Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(30)

Below us, in the ditch, Voigt has leaned forward to shoot a close-up of Maya Kirk’s face.

‘There’s something around her neck,’ he yells, asking for Cassie to let out more line. Voigt shifts his weight. Cassie is too slow. One foot slides out from beneath Voigt. He tries to correct himself and seems to be running on the spot, arms flailing, pitching forward and then back. There is no recovering. Gravity wins. He plunges into the water, sliding beneath the putrid surface and emerging again, coughing and spluttering.

‘Fuck!’ says Ness. ‘Pull him in.’

People clamber down the bank. Hands grab hands, forming a human chain, hauling Voigt from the water. Dripping with wrack and weed, he spits and coughs and wipes his eyes, before glaring at Cassie.

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she explains, trying not to laugh. ‘You slipped.’

‘And contaminated my crime scene,’ says Ness, who examines the ruined camera.

Voigt looks aggrieved as he peels off his coveralls and is wrapped in a foil blanket. Mud has smeared his glasses and his teeth are chattering. A second technician volunteers to go into the water, while a third wades to the far side and secures a guide rope, which is pulled taut. Ness looks at the sky impatiently, worried about more rain.

I have wandered away from the light, trying to put together a sequence of events. The killer made little attempt to hide Maya’s body. He knew it would be found. But why this place? And why dump her like a piece of garbage?

The shearing of Maya’s hair interests me. He may have been removing traces of his DNA or taking it as a souvenir. In the history of gendered violence, cutting off a woman’s hair has often been a tactic for dehumanising or humiliating a victim, setting her apart.

Lenny interrupts my thoughts.

‘There’s nothing more we can do here,’ she says. ‘I’ll take you home.’

She’s right. The scene belongs to the scientists. As we reach the car, a voice makes us turn. Voigt is jogging towards us, still wrapped in the foil blanket.

‘Any chance of a lift into town?’ he asks, calling Lenny ‘Ma’am’.

‘I’m not a madam,’ Lenny replies. ‘You call me boss, guvnor, or DSU Parvel.’

Voigt stammers an apology.

‘What’s your name?’ asks Lenny.

‘Stephen Voigt.’

‘Are you going to mess up my nice clean police car, Voigt?’

‘No, ma’am, sir, boss … I could sit on this blanket.’

Four corners of the car flash yellow. Voigt climbs into the back seat alongside me, apologising about the smell. Lenny cracks a window and we drive in silence until we reach the tarmacked road. The journey back to Nottingham has less urgency than the one that brought us here.

‘How long have you been a CSI?’ I ask.

‘Twelve years.’

‘You don’t look old enough.’

‘I was still at school, studying for my A-levels when I managed to get a week’s work experience with a CSI team. I went to burglaries and break-ins – nothing gruesome – but I was hooked, you know. They tease me because I’m so keen, but it shows they like me.’

Not in my experience, I think to myself. Voigt reminds me of an overenthusiastic red setter that bounds around thinking everybody loves dogs.

‘Shame about your clothes,’ I say.

‘That’s OK.’ He hums to himself and then asks, ‘Do you think Cassie minded that I got angry? I thought she did it on purpose. I didn’t mean to blame her. Did she look upset?’

‘I didn’t notice,’ I say.

‘Where can we drop you?’ asks Lenny.

Voigt hesitates and seems to be silently debating the issue.

‘Home might be an idea,’ suggests Lenny.

‘Yes, of course, but I don’t want Mrs Whitby seeing me like this.’

‘Mrs Whitby?’

‘I’m between properties right now. Staying with a family friend. I used to call her auntie, but we’re not really related. She and Mum were at school together.’

Voigt glances at me briefly, aware that he’s sharing too much with complete strangers.

‘If you could drop me at the office, I’ll have a shower before I go home.’

He means the Arncliffe Centre, an annexe of the East Midlands Forensic Services, which is based in a business park in Hucknall, north of Nottingham.

‘Just before you fell over, you found something around her neck,’ I say. ‘What was it?’

‘It looked like a thick rubber band, but I might be wrong.’

After dropping Voigt at his office, Lenny drives me back to my car, which is parked a few streets from the house. As I slip a key into the ignition, my thoughts return to Evie. What am I going to do about the fake dating profile? It’s illegal to steal someone’s identity.

Letting myself into the darkened house, I kick off my shoes and quietly climb the stairs. Evie will be in bed, asleep, or watching TikTok videos on her phone, ruining her posture and possibly her mind. Our lecture, the confrontation, the stern words, the recriminations, can wait until tomorrow. By then, I might have calmed down and be less likely to say something I regret.

I know what to expect. Evie’s natural defence mechanism is to push back, rather than surrender or apologise. And the only time she ever walks away from a fight is to set up an ambush.