Foley appears, scanning the room expectantly. There’s someone he hopes to see. It’s not me. His expression changes, and he swaggers to the table, bigging himself up in front of his fellow prisoners. He’s wearing prison-issue clothes, which are still creased from the packaging.
‘Who are you?’ he asks.
‘I’m a psychologist. Cyrus Haven.’
‘I don’t need a shrink.’
‘Maybe not, but you need a friend.’ I hold up open palms. ‘No notebooks. No wire. Just the two of us.’
‘Mano a mano,’ he says, his top lip curling. ‘Why should I talk to you?’
‘Your solicitor agreed to this …’
‘That useless bitch,’ he mutters. ‘I’ve been stitched up.’ He leans closer, speaking in a harsh whisper. ‘I didn’t kill that old man and I didn’t kidnap Maya Kirk. Somebody out there is laughing, you know, because they got away with it.’
‘You lied to the police.’
‘That doesn’t make me a killer.’
‘Did you drug Maya?’
‘Do I look that desperate? I can pull any bird I want.’
‘Is that why you write fake dating profiles?’
‘Everybody does that,’ he scoffs. ‘Women are the worst. Soft focus photographs, push-up bras, shapewear. You turn up expecting to meet Cinderella and you get the ugly stepsister. It’s a game.’
I take two photocopied pages from my pocket – the sketches that Evie helped prepare. I slide the first one across the table, showing the driver of the car.
‘Recognise him?’ I ask.
Foley grunts. ‘Prince Andrew? Harry Styles?’
I show him the second one.
‘That’s Paulie,’ he says.
‘How do you know him?’
‘During the summer, me and my mates play basketball Sunday mornings at Victoria Embankment. Paulie used to play, until we told him to leave.’
‘Why?’
‘We have a no-dickheads policy. You can invite someone to play and if he turns out to be a dickhead, he gets booted.’
‘And that was Paulie?’
‘Yeah, he took the game too seriously. He elbowed Gazza in the face. Broke his nose. Bled like a stuck pig.’
‘Who invited him to play?’
‘Gazza. Serves him right, eh?’ Foley grins.
‘Did you ever see Paulie socially, out and about, at pubs or clubs?’
‘Yeah. Occasionally.’
‘What about on the night you met Maya?’
Foley pauses and scratches his nose. ‘Would it help if I said yes?’
‘Only if it’s the truth.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’
‘He died today in a car crash.’
Foley doesn’t seem particularly concerned. I keep the drawings on the table, hoping for more.
‘How did Maya seem on your date?’ I ask.
‘OK. A bit up herself, but she chilled after a while.’
‘Who arrived first?’
‘She did.’
‘Anyone else talk to her, or buy her a drink?’
‘No.’
‘Anything unusual happen?’
‘Like what? I mean, Maya asked me to swap seats because she saw some guy she wanted to avoid.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Nah.’
‘You said Maya was drunk. How much did she have?’
‘Only three drinks, but she was slurring and swaying. That’s why I offered to take her home.’
‘When you left the last bar, was anyone hanging around – someone who might have been following her?’
‘A driver pulled up. Asked if we’d ordered a car.’
‘Did you see his face?’
‘Nah.’
‘What was he driving?’
‘Took no notice.’
Foley finally begins to clock where I’ve been leading him. ‘You think it was him? The driver.’
‘Another woman has gone missing. She was picked up in the Lace Market on Friday night.’
‘I was playing poker.’
‘The police think you had an accomplice.’
‘What! No!’ He sits up straighter, leans forward. ‘Does my lawyer know? She can get me out of here. Reasonable doubt, yeah?’
‘Maya Kirk’s DNA was found in your van.’
‘She vomited.’
‘Your semen was found at the murder scene and on Maya’s dress.’
‘I told you what happened. This is bullshit!’
He is shouting now. Guards are stirring. Visitors have stopped talking and are watching. Foley is jabbing his finger at me, spittle flying from his mouth. I tell him to be quiet, but he’s on his feet, lunging at me.
‘I’m being stitched up! You tell my lawyer she’s fired.’
His fingers grip my shirt. Buttons pop. The guards are on him, wrestling him to the floor. Kneeling on his back. Dragging his arms behind him. Zip-tie handcuffs are looped over his wrists. Pulled tight. Chairs have fallen. Children are crying. I step back as they manhandle Foley out of the hall. I look at the other visitors and want to apologise. That’s when I see Mitchell Coates at the end table. Our eyes meet and I see acceptance rather than sadness.
He’s talking to a young woman. There’s a resemblance. The eyes, maybe, and the peak on their hairline. A senior guard has arrived. Obese. Puffing. He wants to know if I’m injured and if I want to lay charges.
‘He barely touched me,’ I say dismissively.
‘We have it on CCTV. We can charge him anyway.’
‘That’s up to you.’
I’m escorted from the visitors’ room and pass close to Mitch’s table. I make a show of searching my pockets and tell the guard that I must have dropped my locker key during the scuffle. He goes back to the table to look.
‘How are you?’ I ask Mitch.
He rocks his head from side to side, scratching at his cheek with two fingers.
‘Evie didn’t mean for this to happen.’
‘We all make mistakes.’ He nods towards his visitor. ‘This is my sister Annie. She’s driven up from London. This is Dr Haven – the guy I was telling you about.’
‘Nice to meet you, Annie.’
‘Are you going to help him?’ she asks. ‘He doesn’t deserve to be here.’
‘I’m going to try,’ I reply, glancing at Mitch. ‘Did you see the guy I was talking to?’
He nods.
‘Ever seen him before?’
‘No.’
‘He’s been charged with murdering Maya Kirk.’
‘I heard it on the grapevine,’ says Mitch.
‘The police think Foley had an accomplice.’
‘What’s that got to do with Mitch?’ asks Annie.
‘Another woman has disappeared. Daniela Linares was picked up outside a bar in the city last Friday night. The police will want to know where you were that evening. You said something about emergency accommodation.’
‘Yeah, but they didn’t have any beds at the fire station, so I slept in the car park on Queen Street.’
‘Can anyone vouch for you?’
‘Yeah, but all of them are homeless and I don’t know their names.’
‘He shouldn’t need an alibi,’ says Annie, growing annoyed.