‘Everyone in position,’ shouts the director.
I walk to the door of the bar. The Daniela lookalike gives me an encouraging smile. Someone holds a blackboard in front of our faces and claps his hands. The director yells, ‘Action!’
We’re supposed to recreate the moment when we left the bar, but it doesn’t feel the same because it was darker and wetter that night.
‘I have to put my arm around you,’ I say to the policewoman. She leans on me so heavily that I almost fall over. ‘I didn’t carry her.’
‘Sorry.’
Pedestrians are stopping to watch, taking pictures with their phones. They’re probably wondering if this is some new TV drama, a cop show, and I’m some soon-to-be-famous actress. They might ask for my autograph. I used to practise signing my name, thinking I might be famous one day, and I wanted a signature with loops and swirls rather than my childish joined-up writing.
The Prius pulls up suddenly. Cyrus is behind the wheel wearing a baseball cap and dark-framed glasses. I open the back door and the policewoman crawls inside, slumping sideways. Overacting.
‘Make sure she gets home,’ I say.
The director yells cut. He wants a new camera angle.
‘Did you remember anything else?’ asks Cyrus, still behind the wheel.
‘There was a tartan blanket on the back seat. And he had one of those air fresheners dangling from the mirror. It was shaped like a Christmas tree.’ I can picture the scene more clearly now. ‘His shirt had a collar and he wore a ring,’ I say.
‘What hand?’ asks Cyrus.
‘Left hand. Wedding finger. Silver. Plain.’
Hoyle interrupts, ‘Then he’s married.’
‘Or it’s part of a disguise,’ says Cyrus. ‘I think the cap and glasses were fake.’
They shoot the same scene again and this time the car pulls away. Everybody seems satisfied. A detective hands me a form to sign, which gives them permission to use the footage.
I look around for Cyrus to help me, but he’s talking to Hoyle. Arguing. I move closer. Normally, I can’t tell when Cyrus is angry because he doesn’t raise his voice. If anything, he speaks more softly, making people lean closer and listen.
They’re talking about the artist’s impression that Frank drew. Hoyle wants to release it to the media.
‘The only person who is likely to recognise himself is the driver,’ says Cyrus. ‘And if he thinks we’re getting closer, he could panic and try to cover his tracks. That puts Daniela in greater danger.’
‘We’re running out of other options,’ says Hoyle. ‘I say we release the images and let him know we have an eyewitness. We appeal to him to let Daniela go.’
‘And if he harms her?’
‘He’s going to do that anyway if we don’t find her.’
I’m next to Cyrus, tugging at his sleeve. ‘He’ll know who I am.’
The two men turn to me.
‘We won’t use your name,’ says Hoyle. ‘And we’re blurring your face.’
‘Yes, but he knows what I look like. He saw me that night.’
Cyrus understands. He knows why I stay so quiet, why I want to be invisible, like a mouse in the walls.
After the film crew has packed up, Cyrus takes me to dinner at a Greek tapas place on Thurland Street. Our waiter is a young guy in a tight shirt and skinny-leg jeans. He asks me what I’d like to drink and I want to order something grownup and Gucci, but I don’t like the taste of alcohol.
‘I can bring you a soft drink,’ he suggests, making me feel like I’m twelve.
I order a rum and Coke.
‘Am I going to have to drink that?’ says Cyrus, after he’s gone.
‘Probably.’
‘I saw Mitch today.’
My heart leaps. ‘Is he out?’
‘I went to the prison.’
‘Was he angry with me? No, don’t answer that. He must hate me.’
‘He doesn’t hate you, but the police still think Anders Foley had an accomplice and Mitch doesn’t have an alibi.’
‘Mitch wasn’t driving the car.’
‘I know, but the task force will look at him anyway.’
‘He didn’t attack Lilah Hooper. She didn’t see the guy. She didn’t hear his voice.’
‘What did Mitch tell you about Lilah?’
‘He said she was a nurse and that she looked after premmie babies, which was hard because sometimes the babies died, but that was part of natural selection. What does that mean?’
‘Darwin’s theory of evolution. In each generation, more offspring are born than can survive, but those who are fitter and stronger get to carry on and have more babies and pass on those traits.’
‘That’s brutal.’
‘That’s nature.’
Our drinks have arrived. I sip mine and immediately push it across the table.
‘Is Lilah still a nurse?’ he asks.
‘Yes. Mitch said she was going to give it up because of some mistake at the hospital where she took the blame.’
Cyrus is staring at me. I can almost see his mind working. ‘What sort of mistake?’
‘He didn’t say.’
He signals to the waiter. ‘We have to leave.’
‘But your meals are coming.’
‘We don’t have time.’
55
Cyrus
Melody Sterling peers nervously over the security chain.
‘I thought you might be him,’ she says, meaning her husband. ‘He’s not supposed to come anywhere near me, but he’s been driving past the house.’
She unhooks the chain and leads us to the sitting room, where children’s toys are stacked in boxes and playpens are resting against the wall, next to a teddy bear the size of a small pony.
Melody spies Evie. ‘And who are you?’
‘I’m nobody.’
‘Oh, you never say that. Ever,’ she replies. ‘You are clearly someone very important because you’re here with Cyrus. And he’s a very clever man.’
‘Evie is cleverer than I am,’ I say.
‘I have no doubt,’ she replies, offering us the sofa. We’ve been whispering because Victoria is asleep upstairs.
‘Has something happened?’ asks Melody.
‘You mentioned that Maya had left nursing after some sort of mix-up. What exactly?’
‘Two babies were given the wrong drug. One died and the other became very sick. It was terribly sad.’
‘Who was responsible?’
‘There were three nurses on duty. None of them would say who made the mistake. They were charged with criminal neglect and one of them with manslaughter.’
‘Was it Lilah Hooper?’ asks Evie.
Melody’s eyes snap open. ‘Yes. That was her. The case was withdrawn. What’s this about?’
‘Could the third nurse have been Daniela Linares?’ I ask.
‘I only remember Lilah’s name because it was in the newspaper. I was going through a box of Maya’s stuff. I found a clipping.’
‘Do you still have it?’ I ask.
‘It’s in the spare bedroom.’
Melody goes upstairs. Evie wanders around the living room, picking up toys and rearranging them. She peers at some of the stick-figure drawings and finger paintings that decorate the walls.