The moment the question leaves my mouth I realise my mistake.
Lilah is staring at me coldly. ‘How do you know his name?’
‘Who?’
‘Trevor. How do you know his name?’
‘You called him that when we came inside.’
‘No.’
Lilah is on her feet, standing over me. ‘You’re not supposed to be here. My identity is a secret. I’m protected.’
I start to stammer an excuse.
‘He’s not your uncle. Who are you?’ she asks.
‘I’m trying to help him.’
‘Did he send you?’
‘No. I’m nobody. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry.’
Taking Poppy by the collar, I pull her towards the door, but Lilah pushes ahead of me and blocks our way. She has a phone in her hand. Holding it to her ear. She’s talking to the police.
‘Yes, she’s here now … Mitchell Coates sent her. He attacked me six years ago. Now he’s on parole. I’m frightened.’
I take a step towards her. ‘You’re making a mistake.’
She braces herself. ‘What are you going to do? Attack me?’
‘Mitch had nothing to do with this.’
‘Explain that to the police.’
I glance at the door, knowing I should run.
‘You’re not sure, are you?’ I say, pleading with her. ‘You think it had to be Mitch because he had a key to this place, but what if you’re wrong?’
‘I’m not,’ she says, but I see her doubt. I taste it on my tongue, metallic and sticky like blood.
‘You have no idea what I’ve been through,’ says Lilah. ‘What it’s like to live in fear.’
I want to laugh. Fear is all I’ve ever known. I’ve been abused, beaten and burned. I’ve hidden in walls. I’ve listened to men die. I’ve faced down guns. And it happens again and again each time I close my eyes.
33
Cyrus
Applause breaks out among the detectives when I arrive in the incident room.
‘The man of the moment,’ says Lenny. ‘You caught the bastard.’
‘He caught himself,’ I reply, as my back is slapped and hand pumped. Everybody wants to hear the details, to bathe in my reflected glory, but it doesn’t feel very glorious. Two people are dead. A man is in custody. Nothing will turn this tragedy into a triumph.
‘Back to work,’ says Lenny. ‘We have forty-eight hours to charge Foley or cut him loose.’
I go to her office. She sits on the wide window sill where several African violets are growing in clay pots. Velvety leaves. Pink and purple flowers.
‘You proved yourself to Hoyle,’ says Lenny.
‘Was that the aim?’
‘No, but it will make things easier, going forward. I can’t always be here.’
‘Where is Hoyle?’
‘Claiming his share of the glory.’
Lenny turns on the TV that is bolted to the wall. Sky News is reporting the arrest. Forensic officers are shown entering Foley’s house and examining his van. The footage cuts to Foley arriving at Radford Road station, hidden beneath a tartan blanket, flanked by Edgar and Prime Time. The walk of shame.
Hoyle appears on screen, microphones thrust towards him like swords.
‘Thanks to the hard work and skill of my task force we have a suspect in custody who has serious questions to answer. Our job is only half done. Maya and Rohan Kirk deserve justice and I will not rest until their killer is behind bars.’
‘Fifteen seconds,’ says Lenny. ‘The man knows how to deliver a sound-bite.’ She turns down the volume. ‘The toxicology results are back. Maya Kirk had traces of GHB in her hair follicles.’
Gamma-hydroxybutyrate. A party drug that has become a date-rape drug. Clear. Odourless. Easily dissolved in a drink.
‘The semen found on the sofa has been matched to Foley’s DNA; and the sample we took from Maya’s dress, although degraded, has enough markers to put him in the frame.’
These two details seem to jar because they don’t fit with how I pictured the abduction or the murder. Why would the killer be so careful about wearing gloves, but leave something so incriminating behind?
‘Where is he now?’ I ask.
‘Downstairs. His solicitor has arrived.’
‘Who’s interviewing him?’
‘Hoyle. You want to watch?’
‘Not really.’
‘Come on. Enjoy your moment.’
We walk down the internal stairs. Everybody we pass seems to be smiling and nodding to me, aware of the breakthrough. The viewing room is also crowded, but a seat is found for me, as though I’m the guest of honour turning up at the awards ceremony.
Through the glass window, Anders Foley is sitting beside Giana Camilleri, who has none of the aggression and bravado I witnessed in the original interview. This time she looks ready to wave a white flag. Foley has also changed. His eyes are puffy and red and his nostrils flare each time he exhales.
‘My client wishes to correct the record,’ says Camilleri. ‘Some of his previous answers were not entirely correct.’
‘He lied,’ says Hoyle, who is standing behind his chair, gripping the backrest.
‘He wishes to make a full statement.’
‘A confession?’
‘I didn’t touch her,’ says Foley. ‘I’m being set up.’ He has a plaster on his forehead that has a pink tinge of blood at the centre.
Hoyle takes a seat and folds his arms, acting like a man with a closed mind. Edgar starts the recording equipment and announces the date, time, and those present.
‘What would you like to tell us, Mr Foley?’ asks Hoyle, ready to disbelieve him. ‘We’re all ears.’
‘Ah … well … what I said the other day wasn’t entirely true, but I didn’t hurt anyone.’ Foley wipes his nose with his sleeve. ‘I drove Maya home because she could barely stand up. She kept apologising and saying that she’d get a cab, but I didn’t think a driver would take her because she was so drunk.’
‘You went into her house.’
‘She couldn’t get the key in the door. I had to help her.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I put her on the sofa in the front room because she couldn’t get up the stairs. I took off her shoes and put a pillow under her head and got a bowl from the kitchen in case she vomited again.’
‘That’s very gallant of you,’ says Hoyle, sardonically. ‘Was she conscious?’
‘Yes. No. Maybe.’
‘An unconscious woman – and you didn’t think to take her to hospital,’ says Edgar.
‘She was conscious,’ says Foley. ‘She wanted to sleep.’
‘Did you go upstairs?’ asks Hoyle.
Foley hesitates, as though sorting the lies into an orderly line, deciding which one is more believable. ‘I needed to use the bathroom.’
‘There is a toilet downstairs.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Did you go into Maya’s bedroom?’
‘I’m not sure … maybe … yeah, that’s right, I grabbed her duvet – something to keep her warm.’
‘Did you take anything else from her room?’