When She Was Good

by Robotham, Michael

  He didn’t acknowledge Terry or give me time to say goodbye. I was taken up a narrow flight of stairs behind the kitchen to an equally narrow corridor. As I passed an open door, I saw a boy sitting on a bed. He was having his hair combed and he looked up as I passed. His eyes were red from crying and he seemed to be hoping I was someone else.

  Uncle pushed me to keep moving and we came to the next room.

  ‘You’ll sleep here,’ he said. ‘You can watch TV, but you can’t leave here unless someone comes to collect you. The door will be locked.’

  He cupped my face in his right hand, making me lift my face to look at him. His thumb and forefinger were digging into my cheeks, pulling my mouth out of shape.

  ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Thank you, Uncle.’

  I didn’t want to look at his eyes, so I concentrated on a spot just above them, a patch of dry skin on his forehead. He pushed me backwards on to the bed and brushed my neck with his fingers. ‘Feel how soft this duvet is. It’s filled with the smallest feathers that were plucked from birds while they were still alive. That’s where the softest feathers come from just here.’ His fingers closed around my throat. ‘If you ever disobey me, if you ever try to escape, I will pluck out the softest bits of you, do you understand?’

  My mouth couldn’t make the sounds.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  I nodded.

  I waited until I heard his footsteps on the stairs before I checked to make sure the door was locked. I felt more secure knowing that he had the key because I knew what to expect with Uncle. It was the others who made me nervous.

  My room had a single bed and a box-shaped TV on a stand and a basin attached to the wall. I found a blue and white ceramic pot beneath the bed and knew what it was for.

  I left the light on, but crawled into bed, waiting to be collected. I thought of the boy in the next room, who looked about my age, maybe a little older. Up until then, I thought I was the only one, but it felt good knowing I wasn’t alone. That makes me sound like a bad person, but I wanted him to be my friend.

  57

  Cyrus

  ‘The man is a ghost,’ says Badger, pushing back his chair. We are sitting at an ink-stained desk in his studio, where matching computer screens glow upon our faces. For the past three hours Badger has searched for information about Fraser Manning but has come up with next to nothing. Apart from being quoted in the occasional business story, Manning doesn’t appear to have any public profile. There is nothing on LinkedIn or any of the other professional networking sites and forums.

  ‘How can someone be on the board of a major charitable foundation and not have a photograph or biography or some professional footprint?’ Badger asks, as he widens the search to include the Solicitors Regulation Authority and the Law Society. Manning’s name isn’t on either site.

  ‘He asked me if I’d gone to Cambridge,’ I say, wondering if it might help.

  ‘The student registry should verify all degrees, but there’s nothing under his name,’ replies Badger.

  The only photograph we’ve come across was taken at the Henley Royal Regatta and published years ago in Tatler magazine. It shows Manning dressed in black-tie and a straw boater, standing in a group of revellers who are raising champagne flutes in a toast. At his shoulder is a man with sandy-coloured hair and a non-existent chin, who has his arm around the waist of a young woman whose skin is so pale she could be made of porcelain.

  ‘An engagement,’ says Badger, reading the caption. ‘James Everett and Sara Connelly.’

  I ask him to pull up Debrett’s – the ‘bible’ of British lineage – and look up Lord Phillip Everett.

  ‘Three marriages, six children,’ says Badger. ‘His eldest boy, James Patrick Everett, married Sara Philomena Connelly in 2011.’

  ‘That’s the link between Fraser Manning and Lord Everett,’ I say. ‘They met through his son.’

  ‘It still doesn’t explain how Fraser Manning is such a ghost. Unless …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He changed his name.’ Badger does a new search of the deed poll records. ‘Anyone over sixteen can do it without having to register the name change with an official body, so long as they’re not doing it for illegal reasons,’ he explains. ‘Saying that, I’d normally expect a trail of records that begin and end suddenly.’

  ‘How do we find someone’s original name?’

  ‘It’s a process of elimination.’

