‘Green must have kept her somewhere.’
‘Exactly. But Eugene Green lived in a bedsit in Leeds and we found no evidence of Abbie being there. Meanwhile, Green was working – doing deliveries up and down the country and into Europe.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing. We took him back to every scene – the drainage ditch, the lay-by near Preston, the culvert outside of Newcastle … He gave us sod all. He didn’t point out the locations. He didn’t explain how he dumped them. It was like we were showing him what he’d done.’
‘Hamish thought he had an accomplice.’
‘It explains some things, but not others.’
‘What did you think?’
‘I told him to leave it alone.’
‘But if Green had an accomplice …?’
‘He’s either dead or in prison.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘You’re the psychologist. You know that paedophiles don’t suddenly stop. Once a nonce, always a nonce. If Eugene Green had an accomplice, we’d have seen the evidence before now. More missing children. More bodies showing up.’
The detective stares at the cigarette as though disgusted with himself but drags on it anyway.
‘When did you last see Hamish?’
‘Three weeks ago. He wanted me to run some names through the PNC.’ The Police National Computer.
‘What names?’
‘I can’t remember Marcie’s birthday – how am I expected to remember random names?’
‘Did you run them?’
I see a glimmer in the corner of his eye. He clears his throat, as though about to reveal a secret, but then sighs.
‘I told Hamish I wasn’t going to jeopardise my career by helping him chase rabbits down rabbit holes. He was questioning a successful conviction. Pissing people off at every level. Ex-colleagues. Old bosses. The Crown Prosecution Service. The judge. The jury. I told him to stop this nonsense and enjoy his retirement. Play golf. Prune the roses. Spend time with Eileen …’
The cigarette is crushed beneath the heel of his heavy-treaded boot. He picks up the butt and drops it in a different can.
‘That’s all I’ve got to say.’
Pulling on his gloves, he lowers his safety glasses and flicks a switch, setting the lathe into motion. I’m almost at the door of the shed before I turn.
‘When you were investigating Green, did you ever consider whether Angel Face could have been linked to him?’
‘The girl in the box?’
‘Yeah.’
‘No. Why?’
‘An idea, that’s all.’
I’m looking at his face, trying to judge if he’s telling me the truth. I wish Evie were here. She’d recognise the signs.
Menken frowns. ‘I always wondered what happened to that girl. You ever meet her?’
‘What makes you ask?’
‘You brought her up, not me.’
His eyes linger on mine for a beat longer, before he takes a sharpened chisel and holds it across a metal guard. It touches the wood, creating an explosion of wood shavings that fill the air like confetti, turning a century of sunshine and photosynthesis into the leg of a dining table.
13
Evie
‘It’s not coming off,’ I say, scrubbing at the brick wall with a heavy-duty brush and soapy water that sloshes out of a bucket, soaking my canvas shoes.
‘That’s because you’re not trying,’ says Davina, who is sitting on a deckchair, overseeing the operation.
Three of us have been allowed outside Langford Hall because someone has daubed graffiti on the outer wall facing the street. Some of the locals don’t like having a secure children’s home in their neighbourhood because it lowers their property prices. They’ve sent us a message in red paint, calling us scumbags, criminals and delinkwents.
At least I can spell.
‘Don’t you find it ironic?’ I say, working the scrubbing brush back and forth. ‘We’re here for antisocial behaviour and people go and do this.’
‘What does ironic mean?’ asks Ruby, who is next to me.
‘It means fucked up.’
‘What’s antisocial behaviour?’
‘Criminal shit.’
‘I didn’t commit a crime.’
‘You set fire to your school.’
‘No, I set fire to my hair, which caused a fire in the toilet cubicle, which sort of spread.’
‘Stop dawdling,’ says Davina, looking up from her phone.
‘Why can’t we just paint it over?’ I suggest. ‘Or we could do a proper mural, like Banksy would do.’
‘Who?’ asks Carl, who is helping us.
‘Banksy. The street artist. One of his paintings sold at Sotheby’s for a million quid and he shredded it in the auction room.’
‘Why?’ asks Ruby.
‘He said that destruction was part of the creative urge.’
‘He’s a tosser,’ says Carl, who is lying on the grass, not helping. ‘I’d have taken the million quid.’
‘And do what?’ asks Ruby.
‘Buy shit and blow it up,’ he says, grinning. Carl got sent to Langford Hall for building a home-made bomb that blew up a pie-cart outside Manchester City’s Football Ground.
‘You’re supposed to be helping,’ says Davina.
He holds up a finger. ‘I got a splinter.’
‘Get off your arse.’
‘Why is it our job? We didn’t do it.’
‘We’re going to show these people that we are better than they are.’
‘But we’re not,’ says Ruby. ‘They think we’re scum.’
‘You’re not scum,’ says Davina.
‘I’m proud of being a scum,’ says Carl. ‘I’m a deplorable.’
I nudge the bucket with my foot, spilling water over his crotch. He leaps up, wanting to hit me, but he changes his mind because I scare him.
‘Miss, I got a wet patch. I got to change my jeans.’
‘He pissed himself,’ says Ruby.
‘Fuck off !’
I’m distracted by laughter from the far side of the street. Two young guys are leaning on dirt-bikes with muddy wheels. They’re watching us working, finding it hilarious. I drop my brush into the bucket and head towards them. Davina doesn’t notice until I’m halfway across the street. She calls my name but I ignore her. She’s not the quickest mover in the world, not since she got pregnant and ate her own body weight in Nutella.
The boys see me coming and strike poses.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘We’re enjoying the view,’ replies the skinny one, who has a lisp.
He’s leering at Ruby, who has taken off her denim jacket. Her cotton shirt is wet and clinging to her chest.
‘Who’s your friend?’ asks the taller one. ‘You should bring her over. We’ll take you both for a ride.’
‘Any idea who might have painted the wall?’ I ask.
‘Nah,’ says the lispy one.
‘Was it you?’
He stabs at his heart with an invisible knife, pretending I’ve mortally wounded him.