Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(60)

‘This is it.’

Lifting the sealed box onto a platform next to his feet, he lowers it with a pulley, before climbing down to join me. He slices it open with a retractable blade.

‘What exactly are you looking for?’

‘A length of soft hemp rope.’

He consults the printed page. ‘Exhibit eleven.’

One by one, he takes items from the box, setting them out on an empty lower shelf. A pillowcase. Bedding. The remnants of a nursing uniform, trousers and a blouse that were cut from Lilah Hooper’s body.

‘That’s odd,’ he says, gazing into the empty box. ‘It’s not here.’

‘Why would that be?’

‘No idea. It’s on the list. Exhibit eleven. It was tendered in court.’

‘Who else has access to the archives?’

‘Police. Lawyers. People like yourself.’

‘When was it last opened?’

I follow Theo back to his office, where he sits at his computer screen, calling up the visitor logs.

‘You’re the first person to request these files since they arrived here.’

‘Maybe somebody entered the wrong details,’ I say.

Theo looks aggrieved. It’s as though I’ve found a flaw in his perfect battle plan – a missing soldier in the massed ranks of his infantry and history might have to be rewritten.

Suddenly, he has an idea and rolls his chair across the floor to a different computer.

‘Gotcha!’ he says, triumphantly. ‘My colleague Derek is notoriously slow at updating the visitors’ log. He made a note but didn’t complete the application form.’

I lean closer. ‘You’re telling me someone took the rope.’

‘It happened yesterday. Another request. They viewed the material but there’s no record of them removing any item.’

‘Who was it?’

‘Hold on. It was someone from the East Midlands Forensic Services.’

‘Craig Dyson?’

‘No. Stephen Voigt.’





40


Evie


I’m ten minutes late for work and Brando treats it like a hanging offence, threatening to dock my pay if it happens again. The others seem pleased to see me. Eric is unpacking glasses from the dishwasher. I reach past him and take a packet of peanuts from the shelf and tell him to put it on my tab.

‘You don’t have a tab.’

I blow him a kiss. ‘Start one.’

‘Is that the only outfit you own?’ asks Brando. I’m wearing the same black jumpsuit that Cyrus bought me.

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘You wear it every night.’

‘Maybe it’s a different one.’

‘Is it?’

‘You shouldn’t make demands on female staff that don’t apply to the men. Look at what Eric is wearing.’

The bartender is dressed in stone-washed jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt.

‘That’s different,’ says Brando.

‘Why?’

He tries to think of an answer but isn’t quick enough or can’t be bothered to argue. Instead, he tells me to check the loo rolls and soap dispensers. I pick up supplies from the kitchen, stealing a taste of the tapas meatballs that are simmering on the stove. The chef swears at me. He swears at everyone. He says I remind him of his daughter, who lives in Scotland, but she doesn’t visit him very often because her boyfriend is terrified of him. I don’t blame him.

Back in the bar, I notice a middle-aged woman pushing her phone under Eric’s nose.

‘No, love, I haven’t seen her,’ he says. He yells to Brando. ‘There’s a lady here who is looking for her daughter. Says she was in here on Friday night.’

Brando is carrying a crate of beers up the basement steps. He pauses to look at the phone and shrugs. The woman is wearing a mumsy floral dress and trainers. She looks vaguely familiar.

‘It’s my daughter,’ she says. ‘She was here with some friends. Nobody has seen her since.’

Brando is restocking the fridge.

‘The police aren’t interested because she hasn’t been missing for long enough,’ says the woman.

‘Long enough for what?’ I ask, moving closer.

‘To be called a missing person.’

I look at the picture on her phone and my heart somersaults.

‘Daniela,’ I say. Even as the word comes out, I want to catch it in mid-air and swallow it again. I look at Brando. ‘She threw up in the loos. Remember?’

Brando seems to find the memory. ‘We sent her home.’

‘She ordered a car. I saw her leave,’ I say.

‘Who was she with?’ asks the woman.

‘Nobody.’

She looks like she’s going to cry. ‘She was supposed to come to lunch on Saturday. She hasn’t called. And she didn’t go to work on Monday. She never misses a shift.’

I see similarities between mother and daughter, the eyebrows and hairline, the shape of her nose. She talks quickly. ‘She lives with a couple of her friends. Nurses. They were together on Friday night. They were going dancing. The others went ahead. Daniela was supposed to join them. Did you talk to her? Was she sick? I’ve called the hospitals. The police think Daniela must have gone home with someone she met – a date, I mean – but she has a boyfriend and she wouldn’t miss work.’