1 Cyrus

1

My ageing Fiat, once red, now pink, has been returned to me by the police. The boot latch has been repaired, but the signs of the forensic search remain – fingerprint dust on the dashboard and an evidence tag left in one of the door pockets. I am not a car person. The Fiat is not an extension of myself. Nor does it make a statement about my politics or my aspirations or compensate for something that's missing or undersized. A car is just a car in the same way that a washing machine is just a washing machine.

It feels strange having Evie in the passenger seat because Arben was the last person to sit there. We head north along the M1, crossing the Yorkshire Dales past Penrith and Carlisle. The windows are cracked open, letting in the road sounds and the rushing air and the smells of summer.

Evie turns on the radio and finds a song. Something familiar. ‘Yesterday' by the Beatles. I begin to sing. She joins in. It's a nice moment, like something out of a film, but eventually she goes quiet.

‘We're in Scotland,' I say, pointing to a sign for Gretna Green. ‘It's a famous place for weddings.'

‘Why?' asks Evie.

‘Back in the eighteenth century, anyone under the age of twenty-one was forbidden to marry in England and Wales without their parents' permission. The young and in love began eloping to Scotland, coming to Gretna Green to get married.'

‘Do they still do it?'

‘There's a blacksmith's shop in town that's famous for marriages.'

‘I think it's romantic,' says Evie, surprising me. Usually, she scoffs at love songs and romcoms and public displays of affection, telling people to ‘get a room'.

The landscape changes as we turn north-east towards Stirling and onwards to Perth. The sun is trying to break through a thin layer of cloud, but a persistent wind steals the heat from the air. The further north we've travelled, the cooler it has grown.

Evie falls asleep and jerks awake, as though trying to run, but the seat belt holds her back.

‘A bad dream?' I ask.

She doesn't answer. Instead, she hugs her knees to her chest, rocking slightly. When her breathing returns to normal, she studies her phone, telling me when she has four bars, or three, or two. It's as though she expects us to lose touch with civilisation at any moment.

On the outskirts of Dundee, I stop to fill up with petrol and to get a coffee. The smell of petrol fumes blends with the fried food and sugar from the donut shop. Evie goes to the toilet and wanders around the gift shop. I have a missed call from Florence. I call her back.

‘Scotland? Why?' she asks.

‘I'm looking into Angus Radford's background.'

‘Has Evie remembered anything else?'

‘Not yet.'

Through the glass doors, I notice Evie talking to a couple of older boys, who are driving a pick-up truck with mud-splattered dirt bikes strapped upright on the back tray. She's smiling and laughing, pointing her front foot, tossing her hair.

Florence: ‘I've been doing some research. There was a marine accident investigation about twelve years ago into the sinking of a trawler. Angus Radford gave a statement about an engine fire. It could explain the scars on his face.'

‘What was the name of the boat?'

‘The Arianna II. It was registered to a William Radford from St Claire, in Scotland.'

‘Could be a relative.'

‘I'm trying to get more details.'

‘Any news on who paid for the barrister who's representing Radford and Downing?'

‘Not yet, but I doubt if Lord David Buchan would publicly bankroll their defence. He has too much to lose if they're convicted.'

‘OK. Let me know what you find.'

Evie is still talking to the boys, who are leaning against my Fiat. The older of the two begins slow dancing in front of her, showing off. He has bumfluff on his top lip and grease-stained jeans.

‘Where are yer heading?' he asks.

‘Scotland,' says Evie.

‘Ye're in fookin' Scotland,' he laughs.

‘St Claire.'

He offers her a cigarette. Evie shakes her head.

‘We could take you as far as Aberdeen,' says the younger one.

‘Yeah, come ride with us,' says his mate.

I interrupt them. ‘Ready to go, Evie?'

‘Who's this?' asks the younger one.

‘My pervy old uncle,' replies Evie, thinking it's funny.

‘You should let Evie decide,' says the older one.

‘I would, but she's only fourteen.'

‘I am not!' says Evie.

The young men have lost their boldness.

‘You could go to jail for what you're thinking,' I say.

‘He's lying,' says Evie. ‘I can prove it.'

She's searching for her driver's licence, which is locked inside the car. Already the boys are heading back to their truck.

‘That was mean,' she sulks when I open the passenger door.

‘You were teasing them.'

‘I was teasing you.'

‘What's the point of that?'

‘Absolutely nothing,' she says disgustedly.

She stews for the next twenty miles. I know I'm supposed to be an expert on human behaviour, but I have a blind spot when it comes to Evie. Just when I think I have a handle on her moods, she can deliver a withering glance or a curled lip or a dismissive shrug, and make me feel ancient and out of touch.

Two hours later, in growing darkness, we reach St Claire, a fishing port in the north-east corner of Aberdeenshire. The road follows the natural curve of the coastline, dipping and rising over the headlands. Out to sea there are container ships and the distant lights of oil or gas rigs.

I pull up outside a guest house, the Belhaven Inn, a red granite building that sits three blocks back from the harbour district. A Scottish flag hangs limply out front and a sign says, ‘Live TV sport'.

The engine is idling.

‘Is this where we're staying?' asks Evie.

‘It's the address Angus Radford gave to the police.'

This statement seems to rattle her.

‘He doesn't know we're here,' I say. ‘We're undercover.'

Evie seems to like that idea and unclips her seat belt.

The guest house has a side gate and a path that leads to a glass-walled conservatory with tables set out for breakfast. I ring a bell on the counter. A woman appears from the kitchen, pulling off an apron and wiping her hands. She has pencilled black eyebrows and a long grey bob that brushes her shoulders. The web of wrinkles around her mouth look like fine cracks in bone china.

