31 Evie

31

Sean Murdoch is standing on the pavement outside the police station, holding a cap in both hands like he's come to ask for a job, or a favour. We descend the steps and move from shade into sunlight. He lifts his head, about to speak, when a seagull takes off from the chimney pots above us, squawking like a lonely child.

Murdoch follows it in flight, and then turns back to me. ‘Awright, lass?'

I nod and step closer to Cyrus.

‘I wanted to apologise for being part of this,' he says, stumbling over the words. ‘I didnae mean for people to get hurt.'

‘Have you been interviewed?' asks Cyrus.

‘The police will get around to me,' he says. ‘I'll tell them everything.'

‘You'll go to prison.'

‘Most likely, but I should have said something before now.'

He looks at me. ‘You're the girl they found all those years ago in that house in London – the one they called Angel Face.'

‘How do you know that?' asks Cyrus.

Murdoch scratches his cheek. ‘Worked it out. Everybody was talking about the little girl they found hiding in the walls. She didnae have a name or a past. Then I saw a photograph and I knew who you were. I always hoped someone would come forward to claim you – an aunt or an uncle; you must have had some family.'

I don't answer.

‘Why didn't you say anything?' asks Cyrus.

‘That would have meant confessing. I had a family and I knew what would happen to anyone who broke ranks.'

‘You were frightened of Angus Radford.'

‘I was frightened of the people he worked for.'

‘And who were they?'

Murdoch drops his gaze to his work boots.

‘Is Simon Buchan one of the people you're afraid of?' asks Cyrus.

Murdoch presses his lips together and sighs. ‘I only met him once – years ago. He had a handshake that made me want to wring my fingers out or to count them.'

‘Where did you meet him?'

‘At Glengowrie Lodge. Angus was delivering some people to him.'

‘Migrants?'

‘Most of 'em. Yeah.'

‘Men or women?'

‘Both. Mr Buchan was angry about us using the main gate. He told Angus to use the goods entrance next time. That's what we were – deliverymen.'

‘What about Lord David Buchan?' asks Cyrus.

‘Met him once or twice. He didnae spend much time at Glengowrie Lodge before his father died. He bought the place from Simon when the inheritance was divided up.'

‘Two women are missing from the small boat that sank off Cleethorpes. Do you have any idea where they might be?' asks Cyrus.

‘No.'

Cyrus looks at me. I shake my head. Up until that moment, Murdoch has been telling the truth, but now he's lied to us.

‘I'll ask you again,' says Cyrus. ‘Do you have any idea where the women might be?'

There is a beat of silence. Murdoch clears his throat.

‘I don't know for certain. But there's a place outside of Leeds. An old convent. Grade II listed. Victorian. Someone turned it into a boarding house for farm workers, but then it became some sort of halfway house for migrants. Women mainly.'

‘What's the address?'

‘I never went there.'

‘Not good enough.'

‘OK, OK, let me think. It was called St Mary of the Field or St Margaret of the Field. That's all I know. I swear. And it was years ago. Might not even exist any more.'

Cyrus looks at me. I nod. It's the truth.

Florence bought Cyrus a new phone. He calls DI Carlson, passing on the information. In the meantime, I'm left with Murdoch, who fidgets and shuffles, still holding the cap in his hands.

‘Ah'm not trying to wash my hands of this,' he says. ‘Ah know I've done terrible things, but I want to make amends.'

‘How?'

‘That's why I'm here . . . to explain.' He glances behind him to his car, an old Land Rover, patched and repainted to deal with rust. ‘If you come with me, I can show you everything. I promise you nothing bad is going to happen.'

He's telling me the truth. I wait for Cyrus to finish his call. ‘It's your decision,' he says.

I hang back, staring at the open car door. I have lived in darkness for so long that I've grown scared of the light. Cyrus is always telling me that I can change things; that everything I want is on the other side of fear.

The Land Rover smells of wet dog and a Christmas tree air freshener. Murdoch apologises for the mess, saying he should have cleaned it up first. He doesn't talk as he drives out of St Claire along the coast road, past factories, car yards and a new housing estate. A roadside stall is selling eggs, jam and fresh strawberries, a payment-by-honour system. Soon we're in the open countryside where the fields are stitched together in a patchwork of squares. After a few miles we turn off onto a narrow road, leading towards the sea.

A village appears. Oyster-coloured dwellings are surrounded by stunted trees and dry-stone walls and small gardens, growing vegetables or flowers. The road twists back and forth, descending to the shoreline, where the shingle beach is partially blanketed by seaweed. There is a pub, a post office, a phone box and a row of brightly painted cottages, some of them with bed and breakfast signs.

Murdoch parks the car at the base of a steep cliff and we walk up a set of wooden stairs weathered by salt and wind. At the top is a small whitewashed cottage with a pitched slate roof surrounded by a neat garden. Below us, a concrete seawall juts into the ocean, protecting a quiet, underused stretch of beach. The North Sea is grey, the sky is blue, and a freighter inches north on the horizon.

Murdoch takes off his boots in the entrance hall. His big toe pokes through a hole in his left sock. We enter a sitting room with a picture window filled with the view.

‘Is this your place?' asks Cyrus.

‘It's where I grew up. My parents left it to me,' says Murdoch.

There are family photographs on the mantelpiece. A child in them. Addie as a toddler. Addie starting school. Addie flying a kite. Playing with a dog. Sailing a dinghy. Riding a carousel horse.

There is a lone photograph lying face down on a side table. Murdoch turns it over and hands it to me. Everything stops and the room falls away. I'm staring at Agnesa, who is smiling back at me. The light is behind her, creating a golden halo around her head; and strands of her hair have pulled free from a tortoiseshell clip, framing her face.

I study everything about the photograph, her eyes, her nose, her lips, the window behind her. It's only then that I realise the picture was taken in this same room, with light from the same window. How is that possible?

‘Where is she?' I whisper.

‘She died nine years ago.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘A drunk driver ran a red light. Agnesa was in the passenger seat. The car hit us on her side, and threw her onto my lap, crushing her chest, trapping us in the wreckage.' His voice chokes. ‘She died in my arms.'

I'm staring at the picture. ‘But she died on the Arianna II.'

‘That's what I wanted to tell you. She lived.'