  After another half an hour, he comes up with a possible match – a Francis Lewinsky born in London in August 1970. His father was Alfred and his mother Ella. They ran a fish and chip shop in Finchley. Francis won a scholarship to Highgate School and later read law at Fitzwilliam College, Cambridge.

  ‘That must be him,’ I say. ‘But why does Francis Lewinsky become Fraser Manning?’

  ‘Maybe he wanted to hide his Jewish roots,’ suggests Badger.

  ‘Is that still necessary?’

  Using the new name, Badger finds another photograph. This one shows a Cambridge rowing eight posing in front of a stretch of river. Clad in singlets and Lycra, they are holding the female cox horizontally, while their boat bobs in the foreground.

  Badger zooms in on the image and isolates Lewinsky’s face, cropping out everything else. Using cut and paste, he creates a new file.

  ‘I can run this through some facial recognition software,’ he explains. ‘This guy can’t have dodged every camera.’

  After uploading the image, he sets the search running. After ten minutes, there are half a dozen images that look a little like Manning and Lewinsky but aren’t the same man.

  A new photograph appears.

  ‘That’s him,’ I say.

  Badger reads the caption. ‘Different name: Frazier Knox.’

  The photograph shows a young man on stage, grinning at the audience, dressed in tights and a ruffled collar as though playing Shakespeare in some sort of comic revue or stage play.

  ‘It’s from a college newspaper at Harvard Law School,’ says Badger. ‘Maybe Manning has a twin brother.’

  ‘No, it’s him. He’s like Tom Ripley.’

  Badger looks at me blankly.

  ‘The crime writer Patricia Highsmith created a character called Tom Ripley, a high-functioning sociopath, who came from a poor background but wanted a privileged existence, so he charmed his way into the lives of the rich and powerful, feeding off them, stealing identities, lying, cheating, killing …’

  Badger now has three names to work with. For the next hour we piece together the timelines and connections. Both of Manning’s parents died when he was still at secondary school, but his tuition was covered by a scholarship. After finishing law at Cambridge, he surfaced at Harvard in 1993, using the name Frazier Knox. This was the same name he used when he joined the US investment bank Bear Stearns in New York as a junior analyst. By 2000, he and a colleague had set up their own firm, taking clients away from Bear Stearns and running an investment consultancy based in the US Virgin Islands. Soon they were handling assets worth billions of dollars and looking after some of America’s wealthiest families.

  A Miami newspaper profiled Frazier Knox in 2005, calling him one of the city’s most eligible bachelors, although he remained a ‘mystery’ to even his closest friends. Another article nicknamed him ‘the Wizard of Wall Street’, while a third called him a cross between Jay Gatsby and Howard Hughes.

  The tone of the articles began to change in 2007 with talk of liquidity problems at the firm and investors withdrawing their funds. Bailing out.

  ‘They got caught out by the global financial crisis,’ I say.

  ‘He and his partner sued and countersued each other,’ says Badger, but that’s not the only thing. He shows me a small article from the US Virgin Islands about police questioning a British citizen over the rape of an eight-year-old girl.

  ‘She was the daughter of his live-in maid,’ says Badger.

  ‘Was he ever charged?’

  ‘
I don’t think so. Wait. There was a follow-up in Virgin Islands Daily News. The chief of police describes it as a misunderstanding.’

  ‘How can you misunderstand a rape?’

  Badger shrugs and looks for more but that’s the last mention of the case.

  A rape allegation involving a child is a red flag for Manning’s sexual preferences. And the speed with which the case was dropped is also suspicious. Who did he bribe to make the allegations go away? The family? The police? Both.

  That’s why Frazier Knox became Fraser Manning. He came back to the UK, changed his name and reinvented himself, working as a lawyer and investment advisor, using his old university contacts to get a job working for Lord Phillip Everett.

  The psychology is also clearer. Manning is a classic sociopath, who seeks power and influence rather than fame. Where others notice the beauty in the world, he sees only how it could benefit him. Relationships are designed to further his own interests. It’s not about loving or hating, but about duplicity and deception and his own corrupt lust.

  Badger leans back in his chair and rubs his eyes.

