‘Early hours. Jodie had to be up for training at six.’
Cyrus looks at the clock above the sink. It’s almost two a.m.
‘You can sleep here tonight. We’ll talk to the police in the morning.’ He turns to me. ‘Can you help me make up a bed for Aiden?’
I nod and empty the ashtray and put the mugs in the sink.
‘You should call your mother and tell her you’re OK,’ says Cyrus.
Aiden baulks. ‘I don’t want to speak to her.’
‘It can wait until morning.’
Upstairs, Cyrus shows me where he keeps the spare sheets and blankets. We make the bed together, although he’s pretty useless. I’m an expert at making beds with nurse’s corners. They used to check mine every day at Langford Hall.
‘He was telling the truth,’ I say.
‘Or what he believes to be the truth,’ Cyrus replies.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Let the police decide.’
I hold a pillow under my chin and shake it into a slip.
‘Do you know who killed Jodie Sheehan?’ I ask.
‘Not yet.’
‘Mmmmmmm.’
Cyrus frowns. ‘You always make that sound when you don’t believe me.’
‘Mmmmmmm.’
60
The sun is almost liquid, angled so low that it slants through the blinds, reflecting from computer screens and empty whiteboards in the incident room. Aiden is sitting next to me wearing yesterday’s clothes, but he’s showered and combed his hair.
Lenny is in a meeting. I can hear raised voices behind her closed office door. One of them I recognise.
Antonia glances up from her desk.
I whisper, ‘Who is it?’
She mouths the words, ‘Timothy Heller-Smith and Jimmy Verbic.’
‘Why?’
She motions me to move closer, cupping her hand over my ear.
‘I’m not sure but it could have something to do with Felix Sheehan. He’s in hospital with a broken jaw and internal bleeding.’
‘What happened?’
‘Lenny thinks he ripped off his supplier and copped a beating. Apparently, he started off asking for police protection, but then changed his mind.’
The office door opens suddenly. Antonia jumps up as though it has triggered a motor inside her. She bustles around collecting coats and hats and scarves.
Heller-Smith recognises me and smiles mockingly.
‘Ah, it’s Dr Haven. The shrink who won’t shrink.’
‘Have we met?’ I ask.
‘No, but I’ve heard all about you. DCI Parvel seems very enamoured. Maybe it’s a gender thing.’
This he finds funny. I glimpse the loathing in Lenny’s eyes but know she won’t say anything.
‘I assume you two know each other,’ says Heller-Smith, gesturing towards Jimmy.
We nod but don’t shake hands.
‘Councillor Verbic has asked for and received a formal apology from Nottinghamshire Police for any hurt and inconvenience we have caused him. The chief constable feels that it has bordered on harassment.’
‘The chief inspector was only doing her job,’ says Jimmy. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t personal.’
‘It wasn’t,’ says Lenny.
Heller-Smith ignores the comment. ‘I have also received a complaint from the Sheehan family accusing the police of being insensitive and heavy-handed.’
‘I’ll draft a response,’ says Lenny.
‘Yes, you do that.’
Heller-Smith notices Aiden.
‘Let me guess – another suspect. Who is it this time?’
Aiden doesn’t move. I glance at Lenny wanting to talk to her privately, but this isn’t the time or the place.
‘This is Aiden Whitaker,’ I say. ‘He wants to make a statement.’
‘Did he kill Jodie Sheehan?’
‘No. He claims to have got her pregnant.’
‘Another one! Should we start compiling a list?’
‘She was murdered,’ I say through clenched teeth.
‘That case is closed,’ replies Heller-Smith.
‘With all due respect, sir, that’s not your decision,’ says Lenny, stepping forward. ‘This is still my investigation and I decide when it’s closed.’
Heller-Smith smiles crookedly and scratches his cheek. It’s like he’s marking up an unseen ledger, keeping a list of whatever slights and abuses he will avenge later.
‘Another example of why you’re being transferred,’ he says to nobody in particular.
‘Maybe, but not until Monday.’
The men leave. Heller-Smith makes a barking sound all the way along the corridor, growing louder as he passes the incident room, letting everyone know what he thinks of Lenny.
She gives me a lazy sideways glance but doesn’t hold my eyes.
‘Your timing is shit,’ she mutters, addressing me, but studying Aiden.
‘He was with Jodie that night,’ I explain. ‘They were together in the caravan. He claims the baby is his.’
‘He’s wrong. Cousins don’t match the DNA profile.’
Aiden shakes his head. ‘No. I’m the father.’
‘How do I know you’re not saying this to protect your old man?’
‘I’m not. I loved her.’
Lenny sighs and yells to Antonia. ‘Get me Ness.’
‘On the phone?’
‘No, here. Now!’
61
Angel Face
Poppy is barking at a squirrel in the garden.
‘Be quiet,’ I tell her, worried the neighbours might complain about the noise. The Labrador spins and lopes across the soggy grass, pausing to look back at the squirrel, as if to say, ‘I’ll get you next time.’
I’m sitting on the back steps, barefoot and in my pyjamas, wrapped in a blanket. Poppy’s tail thumps against my thigh as I scratch her behind the ears. Is this how happiness is meant to feel?
I miss Cyrus. I miss hearing his footsteps, and the creak of the plumbing when he turns on the taps, and the clang of his weights dropping into the cradle. The house feels empty when he’s not here.
Wandering back inside, I think about reading some of his books, or beading my hair, or watching TV. I flick through the channels where people are buying houses in the country, or showing off kitchen gadgets, or yelling at each other in a courtroom.
The mail-flap echoes along the hallway. The newspapers are lying on the doormat, wrapped in plastic, along with the morning mail: two letters and a postcard with an Irish stamp. It shows a picture of a rocky coastline in the Aran Islands. Four words are scrawled beside the address: ‘Leave my parents alone.’
I have no idea what it means, but leave it on the desk for Cyrus.
Unwrapping the newspaper, I read about Bryan Whitaker’s arrest. The photograph shows him sitting in the back of a police car with a coat over his head, which means it could be anyone. The story gives details of his skating career and how he’d coached Jodie Sheehan since she could walk.
The doorbell starts ringing and doesn’t stop. Someone is holding his or her finger on the button. I answer, ready to complain, but a woman pushes past me, knocking me off balance.