‘Get a job. Find somewhere to live.’
‘I could help make that happen.’
‘Good.’
‘We could process the paperwork today – all I need is a few details.’ He clicks the top of a pen. ‘Firstly, your date of birth, and your real name, and where you were born.’
I sigh as though I’m dealing with a moron.
Guthrie continues. ‘How do we know you’re eighteen?’
‘You’ve checked my teeth and my wrist bones. You’ve taken x-rays and measurements.’
‘Those tests have a margin for error.’
‘I’m in the margin.’
‘How did you meet Terry Boland?’
I don’t answer.
‘Did he kidnap you?’
More silence. I toy with the cord of my track pants, twirling it between my fingertips. There’s no point getting annoyed or acting the way I feel, which is bored shitless, because I’ll get another red card.
‘Can I have a drink of water?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘I’m thirsty.’
‘Not until you answer the question. I’m trying to help you, Evie, but we have to meet each other halfway.’
Halfway to where, I think. People always say that when they have no idea of the distances involved. I could come from another planet. I could come from another time in history. But they want to meet me halfway.
I’m happy with who I am. I have pieced myself together from the half-broken things. I have learned how to hide, how to run, how to keep safe, despite never knowing a time when my blood didn’t run cold at the sound of footsteps stopping outside my door, or the sound of someone breathing on the opposite side of a wall.
I know the jittery, crawling sensation that ripples down my spine whenever I feel the weight of eyes upon me. Searching my face. Trying to recognise me. And no matter how many times I step into doorways, or look over my shoulder, or yell, ‘I know you’re there,’ the street is always empty. No footsteps. No shadows. No eyes.
‘I understand your pain,’ says Guthrie. ‘I know how it separates you from a normal life, from what’s true and real.’
How does anyone know what’s true or real? Things we once accepted as facts are now accepted as being wrong. The Earth is not flat, smoking isn’t good for us, Pluto isn’t a planet, witches weren’t burnt at the stake in Salem, and humans have more than five senses. Everything has a half-life – even facts.
Guthrie rocks back in his chair and looks at me impatiently. He begins quoting from my file – which he seems to know by heart – the foster homes, my escapes and arrests, the alcohol and drug abuse.
I interrupt him. ‘Why are you so determined to keep me here? You don’t even like me.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘You’re frightened of me.’
‘No.’
‘Really? How is your wife? Has she asked you for a divorce yet?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Are you seeing a counsellor?’
‘No.’
‘Liar! Are you having an affair?’
‘No!’
‘Is she?’
‘Of course not.’
‘She is!’
‘Shut up, Evie.’
‘Is he an old boyfriend or someone new? Someone she met at work. A colleague.’
‘That’s a red card.’
‘I overheard you talking to Davina. You told her that you didn’t want your wife going back to work, but you couldn’t afford the mortgage on a single wage. You said her boss was a sleazebag. Is he the one?’
‘Please stop,’ groans Guthrie.
‘Let me go.’
‘You’re not ready.’
‘Who was that man who came to see me today?’
‘A psychologist.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He came to look at you.’
‘Why?’
‘I think he can help you.’
‘Can he get me out of here?’
‘Maybe.’
I know he’s telling the truth, but not the whole truth. The idea makes me shake with dread and excitement.
‘Is he coming back?’
‘I hope so.’
I do too, but I say nothing.
7
Two photographs of Jodie Sheehan dominate the front page of the Nottingham Post. One shows her dressed in her school uniform with her hair neatly brushed and the barest hint of make-up. Jodie is smiling cheekily at the camera, as though someone behind the photographer has made her laugh. The second image captures her in motion on the ice in a costume that sparkles with sequins.
ICE PRINCESS is the banner headline, above a subheading: Missing Jodie, 15, found dead. Further below is a breathless commentary, describing the discovery of Jodie’s body and the search for clues. As expected, she is portrayed as a fairy-tale victim – Little Red Riding Hood snatched from a lonely footpath by a crazed beast who had been lying in wait for her.
There are quotes from neighbours, schoolfriends and fellow skaters, all of whom are shocked and saddened.
‘I can’t believe it could happen here.’
‘This is such a nice area.’
‘We look out for each other.’
‘Who would do such a terrible thing?’
I often wonder how people can live in such a state of innocence. Then again, what is the alternative? Fear. Suspicion. A siege mentality.
Inside there are two more pages of photographs, some showing lines of police searching the meadow, or the crowds of onlookers and the glowing white tent amid the trees. This is just the beginning. Certain crimes generate their own energy, like bush-fires racing across treetops, moving faster than the wind, sucking oxygen from every other story. They consume the news cycle until they burn out or some other tragedy takes their place. Angel Face had been like that.
Overnight Guthrie has sent me the files on Evie Cormac. There are thousands of pages: admission records, ward notes, psychiatric assessments, escapes and offences.
I begin by familiarising myself with the original case, pulling up the earliest newspaper stories about the discovery of Terry Boland’s body. He was murdered in a house in Hotham Road, in East Barnet, where his body lay undiscovered for two months, until neighbours complained about the smell and the landlord was summoned. Police broke down the door and found a mound of rotting flesh tied to a chair. Fingerprints were impossible, given the state of decomposition, and whoever killed Boland had cleaned the house so thoroughly – bleaching floors, vacuuming rugs and wiping down every surface – that only one set of prints remained, which didn’t show up on any police database until Angel Face was printed six weeks later.
It took facial recognition technology to reveal the victim’s identity. A computer-generated photograph was released to the media and triggered a call from a woman in Ipswich who identified Terry Boland as her ex-husband – an unemployed truck driver, aged forty-eight, born in Watford, twice married, twice divorced, with a history of petty crime and low-level violence.
Two Alsatians were found in a kennel in the rear garden of the house. The animals were in surprisingly good condition given how long Boland had been dead. Clearly someone had been feeding them, which generated the theory that the killer, or killers, might have returned to the house, showing more compassion for the dogs than for the man they killed.