“What does he do?” I ask.
“That doesn’t matter. You have nowhere to stay, am I right?”
Again, no answer.
“That bruise on your forehead says that someone messed you up. I won’t let that happen to you.”
“I don’t need your protection.”
“I think you do. I think you should stay with me. You’ll have your own room, your own bed, somewhere warm. And two weeks from now I’ll give you a bus ticket to London and a thousand quid.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Work for me.”
“Doing what?”
“Running errands.”
“Drugs?”
“No. I supply dietary supplements, steroids, vitamins, and other pick-me-ups.”
The lie just trips off his tongue.
“You’re a drug dealer,” I say.
“Why get bogged down in semantics?” he replies. “Let’s just say that not all of my product is available over the counter, which is why I require discretion.”
“What’s discretion?”
“Secrecy. I deal with a lot of professional people—solicitors, bankers, architects, even politicians. They pay on time and they keep their mouths shut.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Deliver the stuff. I pay your cab fares and provide you with a phone. How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“You’re still a minor, which means if the police pick you up, you won’t get charged, or the judge will likely set you free because you’re just a kid.”
“I don’t want to be arrested.”
“And you won’t be, I promise.”
Another lie.
“You don’t have to make your mind up now. Come back to my place. See your room. Clean up. Get some sleep. If you decide tomorrow that you’re not interested, I’ll give you the ten quid. No hard feelings.”
Does he ever tell the truth?
* * *
Felix talks as we walk, escorting me to the multistory parking garage where he unlocks a four-wheel-drive Lexus that is parked in a space set aside for disabled drivers. He opens the passenger door, but I refuse to get in until he moves away. Parking tickets are balled up on the floor next to empty soft drink cans, fast food wrappers, and advertising flyers for carpet warehouses and discount shops.
“The seats are heated. You can adjust the temperature,” says Felix, reaching across to show me. I rear away, balling my fists.
“OK, OK. I get the message. So, who beat you up?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Suit yourself.”
Felix drives to impress me, swerving in and out of traffic, jumping lights, and tailgating slower cars.
“Do you often pick up girls at the bus station?” I ask.
“It’s a good place to recruit volunteers.”
“I’m not a volunteer.”
“Course not. You’re an employee. But you were lucky I found you first. It could have been the Pakis or Bangladeshis. They look for strays and runaways. White girls mainly. First they give you a burger, then it’s drugs and alcohol. Next thing you’re strapped to a bed, fucking every cousin and uncle from here to Birmingham!”
He’s not lying this time.
The car pulls up outside a derelict-looking building with a broken sign that says “Coach House Inn.” A tattered flag flaps from a flagpole and a sign on the Cyclone fence warns: “Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.”
“I know it doesn’t look like much,” says Felix, “but you can’t judge a book by its cover, you know.”
That’s the only way I judge books, I think.
He ducks through a gap in the fence and pulls back a sheet of corrugated iron, revealing a door with a keypad entrance that looks out of place given the state of the building.
Felix punches in the code, trying to shield the keypad with his body, but I clock the number anyway: 4.9.5.2.
“Is this where you live?”
“Nah, I got my own place.”
“Who lives here?”
“People like you.”
We enter a lobby area littered with broken furniture and smashed ceiling tiles. The walls have been tagged with graffiti or spray painted with pictures of male and female anatomy. Someone or something has defecated in the corner, creating a smell that makes me want to gag. Corridors run off in three different directions. Felix leads me along one of them until the stench starts to fade. He nudges open a door with his foot.
“This can be your gaff.”
I peer inside. The low-wattage bulb barely casts a shadow. The room is shabby and neat, with a bed, a nightstand, a table and chair. Cigarette burns scar the carpet, and the bedspread is a faded green with a yellow fleck, at least I hope it’s a fleck. In my imagination, I picture how many thousands of people have stayed here, and the acts of desperation that have been performed on the mattress; the humping bodies, warm corpses, lonely travelers, tourists, cheating spouses, sales reps, and battered wives who have cried themselves to sleep holding their children.
The adjoining bathroom has a toilet, sink, and shower. Pulling open the rear curtains, I look out onto a wrecker’s yard full of rusting car bodies and piles of twisted metal. Beyond another fence is a factory full of metal shipping containers stacked in rows.
I glance down at a pile of clothes on the bathroom floor: ripped jeans and cheap blouses and a Mickey Mouse jacket with silver spangles threaded around Mickey’s ears.
“Whose room is this?”
“She’s gone.”
“Why did she leave her stuff?”
Felix shrugs. “Maybe I gave her too much money. Maybe she stole from me.” He looks at the pile. “You’re welcome to her gear.”
I shake my head.
“Suit yourself.” Felix scoops up the clothes and tosses them into the hallway.
“Is that you, baby?” asks a high-pitched voice, before an emaciated girl-woman dashes into the room and throws herself at Felix, who catches her and takes a step backwards, carried by her momentum. Her legs wrap around his waist, her arms around his neck. She’s dressed in jeans and a bra. She tries to kiss him. Felix turns his face away. “Your breath reeks.”
