Cassie’s smile has slowly faded. I should stop, but I try to rescue the situation.
‘I think you’re quite shy, but you try to be confident, particularly when you’re working with so many men who ignore your opinions or claim your good ideas as their own. You’re grieving the loss of your sister but trying to hide your pain for the sake of others – your parents perhaps, or your brother-in-law – but sometimes that’s impossible.’
Her features have changed. Hardened. Her knee is no longer touching mine.
‘How do you know those things?’ she whispers.
‘This is what I do. I study human behaviour. Mannerisms. Body language.’
‘Am I really that transparent?’
‘No. You’re quite difficult to read because you’re very closed with some people and open with others.’
‘But you barely know me,’ she says.
I should never have started this.
‘Most people do this subconsciously,’ I say. ‘We all look for clues in people’s physicality, their attire, the way they speak, or act. Everything we do or say says something about us. Our age, grooming habits, clothing, vocabulary, accent, grammar, mannerisms, respiration, eye movements.’
‘You were staring at me.’
‘I was watching you, just like you were watching me, but I can explain what I see.’
Cassie shudders.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
She has finished her wine. I offer to buy her another.
‘No. I have to go.’
She picks up her bag and squeezes past me, avoiding physical contact.
‘I know we’re not supposed to be talking about work, but did you test that rope?’ I ask.
She looks at me impassively. ‘What rope?’
‘Voigt said he gave it to you. It came from another crime scene.’
She straightens her skirt. ‘I’ve been busy on this case. Is it important?’
‘Eight years ago, a woman was attacked in Nottingham. She had her hair hacked off, just like Maya Kirk, and her hands and feet bound with soft hemp rope. I want it tested against the rope used to bind Maya Kirk.’
‘You think it’s the same perpetrator?’
‘The similarities are striking.’
We’re interrupted by Brando. He props an iPad on the table and shows me the CCTV footage from the camera above the wet area of the bar. The angle is terrible, God-like, showing tops of heads and shoulders rather than faces.
Brando fast forwards and then slows the tape. We see him mixing the cocktails, adding ice, liquor and mixers. Shaking. Pouring. Something distracts him. He walks out of frame. This must be when the police arrive.
A man approaches the bar. He leans over, as though looking to attract the other barman’s attention. I can’t see his hands.
‘That could be anyone,’ says Cassie.
She’s right.
‘Isn’t that Evie?’
At the edge of the frame, I see Evie holding a tray of empty glasses.
‘Maybe he didn’t drug the drinks,’ says Brando. ‘We had a needle spiking during the summer. A woman claimed that some guy stabbed her in the bum. Said she blacked out. Woke up next morning and found a needle mark.’
I remember there was a spate of similar stories around that time – and threats by women to boycott nightclubs and bars unless something was done to protect them.
‘The post-mortem found no evidence of needle marks on Maya,’ says Cassie. ‘And it takes technical and medical expertise to inject someone with a drug.’
I replay the CCTV footage, pausing it every few frames, trying to glimpse the face of the man at the bar.
‘Do you see that?’ I say, pointing to the screen. For a moment, his reflection is visible in the mirror, partially distorted by the bottles. ‘If we could enhance that …’
Cassie leans closer. ‘We have software at the lab. I might be able to clean it up.’
53
Cyrus
The doorbell rings before anyone else is awake. Dressed in running gear, I’m about to clip a lead on Poppy and take her for some exercise. I open the front door. The reporter, Richard Holiday, has his hand raised ready to knock.
‘Sorry about the hour, Dr Haven,’ he says, touching his forehead, as though doffing an imaginary cap. ‘Holiday. Associated Newspapers.’
He’s wearing a rumpled grey suit that he might have slept in. He once spent two days perched in a tree to get a photograph of a grieving child, so a night in a car would be a small imposition.
‘Do you remember me?’ he asks.
‘You’re the tree hugger.’
He smiles at the joke. ‘That was a long time ago.’
Poppy is sniffing at his shoes. Holiday tries to look past me into the house.
‘I’ve heard whispers that your brother has been released from Rampton. Is it true?’
‘No comment.’ I begin closing the door.
He shoves his foot into the gap. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. How does it feel having him out?’
‘Please get off my property.’
‘Have you forgiven him?’
‘He’s a schizophrenic. You don’t forgive a cancer patient for getting cancer or a disabled person for being disabled.’
‘Can I quote you on that?’
‘No. Fuck off!’
He is pushing at the door with his shoulder. ‘Is he home? Perhaps a photograph of the two of you together. Brotherly love.’
‘Get off my property.’
He holds up his phone and snaps a picture as the door shuts. From outside he yells, ‘Do your neighbours know? I wonder how they feel about it?’
I go to the library window and watch as Holiday takes a photograph of the house and then walks up the path to my neighbour’s place. Mr and Mrs Gibson. Brendan is a retired engineer who coordinates our local neighbourhood watch, liaising with the police to report any crimes. His wife, Julia, works for My Sight, a charity for the blind. They’re about the age my parents would be if they were still alive. Now I can picture them at the head of the mob, carrying pitchforks and flaming torches, threatening to burn us out if we didn’t leave town.
‘Who was that?’ asks Elias. He is standing on the landing, barefoot in pyjamas.
‘Nobody.’
‘It was definitely somebody.’
‘A courier.’
‘Where is the package?’
‘It was the wrong address.’
I’m glad it’s Elias and not Evie. She would have stopped me at the first lie.
‘Are you going for a run?’ asks Elias.
‘I changed my mind.’
He follows me to the kitchen where he opens a cupboard and takes out a plastic pill box. He swallows six tablets with a glass of water. He will take another six in exactly twelve hours. Without them he’ll lose his grip on reality.
‘Are you working today?’ he asks.
‘Later.’
‘I thought we might hang out. Go to the movies. Talk.’
‘We can talk.’
He sits at the table and asks, ‘Where are all the photographs? Grandma used to have dozens of them around the house – pictures of us as kids, growing up.’
‘I put them away. Dr Baillie thought they might be triggering.’
He nods.