‘He tried to hide her body.’
‘With a few branches – a token gesture. He may have panicked, or something spooked him. I think he’s inexperienced. Disorganised. He didn’t plan the rape. He didn’t plan the murder.’
There’s a knock on the door.
‘Got something, boss,’ says Edgar.
He leads us back to the incident room where two detectives are going through CCTV footage collected from cameras in Clifton on Monday evening. Chairs are pushed back to give Lenny room. I watch over her shoulder.
Edgar presses the ‘play’ button. The footage shows a deserted footpath outside a row of shops that includes a nail salon, convenience store, hairdressing salon, carpet cleaning company and the fish and chip shop. A group of four teenagers comes into view – a girl and three boys. Two of them are drinking from cans of beer. The girl is wearing tight jeans, boots and a puffa jacket. Jodie Sheehan. The tallest of the boys puts his arm around Jodie’s shoulders and she shrugs it away, knocking the lager from his grasp. He glares at her angrily and picks up the foaming can, shaking spilled beer from his hand. He runs to catch up with the others, disappearing from view.
‘This is fourteen minutes later,’ says Edgar, as he fast forwards through the street cam footage. Jodie walks back into the frame, seemingly alone. She stands beneath the street light and reapplies her lipstick, using her mobile phone as a mirror.
‘Is she waiting for someone?’ asks Lenny, leaning closer to the screen.
At that moment, Jodie looks up and waves to someone out of shot. A few seconds later, she steps off the kerb and disappears from view.
‘That’s all of it,’ says Edgar, pressing pause. I look at the time code at the bottom of the screen: 20:48.
‘What time did Jodie’s phone stop transmitting?’ I ask.
‘Twenty-twelve,’ says Edgar.
‘If her mobile was turned off at twenty-twelve, how was she still using a phone under the street light fifteen minutes later?’
‘She had a second phone!’ exclaims Lenny.
I tap Edgar on the shoulder and ask him to play the footage again.
‘Slow it down.’
Jodie is under the street light. She waves. She steps off the kerb.
‘There!’ I point to the screen. None of them reacts. ‘Her shadow changes. It doesn’t just lengthen, it moves from left to right. I think a car was doing a U-turn.’
‘He’s right,’ says Lenny. ‘Someone picked her up.’
9
A buzzer sounds. The door unlocks. Each new section of Langford Hall has added cameras and extra staff, but most of the security is understated or invisible. There are louvred observation panels and tamperproof locks on the doors. The windows are made of Plexiglas and the bathroom mirrors are plastic. Nothing can be unscrewed, unhooked, unhinged or rendered into a weapon, or a noose.
Evie’s room has a single bed, a desk and a wardrobe that is divided between hanging space and drawers. There are pictures of dogs on every smooth surface. Cut from magazines and glued closely together, they form a collage of mismatched sizes, shapes and breeds. A poodle looks bigger than a Great Dane. A beagle seems to be balancing on a Jack Russell’s nose.
A dictionary sits open on Evie’s desk. Pages are marked. Words underlined. Nearby, a worn set of playing cards is fanned out, face down, as though waiting for someone to pick a card. Unlike Jodie Sheehan’s bedroom, Evie has no posters of sporting heroes, or pop stars, or photographs of her friends.
‘Can I sit down?’ I ask.
Evie shrugs ambivalently. I turn the only chair towards the bed where Evie has her back against the headboard and her legs stretched out. Her hair is gathered into a wet ponytail on one side of her neck and she’s wearing so much make-up that her eyelashes look heavy to lift. She clicks a ballpoint pen open and closed with her thumb.
‘You like dogs,’ I say, glancing at the walls.
‘Is that a question?’
‘An observation.’
‘Well done, Sherlock.’
‘How long have you been here?’ I ask.
‘This admission: ten months, four days and eleven hours.’
‘What was your index offence?’
‘You know that already.’
‘I wanted to hear it from you.’
‘I broke someone’s jaw with a half-brick.’
‘Why?’
‘He stole my money.’
‘You think he deserved it?’
‘Yep.’
Her eyes narrow and she looks at me dismissively. ‘I know what you’re trying to do. You want me to feel sorry for him. You think if I show remorse, I won’t do it again, but if people steal from me, or hurt me, I won’t take it lying down.’
Evie pulls up her legs and hugs them with her forearms.
‘What do you most want, Evie?’
‘I’ll tell you what I want, what I really really want,’ she says musically, singing a Spice Girls song, before riffing into Prince: ‘I want to be your lover. I want to turn you on, turn you out, all night long, make you shout.’
I interrupt her before she goes on.
‘What would you do if you were allowed to leave here?’
‘Anything I damn well please. I wouldn’t have to deal with social workers, or people like you. No offence.’
‘None taken.’
Reaching across the bed, she picks up a bottle of nail polish and unscrews the lid. Pulling her right foot into her lap, she begins painting her toenails with small, delicate strokes. Purple.
‘Are you going to give me a psych test? I’m very good at them.’ She licks an imaginary pencil and prepares to take notes. ‘When you see a sick or a sad person, can you put yourself in that person’s place?’ Her accent is Swedish. ‘A: Not at all. B: Just a little. C: Somewhat. D: Moderately. E: Quite a lot. F: All the time.’
I don’t answer her. She carries on.
‘Do you believe others control how you think and feel? A: Not at all. B: Just a little. C: Somewhat. D: Moderately. E: Quite a lot. F: All the fucking time.’
I interrupt her. ‘Have you done many psych tests?’
‘Dozens.’
‘Why is that, do you think?’
‘People think I’m crazy.’
‘Why?’
‘You tell me. You’re the shrink. You’re here to poke the bear with a stick. See if I bite.’
‘Do you enjoy shocking people?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s so easy.’ Evie tucks her imaginary pencil behind her ear. ‘Are you an ex-junkie?’
‘What makes you ask?’
‘A lot of the case workers here are former addicts. Why do you think that is?’
‘Maybe they understand addiction.’
She points to my wrist, where my shirt cuff has ridden up, revealing the edges of a tattoo.
‘Some people get tattoos to hide the needle tracks.’
‘Not me.’
‘Do you smoke dope?’
‘Not any more.’
‘Why did you stop?’
‘It was a crutch.’
‘That’s very honest of you . . . and boring.’
‘Do I bore you?’