“I been sleeping.”
The girl-woman notices me for the first time. “What’s she doing here?”
“This is Evie.”
“You said we didn’t need nobody else.”
“Anybody,” says Felix, correcting her.
The girl-woman frowns with eyes that are black-rimmed and hollow, as if her skull were collapsing. She could be anywhere from twelve to thirty, with sharp hip bones sticking out from above the waist of her jeans and no discernible breasts.
“This is Keeley,” says Felix.
“We’re together,” says Keeley, holding on to Felix. There are bruises along her arms and more on her neck.
“Did you bring me something?” she asks in a pleading voice. “Baby wants her medicine.”
“Later,” he says dismissively. “We have company.”
“But you promised.”
“I said later!”
Keeley drops off him like he’s raised a fist. Instead he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash, peeling off several twenties. “Go buy some food. And get Evie a toothbrush.”
“Why me?”
“Because I asked you nicely.”
Keeley doesn’t want to leave. Felix gives her a look and she grudgingly obeys, shooting me daggers on her way out. I’m still thinking about the money Felix had in his pocket.
He turns in a slow circle. “Home sweet home. I know it’s not much, but it beats lying in the gutter. The shower works if you want to freshen up. There’s no kitchen, but Keeley has a microwave in her room. Either that, or you can get takeaway.”
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To see my dear old mum.”
“You said I could earn some money.”
“Yeah, sure, but it’s too early in the day. Deliveries are mostly at night.”
“What do I do until then?”
“Sleep. You look like shit.”
I want to make a smart-arse comment back at him, but I can’t think of one because I’m too tired.
Not everything Felix has told me has been the truth, but that makes him like everybody else—not to be trusted. Right now, I don’t have many choices. I need somewhere to stay and money to start again, and this is the only game in town.
43
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Lenny is on speakerphone with DS Edgar asking about Jodie Sheehan’s burner phone.
“There were thousands of people at the fireworks and most of them were carrying phones,” says Edgar. “It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“This might help,” says Lenny. “Jodie was picked up by Ian Hendricks from outside the fish-and-chip shop that Monday evening. He claims he dropped her at a house on The Ropewalk at nine thirty. If we isolate signals from those locations, we should be able to identify which phone Jodie was using.”
“What was she doing at The Ropewalk?” asks Edgar.
“Ask me later. We’re heading there now.”
The call ends and Lenny follows signs towards the city center.
Ian Hendricks has been quiet in the back seat but grows more animated as we get closer to The Ropewalk—an up-market area full of grand Victorian houses, many of which have been converted into flats or turned into offices for accountants and solicitors. A few private houses remain, lovingly restored and harking back to a time when horse-drawn carriages clip-clopped over cobblestones carrying women in whalebone corsets and men in frock coats.
“That’s the place,” says Hendricks, leaning between the seats.
We’ve stopped outside an imposing cream-colored house that looks like an iced wedding cake.
“Are you sure?” Lenny asks.
“Yeah. I dropped her at the gates and she walked up the driveway to the side door. The place was all lit up—like they were having a party. Cars were parked up and down the road.”
“I know this house,” I say, surprising both of them. “It belongs to Jimmy Verbic.”
“The mayor!” says Lenny.
“He’s the sheriff of Nottingham now.”
Her forehead creases like an invisible hand is squeezing her skin. “Why would Jodie Sheehan come here?”
“Her father works for Jimmy as a driver.”
“He didn’t mention that in his statement.”
Lenny gets out of the car and signals to the detectives who have been following in a second vehicle.
“Take Mr. Hendricks to his place of work.”
The schoolteacher gets out of one police car and into another. Lenny isn’t finished.
“Don’t think you’re off the hook, Mr. Hendricks. You could still be charged with withholding information from a murder investigation.”
“All I did was drop her off. I promise.”
The second vehicle pulls away. Lenny and I are standing on the footpath. She turns and gazes through the iron gates at the grand-looking house, muttering, “Jimmy Verbic.”
“We’re only talking to him,” I say, sensing her disquiet.
“Councilor Verbic and the chief constable are best mates. They go on golfing tours together and salmon fishing weekends. For all I know they swap wives.”
“Jimmy isn’t married.”
“You know what I mean.”
As if someone has been eavesdropping, the gates suddenly begin to move, sliding open on a chain. A Mercedes sports car turns the corner and approaches, pulling into the driveway. I catch a glimpse of a young woman behind the wheel who is wearing oversized sunglasses and a scarf tied loosely around her neck.
We follow the Mercedes through the closing gates and watch it pull up at the front of the house. One elegant white-linen-clad leg emerges, then another, both sporting high heels. She bends back into the car to collect polished paper shopping bags. Louis Vuitton and Cartier. Hearing our approach, she straightens and props her sunglasses on her forehead. She’s in her midtwenties, tall and slim, with a proud countenance. She smiles.
“You’re Cyrus Haven.”
“How did you know?”
