‘That will be fifteen minutes. You can wait or come back. There’s a café in the foyer.’
We follow her directions, past an information desk, a florist and a gift shop. Elias sneaks a glance at two nurses who are walking past us. He looks away when he notices me watching him and does that same creepy licking of his top lip. It’s freezing today. Why is he sweating?
Then I realise that he’s nervous. He’s not used to being in a busy place like a hospital. The café is the wrong choice. Instead, I find a bench hidden by potted palms. Elias sits with his knees together and head thrust forward, arms against his sides, fingers hooked under his thighs.
‘When did you start hearing voices?’ I ask, making it sound like we’re talking about the weather, which is something I never do.
‘When I was fourteen.’
‘What did they say?’
‘It wasn’t a voice at first. It was a scarecrow man. He used to visit me at night. He had a hessian sack for a head and holes for eyes and he used to scratch on my bedroom window with his fingers.’
‘That was probably branches in the wind.’
‘Yeah, that’s what my mum said. She asked Dad to trim the tree, but the scarecrow man was still there. Eventually, he moved inside. I would wake and find him leaning over my bed, breathing on my face. I couldn’t move or scream.’
‘I’ve had dreams like that,’ I say. ‘The nightmares where you think you’re awake, but you’re trapped in the dream.’
I’ve had other dreams where the monsters were real, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Somebody nearby laughs loudly. Elias flinches and wipes his top lip.
‘One day he spoke to me.’
‘What did he say?’
‘“He is going to kill them.”’
‘Kill who?’
He shrugs. ‘I thought he was talking about someone else. I tried to ignore the voice. I pushed it away. I told myself it wasn’t real. But it started to follow me. I’d be at school, or mowing lawns, or down at the arcade, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I’d hear it. “He is going to kill them.” It was always the same thing, like he was talking about someone else, but looking straight at me.’
‘Did you tell anyone?’
‘I didn’t want them thinking I was crazy.’
‘But you were.’
He is rocking slightly and his voice sounds groggy, like someone who hasn’t slept in a long time.
‘I tried to make it stop. I locked myself away. I drank. I smoked hash. I exercised. Once I didn’t sleep for three days, but the voice kept whispering to me. It’s funny how you get used to something like that. Instead of persecuting me, the voice became my friend. It set me tasks. Unspoken ones. They were small to begin with. Steal something from a shop. Cut myself with a knife. Shave off my hair. I began to wonder if my life would get back to normal if I did what he said. I just had to give up control. Stop fighting. Let him win.’
‘Do you still see the scarecrow man?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘Do you hear the voice?’
‘Yes, but he has no control over me now. I am different. Stronger.’
I get an odd queasy feeling in my stomach. It’s not his answer that bothers me. For the first time, I can’t tell if he’s lying.
50
Cyrus
The atmosphere in the incident room has changed since my last visit. The celebrations have been replaced by disappointment and a faltering sense of desperation. With each passing hour, the chances of finding Daniela Linares alive have diminished, and some detectives have switched to recovery mode, expecting to find a body.
The task force has been broken into teams that are tackling different avenues of inquiry. Some are knocking on doors. Others are studying CCTV footage from traffic cameras and local businesses, trying to identify the car and driver that picked up Daniela from outside the Little Drummer.
Foley’s poker-playing mates have each been interviewed and warned about perjury, but nothing has dented his alibi for Friday night. His phone records and social media pages are being searched, along with postings on message boards and possible links to radical incel groups.
Hoyle notices my arrival. He breaks away from a group of colleagues, signalling for me to walk with him, moving with less swagger than before.
‘I wanted to apologise for the way I reacted at our last meeting,’ he says. ‘I’m never at my best when I’m dragged out of bed.’
‘I didn’t take offence.’
Hoyle pushes through a swing door, holding it open for me.
‘What about Paulie Brennan?’ I ask.
‘He hasn’t been home. We’re watching the house.’
‘What does Marlene say?’
‘She says we’re harassing her family and has threatened to lodge a complaint.’
‘Does that bother you?’
‘Not in the least. You met Paulie. What did you make of him?’
‘Below-average intelligence. Socially awkward. He hangs out with some dodgy mates.’
‘Orlando Simpson and Rex Chande,’ says Hoyle. ‘They’re members of The Blue Angels Motorcycle Club. Both have convictions for dealing.’
‘Has anyone talked to Foley?’ I ask.
‘His lawyer is refusing us access.’
‘Can you offer some sort of deal?’
‘Not a chance.’ We have reached the stairwell. ‘There is one possibility. Foley’s lawyer has agreed to a preliminary psych evaluation. I put your name forward.’
I don’t know why Foley would trust me, but Hoyle must be running out of options. Unlocking a man’s ego can be as simple as asking him to open a jar of pickles, or as complex as algebraic geometry, but a meeting with Foley is a start. If I can explore his state of mind, I can learn what psychological buttons might unlock his defences.
‘One more thing,’ says Hoyle. ‘I have organised a TV reconstruction of Daniela Linares’ last hours. I was hoping Miss Cormac might take part.’
‘You want Evie on camera?’
‘She’ll be playing herself.’
‘Will you blur her face?’
‘Why?’
‘Her identity is protected. Nobody is allowed to publish her name, address, or any photographs.’
‘What has that girl done to get that sort of protection?’
He knows I won’t answer.
‘OK, but she wears the same clothes.’
Prime Time appears on the stairs, out of breath. ‘Paulie Brennan has just been sighted. He’s at Donington Park.’
I have never understood the appeal of motorsports. I don’t discount the skill and bravery it takes to hurl a machine around a track at two hundred miles an hour, but calling it a sport is like saying that Neil Armstrong was an athlete when he piloted Apollo 11 to the moon.
From what I’ve seen – which is admittedly very little – winning and losing often comes down to the car rather than the person behind the wheel. All vehicles are not created equal. Then again, neither are yachts, nor polo ponies, nor football teams owned by oligarchs.
Donington Park is a circuit near Castle Donington in Leicestershire, about fifteen miles south-west of Nottingham. Today is an amateur track day, where petrolheads and hobbyists get a chance to test their skills on a circuit normally used by superbikes and touring cars.