Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(41)

‘Your friend.’

‘Who?’

‘He came here the other day and saw me working in the garden, but I don’t think he recognised me.’

‘Gary Hoyle.’

He nods. ‘He treated me like a scumbag rapist from the very beginning.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Usual stuff. You’re walking, hands cuffed behind you, and a boot trips you up. Face first. Nothing to break your fall. Either that, or they spit in your food, or leave the cell lights on all night, or wake you every few hours for a strip search.’

‘Your DNA was found in Lilah’s flat.’

‘She was my friend.’

‘How did her earring get into your washing machine?’

‘Maybe it was planted.’

‘You think you were framed?’

‘It’s the only thing that makes sense.’

I want to argue, but I’m aware that police will sometimes tilt the scales against a suspect. It might be a sin of omission – disposing of evidence or burying a detail that could muddy the minds of a jury. At other times it involves forcing the facts to fit a particular narrative.

I hear the side gate open. Evie has been walking Poppy in Wollaton Park. She’s wearing jeans and a large woollen coat that makes her look even smaller. Poppy drinks noisily from a metal bowl beneath the tap, and Evie hangs the harness on a hook in the laundry.

‘Mitch is going to be staying with us for a few days. Is that OK with you?’ I ask.

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

I glance at Mitch, who smiles and says, ‘Thank you, Evie.’

‘No problem.’

She heads upstairs, but returns almost immediately, yelling, ‘Your phone was ringing.’

She shapes to throw. I yell no, but the handset is already tumbling through the air. Mitch plucks it out with his left hand, like he’s fielding at first slip.

‘Good catch,’ yells Evie.

Lenny has sent me a message.

Maya Kirk’s brother-in-law has been arrested for breaking into the crime scene. Meet me at the house.



Dean Sterling is sitting in the back seat of a police car, resting his eyes, or asleep. When he hears my voice, he blinks at me and raises his handcuffed wrists. ‘Hey, Cracker, explain to these guys that it’s all a mistake.’

Ignoring him, I join Lenny at the mobile incident room, a police-liveried caravan parked in the driveway, where officers have been guarding the scene and quizzing locals who might have seen or heard something that night.

‘Sterling was caught coming out the back door,’ she says.

‘How did he get inside?’ I ask.

‘He had a key.’

Sterling shouts from the car. ‘I was picking up my tools. I left them in the cupboard under the stairs.’ He motions to me. ‘I told him.’

‘And I said it was still a crime scene,’ I reply.

‘Yeah, but I got bills to pay; mouths to feed.’

He gives me a locker-room grin, as though we’re both the same, working stiffs trying to do a job.

Lenny looks at me. ‘Did he mention the tools?’

‘At the hospital.’

She seems to chew over this detail. She nods to the constable. ‘Cut him loose.’ And then to Sterling. ‘Next time, do as you’re told.’

‘There won’t be a next time,’ he says. ‘Sorry to waste your time.’

The cuffs are keyed open. Dean rubs his wrists, before walking quickly to his van, which he deliberately parked further along the street because he knew the police were guarding the house.

‘What was he carrying when you arrested him?’ I ask the constable, who has orange hair and freckles.

‘Nothing. I mean, he had the house keys and a small screwdriver.’

‘What about the tools he came to collect?’

‘Told me he couldn’t find them.’

I look at Lenny. ‘Does that make sense to you?’

She takes the keys from the constable. ‘Time for a look.’

The house has been locked up since the forensic teams departed, but the signs of their presence are still everywhere – evidence markers and fingerprint powder and a missing section of carpet that once lay beneath Rohan Kirk’s body.

Moving along the main hallway, I check the cupboard beneath the stairs. Inside is a wine rack and a spill-over pantry with canned goods, boxes of pasta and jars of preserves.

‘Not the sort of place you’d put tools,’ I say. ‘A tile cutter is a heavy piece of kit.’

I move up the stairs to Maya’s en-suite bathroom, which smells freshly painted. The bath has been recycled but the folding glass shower screen looks new, along with the tap fittings. I crouch to examine the floor drain and notice scuff marks on the edge of the bathtub. A faint pattern has been left behind by the soles of work boots. Someone was standing on the bathtub. I glance up at the ceiling light, which doubles as a room heater. There is also a smoke alarm with a round plastic cover.

Lenny has joined me.

‘What sort of screwdriver was he carrying?’

‘A small Phillips-head.’

‘About yea big?’ I ask, pointing to the smoke alarm.

‘Yeah.’

Leaning one hand on her shoulder, I stand on the edge of the tub and reach up, twisting off the cover of the alarm, which would normally be secured by two small screws. Both are missing.