Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(59)

‘And if he doesn’t?’ I ask.

‘That would not be good.’

Dr Baillie doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he continues, ‘Loneliness could be another issue. Right now, Elias is surrounded by people, but when he gets here, he will find that sometimes he is home alone. The absence of people and the silence will be deafening to him.’

‘How do we fix that?’ asks Cyrus.

‘You should try to keep him busy. Give him chores. Talk to him. Make him feel needed.’

A part of me wants to push back. Why should Cyrus have to do these things? Why should I be included?

‘You should also avoid creating any trigger events. Elias knows exactly what he did, but I suggest you remove any photographs or items that might remind him of his past actions.’

‘Like sharp objects,’ I say, trying to make a joke. It falls flat.

Dr Baillie presses on. ‘Elias will have idealised what being released will be like. And he will have forgotten how hard day-to-day life can be. You need to remember that he will always be a schizophrenic. Properly medicated, he can lead a relatively normal life; his behaviour can be tempered, his triggers deactivated, but there will be bumps along the way when his anxiety and paranoia may spike. Bumps, not cliffs.’

‘Good to hear,’ I say, earning a look from Cyrus.

Dr Baillie smiles and stands. ‘All being well, we’ll deliver him at four on Friday afternoon.’

Cyrus walks him out, while I go to the back garden and throw a ball to Poppy, bouncing it off the wall. Later, I carry my schoolbooks upstairs and do an hour of homework, not bothering to show Cyrus my maths paper. It doesn’t seem to matter any more.





39


Cyrus


The police property stores warehouse looks like something built during the Second World War with red-brick chimneys and iron downpipes that are rusting in patches where the paint has bubbled and peeled away. The cavernous interior has been broken up by rows of shelves reaching to the rafters where cobwebs glow silver beneath the skylights.

The property officer is a sergeant who introduces himself as Theo. He has ginger hair and a tattoo of a tiger on his right forearm where his shirt is rolled to his elbow. We’re both wearing hi-vis vests and hard hats and I’ve had to sign a safety disclaimer in case a box falls on my head.

I get the impression that Theo doesn’t get many visitors as he eagerly escorts me down a long aisle, triggering lights as we pass, telling me how he helped design the system.

‘How long have you worked here?’ I ask.

‘Sixteen years. Other police forces are following us – they come here to learn.’

This section of the warehouse has cages of meshed steel that are chained and padlocked.

‘Everything must be labelled and packaged properly,’ he explains. ‘Banknotes in a money envelope. Sharp instruments in knife tubes. Hypodermic needles in a sharps’ container. Drugs in a self-seal drug bag. Clothing, bedding and footwear are kept in paper sacks, unless they’re stained with body fluids, which means they’re marked with health hazard tape.’

We turn a corner and I feel as though I’m getting lost in a maze.

‘We have regular audit checks to make sure nothing important has gone missing – the dangerous and valuable stuff, firearms or drugs.’ He turns to talk over his shoulder. ‘We once had a diamond in here worth over half a million pounds. Belonged to a duchess who had it nicked from her stately home. Turned out to be her daughter. Families, eh?’

Theo doesn’t wait for me to answer. We have reached his office, which is tucked in a corner of the warehouse and smells of sugared biscuits and coffee grounds. On a large table beneath the window there is a miniature landscape of papier-m?ché hills and valleys, upon which there are legions of hand-painted lead soldiers doing battle. There are knights, archers, axemen, pikemen, vassals, retainers, swordsmen, mercenaries and crossbowmen.

‘I collect them,’ says Theo. ‘I don’t have enough room at home, and nobody bothers me here.’

I lean over the table. ‘What battle?’

‘Hastings.’

‘Where’s King Harold?’

He points to a figure who is standing defiantly, brandishing a shield and an axe, surrounded by his enemies.

‘He’s a goner,’ I say.

‘You can’t change history.’

Theo goes to his computer and types in a search, using the information I’ve given him.

‘OK, we have the statements, CPS briefing papers, photographs and – yes – the exhibits,’ he says, pulling up the reference numbers. ‘One item was returned to the victim – a piece of jewellery.’ He pauses to read on. ‘An application was made to dispose of the rest two years ago. Nothing was done.’

‘Who made the application?’

‘Doesn’t say. The police most likely.’

Theo prints out the reference sheet and leads me back into the warehouse.

‘We have an eponymous law in this place, you know, like Murphy’s Law?’

‘Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.’

‘Exactly. We have Theodore’s Law. The box you want will be on the highest shelf, in the hardest place to reach.’

He has been counting down the aisles, before pulling a ladder into place. He climbs. I watch from below. Theo has clearly done this before. When he reaches the highest shelf he asks me to push the ladder a few feet to the right. It moves on wheels. He reaches for a box and checks the label.