‘Was it university?’
‘Yes.’
‘You went home for the holidays. You had a student loan, a car, regular money from your parents.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Evie doesn’t have any support. No family to fall back on.’
‘We can’t keep people locked up because they don’t have parents, or family money.’
I hesitate, about to ask another question, but Caroline gets in before me. ‘I know who she is.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Evie. I know the truth.’
I play dumb.
‘She’s Angel Face.’ There is a beat of silence. Caroline lowers her voice. ‘I guessed. How many people her age can’t prove how old they are?’
‘You can’t tell anyone.’
‘I know the law, Dr Haven.’
‘Please call me Cyrus.’
Outside, another group of tourists are carrying matching red shoulder bags and following a guide who is twirling a yellow umbrella like a baton.
Caroline speaks next. ‘Do you want to keep Evie locked away?’
‘No.’
‘Then why are you here?’
I don’t know how to answer her, or if it’s appropriate to tell her the truth. How do I explain that Evie Cormac has lodged under my skin like a splinter that irritates me at unexpected moments? She fascinates and alarms me and makes me realise why I became a psychologist.
Normally, when someone is balanced and copes well with day-to-day life, there’s no point in trying to unlock their psyche. More importantly, it can be dangerous to tinker with a ‘machine’ that isn’t broken. Most people learn to live with trauma and deprivation, by developing coping mechanisms. They get on with life rather than dwelling on failure or loss.
I don’t know if Evie remembers what happened to her or has chosen to forget. The idea of traumatic memories being suppressed and coming to the surface later has divided psychologists and neurologists for thirty years, but the memory wars of the 1990s were never resolved. I don’t think Evie has suppressed memories. We know some of what she endured. She listened to a man being tortured to death. She spent weeks in a house with his decomposing body. She was sexually abused from a young age and doctors doubt if she’ll ever be able to have children.
Yet, despite being treated by a legion of therapists, counsellors and psychologists, she has never spoken about what she witnessed or how she came to be in the secret room. I don’t care how untouched or untroubled she may appear to be, she will have scars. She does remember.
Caroline runs her finger around the rim of her coffee cup, collecting the remaining froth.
‘Would you like another?’ I ask.
‘I don’t have time,’ she replies, glancing at her phone. ‘About Evie. Can I call you as a witness?’
‘No.’
‘But you’ve talked to her.’
‘She’s told me nothing.’
‘You’ve read her files.’
‘Same answer.’
‘Was it really so bad – what happened to her?’
I lean closer. ‘So far I haven’t found anyone who doesn’t consider Evie to be a danger to herself and to others.’
‘And you agree?’
‘Not completely. I think Evie is self-destructive, self-hating, anti-social and impervious to criticism, yet she’s also the most self-aware, undaunted, sanguine person I’ve ever met. She doesn’t appear to need friends, or approval or human interaction. That doesn’t make her dangerous to anyone other than herself, although she has a history of attacking people whom she perceives as having wronged her in some way.’
‘You think she should be locked up indefinitely,’ says Caroline.
‘I didn’t say that. I want to help Evie but I haven’t worked out exactly how to do it.’
‘That’s still not a reason to keep her at Langford Hall.’
‘No.’
Caroline’s face seems to transform, growing softer.
‘Nobody else in my office wanted this case. They gave it to me because I’m the newbie. I’ve litigated two cases in my short career and now I’m appearing before the High Court.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ I say, hoping I sound convincing.
‘But you’re right. They’re going to ask Evie how she can support herself, where she’ll live . . . I don’t have anything to tell them.’
‘I wish I could help you.’
Caroline collects her briefcase from beside the table.
‘Are you going to put her on the stand?’ I ask.
‘I don’t think I have a choice.’
‘Don’t do it. She’s not . . . she’ll . . .’ I can’t finish.
‘What else can I do?’
‘Anything but that.’
18
Chief Superintendent Timothy Heller-Smith strides into the incident room, yelling, ‘We got him!’ and pausing to punch at the ground like he’s pull-starting a lawn mower.
Cheers echo across the open-plan office, accompanied by fist bumps and high fives. Three words have changed the entire mood of the task force, sweeping away the exhaustion and fatigue. Lenny Parvel is with him, along with a uniformed constable, nervous at being thrust into the spotlight.
Lenny doesn’t seem to share Heller-Smith’s enthusiasm, but says nothing as she lets her superior take charge of the briefing. Detectives gather to hear the details. I join them, standing at the back, leaning against the wall.
Heller-Smith looks more like a politician than a senior police officer, dressed in an expensively cut suit and red silk tie. His thin sparse hair is dyed black and heavily oiled and his mouth is permanently open, like a thick-lipped fish.
‘This is Constable Harry Plover,’ he announces, getting the name wrong and having to be corrected. ‘PC Glover has provided us with a breakthrough in the Jodie Sheehan case. But let’s hear the story from him.’
I can see Lenny seething, but she’s not going to create a scene.
The young PC looks nervously around the room, holding his hat in his hands.
‘It was last Wednesday afternoon . . . the day after we found Jodie. I was at Silverdale Walk, protecting the crime scene, when this guy came along walking his dog. He got all chatty with me, saying he used the footpath most days and knew the area well. I asked him if he’d noticed anyone odd hanging around the footpath, maybe someone who was following women and such. He said I should show him a photograph if we find a suspect. I took down his name and address.’
Lenny motions for him to go on.
‘Later that afternoon I had a couple of girls come up to me. They were putting flowers on Jodie’s memorial – the makeshift one – near the Community Centre. One of them said she went to school with Jodie. I asked her when she heard the news and she said she’d been waiting at a bus stop on Southchurch Drive on Tuesday afternoon when a guy came up to her. He had a dog – a kelpie. He told them not to use Silverdale Walk because the police had found a girl’s body beneath the footbridge. I asked Jodie’s friend what time this was, and she said about half-three. People knew Jodie was missing by then, but this guy had knowledge that a girl’s body had been found. He pinpointed the location.’