Good Girl, Bad Girl(72)

The remotest of the rooms is in the attic, reachable by a narrow, uncarpeted set of stairs that creak under my weight. The small recessed window is grey with cobwebs and dust. Boxes of my grandparents’ things are stacked beneath beams that follow the sloping roofline to the eaves. Everything seems to be made on a miniature scale, so that I feel huge.

There are signs of disturbance: finger marks on the dusty flaps of cardboard boxes and smudges on the floor where a trunk has been moved and pushed back into place. Subtle alterations. I picture Evie finding this place, going softly through the stillness and shadows. What was she looking for?

As I turn to leave, I notice how some of the boxes have been stacked to form a partition with a small gap in between. Crouching and peering into the space, I discover a nest of sorts. Evie has spread a dust sheet over the floorboards, perhaps as protection against splinters. She has added blankets and throw pillows; two bottles of water; a packet of dry biscuits; a volume of Encyclopaedia Britannica, letters G to H; and a collection of marbles and pieces of colored glass.

Is this where she sleeps? I wonder. Do I frighten her that much?

The doorbell rings. My heart lifts.

I’m all the way at the top of the house and it takes an age to reach the front door. I pull it open, expecting to find Evie, but the man on my doorstep is an old family friend—or perhaps a friend for someone who has no family.

Jimmy Verbic pulls me into a bear hug and holds me for a beat longer than is comfortable. I can feel his breath on my ear and the smoothness of his unshaven cheek.

He lets me go.

“Dr. Haven.”

“Councilor Verbic.”

“I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” I say, unsure of why he’s here.

Behind him I see two bulked-up minders whose bodies are shaped like port-a-loos and make their expensive suits look like sacks. Most politicians travel with PR types or chiefs of staff. Jimmy has muscle.

“I saw the light on.”

“Because you happened to be passing.”

“I know you’re a night owl.”

He looks past me along the hallway.

“I like what you’ve done to the place. Shabby chic.”

“No, just shabby.”

With a nod of his head, he tells his minders to wait outside and wipes his expensive Italian shoes on my doormat. He’s dressed in pleated trousers, an open-necked shirt, and a blazer, each item matched to the other. I doubt if Jimmy has anything in his wardrobe that isn’t stylish and color-coordinated or perfect for the occasion.

Rich beyond counting, he has twice been mayor of Nottingham and otherwise served on numerous committees, boards, and charitable foundations. He is Nottingham’s man for all seasons, a churchgoer, philanthropist, politician, yachtsman, pilot, and entrepreneur, with a finger in every pie and a toe in every Jacuzzi.

Jimmy often boasts about his humble roots, growing up in a soot-stained pit village and losing his father to black lung disease, but there is nothing working-class left about his lifestyle or his business interests, which include nightclubs, child-care centers, and a five-star hotel. Yet he possesses the common man’s touch, able to chat to football fans on the terraces or hobnob with opera lovers at the Theatre Royal. I’ve seen him goal a slap shot from just over the blue line in a charity hockey game and hit a two-hundred-yard five iron to within three feet at a golfing pro-am.

People say he’s handsome, although I’ve always found him to be slightly androgynous with his smooth egg-white skin and wet brown eyes. Now in his early sixties, he has escorted a string of beauties over the years, filling the society pages and gossip columns, while remaining stubbornly single.

When my parents and sisters were killed, it was Jimmy who paid for the funerals and set up a trust fund for my education. He didn’t know my family or me. He did it anyway. Perhaps he felt sorry for me, but so did everybody else. It was Jimmy who stepped up. As the caskets were wheeled from the cathedral, he put his arm around my skinny shoulders and said, “If you ever need anything, Cyrus, you come to me. Understand?”

In the years that followed, he matched his words with actions, showing up at school speech days and my graduation from university, never acknowledging the fact or seeking publicity. Most people say he’s a good man and I have no reason to doubt that, but having followed the fortunes of Nottingham over the years, I have learned that Jimmy swings like a weather vane when it comes to having his convictions. He always follows the prevailing wind.

Although no longer the lord mayor, Jimmy is still a city councilor and the sheriff of Nottingham, a ceremonial position rather than a keeper of law and order. He greets tourists, poses for photographs, and promotes the Robin Hood legend.

“How can I help you, Councilor?” I ask.

“Jimmy, please.”

We’re in the kitchen. I offer him a drink. He refuses and examines the chair before sitting.

“It’s been too long,” he says. “I was trying to think. I last saw you at Easter.”

“The Parkinson’s fund-raiser.”

“That’s the one. You’re looking well. Working out, I see.”

Jimmy is an expert at small talk and I let him carry on, knowing this isn’t a social call—not at this hour.

“One of my employees came to see me yesterday. He was rather upset by something you’d done.”