She pulls out a bound ledger from a drawer. The book has a famous painting on the cover, Girl with a Pearl Earring. Inside there are handwritten columns giving the name and address of each guest.

‘I haven't seen one of those for a while,' I say.

‘I'm auld-fashioned,' she explains. ‘And I cannae use a computer.'

She studies the photograph on my UK driver's licence, quickly glancing at my face before jotting down the details. She turns to Evie.

‘Does she need ID?' I ask.

‘It's the law.'

‘I'm paying for both rooms.'

‘Makes no difference.'

Evie hands over her driver's licence. ‘You don't look twenty-two,' says the woman.

‘I get that a lot,' says Evie.

Behind us in the lounge, two men are playing snooker on a green baize table. A young girl is watching them, picking absentmindedly at a scab on her knee. She has pink streaks in her hair and one side of her head is shaved tight to her scalp.

Our rooms are on the second floor. Narrow corridors seem to double back on each other, occasionally interrupted by fire-doors that have been propped open, despite signs asking for them to be kept closed. My room smells of Febreze and bleach and broken dreams. Evie is next door. She unlocks the adjoining door and joins me, testing the mattress, flicking light switches and opening cupboards.

‘A Bible,' she says, pulling a copy from a drawer. ‘Is that still a thing?'

‘This is Scotland,' I say, unpacking my bag.

‘Are you going to ask about him?' she asks.

‘Not here. Not yet.'

She sits cross-legged on my bed, scrolling through TV channels, not tired at all, having slept on the journey.

Flick: Love Island.

Flick: Beauty and the Geek.

Flick: The Bachelor.

‘Why do people go on these shows?' she asks.

‘Because people like you watch them.'

‘No, I'm serious. You're a psychologist. Why?'

‘They want to be famous.'

‘By embarrassing themselves.'

‘Some crave attention or validation. Others think fame will cure their self-doubt or anxiety or help them belong or make them rich.'

‘I don't want to be rich or famous,' says Evie, before changing her mind. ‘Being rich would be OK. I'd buy an animal shelter and spend my life rescuing dogs.'

‘Very worthy. Can you go to bed, please?'

‘I'm hungry.'

‘Of course you are.'

There is a Chinese restaurant further along the road. It has about six tables with plastic chairs and plastic menus and plastic bottles of soy sauce and sweet chilli. Two customers are picking up takeaways, but the dining tables are empty. The menu is a weird mixture of Thai, Chinese, Indian and European, with chips included. It reminds me of an old Frankie Boyle joke about Las Vegas and Glasgow being the only two places in the world where you can pay for sex with chips.

The sole waitress has bleached blonde hair and an outsized rump encased in purple leggings. She calls out our meal order to the open kitchen, where the Asian chef, half her size, is wielding a wok like a sword. He's yelling at a kitchenhand, who is wrist deep in suds at the sink, wilting under the abuse.

‘Is everything all right?' I ask the waitress.

‘Yeah, why wouldn't it be?'

It's a challenge rather than a question – telling me to mind my own business.

The harbour is visible between buildings. Fishing trawlers are moored side by side along the dock, and men are still working under the lights, loading ice and fuel, and mending nets.

I pick up a local newspaper, which is full of ads for engineering companies, boatyards, fishing agents, hydraulic specialists, shipwrights and vessel brokers.

‘Are yer lookin' fer work?' asks the waitress, who delivers our meals. Her right thumb has been sitting in my chicken chow mein. She licks it clean.

‘No, just visiting,' I say. ‘I'm hoping to catch up with a friend. We lost touch a while back.'

‘Does he owe you money?'

‘No.'

‘Well, he shouldn't be hard to find. Not a big place this.'

‘Angus Radford.'

She thrusts out her hip. ‘Popular name around here.'

‘He's a fisherman.'

‘Plenty o' them.' She moves away.

Evie whispers, ‘She's lying,' and dips a spring roll into chilli sauce.

Later, I notice the waitress talking on her mobile phone and glancing towards me. It could be nothing, but I'm annoyed because St Claire is the sort of parochial, insular place where word can travel quickly. I purposely pay the bill in cash, not wanting to hand over my credit card. Outside, under a streetlight, I turn in the opposite direction to the guest house.

‘It's that way,' says Evie.

‘Let's walk around the block.'

‘I thought you were tired.'

‘It won't take long.'

At the next corner, I glance over my shoulder and notice the waitress standing on the pavement, still talking on her phone. Ahead of us, two dockside cranes reach into the sky like leafless trees. A red light is blinking from the highest point and a beam of silver sweeps over the sea from a lighthouse.

I hear music. A folk band is playing at the Waterfront Inn. Drinkers spill out onto the pavement, leaning on lampposts, holding pint glasses and glowing cigarettes.

‘Do you recognise anything about this place?' I ask. ‘Could you have been here before?'

Evie shrugs, or it could be a shiver.

Back at the guest house, we enter through the side door to slip quietly up the stairs. There are still guests in the lounge. They look like travelling salesmen rather than tourists.

Evie follows me into my room. ‘Can I stay with you tonight?'

‘No.'

‘What if someone breaks into my room?'

‘Yell.'

‘What if they cover my mouth and I can't scream?'

‘Bite them.'

‘What if they're really quiet, like Ninjas?'

‘Go to bed, Evie.'

She leaves the internal door open. I brush my teeth and collapse into an exhausted sleep where conscious thoughts mutate into fevered dreams and then wonderful, sweet, carefree oblivion.