I scan the length of the building, studying the large rectangular windows, which are covered by sheets of plywood on the lower floors and shattered by rocks or heat on the higher levels. I can imagine local children telling stories about this place – convinced they have heard screams at night or seen ghostly shapes in the windows. That’s what happened after my family died. Our house became the sort of place that children had nightmares about or challenged each other to ring the doorbell and scarper. It made drivers speed up and mothers clutch the hands of their children more tightly as they walked them to school.
Jumping down from the wall, I call Lenny. She’s almost back at Radford Road.
‘Patrice Rennie sold his house last year to pay for his wife’s cancer treatment,’ I say. ‘He’s been living in his food truck and hasn’t been seen since his wife’s funeral three weeks ago.’
‘I’ll put out a BOLO on Rennie and the truck. Does anyone have a photograph of him?’
I look at Cassie. She nods and begins scrolling through images on her phone.
‘We’ll send something through.’
‘Who are you with?’
‘Rennie’s sister-in-law.’
‘I thought you were tracking Elias.’
‘I am. They lost the signal thirty minutes ago. I’m outside an abandoned warehouse in Beech Avenue.’
‘The old Maville Works,’ says Lenny. ‘It used to be a lace factory called the White House.’
‘It could be where Rennie kept Maya. Ness said it was likely nineteenth century.’
I have reached a set of iron gates. A padlock hangs on an uncoupled chain. I look across the asphalt forecourt, which glitters with broken glass. There is a loading dock with concrete ramps and parking bays. A metal fire-escape leads halfway up the building before stopping in mid-flight.
I lower the phone and turn to Cassie. ‘You should wait here for the police.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To get a closer look.’
After squeezing through the partially open gate, I crouch and run to the nearest corner of the factory. The foundation stone above my head reads June 29th, 1896. The sun is slanting through the trees, creating deeper shadows. Light catches a mirrored surface in the loading dock. A food truck is parked in one of the bays, partially hidden by rusting machinery.
Squatting on my haunches, I raise the phone to my ear. Lenny is still on the line.
‘I think I’ve found Rennie.’
‘Don’t move. We’re coming.’
70
Evie
As a little girl, I used to beg Agnesa to tell me bedtime stories. The scary ones were the best because I had an excuse to put my arms around her, pressing my head to her chest, feeling the vibrations of her voice.
One of my favourites was about three brothers who were building a castle out of stone. They worked all day, piling stone upon stone, but every night the walls would collapse. Eventually, an old man told them that they had to sacrifice someone so that the walls would stand. The brothers couldn’t agree on whom to sacrifice, so they decided it would be whichever wife brought them their lunch the next day.
It was Rozafa, who was married to the youngest brother. When he explained to her the deal, she agreed to be buried in the walls of the castle, but she had one condition. She asked that they leave her right breast exposed so she could feed her new-born son, and her right hand to caress him and her right foot to rock his cradle.
I loved hearing that story even if I didn’t understand what it meant. Maybe some fables aren’t supposed to have a moral, or a message; or perhaps it’s just another example of a woman sacrificing herself to improve the lives of men. I have been Rozafa. Trapped in the walls. Unable to escape. I’m there now.
The door opens. The bald man cuts the ropes from around my arms and tosses me a dry blanket.
‘Come out, when you’re ready.’
I climb slowly to my feet, rubbing circulation back into my wrists. I study the room, looking for a way out. It’s some sort of warehouse with painted brick walls that are peeling and crumbling in patches, damp to the touch. I pull at the sheet of plywood that covers the window. It doesn’t move.
I shuffle to the door and peer around the frame. The first thing I notice are the chairs and a table.
‘That’s where you sit,’ he says. He tries to touch my arm, but I pull away, glaring at him.
My jeans are still wet. The metal chair is cold. He takes a rope and loops it around my arms and the back of the chair, tying it against my spine.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I ask.
‘This is not meant as a punishment. It is your civic duty.’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘You are going to sit in judgement.’
‘I want to go home.’
‘Be quiet now. Listen.’
The new room is much larger and lighter with painted metal poles holding up the ceiling. The floor is littered with rubble and broken panels of plywood and shattered glass. The large square windows are uncovered, divided into smaller panes, which are broken or missing.
The bald man leaves the room. I hear muffled groans and feet sliding across the floor. Daniela appears first. I barely recognise her because her hair has been hacked away, cut close to her scalp, making her eyes look enormous. Lilah is next. She must have fought harder because her shorn head is bleeding in places. Both have their mouths taped shut and their arms and chests are bound with rope.
Lilah continues to struggle, but Daniela shuffles to a chair and is told to sit. I try to make eye contact. She doesn’t seem to remember me. Rennie goes to the table and unzips a sports bag. He sets up a camera and a small tripod, checking that Daniela and Lilah are in the frame.
Satisfied, he takes a piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans and clears his throat.
‘Lilah Hooper and Daniela Linares, you are accused of murdering Oliver Rennie at St Jude’s Medical Centre, Nottingham, on the sixth of February, 2013. You covered up your crime by lying to the police and to my family.’
Neither woman reacts.
‘You have to let them speak,’ I say.
‘I don’t have to let them do anything,’ he replies. ‘They have had many chances to speak. Each time, they told lies.’
‘If I’m going to judge, I need to hear from them.’
‘You will. But now it’s my turn.’
He begins talking, but I’m only half listening. He mentions his wife giving birth prematurely and the baby being transferred to the neonatal ICU and placed in an incubator.
‘We took turns to sit beside the crib. We touched his hand. We talked to him. We told him the life we had planned for him. The doctors said that Oliver was a fighter and had a good chance. I believed them. I thought our baby was in safe hands.’
Lilah is shaking her head. Daniela doesn’t react. It’s like her mind has broken off and taken her somewhere else.
‘He was two days old when he was given the wrong medication. There were three nurses on duty. You were two of them. One of you went to the pharmacy cabinet and took out heparin rather than Hep-Lock. One of you didn’t read the box. One of you didn’t check the dosage. One of you filled the syringe. One of you injected the wrong drug into the IV line.’
‘It wasn’t done on purpose,’ I say. ‘It was an accident.’