‘You can trace his phone,’ I say.
‘We will be. Hoyle is briefing the task force at ten.’
‘I can be there.’
‘I think you should stay away. You antagonised him last night.’
‘Not on purpose.’
‘Really?’ she asks sarcastically. ‘Is Evie with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she get a good look at the driver?’
Evie has been listening. She rocks her hand from side to side.
‘Maybe,’ I say.
Lenny puts me on hold. A few minutes later, she returns. ‘There is a police sketch artist at the Arncliffe Centre. He’ll be waiting for her.’
Twenty minutes later, I’m showered and shaved and yelling up the stairs for Evie to hurry. After ten more minutes she appears with a blob of pimple cream on her forehead.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asks accusingly.
‘You can barely notice it.’
‘Don’t look at me.’
‘I used to get pimples when I was your age.’
‘Fuck off!’
Evie is not a morning person, or an afternoon person, or an evening person. I think her sweet spot is possibly late at night when she’s sleeping or playing with Poppy. Sometimes I think living with her is like playing a game of pass the parcel, peeling off another layer, never knowing what I’m going to find hidden inside.
Taking a box of cereal from the cupboard, she noisily sets down a bowl and spoon, before drowning Bran Flakes in milk.
‘Tell me about the driver,’ I say.
‘I only saw him for a second. He didn’t look at me.’
I pull out my phone and call up an image of Anders Foley.
‘Was this him?’
‘No.’
‘And it wasn’t Mitch.’
‘Of course not.’
‘What can you remember?’
She pushes out her bottom lip and thinks for a moment. ‘He was wearing a baseball cap. He had tufts of hair sticking out.’
‘What colour hat?’
‘Red.’
‘And hair?’
‘Dark brown maybe.’
‘What about the car? The make? The model? The colour?’
‘It had four wheels.’
‘You’re not trying.’
‘It was a car!’ she says, sarcastically, her frustration spilling over.
‘I could hypnotise you.’
‘No!’
‘It can help you remember.’
‘No! Never! You’re not poking around in my head.’ Her voice is rising. ‘You’re itching to get inside there … to find the broken pieces. There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘OK. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
She goes back to her cereal, which has grown soggy. She adds more to the bowl.
I begin again. ‘What do you remember about the bar that night? Did anyone stand out?’
She shrugs.
‘What about men acting strangely – hassling women, buying them drinks?’
‘That’s what men do, isn’t it?’
Someone had to get close enough to Daniela to slip something in her drink.
Evie wipes milk from her chin. ‘When the police showed up to ask questions about Maya Kirk, I saw a guy sneak out through the kitchen. The chef tried to stop him, but he used the fire door that leads into the back alley.’
‘Any cameras out there?’
Evie shrugs.
‘What did he look like?’
‘Tall. Skinny. Thick eyebrows.’
‘Could it be the driver?’
‘No, he was different.’
‘Would you recognise him again?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
Ten minutes later, we’re on the road, heading north along Bilborough Road on the western edge of Nottingham, where newly ploughed fields are visible through the trees and the hedges are broken by farm gates and walking tracks. Rain threatens.
‘How long does she have?’ asks Evie, who has been quiet on the drive. ‘You said Maya was held somewhere – before he, you know …’
I want to lie to Evie, to reassure her, but that’s not possible. ‘She was alive for forty-eight hours.’
‘Then we’re already too late.’
‘Every case is different. Every victim. She could have found a way to make a personal connection, he may begin to care about her and keep her alive.’
‘How?’
‘By talking to him and pandering to his ego or being compliant.’
‘Is that what he wants – someone compliant?’
‘There is a time to fight and a time to retreat. Strategise. Placate.’
‘What does placate mean?’
‘To soothe or pander to his ego.’
Evie goes quiet for a while and then whispers, ‘I don’t know how you can do this.’
‘What?’
‘Understand why people do horrible things.’
‘Sometimes it’s the only way to stop them.’
44
Evie
A woman in a white lab coat collects us from the reception area. Her name is Cassie and she’s flirting like crazy with Cyrus, which annoys me because she’s clearly not right for him. I can tell the ones who are needy, or controlling, or want an errand boy not a boyfriend.
‘Back again so soon,’ she says, flashing him a smile. ‘And who’s this?’
‘This is my friend, Evie.’
‘I’m his lodger,’ I say.
‘How old-fashioned.’
‘Yeah, Cyrus is that sort of guy.’
Cassie takes us to an open-plan office, where workspaces are separated by shoulder-high partitions. Another room, visible through glass, is full of people wearing white coats, face masks and hairnets.
Cassie points out some of the technology, like she’s a tour guide. ‘This one we call the beast. It’s a liquid chromatograph with a time-of-flight mass spectrometer. It can analyse drugs, blood, alcohol, fibres, skin cells …’
In between the talking, Cassie asks questions, wanting to know what we’re doing here. Cyrus tells her about Daniela Linares going missing and how I got a look at the driver.
‘Only for a second,’ I say.
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Why?’
‘A poor identikit can deflect attention away from the real perpetrator.’
‘I don’t want to do that.’
‘You won’t,’ says Cyrus, who is annoyed with Cassie, not me. Serves her right. I’ve decided that I don’t want Cyrus finding a girlfriend. Nobody is good enough for him. Certainly not me. I’d be the worst. And he refuses to look at me like that, not with my pimple. No wonder he treats me like a child.
Cassie has stopped at an office. Inside, an old man is sitting on a high stool in front of a drafting table. He has shaggy grey hair and thick-lensed glasses that exaggerate the size of his eyes, making them bobble when he moves his head.
‘Hi, Frank. This is Evie Cormac.’
He gets to his feet and bows at the waist. ‘Hello, Miss Cormac.’
I laugh.
‘Did I say something to amuse you?’
‘Nobody ever calls me Miss.’
‘Would you prefer Evie?’
‘No. I like Miss Cormac.’
Frank points to a high stool next to him.