Good Girl, Bad Girl(101)

“No,” he moans. His chest is bent forward towards his knees and his forehead almost touches the table.

Opening a different folder, Lenny begins pulling out crime scene photographs, laying them down one by one. “Don’t look away, Bryan. See what you did.”

Whitaker blinks at her wordlessly. The deep lines around his eyes are etched in misery.

“I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . . Ask Felicity.”

“We’ve spoken to your wife. She didn’t see you come in that night.”

“I was there. I came home. I had a shower. I went to bed.”

“You sleep in different rooms.”

“I didn’t go out again.”

Lenny sighs and collects the photographs. “You can keep telling that story all the way to your trial, but eventually a jury is going to see right through your fabrications and bluster.”

“You caught the guy. You charged him.”

“Craig Farley is guilty of many things, but he didn’t get Jodie pregnant; he didn’t hit her from behind and push her off a bridge.”

Dropping his head into his hands, Whitaker groans.

“This is wrong! A mistake! Let me talk to Felicity. Let me explain.”





54




* * *





CYRUS




* * *



Three words appear on my pager: “Poppy has gone.”

I call Evie’s mobile and she answers breathlessly, unable to get the words out quickly enough.

“There’s a hole under the fence . . . near the gate. I found her collar hanging on the chain. I’ve looked everywhere.”

“OK, calm down. She won’t go far.”

“What if she gets run over? What if someone took her?”

“We’ll find her.”

Minutes later, I’m behind the wheel. Each time I catch myself driving too quickly, I reluctantly touch the brakes, cursing the amount of traffic. Why is every Sunday driver out today? Every little old lady, slow truck, Belgian, Audi owner, and lawn bowler.

I don’t want to imagine losing Poppy—not because I’ve grown attached to her, but because of Evie. I should never have got her a dog. The downside risk was too great. She hasn’t loved anything or anyone in so long and now I’ve opened her up to being hurt again. Abandoned.

Pulling up outside the house, I see Evie standing on the brick wall, yelling Poppy’s name. Her arms are wrapped around her body, hugging her chest, shaking.

She tells me again about the collar and the fence and how she’s knocked on doors and talked to neighbors. I know how hard that must be for Evie—meeting strangers and interacting with people.

“We should make posters,” I say, wanting to keep her occupied. “Do you have a photograph?”

She holds up her phone.

“OK. Download them onto my laptop and make a poster and flyers. We’ll put them up on lampposts and in mailboxes.”

Upstairs, I begin getting changed, pulling on a T-shirt, compression tights, and a fleece-lined top. I have to wear my old running shoes, which are almost worn through.

“Where are you going?” Evie asks.

“I can cover more ground.”

“What will I do?”

“You put up the posters.”

She shows me an A4 page with a photograph of Poppy taken in the garden and the headline: MISSING DOG. Underneath is a description of Poppy and Evie’s phone number, along with the words: REWARD OFFERED.

“What reward?” I ask.

“We’ll think of something,” she says hopefully.

We decide on a plan. I’ll cover the park and run along Wollaton Road, while Evie knocks on doors and distributes the flyers. Setting off, I jog my usual route, along Parkside, before turning through the entrance to Wollaton Park. I soon grow breathless, trying to run and call Poppy’s name at the same time. Occasionally, I stop and ask people if they’ve seen her, showing them Evie’s poster, which is damp with my sweat. I carry on running . . . calling . . . asking.

Having circled the park, I cross Derby Road and search the grounds of the university, past the boating lake and the faculty buildings. Nottingham is suddenly a maze. Poppy could be anywhere, sleeping under a hedge or in someone’s garden. She could be miles away by now, or I could run right past her and never know.

They say there are only four human emotions and sadness is one of them, but there are different types of sadness. Loss. Failure. Abandonment. Depression. Some of these are unavoidable. Some are necessary. Some make us human and whole. I remember seeing a Michael Leunig cartoon showing a tiny sad-eyed man with a noose around his neck. The rope was curled over a beam with a large bucket tied to the other end. As the man cried, his tears filled the bucket and lifted him higher and higher off the ground. Evie is that figure, standing on her tiptoes, filling a bucket with her tears. If only she could stop crying . . .

It’s growing dark. I’m exhausted. I cannot run or stumble any farther. With dread in every step, I turn for home, trying to fashion words for Evie.

As I turn the corner, I see her waving from the gate. Yelling.

“She’s home! She’s home!”

A wave of relief breaks over me, rushing over the shingles with a soft rattling hush that whispers, “Thank God!”