I have wandered away from the light, trying to put together a sequence of events. The killer made little attempt to hide Maya’s body. He knew it would be found. But why this place? And why dump her like a piece of garbage?
The shearing of Maya’s hair interests me. He may have been removing traces of his DNA or taking it as a souvenir. In the history of gendered violence, cutting off a woman’s hair has often been a tactic for dehumanising or humiliating a victim, setting her apart.
Lenny interrupts my thoughts.
‘There’s nothing more we can do here,’ she says. ‘I’ll take you home.’
She’s right. The scene belongs to the scientists. As we reach the car, a voice makes us turn. Voigt is jogging towards us, still wrapped in the foil blanket.
‘Any chance of a lift into town?’ he asks, calling Lenny ‘Ma’am’。
‘I’m not a madam,’ Lenny replies. ‘You call me boss, guvnor, or DSU Parvel.’
Voigt stammers an apology.
‘What’s your name?’ asks Lenny.
‘Stephen Voigt.’
‘Are you going to mess up my nice clean police car, Voigt?’
‘No, ma’am, sir, boss … I could sit on this blanket.’
Four corners of the car flash yellow. Voigt climbs into the back seat alongside me, apologising about the smell. Lenny cracks a window and we drive in silence until we reach the tarmacked road. The journey back to Nottingham has less urgency than the one that brought us here.
‘How long have you been a CSI?’ I ask.
‘Twelve years.’
‘You don’t look old enough.’
‘I was still at school, studying for my A-levels when I managed to get a week’s work experience with a CSI team. I went to burglaries and break-ins – nothing gruesome – but I was hooked, you know. They tease me because I’m so keen, but it shows they like me.’
Not in my experience, I think to myself. Voigt reminds me of an overenthusiastic red setter that bounds around thinking everybody loves dogs.
‘Shame about your clothes,’ I say.
‘That’s OK.’ He hums to himself and then asks, ‘Do you think Cassie minded that I got angry? I thought she did it on purpose. I didn’t mean to blame her. Did she look upset?’
‘I didn’t notice,’ I say.
‘Where can we drop you?’ asks Lenny.
Voigt hesitates and seems to be silently debating the issue.
‘Home might be an idea,’ suggests Lenny.
‘Yes, of course, but I don’t want Mrs Whitby seeing me like this.’
‘Mrs Whitby?’
‘I’m between properties right now. Staying with a family friend. I used to call her auntie, but we’re not really related. She and Mum were at school together.’
Voigt glances at me briefly, aware that he’s sharing too much with complete strangers.
‘If you could drop me at the office, I’ll have a shower before I go home.’
He means the Arncliffe Centre, an annexe of the East Midlands Forensic Services, which is based in a business park in Hucknall, north of Nottingham.
‘Just before you fell over, you found something around her neck,’ I say. ‘What was it?’
‘It looked like a thick rubber band, but I might be wrong.’
After dropping Voigt at his office, Lenny drives me back to my car, which is parked a few streets from the house. As I slip a key into the ignition, my thoughts return to Evie. What am I going to do about the fake dating profile? It’s illegal to steal someone’s identity.
Letting myself into the darkened house, I kick off my shoes and quietly climb the stairs. Evie will be in bed, asleep, or watching TikTok videos on her phone, ruining her posture and possibly her mind. Our lecture, the confrontation, the stern words, the recriminations, can wait until tomorrow. By then, I might have calmed down and be less likely to say something I regret.
I know what to expect. Evie’s natural defence mechanism is to push back, rather than surrender or apologise. And the only time she ever walks away from a fight is to set up an ambush.
20
Evie
I hear him come home. His key in the lock, the security chain, his boots being kicked off. He’s on the stairs now. The third one from the top creaks like an old rocking chair. Cyrus wants to get it fixed, but I like hearing him come home.
I sit up in bed, expecting him to knock and say goodnight. He does that sometimes when he sees the strip of light beneath my door. He knocks and asks if I’m awake. Then he comes into my room and perches on the end of my bed, leaning on his outstretched arm. I always look at his hand and want him to move it closer to me, to touch my covered foot. Nothing else would have to happen. It would be enough.
I know where he’s been. It came up on my news feed. The police have discovered a woman’s body near Mansfield, half an hour from Nottingham. Her name hasn’t been released, but everybody seems to know that it’s Maya Kirk.
Cyrus doesn’t stop outside my door. Instead, he goes to his bedroom and gets changed. Minutes later, he returns. I imagine his knuckles tapping on the door, but nothing happens. He continues downstairs to the basement. That’s not a good sign.
When something is troubling Cyrus, he lifts weights. I have watched him some nights, spying on his sessions, fascinated and fearful of what he does, how his ink-stained arms tremble as he raises the bar from the cradle, his breath coming in short bursts. He does it again and again – each lift slower than the last. This is not exercise. This is self-abuse. This is punishment.
I don’t know how long I lie awake, listening to the sound of weights being dropped into the cradle, imagining his groans of pain. This is how I fall asleep, wishing I could make him stop.
In the morning, Cyrus is up and gone before I get downstairs. There is a note on the kitchen table.
Take down the dating profile.
It’s against the law to steal someone’s identity.
Stay out of my life, Evie, or you can’t be part of it.
My legs go hollow and my heart drops to my feet and further. I read the note again. I want there to be an ‘x’ at the end, or an ‘o’。 Even his initials would do. I want to read between the lines and see that he’s angry, but not finished with me.
How did he find out? Somebody must have recognised his photograph on the dating profile. I was going to tell him, but only when I had found someone who was perfect for him.
When I suggested that he join a dating site, he laughed, saying that he’d meet someone ‘organically’， whatever that means. Nobody meets organically. It sounds creepy. And I know Cyrus. He doesn’t go to parties, and he is completely hopeless at flirting or realising that someone fancies him.
Sacha went back to London four months ago and there hasn’t been anyone since then. He needs someone, now more than ever. Elias is getting out. It’s going to bring back memories of his parents dying, and his sisters. Nobody should have to go through that alone.
‘Knock, knock,’ says a voice.
Mitch is standing at the laundry door, holding his cap in both hands. He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday.
‘Bus broke down. Sorry I’m late.’
It sounds like a lie, but he’s telling the truth.
‘I had to walk the last half-mile.’