Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(24)

‘My client has come here voluntarily to talk about Maya Kirk,’ she says. ‘Any other material is irrelevant unless you’d like to charge him.’

Hoyle ignores her. ‘Alice was held against her will and sexually assaulted.’

‘That was consensual,’ says Foley.

‘You locked the car doors. You soiled her clothes and afterwards gave her a tissue to clean herself up.’

‘It was a misunderstanding.’

‘You kept her prisoner.’

Camilleri gets to her feet. ‘I think that’s enough. We’re leaving.’

‘Did Maya Kirk say no to you? Did that make you angry?’

‘My client will not be answering any more questions,’ says Camilleri. ‘Come on, Anders.’

Foley gets to his feet.

‘We’re going to find more CCTV footage,’ say Hoyle. ‘And we’re going to pick apart your life. If we discover that you’ve been lying to us, I will personally kick down your door and put you in handcuffs.’

Solicitor and suspect have gone. Hoyle looks at his reflection in the mirror and shrugs, aware he has an audience.

‘Any thoughts?’ asks Lenny.

‘He doesn’t like women very much,’ I reply.

‘Are you talking about Foley?’

‘No.’





16


Evie


I don’t own any dresses. They belong to my past life, when men and women would bring me clothes and dress me up, making me pretend to be a daughter, or an orphan, or a waif, or a schoolgirl, or some other character from their sick fantasies.

Before that, my dresses were mainly hand-me-downs from Agnesa, which were always too big because I was small for my age. The runt of the litter, according to Papa, who said it in a nice way. Agnesa had the curves and the cheekbones. I got the funny elbows and llama eyelashes.

For the past hour I’ve been looking in dress-shop windows, and wandering between department stores in the Victoria Centre, trying to summon the courage to actually try something on. Posh shops intimidate me. I don’t know what it is exactly. The peacock-like assistants. The choice of clothes. The featureless mannequins. The perfumed air. Some of the boutiques are so classy that I feel like I’m trespassing.

Normally, I love shopping malls – the escalators and the fountains and the food court, the unlimited things to buy. I once saw a film about a man who got trapped in an airport, unable to return to his home country, so he lived in the terminal building. He had everything he needed – shops, cafés, arcade games, friends. I couldn’t understand why he wanted to leave. I would have stayed there forever.

My mobile sends me an alert. It’s a message from my dating app. A Constable Lowry wants me to contact him urgently. He’s given me a number. It’s probably spam. I delete his message.

I continue walking past the same boutique, but this time I turn left and enter the hallowed ground. The clothes are displayed like works of art. Colour-coordinated and accessorised. The two assistants look emaciated and bored shitless.

‘Are you lost?’ asks the older one.

‘No,’ I reply, spying myself in the mirror. I see what they see – my torn jeans and hooded sweatshirt, my botched attempt to put highlights in my hair. They’ll think I’m a shoplifter, or a timewaster.

‘I’m just looking,’ I mumble.

Her colleague is younger, wearing sling-back heels that make her butt stick out in a tight black dress. I couldn’t wear something like that. I wouldn’t want to.

‘I’m Riviera,’ she says. ‘I’m your fashion advisor. If you need any help with sizing I can—’

‘No, I’m good,’ I say, pushing back hangers and pretending to read the labels. They’re watching me.

After a while, I unhook a simple black dress with a nipped-in waist and short sleeves.

‘That’s a ten. You’ll need an eight,’ says Riviera.

I put it back. She chooses another.

‘This one is more a cocktail dress. Mid-thigh length. Satin with pleats. Sleeveless. Very sexy. You could try it on.’

Before I can answer, she drapes it over her arm and leads me to the changing rooms. For a moment, I think she’s going to follow me inside and watch me undress, but she points me to a booth. I latch the door. I’m alone. I sit on the bench and unlace my boots to pull off my jeans, which seems to take an age. I can picture the two women talking about me. Sniggering. Stripped down to my bra and knickers, I avoid looking at myself in the mirror. I don’t like seeing myself naked, or in underwear. I don’t like my pale blotchy skin and the cigarette burns on my back.

Unzipping the dress, I lift it over my head. The fabric slides over my shoulders and down my sides. I reach behind me to pull up the zipper before brushing my hands down my hips and turning to the mirror.

For a moment, I don’t recognise the girl who is staring back at me. I blink. She blinks. Her feet are turned inwards. So are mine. I brush a strand of hair from my right eye. So does she.

An image flashes into my mind – a dress laid out on a bed – a man stroking my cheek, telling me to try it on. I can feel his fingertips crawling on my skin, his breath on my neck. My chest tightens. It’s like bands of iron are being wrapped around my torso and riveted into place.