  ‘Can you look up one more thing?’ I ask. ‘Dalgety Lodge in Scotland. I want to know who owns it.’

  The website loads immediately, and I recognise the house from the photographs on Eugene Green’s phone, only these images are glossy and professional, showing a large grey stone manor house dwarfed on all sides by mountains shrouded in misty rain.

  I read the home page.

  Dalgety Lodge is a boutique hotel, built in 1884, in one of the most outstanding locations in the Scottish Highlands. The estate extends to 16,000 acres and boasts salmon fishing, deer stalking, hill walking and grouse shooting. Refurbished to the highest standards, the lodge is available on a flexible and exclusive basis for company retreats, corporate events and special occasions. It comes fully staffed with a dedicated house manager, a master chef and housekeepers, who are committed to making your stay at Dalgety Lodge an unforgettable experience.

  I scroll through the photographs of the bedrooms, drawing room and lounge area as well as a fully laid table in the dining room.

  ‘Everything a Scottish laird would need,’ says Badger. ‘And all for thirty thousand pounds a week.’

  Taking out my mobile, I punch in the number from the screen. A woman answers, sounding English rather than Scottish, with a voice that could polish silverware.

  ‘Good afternoon. Dalgety Lodge, how can I help you?’

  ‘I’m calling on behalf of Lord Everett. He was hoping he could arrange a stay in August.’

  ‘We’re fully booked, I’m afraid,’ she replies.

  ‘And September?’

  ‘We have a week in early December. That’s the first available date.’

  ‘I have stayed with you before. It was seven years ago now.’

  She doesn’t respond.

  ‘Fraser Manning arranged the week,’ I say.

  Again nothing.

  ‘I wanted to organise a reunion, of sorts, but I can’t remember the names of some of the guests. Perhaps you have a record …’

  ‘We don’t release names,’ she says, as though it should be obvious. ‘We respect the privacy of our guests.’

  ‘Of course. I understand. Would it be possible to visit the lodge before I make a decision? I travel regularly to Scotland on business.’

  ‘You would have to come on a Sunday. Our guests check out at midday.’

  ‘That would work for me.’

  She asks for my name. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should give her a false name. But she’ll want proof of my identity if I’m to get access to the guest lists. Lying to her now is not a good way to start.

  Badger has been listening. ‘Are you really going to Scotland?’

  ‘I need those names.’

  58

  Cyrus

  Lenny Parvel takes a carrot from her fridge and bites off the end, chomping on it like she’s a cartoon rabbit. We’re sitting in the kitchen of her renovated farmhouse on the outskirts of Nottingham where fields and pasture have been swallowed by the expanding city.

  Lenny has been listening to me talk for the past twenty minutes without commenting or asking questions. I know what she’s doing. She’s letting me lay out my arguments like I’m gluing together a model aeroplane, before determining if I can make it fly.

  Her husband, Nick, wanders in from the garden where he’s been trimming the hedges. He’s the hairiest man I’ve ever met, which is why Lenny calls him ‘Bear’. I like Nick. I think he likes me. They have two sons (stepsons, in Lenny’s case), one a doctor and the other a dentist, who treat Lenny like she’s the only mother they’ve ever had.

  Nick gets a glass of water and drinks it noisily, spilling on to the front of his old shirt.

  ‘We’re busy,’ says Lenny, touching his shoulder.

  ‘Police business,’ says Nick, who slides his hand down her back and pats her on the behind because he thinks nobody is watching.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ says Lenny.

  ‘Good. It’s your turn to cook dinner.’

  ‘I cooked last night.’

  ‘No. You came in late and we ordered takeaway.’

  Lenny takes another bite of her carrot. ‘Well, I paid for it.’

  Bear leaves us. Lenny crunches and talks. ‘How did you link this to Fraser Manning?’

  ‘Jimmy Verbic gave me his name.’

  ‘Before he accidentally fell.’

  ‘It wasn’t an accident. It was suicide.’

  Lenny doesn’t react and for a moment we’re like hovering birds, caught in a pocket of wind.

