He yells over his shoulder and up the stairs. ‘It’s for you – I told you.’ And then to me, ‘Hi, Cyrus.’
I follow him into the kitchen, where he’s washing beer bottles in the sink.
‘My father used to brew beer,’ I say, which triggers lots of questions, which I can’t answer. Did he brew stout or lager or brown ale? Any flavourings? Was his keg stainless steel, copper, or plastic?
‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ I say. ‘I didn’t like beer at thirteen.’
‘But you do now,’ he says. ‘Fancy a taster?’
Already he’s setting up a row of small glasses on a polished wooden paddle.
‘This isn’t a social call,’ says Lenny, who has come down the stairs.
Nick looks disappointed. ‘Maybe later. I’ll chill the glasses.’
Lenny takes me into a sitting room where one wall is entirely filled with vinyl albums. Pride of place is a record player with a hinged glass lid, and expensive speakers on either side.
She points to one of the matching sofas. There are graduation photographs of her stepsons on the mantelpiece. Black gowns. Mortar board hats. Smiles for the camera.
There are no smiles for me. Lenny’s voice is hoarse and harsh. ‘DCI Hoyle has you under investigation.’
‘For what?’
‘Do you know Maya Kirk?’
‘No.’
‘Wrong answer.’
I feel myself growing annoyed. Lenny swipes her phone and turns the screen towards me. I’m staring at a photograph of myself. I’m in our back garden washing Poppy under the hose. My shirt is drenched and clinging to my chest, showing the outline of my tattoos beneath the cotton.
I remember when it was taken. Poppy had rolled in something rotten in the park. Evie kept gagging at the smell, so I washed the Labrador.
There is a caption beneath the photograph.
Cyrus 33
? 2 miles away
I’m six foot tall, emotionally available, and the last time I was someone’s type I was giving blood. I think I’m funny, but not everyone agrees. I spend my life rescuing people, but occasionally I need to be rescued. （I also write lame profiles）
There are two more photographs. One shows me cooking a barbecue with tongs in one hand and a beer in the other. Another has me dressed in a blazer with my hair gelled. The image has been cropped to remove the other person in the photograph – my most recent girlfriend, Sacha Hopewell, who is back in London, caring for her elderly parents.
Lenny opens her laptop and turns the screen to face me.
‘The dating service has given us complete access to Maya Kirk’s profile, including matches and direct messages. You direct messaged her twice.
I read the texts.
Maya typed:
What star sign are you?
Sagittarius
They can be hard to read. How will I know if you’re falling for me?
That’s easy. I’ll trip.
OMG, how cute are you. What do you like to do for fun?
I run. I read. I go skydiving. （Not true, I’m scared of heights） Did you just lie to me?
Last time. CMHAHTD
I am staring at the screen, speechless. Baffled.
‘After the second exchange, Maya suggested you meet. You fobbed her off,’ says Lenny.
‘That didn’t happen.’
‘Which bit?’
‘Any of it. That isn’t my profile. I didn’t set it up.’
‘They’re your photographs.’
‘Yeah, but they could have been lifted from Instagram or Facebook.’
‘Do you use either of those?’
‘No. But it isn’t me. I wouldn’t use a dating app.’
‘You’re saying someone stole your identity,’ says Lenny.
‘Clearly.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
Lenny gets wearily to her feet and walks to the gas fireplace. My mind is racing ahead of her, trying to put the pieces together. I look again at the exchange. The text messages are corny and flirtatious and young. A thought occurs to me. I want to push it away, or erase it completely, but it keeps bobbing back up like a rubber duck in a bath.
Evie took the photograph of me in the garden washing Poppy … and the one of me cooking the barbecue. She has access to my phone … my laptop. She guessed my password within twenty-four hours.
‘Where are you going?’ asks Lenny. I’m halfway across the room.
‘To sort this out.’
‘I need you to give me your phone.’
‘Take it,’ I say, tossing it onto the sofa.
Lenny’s own mobile is chirruping in the back pocket of her jeans. She wants me to wait but I’m already out the door and halfway to my car. She doesn’t follow.
On the drive home, I try to calm down, telling myself that Evie doesn’t understand the rules of friendship or relationships because of what she’s endured. At the same time, I’m tired of making excuses for her. She wants to be treated like an adult, yet she keeps acting like a child.
I’m almost home when I see the flashing lights behind me. A police car. For a moment I wonder if I’ve been speeding or if Lenny has had me arrested for leaving her house without permission.
I pull over opposite Wollaton Park. Blue lights strobe across the iron fence and shrubs and ivy-covered walls. I wait with my hands on the wheel, looking in the mirror. Instead of a uniformed officer, I watch Hoyle get out of the passenger seat, hitch up his trousers and walk towards me, growing bigger in the mirror. I lower the glass. He leans his forearm on the door.
‘Cyrus Haven. I’m arresting you for wasting police time and obstructing a criminal investigation.’
19
Cyrus
A hand protects my head, as I slide onto the back seat of the police car. Handcuffed. Protesting. Ignored. Hoyle maintains his silence on the journey to Radford Road where I am taken through the charge room to the interview suites. A public parade – part of my humiliation. Alone in the spartan room, I wait for Hoyle to return. He must know that I didn’t abduct Maya Kirk, or murder her father, but he will use this as a way of sidelining Lenny or deflecting attention away from his own failings.
My issue is how much I should tell him. Evie has stolen my identity and faked a dating profile. She sent messages to Maya, pretending to be me. If I tell that to Hoyle, he could have her charged with catfishing or identity theft.
The door opens. He enters with Edgar. The two detectives sit opposite me.
‘Do you require the services of a lawyer?’ asks Hoyle.
‘No, sir.’
He names everybody in the room and turns on the recording device.
‘Before you go on, I can explain,’ I say. ‘Somebody stole my identity. I didn’t set up the dating profile. I didn’t communicate with Maya Kirk. I have handed over my phone to Detective Superintendent Parvel and will fully cooperate.’
‘Where were you last Sunday evening?’
‘At home.’
‘Alone?’
‘I have a housemate. She was with me.’
Hoyle consults his notes. ‘Evie Cormac?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s a bit of a mystery, isn’t she? I couldn’t find any details about Miss Cormac. No birth certificate. No passport. No previous school records.’
‘She was a ward of the court.’