Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(27)

‘No.’

Poppy is sitting patiently, waiting for a chip. Evie drops one on the floor.

I make a comment about Labradors being prone to putting on weight and Evie accuses me of fat-shaming her dog.

‘Do you have to wear a dress?’ I ask.

‘He said something classy.’

‘Want me to help you?’

‘No, I’ll look for another job.’

I can’t tell if she wants me to change her mind or agree with her. Instead, I choose another subject.

‘Elias is coming this weekend for a day trip. Rampton sent me an email. He’ll be chaperoned by two members of staff. You don’t have to be here.’

She looks at me sideways. ‘Do I embarrass you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, why can’t I meet him? You said he was better.’

I did say that, but I don’t know if I could make the same words form in my mouth. The closer it gets to Elias’s release, the less certain I am that I want him back in my life. I have counselled people in my situation. I have told them that forgiveness can be cathartic and set them free. Hatred, bitterness and animosity can disappear, like a weight that is lifted from their hearts. At the same time, forgiveness can be premature. It can protect someone from the absolute horror of what they’ve done. Instead of being a form of grace, it becomes a disguise, a panacea, not a cure.

‘Is that your phone?’ asks Evie.

It is ringing from the hallway table.

Lenny’s name lights up the screen.

‘Have the police been in contact?’ she asks.

‘You are the police.’

‘Don’t fuck with me, Cyrus. You knew Maya Kirk.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Your name came up in her recent contacts.’





18


Cyrus


Lenny’s bungalow was built in the 1930s and backs on to Colwick Wood, a local nature reserve in the east of the city. Her husband Nick answers the door wearing an apron that looks like it belongs to a child because he’s a big lumbering man with forearms like a pro wrestler. He’s also the hairiest man in the world, according to Lenny, which is why she calls him ‘Bear’.

Nick is older by fifteen years and recently retired. He’s taken up brewing beer, which Lenny complains about because their garage reeks of fermenting hops, but she’s one of those women who complains with such softness and motherly chagrin that I know she’s not properly angry. She would forgive Nick almost anything except infidelity or murder, and I’m not sure about the second one.

He yells over his shoulder and up the stairs. ‘It’s for you – I told you.’ And then to me, ‘Hi, Cyrus.’

I follow him into the kitchen, where he’s washing beer bottles in the sink.

‘My father used to brew beer,’ I say, which triggers lots of questions, which I can’t answer. Did he brew stout or lager or brown ale? Any flavourings? Was his keg stainless steel, copper, or plastic?

‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ I say. ‘I didn’t like beer at thirteen.’

‘But you do now,’ he says. ‘Fancy a taster?’

Already he’s setting up a row of small glasses on a polished wooden paddle.

‘This isn’t a social call,’ says Lenny, who has come down the stairs.

Nick looks disappointed. ‘Maybe later. I’ll chill the glasses.’

Lenny takes me into a sitting room where one wall is entirely filled with vinyl albums. Pride of place is a record player with a hinged glass lid, and expensive speakers on either side.

She points to one of the matching sofas. There are graduation photographs of her stepsons on the mantelpiece. Black gowns. Mortar board hats. Smiles for the camera.

There are no smiles for me. Lenny’s voice is hoarse and harsh. ‘DCI Hoyle has you under investigation.’

‘For what?’

‘Do you know Maya Kirk?’

‘No.’

‘Wrong answer.’

I feel myself growing annoyed. Lenny swipes her phone and turns the screen towards me. I’m staring at a photograph of myself. I’m in our back garden washing Poppy under the hose. My shirt is drenched and clinging to my chest, showing the outline of my tattoos beneath the cotton.

I remember when it was taken. Poppy had rolled in something rotten in the park. Evie kept gagging at the smell, so I washed the Labrador.

There is a caption beneath the photograph.

Cyrus 33

? 2 miles away

I’m six foot tall, emotionally available, and the last time I was someone’s type I was giving blood. I think I’m funny, but not everyone agrees. I spend my life rescuing people, but occasionally I need to be rescued. (I also write lame profiles)



There are two more photographs. One shows me cooking a barbecue with tongs in one hand and a beer in the other. Another has me dressed in a blazer with my hair gelled. The image has been cropped to remove the other person in the photograph – my most recent girlfriend, Sacha Hopewell, who is back in London, caring for her elderly parents.

Lenny opens her laptop and turns the screen to face me.

‘The dating service has given us complete access to Maya Kirk’s profile, including matches and direct messages. You direct messaged her twice.