Good Girl, Bad Girl(81)
“Did you bring me something?” she asks in a pleading voice. “Baby wants her medicine.”
“Later,” he says dismissively. “We have company.”
“But you promised.”
“I said later!”
Keeley drops off him like he’s raised a fist. Instead he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash, peeling off several twenties. “Go buy some food. And get Evie a toothbrush.”
“Why me?”
“Because I asked you nicely.”
Keeley doesn’t want to leave. Felix gives her a look and she grudgingly obeys, shooting me daggers on her way out. I’m still thinking about the money Felix had in his pocket.
He turns in a slow circle. “Home sweet home. I know it’s not much, but it beats lying in the gutter. The shower works if you want to freshen up. There’s no kitchen, but Keeley has a microwave in her room. Either that, or you can get takeaway.”
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To see my dear old mum.”
“You said I could earn some money.”
“Yeah, sure, but it’s too early in the day. Deliveries are mostly at night.”
“What do I do until then?”
“Sleep. You look like shit.”
I want to make a smart-arse comment back at him, but I can’t think of one because I’m too tired.
Not everything Felix has told me has been the truth, but that makes him like everybody else—not to be trusted. Right now, I don’t have many choices. I need somewhere to stay and money to start again, and this is the only game in town.
43
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
Lenny is on speakerphone with DS Edgar asking about Jodie Sheehan’s burner phone.
“There were thousands of people at the fireworks and most of them were carrying phones,” says Edgar. “It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“This might help,” says Lenny. “Jodie was picked up by Ian Hendricks from outside the fish-and-chip shop that Monday evening. He claims he dropped her at a house on The Ropewalk at nine thirty. If we isolate signals from those locations, we should be able to identify which phone Jodie was using.”
“What was she doing at The Ropewalk?” asks Edgar.
“Ask me later. We’re heading there now.”
The call ends and Lenny follows signs towards the city center.
Ian Hendricks has been quiet in the back seat but grows more animated as we get closer to The Ropewalk—an up-market area full of grand Victorian houses, many of which have been converted into flats or turned into offices for accountants and solicitors. A few private houses remain, lovingly restored and harking back to a time when horse-drawn carriages clip-clopped over cobblestones carrying women in whalebone corsets and men in frock coats.
“That’s the place,” says Hendricks, leaning between the seats.
We’ve stopped outside an imposing cream-colored house that looks like an iced wedding cake.
“Are you sure?” Lenny asks.
“Yeah. I dropped her at the gates and she walked up the driveway to the side door. The place was all lit up—like they were having a party. Cars were parked up and down the road.”
“I know this house,” I say, surprising both of them. “It belongs to Jimmy Verbic.”
“The mayor!” says Lenny.
“He’s the sheriff of Nottingham now.”
Her forehead creases like an invisible hand is squeezing her skin. “Why would Jodie Sheehan come here?”
“Her father works for Jimmy as a driver.”
“He didn’t mention that in his statement.”
Lenny gets out of the car and signals to the detectives who have been following in a second vehicle.
“Take Mr. Hendricks to his place of work.”
The schoolteacher gets out of one police car and into another. Lenny isn’t finished.
“Don’t think you’re off the hook, Mr. Hendricks. You could still be charged with withholding information from a murder investigation.”
“All I did was drop her off. I promise.”
The second vehicle pulls away. Lenny and I are standing on the footpath. She turns and gazes through the iron gates at the grand-looking house, muttering, “Jimmy Verbic.”
“We’re only talking to him,” I say, sensing her disquiet.
“Councilor Verbic and the chief constable are best mates. They go on golfing tours together and salmon fishing weekends. For all I know they swap wives.”
“Jimmy isn’t married.”
“You know what I mean.”
As if someone has been eavesdropping, the gates suddenly begin to move, sliding open on a chain. A Mercedes sports car turns the corner and approaches, pulling into the driveway. I catch a glimpse of a young woman behind the wheel who is wearing oversized sunglasses and a scarf tied loosely around her neck.
We follow the Mercedes through the closing gates and watch it pull up at the front of the house. One elegant white-linen-clad leg emerges, then another, both sporting high heels. She bends back into the car to collect polished paper shopping bags. Louis Vuitton and Cartier. Hearing our approach, she straightens and props her sunglasses on her forehead. She’s in her midtwenties, tall and slim, with a proud countenance. She smiles.