Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(57)

‘Would you still have the photographs?’

‘Maybe.’

He snaps his thumb and forefinger. ‘Is this about the hair?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The victim had her head shaved.’

I must be looking at him blankly.

‘The victim – I can’t remember her name – had her head shaved, just like Maya Kirk. They arrested the upstairs neighbour. His fingerprints were all over her flat and we found his DNA on the pillowcase. From memory, we also found evidence in his flat – a piece of jewellery.’

Dyson has been typing at a computer. He pulls up another series of files, which contain the photographs. There are general pictures of the bedroom, entrance hall and living areas. The images show the bed and the pillowcase used to cover Lilah’s head, as well as her nursing uniform, which was cut from her body.

‘These were taken at the hospital,’ he says, pulling up a new series of images. They show Lilah’s injuries. Without hair she looks like a vandalised shop mannequin, with overly large eyes that are bruised and red-rimmed. Maya’s hair had been removed using clippers, shaved close to her scalp, but Lilah’s locks were hacked off crudely, so that tufts remain above her ears.

‘What did he use?’ I ask.

‘Scissors or a blade,’ says Dyson. ‘We didn’t find the implement. He must have disposed of it, or hid it too well.’

‘But not the earring.’

‘That could have been an oversight.’ Dyson is still reading. ‘Coates was sentenced to eight years’ jail. He should still be inside.’

‘He was released on parole two weeks ago.’

The information ignites Dyson’s interest. ‘Do you know where he is?’

‘He was rearrested yesterday and sent back to prison for breaching his parole conditions.’

Dyson is calculating the dates.

‘Does Hoyle know? He ran the earlier investigation. It was before he went to the NCA.’

‘I don’t think Mitchell Coates is involved in Maya’s death,’ I say.

‘Yes, but you can’t ignore the similarities. The hair. The ropes …’

I pull my chair closer to the screen. ‘Do you have a record of the exhibits?’

Dyson types in another search. ‘This is a list of the items that were tendered to the court by the prosecution.’

It includes the pillowcase, a length of rope, the earring and the nurse’s uniform.

‘Where was the earring found?’ I ask.

‘In the filter of the washing machine.’

I look again at the list. ‘The rope used in the attack. Where would it be now?’

‘The trial was eight years ago. The exhibits were most likely destroyed unless RRD protocols deemed them necessary.’

‘RRD?’

‘Review, retention and disposal. If they were kept, they’d be at an archive in the city.’

‘If we could find that rope, could you compare it to the one used to bind Maya Kirk?’

He nods. ‘We can test the organic make-up, along with the weave and fibres. There’s even a knot expert in Oxford, who can tell if the knot-tier was left-or right-handed.’

My phone is vibrating. It’s a call from Dr Baillie at Rampton. My heart sinks.

‘I have to take this,’ I say, excusing myself and walking into the corridor.

Dr Baillie is quick to reassure me. ‘Elias is fine. I wanted to make an appointment to visit your home.’

‘Why?’

‘Your brother has requested a weekend visit.’

‘Has it been approved?’

‘Yes, but I wanted to talk to you first. Can you be home this afternoon? Four o’clock?’

‘You know my address.’

‘Of course.’





38


Evie


Another cruel morning. People stop talking when I enter the classroom. It’s like someone has flicked a switch. I walk between desks to the back of the room, knowing they’re pulling faces and sharing some inside joke at my expense. Despite what Cyrus thinks, I’ve tried to make friends, but whenever I say something, they look at me like I’m stupid or speaking another language. Somehow, instinctively, they know that I’m different. That I haven’t had the same experiences.

I barely slept last night. I kept thinking of Mitch lying in a prison cell, hating me with all his strength, wishing he’d never met me. They shattered his leg last time. Now he faces two more years of trying to stay safe. Cyrus told me about something called Blackstone’s ratio, named after some dead English judge, who said it was better for ten guilty people to go free than for one innocent person to be wrongly imprisoned. I bet you couldn’t get ten people to agree on that. Most would choose to lock them all up because they can’t imagine that sort of mistake would ever happen to them. Everybody gets what they deserve, even the unlucky ones.

Miss Harmsworth, my maths teacher, is handing back our test papers. In the bottom right corner of the last page, circled in red, is an ‘A’. There is a message: Well, done, Evie, and a smiley face. I’ve never had an ‘A’ before. I’m usually a shaky D or a fail.

‘Only one student answered question twelve correctly,’ she says. ‘Well done, Evie.’