There’s a knock on the door.
“Got something, boss,” says Edgar.
He leads us back to the incident room where two detectives are going through CCTV footage collected from cameras in Clifton on Monday evening. Chairs are pushed back to give Lenny room. I watch over her shoulder.
Edgar presses the “play” button. The footage shows a deserted footpath outside a row of shops that includes a nail salon, convenience store, hairdressing salon, carpet cleaning company, and the fish-and-chip shop. A group of four teenagers comes into view—a girl and three boys. Two of them are drinking from cans of beer. The girl is wearing tight jeans, boots, and a puffa jacket. Jodie Sheehan. The tallest of the boys puts his arm around Jodie’s shoulders and she shrugs it away, knocking the lager from his grasp. He glares at her angrily and picks up the foaming can, shaking spilled beer from his hand. He runs to catch up with the others, disappearing from view.
“This is fourteen minutes later,” says Edgar as he fast-forwards through the street cam footage. Jodie walks back into the frame, seemingly alone. She stands beneath the streetlight and reapplies her lipstick, using her mobile phone as a mirror.
“Is she waiting for someone?” asks Lenny, leaning closer to the screen.
At that moment, Jodie looks up and waves to someone out of shot. A few seconds later she steps off the curb and disappears from view.
“That’s all of it,” says Edgar, pressing pause. I look at the time code at the bottom of the screen: 20:48.
“What time did Jodie’s phone stop transmitting?” I ask.
“Twenty twelve,” says Edgar.
“If her mobile was turned off at twenty twelve, how was she still using a phone under the streetlight fifteen minutes later?”
“She had a second phone!” exclaims Lenny.
I tap Edgar on the shoulder and ask him to play the footage again.
“Slow it down.”
Jodie is under the streetlight. She waves. She steps off the curb.
“There!” I point to the screen. None of them reacts. “Her shadow changes. It doesn’t just lengthen, it moves from left to right. I think a car was doing a U-turn.”
“He’s right,” says Lenny. “Someone picked her up.”
9
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
A buzzer sounds. The door unlocks. Each new section of Langford Hall has added cameras and extra staff, but most of the security is understated or invisible. There are louvered observation panels and tamperproof locks on the bedroom doors. The windows are made of plexiglass and the bathroom mirrors are plastic. Nothing can be unscrewed, unhooked, unhinged, or rendered into a weapon or a noose.
Evie’s room has a single bed, a desk, and a wardrobe that is divided between hanging space and drawers. There are pictures of dogs on every smooth surface. Cut from magazines and glued closely together, they form a collage of mismatched sizes, shapes, and breeds. A poodle looks bigger than a Great Dane. A beagle seems to be balancing on a Jack Russell’s nose.
A dictionary sits open on Evie’s desk. Pages are marked. Words underlined. Nearby, a worn set of playing cards is fanned out, facedown, as though waiting for someone to pick a card. Unlike Jodie Sheehan’s bedroom, Evie’s has no posters of sporting heroes or pop stars, or photographs of her friends.
“Can I sit down?” I ask.
Evie shrugs ambivalently. I turn the only chair towards the bed, where Evie has her back against the headboard and her legs stretched out. Her hair is gathered into a wet ponytail on one side of her neck and she’s wearing so much makeup that her eyelashes look heavy to lift. She clicks a ballpoint pen open and closed with her thumb.
“You like dogs,” I say, glancing at the walls.
“Is that a question?”
“An observation.”
“Well done, Sherlock.”
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“This admission: ten months, four days, and eleven hours.”
“What was your primary offense?”
“You know that already.”
“I wanted to hear it from you.”
“I broke someone’s jaw with a half brick.”
“Why?”
“He stole my money.”
“You think he deserved it?”
“Yep.”
Her eyes narrow and she looks at me dismissively. “I know what you’re trying to do. You want me to feel sorry for him. You think if I show remorse, I won’t do it again, but if people steal from me, or hurt me, I won’t take it lying down.”
Evie pulls up her legs and hugs them with her forearms.
“What do you most want, Evie?”
“I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want,” she says musically, singing a Spice Girls song, before riffing into Prince. “I want to be your lover. I want to turn you on, turn you out, all night long, make you shout.”
I interrupt her before she goes on.
“What would you do if you were allowed to leave here?”
“Anything I damn well please. I wouldn’t have to deal with social workers or people like you. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Reaching across the bed, she picks up a bottle of nail polish and unscrews the lid. Pulling her right foot into her lap, she begins painting her toenails with small delicate strokes. Purple.
“Are you going to give me a psych test? I’m very good at them.” She licks an imaginary pencil and prepares to take notes. “When you see a sick or a sad person, can you put yourself in that person’s place?” Her accent is Swedish. “(A) Not at all; (B) Just a little; (C) Somewhat; (D) Moderately; (E) Quite a lot; (F) All the time.”
