‘Fingerprints?’
Dyson points to a bloody smear on the nearest light switch. ‘That was left post-crime, there are no loops or whorls, which suggests our perp was wearing gloves.’
More traces of blood were found on the kitchen floor and in the sink. Evidence markers indicate the locations. A single cupboard door is open next to the front-loading washer-dryer. Detergent and fabric softener are visible on a shelf.
I follow Lenny through the rest of the house, looking for signs of a disturbance, argument, robbery, or flight. A female technician is working on the stairs. We’re dressed identically, but her hair is bunched under a hood and the suit looks better on her.
‘Hello, I’m Cassie Wright,’ she says, as though keen to introduce herself.
‘I’m Cyrus Haven.’
‘I know. We’ve met.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember.’
She laughs, her eyes dancing. ‘You will.’
Stepping back, she gives me room to squeeze past. Our suits brush and faintly crackle with static electricity.
There are three bedrooms upstairs. Rohan Kirk slept in the largest one nearest the road. The bedclothes are disturbed. His duvet thrown back. The pillow has a depression. He has a glass of water next to his bed. A bottle of sleeping pills.
A well-worn armchair is facing a large TV. Two empty beer cans are crushed on the side table, next to the TV remote and an ashtray full of wrapped sweets. Opening his wardrobe, I see a handful of sweaters, two pairs of jeans, and checked shirts, all with the same brand labels and similar colours. Clothes that are functional, but not statements.
Across the landing must be Maya’s room, which is brighter and neater. Her double bed dominates the space, along with a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. Her duvet is missing. It must be the one downstairs. A dozen stuffed animals, including a Paddington Bear, are side by side on a shelf beside the window, arranged from biggest to smallest.
Several dresses are draped over a chair, beside a full-length mirror and a straightening wand that is still plugged into a socket. I picture Maya trying on clothes, deciding what to wear. Fixing her hair. Applying make-up.
‘She was out last night,’ I say.
I lift her pillow. A cotton nightdress is bundled underneath.
‘Were there any traces of blood upstairs?’ I ask.
‘None yet.’
I turn slowly around, imagining Maya in this room, but I have little sense of her. I can’t see her mind.
‘Tell me about Rohan Kirk’s brain injury.’
‘Frontal lobe. It affected his attention and concentration. He couldn’t hold down a job and drank too much.’
‘Was he violent?’
‘Impatient and impulsive.’ Lenny glances down the stairs. ‘It can’t have been easy looking after him.’
‘You think Maya did this?’
‘Wouldn’t be the first carer to lose her temper.’
‘She didn’t pack a bag or take her car.’
‘She panicked.’
‘Which means she’ll turn up,’ I say, sardonically. Lenny regards this as banter and doesn’t get offended when I disagree with her.
‘Does Maya have a dog?’
‘No. Why?’
‘It’s just a little odd – having a dog-grooming business, but no dog.’
We descend, stepping over evidence markers in the hallway. I pause at the front door. Dyson is dusting for fingerprints. I glance again at the hanging coats and the row of boots, which are slightly out of order, the right one where the left should be.
‘Have you swabbed the uppers of the shoes?’ I ask.
‘We’re very thorough,’ says Dyson with a slightly arch tone.
Moving the coats to one side, I press my cheek close to the wallpapered surface.
‘What is it?’ asks Lenny.
‘I’m not sure yet.’
6
Evie
The bus door hisses as it opens. The driver has a beard and a bright blue turban.
‘Do you need a hand?’ he asks.
‘No, we’re totally fine.’
I’m wearing dark glasses and Poppy has her harness. She leads me up the steps and I reach into my pocket, searching for my phone to tap against the reader.
‘You’re OK,’ says the driver. ‘No charge.’
‘Thank you.’
I move down the bus. Two old people in the nearest seat immediately stand.
‘This one is free,’ says the woman, who wants to take my arm, but I don’t like being touched. I pull Poppy closer, making her sit between my legs.
I’m getting quite good at being blind. I save money and get to watch people without them knowing. Cyrus would be furious if he knew, but it’s not like I’m taking a seat from a properly disabled person or forcing a coffin-dodger to stand.
At the next stop, a young guy gets on and sits opposite me. He’s my age, maybe younger; OK-looking in a pale underfed sort of way, wearing baggy clothes and a bomber jacket that’s too big for him. I’m staring straight at him. He smiles. I don’t smile back. He raises his hand and moves it back and forth. I ignore him.
‘Nice dog,’ he says.
‘Thank you.’
‘He your guide dog?’
‘She.’
‘I’ve always wanted to ask a blind person how they tell if someone is attractive or not.’
‘I read their faces with my fingers.’
‘You can do that?’
‘Yeah.’
He is fiddling with his phone. Knees wide. One leg jiggling. ‘How did it happen?’ he asks.
‘An accident. I was nine.’
‘What do you miss the most? Is it watching TV, or going to the movies, or seeing a sunrise?’
‘Porn,’ I say.
His mouth drops open and he starts stammering. Blushing. It’s cute.
‘I’m shitting you, OK.’
He looks relieved although a little disappointed. I glance out the window.
‘This is my stop.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘My dog tells me.’
‘How?’
‘Telepathy.’
I reach for the signal button. The boy does it for me. Our hands touch. I pull mine away as though bitten. Poppy stands with me. The boy closes his legs to give me more room. As I pass him, I lean a little closer before whispering, ‘Nice jacket.’
His eyes widen, full of questions. Now he thinks I have some extraordinary ‘other’ sense that makes up for my sightlessness, which is ironic, because my real secret skill depends upon me seeing someone’s face, looking for the lies.
The bus pulls away and I slip off my sunglasses.
7
Cyrus
A pretty, careworn woman answers the electronic door chimes. A toddler is balanced on her right hip, a little boy who is sucking his thumb with the brow-furrowing concentration of a symphony flautist.
‘Have you found her?’ asks Melody Sterling, whose eyes are full of hope and uncertainty.
Lenny shakes her head and makes the introductions. I touch the little boy’s chin. Shyly, he turns his face into her neck.
‘Yours?’
‘One of my charges,’ she replies, before leading us into her sitting room where three other children are sitting on the floor, playing with coloured plastic blocks. The entire lower floor of the house is a day nursery, full of children’s toys, books, blackboards, painting easels, alphabet rugs and a big red reading chair.