Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(53)

The recording equipment is turned off and Hoyle signals to a waiting constable. Foley is forced to stand and handcuffs close around his wrists. He sniffles and wipes his eyes with his raised hands, before glimpsing himself in the mirror, disgusted at what he sees.





34


Evie


In my limited experience – I’ve been locked up five, maybe six times – all police station cells smell the same. It’s a mixture of boiled cabbage, sweat and bleach, and some mystery ingredient that might be tears or sorrow.

A police patrol car stopped me two streets from Lilah’s flat. I saw the blue flashing lights in my mirrors and heard the burst of a siren. For a half-second, I thought about trying to make a run for it, but the Mini is hardly a getaway car. They would have laughed all the way to the station.

As it is, I’ve been arrested for refusing to give them my name and address; or produce a driver’s licence or registration papers for the car, which is still in Morty’s name.

‘Are you old enough to drive?’ one of them asked.

‘Are you old enough to shave?’ I shot back. His female partner laughed, which made things worse.

Since then, I’ve been staring at the same square light for so long that it’s still there when I close my eyes, shining inside my eyelids. Occasionally there are footsteps. The observation flap slides open. Eyes peer at me. I raise my middle finger. Seconds later, the flap shuts and I go back to staring at the light.

I don’t want Cyrus finding out what I’ve done, but I know they’ll trace the car eventually and talk to Morty, who will tell them my name. At some point, Cyrus will be contacted and come to collect me. In the meantime, the station sergeant says I should think about what I’ve done. That’s always been my problem. I leap before I look. I play with fire. I skate on thin ice. But why can’t those other clichés apply to me, like fortune favouring the brave, or he who hesitates is lost?

They confiscated my phone, along with my belt and shoelaces and my earrings, although I don’t know how they expect me to harm myself with two platinum studs shaped like bolts of lightning.

I hear steps outside. The cell door unlocks. A woman enters. She’s wearing a tweed skirt and matching jacket, and if it’s possible a harmonised hairdo.

‘Hello, sweetie,’ she says in a sing-song voice, talking to me like I’m in kindergarten. ‘I’m here to make sure you’re OK.’

Oh shit! She’s a social worker. They think I’m a minor. Her name is Mrs Beaumont, and she reminds me of the bleeding hearts who worked at Langford Hall where the do-gooders annoyed me more than the sadists because they smothered every conversation with syrupy smiles and sad-eyed tuts. Shoot me now.

‘The police want to ask you a few questions,’ she says. ‘What’s your name?’

‘I don’t have to tell them that – not unless they tell me what offence I’ve committed.’

She giggles rather than laughs. ‘My, you do seem to know your rights. Have you been arrested before?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Well, I’m your designated adult. If you want anything, you ask me.’

‘I’m twenty-one. I don’t need a designated adult.’

‘Really?’

Clearly, she doesn’t believe me. Moments later, a police officer shows up and I’m taken to an interview room where my two arresting officers are waiting. They have taken off their black stab vests and don’t look anywhere near as scary. We’re being recorded so they’re extra polite, offering me a soft drink and asking if I want to call my parents.

‘I don’t have any parents.’

‘What about a guardian?’

‘I’m an adult.’

‘OK, where do you live?’ asks the female officer. She has thick blonde hair, which was bundled under her cap when we first met. I’ve always wanted to be blonde, regardless of the dumb jokes.

‘Is your hair natural?’ I ask.

The question surprises her. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s lovely. Makes you look Swedish.’

‘People say that.’

‘Can we get on with this?’ whines her partner, the impatient one, who has a pimple on his neck that I want to pop.

‘What is your name?’ asks PC Blonde.

‘I don’t have to tell you that.’

‘Yes, you do,’ she says, speaking softly. ‘I’ll accept a first name.’

‘Evie.’

‘Well, Evie, you have committed a serious offence. Victims of sexual offences are given lifelong anonymity under British law. They cannot be approached, harassed or identified.’

‘I didn’t mean to do any of those things.’

‘Did Mitchell Coates give you the address?’

‘No.’

‘Why did you go there?’

‘I wanted to talk to Lilah, that’s all.’

‘You’re not allowed.’

‘I know that now,’ I say, as though it should be obvious.

‘The car you were driving – who does it belong to?’

‘I bought it from my friend Morty. It’s not stolen, if that’s what you’re asking. This is my fault. It has nothing to do with Mitch, or Morty.’