‘Hi, Cyrus,’ he says, waving at the screen.
‘Hi, Nick.’
‘Will you put some clothes on,’ says Lenny, covering the camera with her hand. I can hear them arguing, although not seriously. Nick sells medical equipment to doctors and clinics, but his hours are flexible. His two boys are at university or have graduated by now. They’re good lads. A credit.
Lenny removes her hand from the camera.
‘I had a call from Ness last night. The toxicology results are in. Jodie Sheehan had no drugs or alcohol in her system.’
I sense there’s something more.
‘Ness noticed that Jodie’s hormone levels were high and ran a test. She was pregnant – eleven weeks. Ness might be able to get DNA from the foetal material, but the lab work has to be done in America and could take a week, or longer. Any foetal DNA will have half the father’s genes, which may be enough to identify someone.’
‘Would Jodie have known she was pregnant?’ I ask.
‘Most girls are pretty good at keeping track – particularly in the age of smart phones.’
I pause, processing the information. It could have no bearing on Jodie’s murder. Then again, the degraded semen found on her thigh has added significance because it didn’t belong to Farley. It’s now more likely that Jodie had consensual sex earlier in the evening – with a boyfriend, or a hook-up. Five hours are still missing from her timeline.
I want to ask Lenny what she’s thinking, but there’s too much evidence against Farley for her to change her mind. And there’s now even less likelihood of an accomplice.
This isn’t about police ignoring new evidence. They are shoring up their case, ensuring the inconsistencies won’t jeopardise the prosecution. Lenny is thorough and diligent. More importantly, she’s honest. She doesn’t plant evidence or frame suspects, but neither does she chase rabbits down rabbit holes, wasting time and resources.
Knocking pipes signal that Evie is in the shower. She comes downstairs with her hair in a towel and her face set in a scowl.
‘There’s no hot water?’
‘Sorry. The pilot light went out. It’s a storage system – so it might take a while for the boiler to heat up.’
She utters a curse under her breath and notices that I’m dressed.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I have some people to see.’
‘Can I come?’
‘No.’
‘I won’t get in the way. I’ll wait in the car, or downstairs, or wherever . . .’
Evie looks at me hopefully. She doesn’t want to spend another day on her own. Loneliness is not something I associate with Evie because she lives so completely in her head and makes no attempt to befriend people or socialise. Even so, I don’t want her spending another day on her own. She should be outside, reintroducing herself to the world, not spending her time in a creepy old house.
‘Can you be ready in fifteen minutes?’ I ask.
‘I can be ready in five.’
Evie comes downstairs dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, a long-sleeved top and a denim shirt that she’s wearing like a jacket. I have a shirt like that, I think, although I don’t wear it often.
I have to sweep fallen leaves off the windscreen of my red Fiat, which has faded to a mottled pink. Pigeons have crapped all over the bonnet and someone has stuck a flyer beneath the wiper blades advertising a clearance sale at a carpet showroom. Twice I’ve had towing notices from the local council because neighbours mistook my car for an abandoned vehicle.
‘Nice,’ says Evie, being facetious.
The engine doesn’t start first time. I encourage it under my breath. It splutters and coughs like a consumptive smoker, before idling so roughly we sway from side to side. I give it a moment to warm up.
‘Can you teach me to drive?’ asks Evie.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘The bus stop is two minutes from the house.’
‘It will make me more independent.’
‘You don’t have a car.’
‘I could borrow this one.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’
She folds her arms and looks out the window as we head along Derby Road past Wollaton Park. It’s early on a Sunday morning and the traffic is light.
‘How did Jodie Sheehan die?’ asks Evie.
‘I can’t talk about the case.’
‘Is it a state secret?’
‘No.’
‘Well then?’
I don’t respond.
‘I’ve watched the interviews,’ she says. ‘I know she was hit from behind.’
‘You have to stop going through my stuff.’
Evie doesn’t reply. Instead she props her cowboy boots on the dashboard, above the glove compartment. We’re heading along Abbey Street, past the Priory Church and onto Castle Boulevard, passing south of the city centre.
‘Does the CD player work?’
‘No.’
‘What about the radio?’
‘I have to hit the right pothole.’
She sighs in disgust.
‘The post mortem wasn’t definitive,’ I say, answering her first question. ‘The pathologist couldn’t decide if she drowned or died of exposure.’
‘Farley said he didn’t rape her,’ says Evie, ‘but even if he whacked off into her hair it was a pretty sick act. A guy like that deserves to be locked up, you know, but I guess that doesn’t prove he killed her.’
‘An innocent man would have tried to help her.’
‘Sometimes we don’t have a choice.’
The statement rattles something inside me and I picture Terry Boland being strapped to a chair having acid poured into his ears, while Evie listened to his screams.
I find a metered parking spot in the entertainment quarter of Nottingham and tell Evie to wait in the car.
‘It’s cold. Can’t I come with you?’
‘OK. But stay out of trouble.’
She joins me on the pavement, pulling up her collar and pocketing her hands. As we reach the corner, two young backpackers cross our path – a girl and a boy in their early twenties, who are talking excitedly in a different language. The girl laughs and calls the boy a name. Evie stops and turns. For a moment I think she’s going to respond, but instead she watches the couple walk away.
‘What made you turn around?’ I ask.
‘Nothing.’
‘Was it something she said?’
‘No.’
‘She sounded Russian or Polish. Did you understand her?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘She looked familiar,’ says Evie, and I don’t know whether to believe her. That’s the trouble with Evie. I risk reading clues into everything she does. Actions. Inactions. Silences. Shrugs.
We’re crossing Bolero Square to the National Ice Centre, a twin stadium building made of metal and glass. Pushing through the revolving doors, we step into a cavernous foyer dominated by a forty-foot-high poster montage celebrating British skating champions past and present.
A woman at the information desk barely glances up from her screen. She hands Evie a form. ‘Fill this out for the academy trials. The changing rooms are through those doors. Don’t put your skates on until you’re on the ice.’