‘I could work with animals.’
‘You mean like a veterinary assistant?’
‘Or a dog walker. I saw one today. She had six dogs in the park and a van with the company logo on the side.’
‘You don’t have a driving licence.’
‘I know.’
‘We could apply for a provisional one.’
Her face brightens. ‘Really?’
‘All we need is a birth certificate or a passport.’
‘I don’t have anything like that.’
‘But the court gave you a new identity.’
‘Without papers.’
This information surprises me, but Evie seems resigned to the fact. It’s another reminder that she has no official past beyond a secret room in a murder house. Most people belong somewhere. They have a family, a school, a neighbourhood and a country. They share interests, join groups, support teams, vote for parties and form tribes. Evie has none of this.
‘I’ll see what I can do about getting you a licence,’ I say, not sure of who I can call. Maybe Caroline Fairfax can help.
We’ve almost finished eating when my pager beeps and Lenny’s number appears on screen. I call her from a payphone near the cigarette machine.
‘Bryan Whitaker didn’t break,’ she says, ‘but we’ll have another crack at him in the morning. Sex with a minor is worth two years, but I want him for more than that.’
I hear loud music in the background. She pauses for a moment, telling someone to turn the volume down. She’s back.
‘The boffins managed to isolate Jodie Sheehan’s burner phone. It was purchased a month ago as a job lot of six phones from an eBay seller. The signal puts Jodie at the fireworks and the fish and chip shop and at Jimmy Verbic’s party.’
‘How long did she stay?’
‘Fifteen minutes, give or take. Most likely she was delivering drugs for Felix, but I’m leaving that out of my report.’
‘Does Verbic frighten you that much?’
‘Yes,’ she says bluntly. ‘There were two hundred guests and, for all we know, one of them was the chief constable.’
I can see her point. ‘Where did Jodie go when she left Verbic’s place?’
‘The signal shows she walked to Old Market Square and caught the ten o’clock tram towards Clifton South. She got off the tram at Ruddington Lane, probably heading for the Whitaker house, which is ten minutes away. She used the pedestrian underpass beneath the A52 and walked along Somerton Avenue.’
‘What time was that?’
‘A quarter to eleven.’
‘Tasmin Whitaker said Jodie didn’t arrive.’
‘According to the signal, Jodie spent nearly three hours at the house, which puts Bryan Whitaker on the hook. Her phone stopped transmitting just before two a.m.’
‘Where?’
‘Best approximation – on the footbridge.’
The facts are starting to fit the timeline. Whitaker came home from his AA meeting and found Jodie at the house or had arranged to meet her there. They had sex. Maybe she tried to blackmail him. They argued. He followed her. She finished up dead.
Evie is waiting for me at the table where the bill is sitting on a saucer with a single mint. Evie is sucking on the other one. I open my wallet and take out my card.
‘Thank you,’ she says, rubbing a lock of hair between her forefinger and thumb.
‘My pleasure.’
‘I’ll find a way to repay you.’
‘You don’t have to.’
We take our coats from hooks beside the stairs and get a blast of frigid air as we step outside. A clear day means a cold night. Evie puts her arm through mine. It feels self-conscious, as though she’s unsure how I’ll react. Our hips and shoulders bump together as we walk.
‘What is Claire like?’
‘Nice,’ I say, feeling the tameness of the word.
‘Is she pretty?’
‘Yes.’
‘She must be very smart to be a lawyer.’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you think you’ll get married?’
‘I don’t know if we’re still together.’
‘Not to her, necessarily . . . to someone else.’
‘Maybe.’
Evie tries to walk on her toes, putting one foot in front of the other, like a catwalk model.
Reaching the house, I unlock the front door, standing back to let her pass me. Suddenly, she pushes herself against me in a reckless hug. My whole body stiffens. Undeterred, Evie kisses me. It’s not so much a kiss, as a wrestling hold, or a spin-the-bottle attempt by someone who has practised for hours on the back of her hand.
I push her away. She tries again. This time I’m firmer, shoving her hard, holding her at arm’s length.
‘Don’t do that!’ I snap. The colour drains from her face. ‘What’s got into you?’
‘You think I’m ugly.’
‘No.’
‘I’m damaged goods.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Bullshit!’
‘Look at me, Evie. Ask the question again.’
‘Do you think I’m damaged goods?’
‘No.’
‘Do you think I’m ugly?’
‘No.’
She believes me now.
‘Why then?’ she asks.
‘It’s unprofessional.’
‘You’re not my shrink.’
‘I’m your guardian.’
‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘It can’t happen, Evie.’
‘How long do I have to wait?’
‘It’s not a matter of time. It’s never going to happen. Ever.’
Evie studies my face and sees that I’m telling the truth. It makes her angry. Embarrassed. Humiliated.
I should have seen this coming. I did. I feared her physical proximity and how my actions could be misinterpreted or misconstrued. Evie has been lost in the system for years, labelled ‘a management problem’ to be controlled, not listened to. Then I come along; someone who doesn’t make demands or rush to judgement or punish her for mistakes. If anything, I’ve rewarded her worst behaviour because I know where it comes from. This must be enormously attractive to someone like Evie.
We’re still on the doorstep. Every fibre of her seems ready to flee, or fight, or have the ground swallow her up. She slaps me hard across the face.
‘What was that for?’
‘Nothing. I’m sorry. You can hit me back.’ She braces herself.
‘No.’
‘Please.’
‘No.’
57
Angel Face
Foolish girl!
Stupid girl!
My hand is stinging from the slap and Cyrus has fingermarks on his cheek, outlined in white, as if my hand had been covered in chalk dust when I hit him.
I rock from foot to foot, unable to look in his eyes, frightened of what I might see. He turned cold the moment I kissed him. He didn’t want to touch me, not my face, not my mouth, not my body. Of course not. Other men have touched me and kissed me and done things that didn’t feel right. I thought that if I did it with someone like Cyrus it would feel different. It wouldn’t be wicked. It wouldn’t be wrong.