Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(52)

‘What would you like to tell us, Mr Foley?’ asks Hoyle, ready to disbelieve him. ‘We’re all ears.’

‘Ah … well … what I said the other day wasn’t entirely true, but I didn’t hurt anyone.’ Foley wipes his nose with his sleeve. ‘I drove Maya home because she could barely stand up. She kept apologising and saying that she’d get a cab, but I didn’t think a driver would take her because she was so drunk.’

‘You went into her house.’

‘She couldn’t get the key in the door. I had to help her.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I put her on the sofa in the front room because she couldn’t get up the stairs. I took off her shoes and put a pillow under her head and got a bowl from the kitchen in case she vomited again.’

‘That’s very gallant of you,’ says Hoyle, sardonically. ‘Was she conscious?’

‘Yes. No. Maybe.’

‘An unconscious woman – and you didn’t think to take her to hospital,’ says Edgar.

‘She was conscious,’ says Foley. ‘She wanted to sleep.’

‘Did you go upstairs?’ asks Hoyle.

Foley hesitates, as though sorting the lies into an orderly line, deciding which one is more believable. ‘I needed to use the bathroom.’

‘There is a toilet downstairs.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Did you go into Maya’s bedroom?’

‘I’m not sure … maybe … yeah, that’s right, I grabbed her duvet – something to keep her warm.’

‘Did you take anything else from her room?’

‘No.’

‘You’re still lying,’ says Hoyle.

‘I’m not. I didn’t hurt her. I wrapped her in the duvet, and I left. I never saw her father.’

‘You undressed her.’

‘No. I … I … took off her shoes.’

‘Your semen was found on the sofa and the inside of her dress.’

Blood drains from Foley’s face. ‘That was … It’s not what you …’

‘You sexually assaulted her.’

‘No. No.’

‘How did your semen get on her dress?’

Foley begins to stammer and drops his head into his hands. Hoyle and Edgar wait. The invisible clock is ticking, building pressure. Foley breaks.

‘I had a wank, OK? I’m not proud of the fact.’

‘You took off her dress.’

‘No. I … I … I pulled it up. I didn’t hurt her. She was sleeping, and I thought …’

‘Is that when her father interrupted?’ asks Edgar.

‘No. I didn’t see anyone else.’

‘Oh, come on, Anders,’ says Hoyle, sighing tiredly. ‘Your semen is on her dress. Her DNA will be in your car. We know you stole her underwear.’

Foley frowns, wondering how the police could know what he took. Hoyle has a folder of photographs. Eight-by-tens, colour images. He begins laying them out on the table. They show Maya’s body, lying at the bottom of a ditch.

‘Why are you showing me these?’ asks Foley.

Hoyle talks over him. ‘Why did you shave her head?’

‘I didn’t touch her.’

‘You broke her neck.’

‘No. I left her on the sofa.’

‘Let me tell you what I think happened,’ says Hoyle. ‘You drugged her. You drove her home. You raped her and she cried out, waking her father, who came downstairs. That’s when you beat him to death with a fire poker. And you abducted Maya because you couldn’t leave her behind. She was a witness.’

Foley looks to Camilleri, hoping for support, but the solicitor is bending a paperclip, twisting it into different shapes.

‘We need an answer for the tape,’ says Hoyle.

A different kind of shine comes into Foley’s eyes. ‘None of that is true.’

‘The rape or the murder?’

‘I didn’t touch her.’

‘Why did you clean your van?’

‘She vomited.’

‘Where are the clothes you were wearing that night?’

‘They had sick on them.’

‘Did you burn them, or throw them away?’

‘I washed them at the laundrette.’

‘You took her somewhere. You bound her in a rope corset. You cut off her hair. You broke her neck.’

‘No, no. I left her on the sofa. I drove home. I went to bed. That’s the truth. I swear to God.’

‘You swear to God,’ says Hoyle, barking a laugh. ‘You should be praying, not swearing.’

Foley chews his bottom lip, and a bubble of snot inflates and breaks in his right nostril.

Even as he argues, I remember the rope marks on Maya’s pale skin and her hacked hair. Foley’s social media pages and his dating history reveal his casual misogyny and predatory nature, but nothing overtly sadistic. Whoever took Maya chose her for a reason, and most elements of the crime and aftermath showed planning and design, yet Foley made some avoidable mistakes.

Hoyle gets to his feet, having heard enough. ‘Anders Foley, you will be charged with the murder of Rohan Kirk and the abduction and murder of Maya Kirk, between the seventh of November and tenth of November. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something that you later rely upon in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’