Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(48)

A woman walks into frame. Maya. She’s wearing exercise gear and looking at her phone. She sits on the bed and kicks off her shoes, smiling at something on screen. Flopping backwards, she holds the phone above her head and continues watching. After a few minutes, she sits up, peels off her top and begins to shimmy out of her leggings. I close the file, not wanting to see any more, but at the same time I feel strangely compelled.

The word ‘voyeur’ seems old-fashioned, as though it belongs to an era of peepshows and Victorian erotica, of women in stockings and giant panties. Either that, or it conjures up images of men with binoculars or telescopes, training their gaze on neighbouring windows, seeking gratification by spying on someone else’s life.

The media have softened the word by linking it to reality TV shows where people agree to be filmed, playing games of survival, or deception, but that isn’t true voyeurism. Permission cannot be granted. A voyeur watches in secret, peering through keyholes, up-skirting or watching through windows as someone undresses or bathes or has sex.

The files on the thumb drive are arranged in chronological order. I choose the most recent. When the screen opens, I’m looking at footage of Dean Sterling’s face, as he reaches up towards the smoke detector with a screwdriver in his hand, removing the spy camera. The next file shows him reaching for the Paddington Bear and turning it over. The image shakes as he retrieves the second camera, pulling out the eyeball lens.

I keep searching. Some of the footage only lasts a few seconds and nobody appears in frame. The motion sensor has a time lag, which means someone can enter the room and leave again immediately, without being recorded. I open a new file and see a forensic officer, wearing coveralls, working in Maya’s bedroom, dusting for fingerprints and collecting fibres from the bedding. Cassie Wright. She calls to someone. Craig Dyson appears. They discuss something on the dressing table. Cassie takes strands of Maya’s hair from her hairbrush, sealing it in an evidence bag.

The next file shows Stephen Voigt using a spray bottle to coat the bath and sink with Luminol, searching for the presence of haemoglobin, which will turn blue under an ultraviolet light if even the faintest traces of blood are left behind.

Working backwards, I watch as the first responders arrive at the house. A young constable appears in the bedroom, looking for Maya, making sure not to touch anything. Rohan Kirk is lying dead downstairs in a pool of his own blood.

Growing impatient, I jump backwards to an earlier timecode and discover footage of Maya getting ready for her date. Dressed in a bra and panties, she opens her wardrobe door and searches for something to wear. Again, I feel like a voyeur, but this has become necessary. Maya holds a dress against her body … a second … a third. Having chosen one, she lifts it over her head, arms raised, and shimmies as the fabric slides over her shoulders and falls to just below her knees. This is what she was wearing when they found her body.

Taking a seat on a padded stool in front of her dressing table, Maya applies vermilion lipstick, uncapping the silver applicator and painting it over her lips. She pops her thumb in her mouth and pulls it out again, removing any residue. Then she brushes her hair, before sliding a tortoiseshell clip above her parting, holding it away from her face.

Afterwards, she opens a small clutch-bag and checks the contents. Her car keys. Lip gloss. Tissues. One last look in the mirror and she leaves, turning off the light. Her bedside lamp remains on, and her duvet is turned down at one corner, waiting for her to return.

The screen goes dark when the motion sensor turns off the recording. I press play on the next file. It is the same room, darker, but still lit by the bedside lamp. A figure crosses the room. A man, wearing jeans and a jacket. He drags the duvet from the bed and bundles it under one arm. He hesitates and walks to the dressing table, opening the top drawer. He sorts through Maya’s underwear, holding up pieces against the light. He puts a pair of knickers into his pocket and turns towards the door, revealing his face.

Anders Foley lied about leaving Maya outside the bar. He brought her home. He searched her bedroom. He took something away.





32


Evie


‘The handbrake is a bit dodgy, so make sure to keep it in first when you park,’ says Morty, as he shows me around the Mini.

‘You’re not much of a salesman.’

‘You should know what you’re buying.’

I sit in the driver’s seat and hold the wheel. Practising. Pretending. I have a sudden, jarring memory of being six years old and sitting on Papa’s lap as he drove. I turned the wheel, while he changed gears and worked the pedals. The truck smelled of tobacco and diesel fumes and the windows would sometimes drop into the doors when we hit a pothole.

Every Sunday, after Mass, we’d drive into the mountains – Papa, Mama, Agnesa and me – and picnic among the wildflowers eating sandwiches and honey and nut cake. Papa would fall asleep with his head on Mama’s lap, while Agnesa showed me how to make daisy chains which we draped around Papa’s neck and across his face. He was only pretending to be asleep and would wake with a roar and tickle us until we begged him to stop. I know that’s a real memory, but sometimes I wonder about other parts of my childhood. I feel like one of those science-fiction robots that gets programmed with a past to make them feel more human.

‘Do you want to take it for a spin?’ asks Morty.

‘I’m sure it’s fine.’