I don’t answer her. She carries on.
“Do you believe others control how you think and feel? (A) Not at all; (B) Just a little; (C) Somewhat; (D) Moderately; (E) Quite a lot; (F) All the fucking time.”
I interrupt her. “Have you done many psych tests?”
“Dozens.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“People think I’m crazy.”
“Why?”
“You tell me. You’re the shrink. You’re here to poke the bear with a stick. See if I bite.”
“Do you enjoy shocking people?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“It’s so easy.” Evie tucks her imaginary pencil behind her ear. “Are you an ex-junkie?”
“What makes you ask?”
“A lot of the case workers here are former addicts. Why do you think that is?”
“Maybe they understand addiction.”
She points to my wrist, where my shirt cuff has ridden up, revealing the edges of a tattoo.
“Some people get tattoos to hide the needle tracks.”
“Not me.”
“Do you smoke dope?”
“Not anymore.”
“Why did you stop?”
“It was a crutch.”
“That’s very honest of you . . . and boring.”
“Do I bore you?”
“This place does.”
“Is that why you tell lies and take off your clothes and disrupt group therapy sessions?”
“Not really. Maybe. I have my wheel.”
“What’s that?”
“My hamster wheel—everybody needs one in a place like this. It keeps you sane.”
“What’s yours?”
“I stopped caring.”
“I don’t believe that’s true.”
“Suit yourself.”
Evie pulls up her foot and blows on her toes.
“Do you have any friends here?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Some of them are OK. Nathan and Cleary have been to prison and try to big themselves up, hoping the girls might sleep with them, but no bed-hopping is allowed.”
“Would you like to bed-hop?”
She raises one eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that I’m promiscuo
us?”
“I’m asking if you have a boyfriend.”
“Maybe I fancy girls. You shouldn’t assume. I once kissed Charlotte Morris—with tongues—but that was for a dare.”
“Was Charlotte a friend?”
“Not really. She went home. They all go home eventually.”
“Except for you.”
Evie shrugs and I can see a timeless humanity in her.
“What about foster parents?” I ask.
“I’ve had loads.”
“What happened?”
“They sent me back.”
“All of them?”
“Sometimes I ran away.”
“Tell me about the last family who fostered you.”
“You mean Martha and Graeme. They were hippies. Vegan. They treated their herbalist like he was a brain surgeon and kept blaming my behavior on my diet, wanting me to eat weird shit.”
“Is that why you ran away?”
She pauses and thinks. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Where did you go?”
“Edinburgh.”
“You were six weeks on your own.”
“And I would have been fine if they’d left me alone.”
“You were arrested for gambling.” I glance at the deck of cards on her table. “Do you like playing cards?”
“I’m good at it.”
It doesn’t come across as bragging.
“You were quite tough on Serena the other day.”
“She was lying.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
Evie looks up from painting her nails, the brush poised above her big toe. Wet strands of hair have escaped from her ponytail.
“Can I call you Cyrus?”
“Sure.”
“If you’ll permit me to say this, Cyrus, I don’t think it’s fair for someone like you to be studying me and not to tell me why.”
“You think I’m studying you?”
“Yes.”
Evie screws the lid onto the nail polish and points her toes towards me. “What do you think?”
“Nice.”
“I have pretty feet, don’t you agree, Cyrus?”
She stretches out her legs, resting her feet in my lap. This time when she points her toes, they press against my groin.
“Are you one of those guys who get off on women’s feet?”
“No.”
I lift her legs and put them back on the bed.
Evie smiles. “Definitely not gay. Are you married?”
“No.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
I hesitate before answering. “Yes.”
“Mmmm,” says Evie, as though not convinced. “What’s her name?”
“Claire.”
“Do you live together?”
“She’s working overseas.”
“When is she coming back?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Mmmmm,” Evie says again.
I’m annoyed at myself. Guthrie has me spooked. Is that why I’m being so truthful?
Technically, Claire and I are still together, by which I mean we haven’t broken up, although our Skype calls have gone from daily to weekly and lately once a month. She’s in Austin at the moment, working on appeals for death-row inmates on behalf of the Texas Defender Services. It was supposed to be a six-month assignment, which has stretched to ten months. Initially we had planned to spend this Christmas together in New York, but Claire told me two weeks ago that she has to work through the holidays. I offered to come to Austin. She told me I’d have more fun at home.
“What were the dogs called?” I ask.
Evie hesitates. “What dogs?”
“The Alsatians that you kept alive in the garden. The newspapers called them William and Harry, but you must have had names for them.”
Fear ignites in Evie’s eyes.
“You can’t tell anyone who I am,” she says, glancing anxiously at the door. “It’s against the law.”
“I know.”
I give her a moment to relax.
“Sid and Nancy,” she says, referring to the dogs.
“Did you name them?”
“No.”
“Terry must have liked the Sex Pistols.”
