Good Girl, Bad Girl(27)
“Give it to me,” says Davina.
Evie caresses the blade almost lovingly before spinning it across her palm so the handle is facing Davina.
Moments later the paramedics arrive, calling out numbers and driving needles into Roberta’s veins, giving her fluids before strapping her to a stretcher and wheeling her through the reception area to a waiting ambulance.
I escort Evie back to her room, where she checks herself in the mirror, making sure that her makeup hasn’t smudged.
“Do you have a death wish?” I ask after a silence.
“He was never going to stab me.”
“How do you know?”
She sighs and shrugs wearily. “I could tell.”
14
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Lenny Parvel’s secretary, Antonia, is a plump, playful woman with cat-eye spectacles and wrists that jangle with multiple metal bracelets. Her desk is wedged between three filing cabinets that look like grey standing stones.
“Milk no sugar,” she says, bringing me a cup of tea. “Digestive or Hobnob?”
“Not for me.”
“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet. There’s nothing of you. Women like a little meat on the bone.” She winks at me wickedly and takes a biscuit.
I notice flat-packed boxes leaning against a wall.
“Are you moving?” I ask.
“Haven’t you heard? DCI Parvel is being transferred.”
“To where?”
“Uniformed operations.”
“She’s an investigator.”
“I don’t think she was given a choice.”
My surprise borders on shock. “Why?”
Antonia gives me an exaggerated shrug. “Nobody tells me anything.” Then she leans closer and whispers the name Heller-Smith.
Timothy Heller-Smith is the rising star of the Nottinghamshire Police, a future chief constable if the pundits are to be believed, as well as the conga line of hangers-on. Heller-Smith has overseen intelligence and operations for the past five years, claiming credit for a string of major drug busts and the arrest of a gang of British-born Islamists who had returned after fighting with ISIS in Syria.
There’s no way Lenny would have asked for a transfer. Ever since I’ve known her, she’s worked towards becoming a detective.
“If you ask me, Heller-Smith wants her out of the way,” whispers Antonia, brushing biscuit crumbs from the shelf of her bust.
“Why? Lenny isn’t a threat.”
“A lot of people are suggesting that the next chief constable should be a woman.” She taps her nose as if she’s giving me the name of a sure thing running in first race at Doncaster.
The office door swings open and Lenny emerges, shrugging on her overcoat. “There’s a car downstairs.”
“Where are we going?”
“Jodie Sheehan had a school locker.”
Lenny picks up keys at the front desk and we take a side door into the parking area. She presses the fob and waits for the telltale blink of lights to show her to the car.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
“About what?”
“Uniformed operations.”
“We’re not married, Cyrus.”
“You love this job,” I say.
“We’re not talking about it.”
“Isn’t there something you can do?”
“Yeah. I can tell people to mind their own business.”
Lenny eases out of the car park and we head southwest along Rectory Road until we reach the West Bridgford Baptist Church and turn right towards the River Trent. It’s ten minutes before she speaks again.
“I’m thinking of retiring. I can take it next year and get a full pension.”
“And do what?”
“What do other people do? They travel, read books, binge-watch TV . . .”
“They die young.”
“Not all of them.”
There is another long pause before her shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. “There are some right bastards loose on this earth, Cyrus. And some of them are supposed to be on the side of the angels.”
*
Forsyth Academy takes up a corner of the Clifton Playing Fields less than five hundred yards from where Jodie’s body was found. Knocked down, rebuilt, and renamed eight years ago, it looks more like a germ warfare laboratory than a secondary school.
Lenny pulls up in front of a green electric barrier and presses the intercom, announcing herself to the office. The gate slides open and we drive past all-weather sports fields where boys in black trousers and untucked white shirts are playing football. Meanwhile, the girls are sitting on benches in the weak sunshine or clustered around tables in the quadrangle.
A young student comes to escort us, her blond ponytail swinging as she walks. A piece of colorful braided rope is tied around her wrist.
“Some of the girls are making them,” she explains. “They’re in memory of Jodie. Would you like one? They’re free.”
She reaches into her pocket and produces four similar-looking bracelets of different colors. I choose one. Mr. Graham appears, the executive head teacher.
“Thank you, Cassie,” he says, nodding to the girl. “That bracelet isn’t part of the official uniform.”