Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(80)

‘I’m going to make observations.’

‘OK.’

‘You were married.’

‘Who told you?’

‘That ring on your right hand used to be on your left. It doesn’t fit since you swapped it over, which is why you keep checking that it hasn’t slipped off.’

‘Keep going.’

‘You’ve recently grown your hair out – maybe during the lockdowns – and now you prefer it long. You’ve had back problems because you’re quite tall and you’re slightly pigeon-toed when you walk. You probably wear orthotics to correct it, but that’s not difficult because you prefer wearing trainers and boots to sandals or ballet flats. Your shoulder bag is a sentimental rather than a fashion choice. You put it on the chair next to you, rather than on the floor, which means you’re carrying something valuable or important to you.’

Cassie’s smile has slowly faded. I should stop, but I try to rescue the situation.

‘I think you’re quite shy, but you try to be confident, particularly when you’re working with so many men who ignore your opinions or claim your good ideas as their own. You’re grieving the loss of your sister but trying to hide your pain for the sake of others – your parents perhaps, or your brother-in-law – but sometimes that’s impossible.’

Her features have changed. Hardened. Her knee is no longer touching mine.

‘How do you know those things?’ she whispers.

‘This is what I do. I study human behaviour. Mannerisms. Body language.’

‘Am I really that transparent?’

‘No. You’re quite difficult to read because you’re very closed with some people and open with others.’

‘But you barely know me,’ she says.

I should never have started this.

‘Most people do this subconsciously,’ I say. ‘We all look for clues in people’s physicality, their attire, the way they speak, or act. Everything we do or say says something about us. Our age, grooming habits, clothing, vocabulary, accent, grammar, mannerisms, respiration, eye movements.’

‘You were staring at me.’

‘I was watching you, just like you were watching me, but I can explain what I see.’

Cassie shudders.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

She has finished her wine. I offer to buy her another.

‘No. I have to go.’

She picks up her bag and squeezes past me, avoiding physical contact.

‘I know we’re not supposed to be talking about work, but did you test that rope?’ I ask.

She looks at me impassively. ‘What rope?’

‘Voigt said he gave it to you. It came from another crime scene.’

She straightens her skirt. ‘I’ve been busy on this case. Is it important?’

‘Eight years ago, a woman was attacked in Nottingham. She had her hair hacked off, just like Maya Kirk, and her hands and feet bound with soft hemp rope. I want it tested against the rope used to bind Maya Kirk.’

‘You think it’s the same perpetrator?’

‘The similarities are striking.’

We’re interrupted by Brando. He props an iPad on the table and shows me the CCTV footage from the camera above the wet area of the bar. The angle is terrible, God-like, showing tops of heads and shoulders rather than faces.

Brando fast forwards and then slows the tape. We see him mixing the cocktails, adding ice, liquor and mixers. Shaking. Pouring. Something distracts him. He walks out of frame. This must be when the police arrive.

A man approaches the bar. He leans over, as though looking to attract the other barman’s attention. I can’t see his hands.

‘That could be anyone,’ says Cassie.

She’s right.

‘Isn’t that Evie?’

At the edge of the frame, I see Evie holding a tray of empty glasses.

‘Maybe he didn’t drug the drinks,’ says Brando. ‘We had a needle spiking during the summer. A woman claimed that some guy stabbed her in the bum. Said she blacked out. Woke up next morning and found a needle mark.’

I remember there was a spate of similar stories around that time – and threats by women to boycott nightclubs and bars unless something was done to protect them.

‘The post-mortem found no evidence of needle marks on Maya,’ says Cassie. ‘And it takes technical and medical expertise to inject someone with a drug.’

I replay the CCTV footage, pausing it every few frames, trying to glimpse the face of the man at the bar.

‘Do you see that?’ I say, pointing to the screen. For a moment, his reflection is visible in the mirror, partially distorted by the bottles. ‘If we could enhance that …’

Cassie leans closer. ‘We have software at the lab. I might be able to clean it up.’





53


Cyrus


The doorbell rings before anyone else is awake. Dressed in running gear, I’m about to clip a lead on Poppy and take her for some exercise. I open the front door. The reporter, Richard Holiday, has his hand raised ready to knock.

‘Sorry about the hour, Dr Haven,’ he says, touching his forehead, as though doffing an imaginary cap. ‘Holiday. Associated Newspapers.’