‘No.’
‘You’re still lying,’ says Hoyle.
‘I’m not. I didn’t hurt her. I wrapped her in the duvet, and I left. I never saw her father.’
‘You undressed her.’
‘No. I … I … took off her shoes.’
‘Your semen was found on the sofa and the inside of her dress.’
Blood drains from Foley’s face. ‘That was … It’s not what you …’
‘You sexually assaulted her.’
‘No. No.’
‘How did your semen get on her dress?’
Foley begins to stammer and drops his head into his hands. Hoyle and Edgar wait. The invisible clock is ticking, building pressure. Foley breaks.
‘I had a wank, OK? I’m not proud of the fact.’
‘You took off her dress.’
‘No. I … I … I pulled it up. I didn’t hurt her. She was sleeping, and I thought …’
‘Is that when her father interrupted?’ asks Edgar.
‘No. I didn’t see anyone else.’
‘Oh, come on, Anders,’ says Hoyle, sighing tiredly. ‘Your semen is on her dress. Her DNA will be in your car. We know you stole her underwear.’
Foley frowns, wondering how the police could know what he took. Hoyle has a folder of photographs. Eight-by-tens, colour images. He begins laying them out on the table. They show Maya’s body, lying at the bottom of a ditch.
‘Why are you showing me these?’ asks Foley.
Hoyle talks over him. ‘Why did you shave her head?’
‘I didn’t touch her.’
‘You broke her neck.’
‘No. I left her on the sofa.’
‘Let me tell you what I think happened,’ says Hoyle. ‘You drugged her. You drove her home. You raped her and she cried out, waking her father, who came downstairs. That’s when you beat him to death with a fire poker. And you abducted Maya because you couldn’t leave her behind. She was a witness.’
Foley looks to Camilleri, hoping for support, but the solicitor is bending a paperclip, twisting it into different shapes.
‘We need an answer for the tape,’ says Hoyle.
A different kind of shine comes into Foley’s eyes. ‘None of that is true.’
‘The rape or the murder?’
‘I didn’t touch her.’
‘Why did you clean your van?’
‘She vomited.’
‘Where are the clothes you were wearing that night?’
‘They had sick on them.’
‘Did you burn them, or throw them away?’
‘I washed them at the laundrette.’
‘You took her somewhere. You bound her in a rope corset. You cut off her hair. You broke her neck.’
‘No, no. I left her on the sofa. I drove home. I went to bed. That’s the truth. I swear to God.’
‘You swear to God,’ says Hoyle, barking a laugh. ‘You should be praying, not swearing.’
Foley chews his bottom lip, and a bubble of snot inflates and breaks in his right nostril.
Even as he argues, I remember the rope marks on Maya’s pale skin and her hacked hair. Foley’s social media pages and his dating history reveal his casual misogyny and predatory nature, but nothing overtly sadistic. Whoever took Maya chose her for a reason, and most elements of the crime and aftermath showed planning and design, yet Foley made some avoidable mistakes.
Hoyle gets to his feet, having heard enough. ‘Anders Foley, you will be charged with the murder of Rohan Kirk and the abduction and murder of Maya Kirk, between the seventh of November and tenth of November. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something that you later rely upon in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
The recording equipment is turned off and Hoyle signals to a waiting constable. Foley is forced to stand and handcuffs close around his wrists. He sniffles and wipes his eyes with his raised hands, before glimpsing himself in the mirror, disgusted at what he sees.
34
Evie
In my limited experience – I’ve been locked up five, maybe six times – all police station cells smell the same. It’s a mixture of boiled cabbage, sweat and bleach, and some mystery ingredient that might be tears or sorrow.
A police patrol car stopped me two streets from Lilah’s flat. I saw the blue flashing lights in my mirrors and heard the burst of a siren. For a half-second, I thought about trying to make a run for it, but the Mini is hardly a getaway car. They would have laughed all the way to the station.
As it is, I’ve been arrested for refusing to give them my name and address; or produce a driver’s licence or registration papers for the car, which is still in Morty’s name.
‘Are you old enough to drive?’ one of them asked.
‘Are you old enough to shave?’ I shot back. His female partner laughed, which made things worse.
Since then, I’ve been staring at the same square light for so long that it’s still there when I close my eyes, shining inside my eyelids. Occasionally there are footsteps. The observation flap slides open. Eyes peer at me. I raise my middle finger. Seconds later, the flap shuts and I go back to staring at the light.
I don’t want Cyrus finding out what I’ve done, but I know they’ll trace the car eventually and talk to Morty, who will tell them my name. At some point, Cyrus will be contacted and come to collect me. In the meantime, the station sergeant says I should think about what I’ve done. That’s always been my problem. I leap before I look. I play with fire. I skate on thin ice. But why can’t those other clichés apply to me, like fortune favouring the brave, or he who hesitates is lost?
They confiscated my phone, along with my belt and shoelaces and my earrings, although I don’t know how they expect me to harm myself with two platinum studs shaped like bolts of lightning.
I hear steps outside. The cell door unlocks. A woman enters. She’s wearing a tweed skirt and matching jacket, and if it’s possible a harmonised hairdo.
‘Hello, sweetie,’ she says in a sing-song voice, talking to me like I’m in kindergarten. ‘I’m here to make sure you’re OK.’
Oh shit! She’s a social worker. They think I’m a minor. Her name is Mrs Beaumont, and she reminds me of the bleeding hearts who worked at Langford Hall where the do-gooders annoyed me more than the sadists because they smothered every conversation with syrupy smiles and sad-eyed tuts. Shoot me now.
‘The police want to ask you a few questions,’ she says. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I don’t have to tell them that – not unless they tell me what offence I’ve committed.’
She giggles rather than laughs. ‘My, you do seem to know your rights. Have you been arrested before?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Well, I’m your designated adult. If you want anything, you ask me.’
‘I’m twenty-one. I don’t need a designated adult.’
‘Really?’
Clearly, she doesn’t believe me. Moments later, a police officer shows up and I’m taken to an interview room where my two arresting officers are waiting. They have taken off their black stab vests and don’t look anywhere near as scary. We’re being recorded so they’re extra polite, offering me a soft drink and asking if I want to call my parents.