“Jimmy talks about you all the time. He has a photograph of you in his study.”
“And you are?”
“Scarlet.” She holds out her hand as though I might want to kiss it. Her face is almost impossible to read. Beautiful yes, but somehow bland, as though she’s been photoshopped or airbrushed in a glossy magazine.
“Is the councilor home?” I ask.
“He should be.”
As if summoned, Jimmy appears, jogging down marble steps beneath an arched porte cochere.
He embraces me, smiling. “Cyrus! What an unexpected surprise.”
There is a subtext to his use of the words “unexpected” and “surprise,” meaning unbidden or without warning.
I introduce Jimmy to Lenny.
“Yes, of course, DCI Parvel. You were in charge of the Jodie Sheehan investigation. Job well done—making such a quick arrest. I rang the chief constable personally to pass on my congratulations.”
Was that a name-drop?
Jimmy slips his arm around Scarlet’s waist and gives her a squeeze. “Have you been spending my money again?”
“It’s your mother’s birthday next week. You would have forgotten.”
“She’s right,” says Jimmy, laughing. “Scarlet is my PA, my girl Friday, my walking Filofax.”
“What’s a Filofax?” she asks.
Jimmy laughs again and says, “Old technology,” which annoys her. I can see it in her hips when she marches into the house, her heels clicking up the steps.
“Where did you find Scarlet?” I ask.
“My sister sent her along. Have you met Genevieve?”
“No.”
“She runs an employment agency in Manchester.”
“Are you sure it’s not a modeling agency?”
“Yes, she is rather easy on the eyes.” Jimmy smiles mischievously. “I know I mentioned getting together, Cyrus, but you could have given me some warning.”
“It’s a business call,” says Lenny. “We’ve received information that Jodie Sheehan visited this house on the night she was killed.”
“Here!”
“Yes.”
“Who told you that?”
“I’m not in a position to reveal that information.”
Jimmy looks at me, hoping I might help him. His smile has slowly been dismantled in a series of adjustments of his facial muscles. He still comes across as affable, but in a more menacing way.
“Pardon my skepticism, DCI Parvel, but this sounds like a crude attempt to smear me. In politics you grow accustomed to cheap shots and malicious gossip. I hope that Nottinghamshire Police haven’t fallen into a trap like that.”
All hint of warmth has gone.
“You had a celebration that night,” I say, trying to ease the tension.
“My Guy Fawkes party. I have one every year. I can assure you that Jodie Sheehan wasn’t on the guest list.”
“How many people were here?” asks Lenny.
“Two hundred, although it felt like more.”
“Did you know everyone at the party?”
“Dear me, no. The hangers-on and freeloaders come out when there’s an open bar.”
“But you have a guest list.”
Jimmy smiles wryly. “Some of the attendees were very prominent people who might not appreciate being questioned by the police on some frivolous fishing expedition.”
“A girl was raped and murdered.”
“And someone has confessed.” Jimmy turns out his palms. “Why are you here, Detective? You’ve made an arrest. Held the press conference. Received the kudos.”
“There are some gaps in Jodie’s timeline.”
“Gaps. I see. Well, if p
olitics has taught me anything, it is how easily gaps can be filled with misinformation, particularly by the media, who seem to love conflating random harmless details and smearing innocent people in the process.”
I half expect him to use the term “fake news,” but mercifully he stops talking. Lenny glances at me, understanding the inference.
“What’s through those doors?” I ask, pointing to the side of the house.
“The kitchens.”
“Who looks after them?”
“Rowena, our housekeeper, but we had caterers that night. A local firm.”
Scarlet emerges from inside, having changed into faded jeans and a loose-fitting top. She’s holding some sort of fruit smoothie in a tall glass and still wearing her sunglasses.
“Did you see Jodie Sheehan on the night of the party?” I ask.
“Who?”
“The girl who was murdered,” Jimmy says.
“Dougal’s daughter.”
Jimmy’s face seems to register the information as though he’s solved a problem that has vexed him for hours. “That’s right! Dougal was working. Jodie must have been looking for him.” He looks from Lenny’s face to mine, waiting for us to agree.
“Any idea why?” I ask.
“Maybe she wanted a lift home.”
I’m concentrating on Scarlet, who seems to be dredging up memories from wherever she stores them.
“There was someone who came to the kitchen door. One of the caterers found me. He said a girl was looking for someone at the party. She wouldn’t give a name. She made a phone call and wanted to wait for a reply, but I told her to leave.”
“You saw her?”
“No. I told the caterers to tell her.”
Jimmy makes an exasperated sound, suddenly less certain than before. “Who is this witness?” he asks skeptically.
“The person who drove Jodie here and watched her walk through the gates,” replies Lenny, studying Jimmy’s reaction. “For the record, when did you last see Jodie Sheehan?”
“Not that night.”
“When?”
“A few weeks ago. Dougal asked me to be Jodie’s sponsor. I covered some of her travel expenses, a few grand here and there.”
“How did you pay the money?” asks Lenny.
Good Girl, Bad Girl Page 24