Good Girl, Bad Girl(73)
“Me?”
“I didn’t want to believe him. It sounded so out of character.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“Dougal Sheehan.”
“I didn’t know he worked for you.”
“He’s my part-time driver and a valued employee. He’s in shock, obviously. We all are. Jodie was such a lovely girl. Passionate. Pretty.”
“You knew her,” I say, keeping the surprise out of my voice.
“Didn’t everyone?” he replies before realizing how smart-alecky it sounds. “Dougal introduced me,” he explains. “Occasionally, we’d drop Jodie off at school in the Rolls. She thought that was great fun.”
“Did you see her skate?”
“Of course. I was one of her sponsors.”
“You gave her money?”
He shrugs. “I paid some of her bills. Dougal and Maggie were very appreciative.” He looks at me askance. “As you’ll recall, I did the same for you after your family died. It’s what I do, Cyrus. I help where I can.”
Jimmy lets the statement linger, as though wanting me to feel guilty for questioning his motives. I can’t hold his gaze.
“Dougal is a broken man,” he explains. “I don’t know what to say to him or how to ease his pain. But you can imagine my concern when he told me that Maggie came home from church in tears after a conversation with you. He said you were dragging Jodie’s name through the mud.”
“That’s not my intention.”
“What is your intention—if you don’t mind me asking? A man has confessed to the crime. He’s awaiting trial.”
“There is a question mark over whether Craig Farley acted alone.”
“You’re saying he had an accomplice.”
“DNA evidence has raised the possibility.”
Jimmy smooths back his hair and his mouth narrows to a tight pucker. I sense that he wants to frown, but his smooth, white forehead refuses to buckle.
“Obviously, you have a job to do, Cyrus, but perhaps you could use a little more tact around Jodie’s family.”
“Of course.”
Jimmy nods and smiles, as if his work here is done. Then he looks around the kitchen, noting the general state of disrepair.
“I heard a whisper about you the other day,” he says, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the window. “You know I’m not one for gossip.”
I almost laugh. Jimmy sees the funny side as well.
“Somebody told me you had fostered a child.”
“Yes.”
“What made you do that?”
“She needed somewhere.”
He looks past me. “Is she here?”
“She’s asleep.”
“Well, that’s very noble of you, Cyrus. I hope you haven’t given up on the idea of having your own family someday. Are you seeing anyone?”
“No. Are you?”
Jimmy laughs properly, showing his white, perfectly aligned teeth. “OK, OK, it’s none of my business. I care about you, Cyrus. You’re like a son to me.”
One of many, I want to say, but hold my tongue. I owe Jimmy a lot and he’s never given me a reason to doubt him.
“Have you been to see Elias?” he asks.
“Not for a while.”
“You should keep in touch with him. He’s family.”
All I have left, is what he means to say, but I don’t need reminding. Not a day goes by when I don’t relive some moment of that night. What I lost. What my brother took from me.
I follow Jimmy along the hallway to the front door, where his minders are standing like sentries on either side of the steps.
“Was Dougal Sheehan working for you on the night of the fireworks?” I ask.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I had my annual Guy Fawkes soiree. Dougal was on hand to drive people home.”
“He didn’t mention that to the police.”
Jimmy flashes me another smile. “I expect my employees to be discreet.”
“What time did Dougal start work?”
“Around nine, I suppose.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“Was he driving the Rolls?”
“Heavens no! I told him to use the Range Rover. I don’t want drunken freeloaders throwing up on white calfskin seats.”
Jimmy opens his arms and hugs me again. “We should have lunch. I’ll call you.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“Of course you don’t. You are an odd duck, Cyrus.”
One of the minders jogs ahead, checking the street before opening the door of a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. Jimmy slips inside. The door closes. As the car ghosts away, I remember the famous advertising slogan written in the fifties.
“At 60 miles an hour, the loudest noise in this new Rolls-Royce comes from the electric clock.”
40
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
I open my eyes. Clamped tightly in a fetal ball, I remain completely still, trying to place myself in the universe. I wiggle my fingers, stiff with the cold, then my toes. I flex my legs and arms. I move my tongue, tasting iron. Blood. I put my hand between my legs, touching my knickers. Relieved.