‘That’s my car!’ she exclaims.
‘It’s all right, Cathy, they have a warrant,’ says Hendricks.
‘It’s that girl, isn’t it?’ she says.
‘Did you know Jodie Sheehan?’ I ask.
‘She came to our church.’
‘Did you see her at the fireworks?’
‘No.’
‘Your husband has told us that he borrowed your car that night and picked up Jodie Sheehan,’ says Lenny.
Cathy Hendricks glances coldly at her husband and something passes between them.
‘What time did he get home?’ asks Lenny.
‘I can’t remember.’
‘I thought he was getting fish and chips for dinner.’
She struggles to find an answer. ‘Tristan had a temperature. I put him into our bed and fell asleep.’
‘Where did your husband sleep?’
‘In the boys’ room.’ She fixes her husband with a stare that doesn’t need translation.
‘I gave her a lift, that’s all,’ says Hendricks. ‘It was a mistake, but nothing happened. I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .’
Cathy hoists the toddler higher on her right hip and turns away, carrying the child deeper into the house. With that last gesture, I recognise a woman who favours castrating her husband rather than giving him an alibi.
Unless . . .
Unless . . .
The Peugeot is Cathy’s car. What if she went looking for Jodie that night and her husband is covering for her? A mother of three, pregnant with a fourth, has a powerful reason to protect her family, particularly from a pretty teenage girl with a crush on her teacher. One rumour, one allegation, and Jodie Sheehan could unpick the seams of Cathy’s perfect life and leave her marriage in tatters.
Ian Hendricks is standing on the front path watching the wheels of the Peugeot being chocked and chained.
‘You didn’t just talk to Jodie. You gave her a lift,’ says Lenny.
Hendricks doesn’t answer.
‘Where did you take her?’
‘She got a message on her phone and asked me if I could drop her off.’
‘Where?’
‘An address in the city – a house in The Ropewalk.’
Lenny and I exchange glances.
‘Could you find the house again?’ she asks.
‘I think so.’
Lenny points to her car. ‘Get in.’
‘But I have to be at work.’
‘You can be late.’
42
Angel Face
The café smells of sugar and cinnamon. I finish two pains aux raisins and two milky coffees, trying to ignore Felix, who is watching me eat and smiling like it gives him pleasure. Maybe he’s a feeder and he’s looking for some fat chick to stuff like a foie gras goose. Well, that’s not me.
He talks constantly without saying anything – making observations about people, or the weather, or the traffic beginning to build up outside, or the homeless guy washing windscreens with an old Evian bottle and a squeegee.
‘What’s your name?’ he asks, having cleaned up my crumbs.
‘Does it matter?’
‘I have to call you something.’
‘Evie.’
I notice the scars on his knuckles and the heavy silver necklace dangling against his hairless chest.
‘OK, that’s a start. Now what do you want, Evie?’
‘I want to go to London.’
‘OK. And then what?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Yeah, of course.’ He leans back and lifts his foot onto a chair between us. ‘But without money – you won’t get very far. Ten quid is a bus ticket – then what? How will you live? You can’t sleep in a park. It’s not safe – not for a girl. Not for anyone.’
‘I’ll find a job.’
‘You don’t have any work clothes. No phone. No plan. The police will find you and send you back home. I’m assuming you don’t want to go home.’
I don’t say anything. Felix scratches his cheek.
‘Most people want something, Evie. A nice house. A flash car. Holidays in the sun. Love. Money.’ He is watching my face, as though waiting for the wheels on a fruit machine to stop spinning and tell him if he’s hit the jackpot. ‘Sometimes they just want to be safe. Me? I want respect. Independence. I want to make more of myself than my old man did.’
‘What does he do?’ I ask.
‘That doesn’t matter. You have nowhere to stay, am I right?’
Again, no answer.
‘That bruise on your forehead says that someone messed you up. I won’t let that happen to you.’
‘I don’t need your protection.’
‘I think you do. I think you should stay with me. You’ll have your own room, your own bed, somewhere warm. And two weeks from now I’ll give you a bus ticket to London and a thousand quid.’
‘What do I have to do?’
‘Work for me.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Running errands.’
‘Drugs?’
‘No. I supply dietary supplements, steroids, vitamins and other pick-me-ups.’
The lie just trips off his tongue.
‘You’re a drug dealer,’ I say.
‘Why get bogged down in semantics?’ he replies. ‘Let’s just say that not all of my product is available over the counter, which is why I require discretion.’
‘What’s discretion?’
‘Secrecy. I deal with a lot of professional people – solicitors, bankers, architects, even politicians. They pay on time and they keep their mouths shut.’
‘What do I have to do?’
‘Deliver the stuff. I pay your cab fares and provide you with a phone. How old are you?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘Good.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re still a minor, which means if the police pick you up, you won’t get charged, or the judge will likely set you free because you’re just a kid.’
‘I don’t want to be arrested.’
‘And you won’t be, I promise.’
Another lie.
‘You don’t have to make your mind up now. Come back to my place. See your room. Clean up. Get some sleep. If you decide tomorrow that you’re not interested, I’ll give you the ten quid. No hard feelings.’
Does he ever tell the truth?
Felix talks as we walk, escorting me to the multi-storey parking garage where he unlocks a four-wheel-drive Lexus that is parked in a space set aside for disabled drivers. He opens the passenger door, but I refuse to get in until he moves away. Parking tickets are balled up on the floor next to empty soft drink cans, fast food wrappers and advertising flyers.
‘The seats are heated. You can adjust the temperature,’ says Felix, reaching across to show me. I rear away, balling my fists.
‘OK, OK. I get the message. So, who beat you up?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Felix drives to impress me, swerving in and out of traffic, jumping lights and tailgating slower cars.
‘Do you often pick up girls at the bus station?’ I ask.