“I guess.”
“Why didn’t you let the dogs loose? You were sneaking out at night to steal food for them—you could have set them free.”
Evie has gone quiet. Someone shouts along the corridor. A voice answers. A third person tells them to shut up.
“I think you wanted their company,” I say. “Sid and Nancy were your friends.”
I can almost see the wheels turning in Evie’s mind. She’s steeling herself for the next question—the obvious one, the most offensive one: Why didn’t she run when she had the chance? I won’t ask it because it would imply that she was somehow complicit—that she was responsible for what happened, when nothing could be further from the truth.
I know the answer already. Elizabeth Smart, Jaycee Dugard, Shawn Hornbeck, Natascha Kampusch—all victims of celebrated kidnappings, all of whom had opportunities to escape but chose to stay with their abductors out of misplaced loyalty and love or a “learned helplessness.”
The same was true for Evie. She was drawn into a binding, dysfunctional, yet compassionate relationship with her abuser. She was brainwashed using the classic methods of sensory deprivation, threats, violence, and kindness. He created a new normal for Evie, convincing her that her parents were dead or had abandoned her, or that others wanted to kill her and only he, Terry Boland, could keep her safe.
“Did you stay in touch with Sacha Hopewell?” I ask.
“Who?”
“The officer who found you, or maybe I should say caught you.”
Evie shrugs, pretending not to remember her name.
“How did she do it?” I ask.
“She got lucky.”
“I think she was very clever.”
Evie pulls a face.
“That famous photograph—the one where she’s carrying you into the hospital—she had white powder on her knees and elbows. You had white powder on your bare feet. It bugged me for a while. Then I realized how she discovered your hiding place. I think she waited until dark and she sprinkled talcum powder over the floors. The next morning, she saw your footprints, up the stairs, across the landing, into the wardrobe. That’s pretty clever, don’t you think?”
Nothing from Evie.
“Tradesmen were renovating the house. It was up for sale. What did you think was going to happen?”
“I would have found somewhere else to hide,” she replies, making it sound obvious.
“What about Sid and Nancy?”
She can’t answer me. It annoys her. “I want you to leave.”
“Why?”
“You ask too many stupid questions.”
“Does that make you angry?”
“Yes.”
“What else makes you angry?”
“Sweeping generalizations. Hypocrites. Being blamed for something I didn’t do. People who hurt children.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Why do you jump to that?”
“I’m interested.”
“It’s all in the files.”
“No, it’s not,” I say. “You keep telling different stories to different people.”
“Maybe the truth changes.”
Evie reaches for my arm and pushes up the sleeve, rolling it over my forearm to reveal a hummingbird hovering above a flower.
“I’m going to get a tattoo,” she says.
“Anything in particular?”
“Something bold and unexpected. No butterflies or flowers or birds.”
“I like birds.”
“Mine is going to make a statement.” She traces the outline of the hummingbird. “Did it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“You’re being honest.”
“Always.”
“Liar.”
“Do you ever hear voices, Evie?”
“No.”
“Are you anxious?”
“Not especially.”
“What are you most frightened of?”
“The people who want me dead.”
“Who are they?”
“Nameless men.”
“Do you have a gift?”
“No.”
“What about a curse?”
Evie lifts her head to look at me, her eyes like a mirror, reflecting my image back to me.
“Yes.”
10
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
The morgue manager is a thin man with a hook nose and nostrils like sinkholes that draw attention away from everything else on his face. I try not to stare at them as I show him my business card, asking to see Dr. Robert Ness.
“You’re not police,” he says, stating the obvious.
“I’m assisting in a murder investigation.”
The manager eyes me suspiciously, as though my true mission is to steal body parts. A call is made. Permission granted. I sign the visitor’s book and look into the camera, letting my picture be captured, laminated, and hung around my neck.
The morgue is on the fourth floor of the Queen’s Medical Centre, which has always seemed odd to me because I feel like it belongs in the basement, closer to where we all finish. Dust to dust and all that.
A trainee pathologist in green scrubs collects me from the reception area and leads me down a long corridor past postmortem suites with stainless steel operating slabs and banks of halogen lights angled from above.
“You’re late,” says Ness, peeling off his gloves and tossing them into a hazardous waste bin. His dark hands are preternaturally pale from the talc that lingers on his fingers. He raises his arms and an assistant unties his stained scrubs and takes the protective glasses from his forehead.
Jodie’s body is lying on the slab with cross-stitches running from her torso to her pubic bone, showing where her organs were removed, weighed, and examined. The stitches are haphazard because Jodie has no need of a pretty scar. Under the bright lights, the whiteness of her flesh makes her look like a marble statue with a tangle of blue veins lying just beneath the surface of her skin. Small for her age with narrow hips and muscled legs from skating, her arms are scored by scratches and grazes and her eye sockets look like pools of purple dye.
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