‘Well, if he’s guilty – nobody told him.’
I can see Cyrus is troubled by this. Mitch rinses his glass and leaves it on the drainer.
‘I’ll get back to work.’
‘Evie will make you a sandwich later,’ says Cyrus.
‘I can walk to the shops.’
‘She doesn’t mind,’ says Cyrus, nudging me.
‘Yeah, no trouble,’ I say, when I mean the opposite.
Cyrus hates me lying, then forces me to do it.
The doorbell sounds. Cyrus motions with his head, expecting me to answer it. What am I – the maid and the butler?
I check the spyhole – force of habit – and see a fish-eye view of some guy with a crewcut that makes his head look like a bowling ball. I open the door.
‘Does Cyrus Haven live here?’ he asks, looking me up and down. I’m still in my pyjamas, which makes me feel self-conscious.
‘Who are you?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Hoyle.’
‘What’s this about?’
He pushes past me into the hallway and calls out for Cyrus, who tells him to come through. It’s like an open house today – everybody is welcome, cops and criminals.
Cyrus pours Hoyle a coffee. I grab a bowl of cereal and pretend not to be listening. Mitch has gone back to the garden, where Poppy is following him around. Dogs are good judges of character.
‘Foley showed up at a police station first thing,’ says Hoyle. ‘He says he heard a report on the radio about Maya Kirk going missing.’
‘Has he lawyered up?’
‘Came with a solicitor. And here’s the thing – his real name is Anders Foley.’
‘It was a fake profile?’
‘He has multiples; as well as different social media pages.’
‘The man is a player.’
‘Or a predator.’
‘What’s he said?’
‘Nothing yet. I’m letting him stew. I want you there for the interview.’
Hoyle glances out the window, and Mitch chooses that moment to look back at the house. He and Hoyle seem to stare at each other.
‘You’ve hired a gardener. Had him long?’
‘No,’ replies Cyrus.
‘Where did you find him?’
‘He pushed a flyer through the door.’
Another lie. And he complains about me.
Hoyle has a car waiting outside. Cyrus puts on his jacket and prepares to leave.
‘What are your plans?’ he asks.
‘I have to buy a dress – for the new job.’
He opens his wallet and takes out a fifty-quid note. ‘And you pay me back.’
I slip the money into the pocket of my pyjamas and watch him walk down the front path to the gate and the car. Hoyle opens the back door as though arresting him.
Upstairs, I get dressed into jeans and a sweatshirt. Afterwards, I sit on the back step, holding a mug of tea and watching Mitch at work. He pauses and cuts the engine, tipping the mower on its side and scraping wet grass from the blades.
‘Did you call the police on me?’ he asks.
‘Huh?’
‘The detective in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, him. Cyrus works with the police as a consultant. Profiling. Sherlock Holmes stuff.’
Mitch wipes his hands on his jeans and tips the mower back onto its wheels.
‘You recognised that detective, didn’t you?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘He recognised you.’
Mitch shrugs. ‘Ancient history.’
Pulling on the cord, the mower splutters to life and roars, drowning out my next question.
15
Cyrus
Radford Road police station is a three-storey red-brick building separated from the River Leen by a car park and waste ground. The interior of the building matches the fa?ade – solid and functional, rather than welcoming. The interview suites are on the lower floor, adjacent to the charge room and holding cells.
Anders Foley has been waiting for two hours. I can hear his solicitor complaining to the desk sergeant about the delay, explaining that time is money and that she’s due in court at ten o’clock.
‘You’re free to leave any time,’ says the sergeant.
‘My client will leave with me.’
‘That’s his prerogative, madam.’
The word ‘madam’ is delivered with just the right amount of faux respect to infuriate the lawyer.
Anders Foley is sitting alone in the interview suite. I spend a few moments studying him through the one-way mirror, comparing him to the man described on his various dating profiles. Most people massage the truth when they create these personal online billboards. Foley’s three profiles were each worded differently, with carefully curated images designed to interest different women and cast the widest possible net.
His Anders Foley persona is an ‘action man’， or alpha male, who loves outdoor pursuits such as rock-climbing, windsurfing and triathlons. ‘Andrew Foley’ describes himself as shy and thoughtful and his ideal romantic evening is to prepare a home-cooked meal and to curl up on a sofa to watch a movie with a glass of wine. ‘Alex Foley’ – the one Maya responded to – is a traveller and adventurer, who ‘loves getting lost in nature’ and ‘exploring different cultures’。
None of these descriptions seems to equate with the figure I see on the far side of the glass. Dressed in skinny-legged jeans and a tight-bodied shirt, he is a decade older than the ages listed on his profiles. His hair is receding, creating a wasteland on his forehead, and his cheeks are pockmarked with old acne scars.
Lenny has joined me in the viewing room.
‘Did he lie about his job?’ I ask.
‘No, he’s a freelance IT contractor. Works mainly for the university.’
‘Any links to Maya?’
‘Only the dating app.’
Hoyle enters the interview room, accompanied by DS Edgar. The solicitor follows them. Tall and thin, with hair pinned tightly to her scalp, she is dressed in a dark grey trouser suit and a white blouse.
Foley gets to his feet, smiling and holding out his hand, as though this is a social engagement. Neither detective takes up the offer.
‘I don’t know how much I can help you,’ he says. ‘I barely knew Maya.’
‘Why have you referred to her in the past tense?’ asks Hoyle.
Foley blinks at him. ‘Pardon?’
‘Is Maya Kirk dead?’
‘I have no idea …’
‘Yet you referred to her in the past tense.’
Foley begins to stammer. ‘It was a slip of the tongue.’ He looks at his solicitor, hoping for instructions.
Giana Camilleri introduces herself. ‘My client is here voluntarily. He heard Maya Kirk’s name mentioned on a radio report and has come forward. He wishes to help the police in any way he can.’
‘Is that why he brought you along?’ asks Hoyle.
‘He has a right to legal counsel.’
‘We only met once,’ says Foley. ‘On Sunday night. We had a drink. We chatted. We parted ways.’
‘Where did you meet?’
‘A pub near the river. The Canalhouse.’
‘How long did you stay?’ asks Hoyle.
‘About an hour. Then we walked into town and went to a few other bars. One of them was on Low Pavement. I can’t remember the names.’