Good Girl, Bad Girl(85)

“Does it involve Jodie?”

Neither man answers. Lenny looks at Maggie. “Are you going to tell me?”

She’s too frightened or clueless to respond.

As the silence stretches out, Lenny realizes that she can’t force the issue.

“I should charge all of you,” she says disgustedly, releasing Dougal, who rubs his shoulder and glares at her belligerently.

“You can both leave. I want to talk to Felix,” she says.

“You can’t talk to him without us being here,” replies Dougal.

“Sure I can. He’s over eighteen.” Lenny looks at Felix. “Do you need Daddy or Mummy to hold your hand?”

“I want a fucking lawyer.”

“By all means,” says Lenny. “You can wait for him at the station. Our holding cells are just like this place—well-appointed, fully furnished, with hot and cold running junkies and scumbags. You’ll be right at home.” She pauses and wipes her hands on a towel. “Your other option is to talk to me now—a novel approach, I know, but you’re not under arrest . . . not yet.”

Lenny looks up at Dougal. “You’re still here.”

“He’s my son.”

“You tried to drown him.”

“What’s he done?” asks Maggie. “Is this about Jodie?”

“Leave now, Mrs. Sheehan. I won’t ask again.”

I can hear husband and wife whispering harshly as they wait for the lift.

“But what’s he done?”

“Nothing.”

“It must be something.”

“Shut up, woman!”

Felix uses a towel to dry his hair. Still shirtless, he walks into the living room, where he opens the sliding glass doors and takes a packet of cigarettes from the balcony table. He takes one and taps both ends against his wrist—an affectation that predates filters on cigarettes.

The view sweeps across the south of the city and as far west as Lady Bay Bridge.

“Nice place,” I say, glancing around the room, noting the flat-screen TV, gaming consoles, and expensive sound system. “Yours?”

“I’m looking after it for a friend.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“John Smith.”

Felix lights up, swallowing smoke. He slumps onto a leather sofa, knees spread, convinced he knows exactly what happens next.

Lenny takes an armchair. “Why was your old man so pissed at you?”

“Whites and coloreds.”

“What?”

Felix grins. “I put a pair of red socks in a white wash. Spoiled Mum’s favorite blouse.”

Lenny’s gaze is absolutely neutral. “I’ve had smarter bowel movements than you.”

I’m standing at the open glass doors looking across the river at a nature reserve called The Hook, where acres of woodland are fringed by wildflower meadows and orchards.

“Do you know Councilor Verbic?” I ask.

“Isn’t he the mayor?”

“Used to be.”

“What about him?”

“Is he one of your customers?”

“Never met the guy.”

“Your father works for him as a driver,” says Lenny.

Felix wrinkles his nose as though some unpleasant smell has reached him.

“If we ask Councilor Verbic—will he say he knows you?”

This time Felix takes a moment, considering his options.

“I might have met him. I meet a lot of people in my line of work.”

“What exactly do you do?” I ask.

“I told you—I buy and sell stuff.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Antiques mainly.”

“I can’t see any antiques around this place,” says Lenny.

“Not fond of them myself,” says Felix, “but a lot of folks like old shit. Your old man must tell you that all the time.”

Lenny doesn’t rise to the bait. “Business must be good.”

“I do OK.”

“The police found six thousand pounds in Jodie’s school locker. Do you know how she got it?”

“No idea.”

“Can we look around?”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“With your permission.”

Felix spreads his arms. “Knock yourselves out.”

Clearly, he’s too experienced to keep anything incriminating in his apartment, but I still wouldn’t mind seeing more of the place—learning things about him. I notice a BlackBerry phone on the glass coffee table. It’s a brand favored by criminal gangs because it can use military-grade encryption, making it almost impossible for police to access the data or intercept messages.

“Jodie was using a mobile phone the night she disappeared,” I say, still looking at the BlackBerry. “Not her usual one, but another handset, a cheap disposable most likely. It’s only a matter of time before the police identify her new phone. They’ll be able to read her text messages and look at her call logs.”

“Maybe even trace her movements,” says Lenny, picking up on the theme. “You think you’re safe, Felix, because your data is encrypted, but you can’t hide the signal. Every phone has a unique signature that pings the nearest mobile phone towers, which means we can see where you’ve been—every house, pub, car park . . . Every girlfriend. Every business meeting.”