant false information. They are the dung beetles in our society, turning faeces into fertiliser by burying their eggs inside our shit. The fixers. Cleaners. Spin doctors. Men who can build reputations or tear them down, depending upon who is writing the cheques. Knowledge is their power. They hunt down details and seek out leverage. If you have a weakness, a predilection, a hidden vice, they will find it. If you’re secretly gay, or you like young boys, or you’re into bondage or rape fantasies or humiliation. Maybe you’re a voyeur, or like cross-dressing or role-playing or being cuckolded. Maybe you want to put a bullet through the brain of a mountain gorilla or a black rhino. Whatever your fetish or secret fantasy, there are people who can make it happen or put temptation in your way. They …’

  He doesn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘Tell me about the photograph, Jimmy.’

  He wipes grit from his eyes. ‘You can’t beat these people, Cyrus. You can’t fight them. You can’t win.’

  ‘Tell me about the house.’

  ‘If I tell you … if you go looking, they’ll destroy you. They’ll destroy everything you love.’

  ‘Nobody is above the law.’

  Jimmy smiles. ‘You’re wrong. These people are the law. There’s nobody they can’t reach – the police, prosecutors, judges, juries … You think we live in a civilised world where there are rules, but this is the real world, where they make the rules.’

  ‘What were you doing at the house?’

  ‘I was invited. I did nothing wrong. I promise you.’

  ‘Who invited you?’

  ‘Don’t ask me.’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘I had to swear never to tell. That was the deal. There should have been no cameras. Our phones were confiscated, our computers and iPads.’

  ‘Who organised the weekend?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll take the photographs to Lenny Parvel. Or better still, I’ll take them to the media and see what the newspapers say. You can explain to them how you spent a weekend at a Scottish country house with Eugene Green and Terry Boland.’

  His voice cracks. ‘I didn’t see them.’

  ‘Are you being blackmailed?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  ‘Please, Cyrus, after all I’ve done …’

  ‘Where were the photographs taken?’

  The words get caught in his throat. He tries again. ‘Dalgety Lodge near Glencoe.

  It’s a private hotel. People book it from week to week.’

  ‘Who booked it this week?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who invited you?’

  ‘Fraser Manning.’

  It takes me a moment to make the connection. I met him at his office in Manchester. He defended the prison charity. He’s on the board of the Everett Foundation.

  ‘Was Lord Everett in Scotland with you?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re telling me that Manning arranged the weekend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who else was there?’

  Jimmy shakes his head. ‘I’ve given you a name and given you the place. Don’t ask for anything more.’

  ‘Were there children at Dalgety Lodge?’

  Jimmy turns his head, showing tears in his eyes. ‘I would never touch a child. I would never hurt one.’

  ‘Did you see something?’

  He tries to speak, but the words get trapped in his throat and emerge as a long groan.

  ‘Please step away from the edge,’ I say.

  His jaw moves back and forth, bone beneath skin. His arms are outspread, as though he’s balancing on a tightrope.

  ‘Take my hand,’ I say, holding it out. He doesn’t move.

  ‘You don’t understand what it’s like … to be owned by someone; to be at their mercy.’

  ‘Explain it to me.’

  ‘Everything I’ve done; all that I’ve worked for … I would be a pariah, a leper, the unwelcome guest at every party, the black sheep, a criminal.’

  ‘If you’ve committed a crime you—’

  ‘This goes beyond a crime. My own family would disown me.’

  ‘Give me your hand. Step back.’

  ‘Nobody would forgive me.’ />
  ‘You can make recompense. You can start now.’

  ‘Start now,’ he whispers, dropping his head.

  The air darkens. Jimmy’s weight shifts again. The realisation hits me, as his heels leave the concrete. I grab for him. My fingers brush his shirt, grasping for his belt, but I’m a moment too late.

  He falls silently while everything else around me seems to stop. It’s like someone has hit a ‘pause’ button and freeze-framed this moment, except for one small detail – a lone figure, tumbling through the air, landing with a sickening thud on the red mud, seven floors below.

  The sound fades and the world begins moving again. Speeding up. Men are running. Shouting. Calling for ambulances. I turn and walk back towards the caged lift. I press the button. Pull the doors open. Step inside. Descend.

  The foreman meets me at the bottom. His right fist grabs my shirtfront and slams me against a wall.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He … he … fell.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I hear sirens in the distance, growing nearer. Police. Paramedics. Fire engines. Jimmy’s body is lying in the mud. Face down. One leg is twisted underneath him at an unnatural angle and blood is pooling beneath his head.

  I don’t need to see his body. I need to understand why. I want to pick him up and shake him. I want to rock him in my arms.

  The workmen are gazing at me, silently asking the same question. I can’t look at them because their eyes diminish me.

  For the next seven hours I am interviewed by detectives – second-guessed, disbelieved, accused and exonerated. I am made to tell the story over and over, answering every iteration of what, where, when, how and why. Nothing changes. Jimmy was showing me the view. He stepped too close to the edge. Slipped. It was an accident.

  I don’t mention the photographs or what we talked about in our last conversation. I owe Jimmy that much. I don’t believe that he’d knowingly become involved in the abduction and abuse of children, but he’s a man with a fragile ego, easily flattered and confident to the point of arrogance. He has been my friend, supporter and mentor for seventeen years. He watched over me. He picked up the broken pieces. For that alone I will safeguard his reputation. I will ask the questions and seek the answers, until such time as I discover that Jimmy’s name isn’t worth protecting.