  ‘You gave a false statement to the police,’ she says.

  ‘I wanted to protect Jimmy.’

  ‘Why does he need protecting?’

  ‘A suicide taints everything in his life; all that he’s achieved – his public service, his business success. And it’s tougher on his family.’

  Lenny knows I’m right. She’s pacing, touching different surfaces, the worktop, the stove, the fridge.

  ‘You think Manning was blackmailing him. What with?’

  ‘I don’t know, but something happened in Scotland. Evie remembers visiting Dalgety Lodge.’

  Lenny spins and aims her finger at me. ‘You’ve talked to her!’

  I realise my mistake and try to recover. ‘I showed her the photographs at Langford Hall, before she ran away.’

  ‘You didn’t visit Eugene Green’s mother until after Ruby Doyle was murdered.’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘Where is she?’ asks Lenny.

  ‘Safe.’

  ‘Not good enough. Where is she?’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Lenny. I can’t tell you.’

  ‘This is bullshit, Cyrus. She witnessed a murder. She can help identify the killers. I have police officers all over the country searching for her.’

  ‘It’s not personal,’ I say. ‘I trust you implicitly. I can’t trust the others.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Heller-Smith.’

  Lenny’s jaw clenches and her eyes close. There are different types of silence. This one is redolent with disappointment and sadness.

  I don’t wait for her to speak.

  ‘When Evie was at Dalgety Lodge, she saw another child there – a boy. It was Patrick Comber. He went missing from Sheffield on the twenty-ninth of November 2012.’

  ‘That’s more than seven years ago. Evie would have been what? Eleven.’

  ‘She’s sure.’

  ‘I’ve read her files, Cyrus. I can’t trust anything that comes out of her mouth.’

  ‘She’s not lying about this.’

  ‘OK, bring her in. Let me interview her. We’ll investigate what she says.’

  ‘Will you arrest Fraser Manning?’

  Lenny seems to snatch the question out of the air. ‘He’s the personal lawyer of a well-connected politician.’

  ‘Wrong answer.’

  ‘Be reasonable, Cyrus.’<
br />
  I match her tone. ‘Fraser Manning keeps dirt files on people. He blackmails them. He exploits their weaknesses.’

  ‘Based on the word of a dead man.’

  ‘People die when they get in his way. Hamish Whitmore, Harley Parker, Ruby Doyle, Terry Boland … My brother was poisoned. Evie is being hunted. You can’t dismiss this.’

  ‘And I can’t launch an investigation based on the word of a highly disturbed teenager.’

  ‘I’m not blind to the risks.’

  ‘I think you are. I think this girl has bewitched you. The question I keep asking myself is why?’

  ‘She’s a victim.’

  ‘No, it’s more than that. Tell me where she is.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll have you arrested.’

  ‘OK.’

  I hold out my hands for the cuffs. Neither of us is joking.

  Lenny’s face is stretched tight over her skull and her knuckles are white where she grips the back of a chair.

  I expect her to shout, but her voice is surprisingly calm. ‘You are risking everything for this girl: your career, your reputation, maybe your freedom. What if you’re wrong?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  Lenny goes quiet for a moment and touches the corners of her mouth with her fingertips, staring past me.

  ‘You have twenty-four hours to surrender Evie Cormac. After that I will have you arrested and charged with obstructing a murder investigation.’

  ‘I understand. I need a favour.’

  ‘You’re not in a position to ask for one.’

  ‘I know. I want you to look up a name: Adina Osmani.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘That’s Evie Cormac’s real name.’

  59

  Evie

  Tilda wants to bead my hair, but I can’t sit still for that long. My leg jiggles up and down and I chew at my nails and I wish I had a cigarette even though I’d puke if I smoked one now. I keep having to move, walking from the window, to the door, to the bathroom and the kitchen. It’s like I’m pacing a cage.

  Tilda is a talker, which reminds me of Ruby, which makes me sad. She’s telling me about Badger and how she wants to have a baby, but he thinks the world has enough children and worries the planet will run out of water, or food, or space. I’ve never thought that far ahead.