‘Possibly,’ says Ness.
‘When?’
‘She was alive for forty-eight hours after she was taken.’
‘DNA?’
‘Unlikely. The risk of contamination from the ditch is too high.’
My mind drifts back to the rubber band around her neck.
‘He was keeping her alive. He had plans.’
‘Your area of expertise, not mine,’ says Ness.
At some point, the police will ask me for a psychological profile. I need to understand the killer’s behavioural parameters and triggers. To do this properly, I have to put myself in Maya’s shoes – to see the world through her eyes. The bindings suggest sexual intent, but she wasn’t raped or sodomised. She was kept somewhere for two days. Given food and water. Slowly deprived of oxygen. We’re looking for a planner. Someone forensically aware, who is prone to making mistakes when put under pressure.
But I still don’t know his motive. Did he mean to kill her or to keep her?
22
Evie
Veejay is dressed like a hippy today in a linen top with an embroidered neckline and white harem pants. The first streaks of silver are showing up in her thick dark hair, but she hasn’t tried to hide them. Maybe this is her statement about ageism, or she could have lousy eyesight.
‘How is the new job?’ she asks.
‘I’m going to find another one.’
‘Why?’
‘They want me to wear a dress.’
‘And that’s a problem?’
I lift my shoulders and drop them. ‘I don’t have any dresses.’
‘I see.’
What does she see? She doesn’t have a clue.
‘What else is happening in your life?’ she asks.
‘Nothing.’
‘How are your studies?’
‘Pointless.’
She asks me about my dreams. Nothing seems to make her happier than when I have a dream to share, something she can analyse and write in her notes. I make them up sometimes, like when I dreamt that my hair turned into spaghetti, or that I could bake puppies using pancake batter. Veejay wrote that down.
We fall into another silence. She and Cyrus are both experts at letting time drag out. I can feel my life ebbing away. Tick … tick … tick. Veejay gets paid by the hour, so it doesn’t matter to her. Maybe that’s what I should be – a therapist. I’d know when people were lying.
I want to talk about what I did to Cyrus – faking his dating profile – and how angry it has made him, and how maybe he doesn’t want me living with him any more, but I was only trying to do something nice for him. Maybe I could convince her that my heart was in the right place. Maybe I’d be lying.
Instead, I ask her about Mitch.
‘If someone is found guilty of sexual assault and they didn’t do it, what happens?’
‘They can appeal.’
‘What if they’ve already served their sentence?’
‘They’ve missed their chance.’
‘So that’s it? What if they can’t get a job, or find a place to rent, because everybody treats them like a criminal?’
‘I’m sure there are welfare agencies. Who is this person?’
‘Someone I met.’
‘He could be lying.’
‘He’s not. There must be some way to prove he’s innocent.’
‘Perhaps if the guilty person confessed, or if your friend found new evidence.’ Veejay seems to stop herself. ‘Have you talked to Cyrus about this?’
‘He’s not very happy with me just now.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
That’s the one thing I like about Veejay. When I choose to avoid a subject, she doesn’t pressure me, or act like I’m wasting her time.
‘His brother is getting out of the loony bin,’ I say.
‘It’s a secure psychiatric hospital.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Does that concern you?’
‘Yeah. He killed his entire family – everyone except Cyrus.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘If I had a brother who did that, I wouldn’t be visiting him in hospital, or letting him back into my life, but Cyrus is acting like everything is OK.’
‘Maybe he forgives him.’
‘Yeah. Right.’ My sarcasm has no effect on her. ‘What if Elias is faking it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Being better. I mean, I once pretended I could hear voices. I was hoping they’d send me to some posh country house where I’d get to do art classes and make pottery and play croquet.’
Veejay smiles. ‘How did that work for you?’
‘I spent a night on suicide watch in a psych ward, hearing teenage girls moaning and screaming. Some were being force-fed. Others had bandaged wrists. Next morning, I told them the voices had gone.’
I don’t know why I’m telling her any of this, but it’s the truth.
‘Is this about Cyrus’s brother or about your sister?’ asks Veejay.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You lost your family and you found Cyrus. Maybe you’re worried that he will get close to Elias, and you will feel left out.’
‘No. I don’t care.’
Veejay hears the harshness in my answer. She’s playing devil’s advocate, trying to push my buttons to see how I react. She wants me to be kinder to people, and by extension, gentler on myself.
‘You’re not a bad person, Evie,’ is one of her favourite lines, but she has no idea what I’ve done. I don’t deserve to be happy. I don’t deserve to be loved. If I was a good person, I’d want Cyrus to find someone to love. The truth is, I don’t. I created a dating profile for him, but I did everything I could to push the women away who swiped right. None of them were good enough.
‘What if they’re wrong about Elias?’ I ask. ‘What if he’s not better?’
‘He deserves the benefit of the doubt.’
‘No. There shouldn’t be any doubt. They have to be certain. I don’t want Cyrus to get hurt.’
‘I’m sure he can look after himself.’
I snort, ‘He can’t look after a dog.’
‘I thought Poppy was your dog.’
‘She is, but that’s not the point.’
23
Cyrus
Melody Sterling is seated in the mortuary waiting area with a tote bag resting on her lap. She reacts to every movement and sound like a frightened animal that has wandered into a clearing. Her husband is with her. Unshaven and solidly built, he has a round, flushed face with a sun-damaged nose. Calluses on his hands.
‘Call me Dean,’ he says, delivering a crushing handshake which feels like a test. I try not to flinch. I fail.
‘The post-mortem has just finished,’ I tell Melody. ‘They won’t be long.’
‘They cut her up,’ says Dean, screwing up his face.
Melody goes pale.
‘They’re gathering evidence,’ I reply.
Dean cocks his head to one side and begins clicking his fingers. ‘I remember you. We were at school together. Chilwell Comprehensive.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t recall you.’