Good Girl, Bad Girl(86)

Felix has gone quiet. He draws on his cigarette and exhales, blinking into the smoke. His eyes drift lower, focusing on the BlackBerry. He lunges, grabs the phone, pulls back his arm, and hurls it towards the balcony door and the river beyond. In the same breath, I shove the sliding glass door. It closes on smooth runners and the phone clatters against the double glazing, landing at my feet. I pick it up.

“Give it back,” says Felix.

“It’s a criminal offense to dispose of evidence,” replies Lenny, taking the phone from me and sliding it into her pocket.

Felix is less certain than before. “You need a warrant.”

“We’ll get one.”

I watch how the young man changes. He wants to be menacing, but like a lot of weedy men, he’s all push and self-possession, whereas someone like his father, a shambling shaggy heavyweight, wears the crown more easily.

“Was Jodie a runner?” asks Lenny.

“No comment,” he replies.

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

This time Felix hesitates and tosses us a bone. “She came to me a few weeks ago, said she was up the duff.”

“Who was the father?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Did you ask?”

Another shrug.

“What did Jodie tell you?”

“She didn’t want Mum and Dad finding out. Mum would have thrown a wobbly, you know. Crying and praying.”

“Jodie must have wanted something.”

“Cash.”

“Why?”

“The scrape, I guess.”

“Terminations are free—why would she need money?”

“She wouldn’t get it done in Nottingham. Too many people know her. She said she was going to London.”

“And you gave her six thousand pounds—that’s very generous of you.”

“She stole that from me. I keep a bit of cash around the place, you know, in case of an emergency.”

“Why didn’t you get it back?”

Felix doesn’t answer.

“She was blackmailing you,” I say.

Again, silence. Felix puts his thumbnail between his teeth and bites at the edges.

“Did you send her to a house on The Ropewalk on the night she disappeared?”

“No comment.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Who was she delivering to?”

Felix laughs. “You must think I’m an idiot.”

“That’s a given,” says Lenny. “The question is—how big of an idiot.”

I want to get back to Jodie. “When was she going to London?” I ask.

“She didn’t say. She brought an overnight bag around here and put it in the spare room. Said she’d come by and pick it up when she was leaving.”

“Where is the bag now?” asks Lenny

Felix nods towards one of the bedrooms.

“Can we take a look?” I ask.

Felix’s expression changes, his features pushing outwards in a calculating smile. “Do I get my phone back?”

I see Lenny weighing her options.

“If everything you’ve told us is true, I’ll return your phone, but if you’ve been lying to me, Felix, I’ll be all over you like a drunk aunt on a dance floor.”

He smirks.

In the bedroom, I open the wardrobe and pull out a small suitcase with a stenciled insignia for the British Ice Skating team. Lenny tosses me a pair of Latex gloves and dons her own. The main zipper slides open, revealing clothes—knickers, skivvies, a sweater, two skirts, and a pair of jeans, as well as a woolen hat with ear flaps. There are separate pouches for Jodie’s toiletries and makeup. Lower down, I find a soft toy, a floppy-eared rabbit with a missing eye and a chewed ear. She was taking folic acid tablets and reading a book called: How to Grow a Baby and Push It Out.

“Why pack a suitcase?” I ask, without realizing I’ve said it out loud.

“She was going to London,” says Lenny.

“Which is only two hours away by train. She didn’t have to stay overnight. According to Ness, Jodie was eleven weeks pregnant, which was still early enough for her to have a medical abortion. She could have taken a pill and come back a few days later for a second one.”

I look again at the contents of the bag—the clothes, the makeup, the vitamins, and the much-loved childhood toy. Suddenly, the answer is clear to me.

“Jodie wasn’t terminating a pregnancy—she was running away.”





45




* * *





CYRUS




* * *



Tasmin Whitaker is still dressed in her school uniform when she answers the door. She opens it far enough to peer over the chain, squinting as though the sun is in her eyes. A dusting of icing sugar covers her top lip.

“Mum and Dad aren’t home.”

“It’s you I wanted to see.”

A shadow passes across her face.

“I want to talk about Jodie.”

Tasmin looks over her left shoulder, holding the door with both hands.

“Who is it, Tas?” asks a voice from inside.

“The police,” she replies.

“I’m not the police. I’m a psychologist.”