Good Girl, Bad Girl(47)

“In my experience, whenever someone tells me they have a problem, they’re trying to make their problem into mine.”

“I need your help.”

She looks tired. I wonder if, like me, she is kept awake by an unsettled mind or a past that will not stay buried. Slowing down, I walk to a nearby bench seat where I begin stretching, straightening each leg and bending my body over it until my forehead almost touches my shins.

Out of her car, Lenny takes a seat next to me, wrapping her coat around her chest and slipping her hands in the pockets, where keys and spare change jangle.

“The DNA tests are back,” she says, taking out a ChapStick and running it over her lips.

“And?”

“The semen found in Jodie’s hair belonged to Craig Farley.”

“So that’s it.”

“They also tested the second trace of semen found on her thigh, which was too degraded to get a complete profile, but enough to show that it didn’t come from Farley.”

“Jodie had sex earlier in the evening.”

“Or Farley had an accomplice.”

“Nothing else indicates a second perpetrator.”

Lenny scratches at her cheek, leaving a mark on her pale skin. “Farley says he found Jodie in the woods. He says she was already unconscious.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Of course not! He’s a lying sack of shit, but the second semen sample worries me because it creates doubt. A good defense lawyer is going to ask why we haven’t identified an accomplice or a boyfriend or another suspect. That’s why we need to tighten up the case—make sure Farley doesn’t weasel his way out.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Review the evidence.”

“In what capacity?”

“You work for the police.”

“Part-time.”

Lenny ignores the distinction. “Just look at the interviews with Farley and tell me if we missed anything.”

“Can I talk to him face-to-face?”

“No. His lawyer claims we browbeat Farley into making a confession.” Lenny notices my look. “Don’t even go there. We followed procedure. Regular breaks. Kid gloves.” She sounds annoyed at herself for being defensive.

“Are you looking for anyone else?”

“Officially, no.”

“And unofficially?”

“I’m keeping an open mind.”

I’ve been standing still for too long and grown cold. Lenny offers to drive me home. In the car she turns up the heater full blast and negotiates her way out of the park and onto the street.

Silence hangs between us; not a solid divide but one that feels soft and familiar like an old pair of slippers or a favorite sweater. Lenny has known me since I was thirteen and she was in her early twenties. Since then she has been my greatest supporter and harshest critic, a stepmother, rebellious aunt, friend, sounding board, and the person who knows me best.

“I had an interesting call from Fostering Nottingham the other day,” she says as the car pulls up in front of the house. “Seems that someone listed me as a referee on a foster care application.”

I stay silent.

“Apparently, this person wants to foster a young lass with behavioral problems. I took it as a prank call at first. I still think it might be.”

“It’s not,” I say, opening the car door.

“I hear she’s a nightmare.”

“She’s fine.”

“Have you any idea what you’re doing?”

“I hope so.”

“It’s not easy to look after a teenager.”

“I used to be one.”

“You skipped those years,” says Lenny flippantly, but I know she’s right.

“What did you tell them?” I ask.

“I told them you didn’t torture kittens or shoot dolphins.”

“Thank you.”

Lenny leans forward and peers out of the windscreen at the overgrown garden and filthy windows. “You should sell this place. It’s too much for you.”

“Maybe I’ll foster more kids.”

She knows I’m joking. Leaning behind her, she produces a padded envelope from the back seat. Inside are six DVDs.

“Twenty-two hours of interviews—finish that lot and you’ll need a shower or a noose.”





24




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CYRUS




* * *



“Can I help you?” asks the salesman at Dreamtime Warehouse.

His name is “Brad” and he has shaved the sides of his head but left hair on the top to grow untrammeled like weeds on a new allotment.

“I’m looking for a bed,” I say.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

I wonder for a moment whether Brad is being facetious, but his smile seems genuine. We’re standing in a showroom the size of several tennis courts, surrounded by mattresses, bases, ensembles, and assorted bunks.

“What size are you looking for?” he asks. “Single, small double, double, king-sized, or super-king-size?”

“Ah . . . right . . . maybe a single bed.”