Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(67)

I look at the new drawing.

‘It wasn’t really a beard. More like bum fluff on his top lip,’ I say.

Frank makes the alterations.

‘And his eyes were more hidden by his eyebrows,’ I say. ‘And his bottom lip was thicker. What do you call that bit up there?’ I point to my own lips.

‘The cupid’s bow?’

‘Yeah. It was straighter.’

Frank works on his own for another ten minutes, while I wander about the room and peer out the window. He has a family of Smurfs on the window sill, who look like they’re dreaming of escaping across the parking area and into the distant trees.

‘How about this?’ he asks, turning the drawing to face me. My breath catches and I feel myself lean back as though trying to get away.

‘That’s him! The man at the bar.’





45


Cyrus


Cassie has been tracking Anders Foley’s movements in the days before and after Maya Kirk went missing. Every mobile handset transmits a signature ‘ping’ that searches for nearby phone towers known as base stations. By measuring the time that it takes for these pings to reach a particular tower and be returned, it’s possible to estimate the distance the handset is from the tower. If the signature ‘ping’ is picked up by a second tower, technicians can establish a general area; and a third tower will allow the signal to be triangulated, providing a more precise location.

‘This is Foley’s phone on Sunday evening,’ says Cassie. ‘He met Maya at the Canalhouse at seven-forty. They stayed for about an hour and then walked to the Lace Market.’ She traces the route on a satellite map with her fingertip. ‘It’s about a ten-minute walk, up Middle Hill. They stopped at a bar called the Blind Rabbit on High Pavement and then went on to the Little Drummer, which is only three minutes’ walk away.’

‘What time did they leave?’

‘The CCTV puts them in St Peter’s Gate at ten-fifteen. Foley’s van was parked here.’ She taps the screen. ‘From there, they drove to Maya’s house, arriving at ten-fifty-six.’

She shows me the route they took to Hyson Green, pointing out Maya’s house on the map.

‘How long was he there?’

‘Forty minutes, give or take. He left before midnight and drove directly back to his house in West Bridgford. His phone remained at that location until nine o’clock the next morning when he went to work.’

‘What about in the days that followed?’

‘Home. Work. Home again. He had IT call-outs, which the police are checking.’

‘He could have left his phone behind at any of those locations or carried a second handset.’

‘True.’ She calls up a satellite map on which she has plotted every journey that Foley took using different colours to indicate the days. There are no unexplained routes or unusual patterns. Maybe Hoyle is right about an accomplice.

Cassie taps her front teeth with the end of a pen.

‘This other missing woman – Daniela – if we tracked her phone, I could cross-reference her movements with Maya and see if there are similarities. Places they visited. Mutual friends. It may give us something.’

‘They hadn’t seen each other in years,’ I say.

Cassie frowns. ‘Are you saying they knew each other?’

‘They went through nursing college together and worked at St Jude’s.’

Cassie is distracted by something on screen. I wave my hand in front of her eyes.

‘Sorry. Daydreaming. What did you say?’

‘They were both nurses. They worked together.’

‘When?’

‘Eight years ago.’

‘Is that important?’

‘We don’t know.’

On the corner of Cassie’s computer screen, she has taped a photograph. A wedding scene. The bride and groom are surrounded by bridesmaids and flower-girls wearing matching dresses and floral headbands. Everybody in the image is smiling, except for one small girl in the foreground, who has burst into tears.

‘That’s not you,’ I say, pointing to the bride.

‘My sister. That’s me there,’ she says. ‘I was the maid of honour.’

‘You lost her recently.’

Cassie looks surprised. ‘How did you know?’

‘Dyson mentioned it.’

She brushes her fingertips across her sister’s face. ‘God, I miss her. My brother-in-law is a mess. I wish I could help him.’

‘I could give you the name of a grief counsellor.’

‘Does that actually work?’

‘For some people, yes. It can depend upon what stage of the grieving process they’ve reached.’

Her voice drops to a whisper. ‘Did you see a grief counsellor?’

‘A long time ago.’ I hand her a business card with my phone number. ‘Tell him it helps to speak to someone who has experienced the same loss. It might help you as well.’

Cassie strokes the card with her fingertips and I change the subject, asking if Stephen Voigt is around.

‘He’ll be in the garage. I can take you to see him.’

We walk through a rear door and cross the parking area towards a prefabricated steel warehouse surrounded by bare trees. A train rumbles along a railway embankment, disappearing behind the roofline and reappearing on the other side. Inside the building, skylights create squares of brightness on the polished concrete floor.