I yell to Eric, ‘Did anyone hand in a phone?’
He relays the question to Grady, who answers with a shrug.
‘Who lost a phone?’ asks Brando.
‘The woman in the bathroom.’
‘The one who puked?’
‘Yeah. Her friends left her.’
‘Get her out of here.’
‘How do I do that?’
‘Call her a car.’
‘She doesn’t have her phone.’
‘I don’t care how you do it.’
I want to argue but Brando has already turned away. As I walk back to the loos, I hear Eric yelling my name. He’s holding up a mobile phone.
‘It was next to the cash register. Someone must have handed it in.’
I swipe the screen, but it needs a passcode. Back in the bathroom, I hand the phone to Daniela, who looks relieved, but still pale and shaky. She slides off the back of the phone’s case and checks that her driver’s licence and credit card are still tucked into a small compartment.
‘I’ll order a car,’ she says, but her fingers won’t do what she asks. I take the phone from her and finish the task. A map appears on screen, showing the nearest available drivers. One of them accepts the request.
‘Five minutes,’ I say.
Daniela stands and leans against the cubicle door. When she sways forward, I grab her around the waist to stop her falling. It makes me feel uncomfortable, but I don’t have a choice. Side by side, we navigate the narrow corridor and up the short flight of stairs, before reaching the bar. Empty glasses need collecting and tables need wiping. Brando wants me back working.
I signal that I’ll be two minutes and steer Daniela towards the main door. The bouncer, Hamid, holds it open for us and I help her outside where the cold air seems to revive her and she stands on her own, gulping in each breath. She keeps thanking me and making excuses.
A car appears, travelling too quickly down the one-way street. The driver brakes hard when he sees us. He lowers the passenger window. ‘Car for Daniela.’
I open the rear door and Daniela ducks her head as she slumps onto the seat. I lean inside and clip on her seatbelt.
‘Do you have the address?’ I ask.
‘Stapleford,’ says the driver. He taps the phone on the dashboard.
‘Make sure she gets home,’ I say.
‘Consider it done.’
For the briefest moment, as the door closes, I feel something flutter in my stomach. Moments later, the car is moving away, disappearing around a corner.
Back in the bar, I continue working until a bell signals last orders. After a final rush, the bell rings again and the stragglers are coaxed and cajoled and bullied into leaving. The doors are locked. Glasses are collected. Dregs emptied. Tables wiped. Chairs stacked. Brando checks everything I do and points out things I’ve missed.
My final chore is to dump the rubbish bags into wheelie bins in the alley. Brando hands each of the staff an envelope. Mine contains eighty quid, including tips. I send a text message to Morty, which he won’t read until he wakes.
I’ll buy your car. Give me until Monday.
27
Cyrus
Mitch is working inside the house, repairing one of the stairs to the attic, which has been sagging since my grandparents left me the place. He’s trying not to make too much noise because Evie didn’t get home until the early hours. I lay awake waiting for her, only falling asleep when I heard her bedroom door close.
Mitch isn’t much of a talker. He arrives at eight each morning and leaves at four. When I pay him, he lowers his head, as though embarrassed about taking my money.
At midday he breaks for a sandwich and sits on the back step with Poppy. I offer to make him a cup of tea.
‘I’d rather have a shower,’ he says.
I notice a bulging rucksack that is sitting beside the back door. Unlacing the top, he looks for a clean shirt, sniffing at several before pushing them back inside.
‘Do you want to do a load of washing?’ I ask.
‘Tomorrow maybe.’
A sleeping bag is strapped to the rucksack.
‘How are things at the boarding house?’ I ask.
‘The landlady asked me to leave.’
‘Why?’
‘The police came round. They were asking questions about that murdered woman.’
‘Did you know her?’
‘No, but I guess I’m on some list of sexual offenders.’ Mitch has found a clean shirt. ‘My landlady doesn’t like coppers. She says it makes her other lodgers nervous.’
‘Where are you staying now?’
‘Here and there.’
‘Where did you sleep last night?’
‘There’s a fire station on London Road that offers emergency shelter if the temperature drops below zero.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
‘The car park on Queen Street is warm enough.’
‘You should have said something.’
‘Why? It’s not your concern.’
‘You’re welcome to stay here for a few days,’ I say, ‘until you finish the job.’
‘You’ve done enough.’
‘This place has five bedrooms.’
He chews on the inside of his cheek. ‘You should check with Evie.’
‘If it makes you feel better.’
Mitch nods and climbs the stairs to the bathroom. Later, he reappears with damp hair, and razor marks on his neck. This time he accepts a soft drink, which he barely touches, running his finger through the condensation on the can.
‘I did a bit of reading on your case,’ I say. ‘Who was the arresting officer?’
‘Your friend.’
‘Who?’
‘He came here the other day and saw me working in the garden, but I don’t think he recognised me.’
‘Gary Hoyle.’
He nods. ‘He treated me like a scumbag rapist from the very beginning.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Usual stuff. You’re walking, hands cuffed behind you, and a boot trips you up. Face first. Nothing to break your fall. Either that, or they spit in your food, or leave the cell lights on all night, or wake you every few hours for a strip search.’
‘Your DNA was found in Lilah’s flat.’
‘She was my friend.’
‘How did her earring get into your washing machine?’
‘Maybe it was planted.’
‘You think you were framed?’
‘It’s the only thing that makes sense.’
I want to argue, but I’m aware that police will sometimes tilt the scales against a suspect. It might be a sin of omission – disposing of evidence or burying a detail that could muddy the minds of a jury. At other times it involves forcing the facts to fit a particular narrative.
I hear the side gate open. Evie has been walking Poppy in Wollaton Park. She’s wearing jeans and a large woollen coat that makes her look even smaller. Poppy drinks noisily from a metal bowl beneath the tap, and Evie hangs the harness on a hook in the laundry.
‘Mitch is going to be staying with us for a few days. Is that OK with you?’ I ask.
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
I glance at Mitch, who smiles and says, ‘Thank you, Evie.’
‘No problem.’
She heads upstairs, but returns almost immediately, yelling, ‘Your phone was ringing.’