Good Girl, Bad Girl(59)
The others laugh. Toby runs his hand through his hair, pushing it behind his ears. Grinning.
“You’re talking about a girl who was murdered,” I say, and I see his bravado fade away. “She was also only fifteen. A minor.”
“She was sixteen.”
“Afraid not.”
Toby shrugs, less certain than before.
Rocking onto the pedals, he balances the bike on two wheels and leans his weight forward, dropping into the void, aiming his body at where I’m standing. Exploding off the edge, he catches the bike in midair, only inches from my face.
He’s testing me. I don’t flinch.
“What’s this really about?” he mutters.
“You saw Jodie at the fireworks.”
“So?”
“You were teasing her. She slapped your face.”
“Whoa! Whoever told you that is lying.”
“Did you arrange to meet her later?”
“No.”
“Did you send her a text?”
“No.”
“Did you pick her up in your car?”
“Are you deaf or something?”
“There are witnesses, Toby. You were seen with Jodie. You took her bag. She hit you.”
“OK, I saw her, so what?”
“I think you bumped into her again outside the fish-and-chip shop on Southchurch Drive. She knocked a can of beer from your hands.”
He doesn’t respond.
“What did you say to Jodie that made her so angry?”
Toby leans hard on the handlebars, as though trying to crush the bike or push it into the ground.
“I was drunk. I invited her back to my place. I guess I was a little crude.” He blinks at me sadly. “I didn’t mean any of it, you know. I wish I could take it back.”
32
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
I’m standing at the bay window, peering through the curtains. People are coming and going along the road. Children being walked to school. A street sweeper with a barrow and a broom. A postman with a trolley.
I’m on my third can of lemonade since breakfast and the sugar rush feels good. Why so many? Because I can. I could have had a beer if I wanted. I could pour myself a Scotch. I thought about it but gagged when I cracked the lid and took a sniff.
When Cyrus left this morning, I opened the front door and stepped outside. Twice.
Outside.
Inside.
Outside.
Inside.
Then I immediately locked the door, latched the chain, and went through the rest of the house, securing every window. I drew the curtains and closed the blinds. I studied the eaves and cornices, making sure that Cyrus hadn’t been lying when he told me there weren’t any cameras.
Opening a packet of chocolate biscuits, I start exploring the house properly, starting in the basement, where Cyrus has his weight room. His towel is still damp from last night. I run my fingers along the bar and try to lift it from the cradle, using both hands, but it won’t budge. I try raising one side. It doesn’t move.
In the sitting room, I turn on the TV and pick up the remote. Where are all the channels? Doesn’t he have satellite or cable? The next room is the library. Why does anybody need so many books? Has he read them all? I pick out a heavy volume bound in brown leather, spelling out the word Britannica on the spine. It has columns and drawings—like a dictionary with pictures.
I open a page and read, sounding out the words.
Annie Oakley, original name Phoebe Ann Mosey, (born Aug. 13, 1860, Darke county, Ohio, U.S.—died Nov. 3, 1926, Greenville, Ohio), American markswoman who starred in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show, where she was often called “Little Sure Shot.”
I turn to another page.
George M. Pullman, in full George Mortimer Pullman, (born March 3, 1831, Brocton, New York, U.S.—died October 19, 1897, Chicago), American industrialist and inventor of the Pullman sleeping car, a luxurious railroad coach designed for overnight travel.
There are so many volumes of the Britannica that I wonder if everybody has something written about them. I look up other names: Cyrus Haven, Adam Guthrie, Terry Boland, but none of them are mentioned.
The library has a polished wooden desk with drawers on either side and a lamp that curls over the top. The leather chair creaks under my weight. Picking up a pen, I click it open and closed with my thumb. There is a pile of invoices awaiting payment. Electricity. Gas. Internet. According to a bank statement, Cyrus has ￡1,262 in his current account. He also has a double-barreled surname, Haven-Sykes, but only uses one of his names.
I pick up a padded envelope and shake the contents onto the desk. There are six DVDs in plastic cases, each of them stamped with the words Nottinghamshire Police. Opening one of them, I read the label. It has a number, a date, and a name: Craig Farley. I glance at the DVD player in the corner before putting everything back where I found it.
Having searched the ground floor, I climb the stairs and go to the main bedroom, where the bedclothes are rumpled and thrown haphazardly back into place. I imagine Cyrus lying in the bed with one hand resting on his chest and the other shielding his eyes. I want to ask him about each of his tattoos. What they mean—did they hurt—does he like pain?
I open his wardrobe. He has four pairs of jeans, half a dozen shirts, two sweaters, a vest, a blue blazer, and a black suit in dry-cleaning plastic. One of the shirts is denim with studs for buttons. I put it on and roll up the sleeves. It looks good on me—almost like a jacket.