Good Girl, Bad Girl

by Michael Robotham

  “And you agree?”

  “Not completely. I think Evie is self-destructive, self-hating, antisocial, and impervious to criticism. Yet she’s also the most self-aware, undaunted, sanguine person I’ve ever met. She doesn’t appear to need friends or approval or human interaction. That doesn’t make her dangerous to anyone other than herself, although she has a history of attacking people who she perceives as having wronged her in some way.”

  “You think she should be locked up indefinitely,” says Caroline.

  “I didn’t say that. I want to help Evie but I haven’t worked out exactly how to do it.”

  “That’s still not a reason to keep her at Langford Hall.”

  “No.”

  Caroline’s face seems to transform, growing softer.

  “Nobody else in my office wanted this case. They gave it to me because I’m the newbie. I’ve litigated two cases in my short career and now I’m appearing before the High Court.”

  “You’ll be fine,” I say, hoping I sound convincing.

  “But you’re right. They’re going to ask Evie how she can support herself, where she’ll live . . . I don’t have anything to tell them.”

  “I wish I could help you.”

  Caroline collects her briefcase from beside the table.

  “Are you going to put her on the stand?” I ask.

  “I don’t think I have a choice.”

  “Don’t do it. She’s not . . . she’ll . . .” I can’t finish.

  “What else can I do?”

  “Anything but that.”

  18

  * * *

  CYRUS

  * * *

  Chief Superintendent Timothy Heller-Smith strides into the incident room, yelling, “We got him!” pausing to punch at the ground like he’s pull-starting a lawn mower.

  Cheers echo through the open-plan office, accompanied by fist bumps and high fives. Three words have changed the entire mood of the task force, sweeping away the exhaustion and fatigue. Lenny Parvel is with him, along with a uniformed constable, nervous at being thrust into the spotlight. Lenny doesn’t seem to share Heller-Smith’s enthusiasm, but says nothing as she lets her superior take charge of the briefing. Detectives gather to hear the details. I join them, standing at the back, leaning against the wall.

  Heller-Smith looks more like a politician than a senior police officer, dressed in an expensively cut suit and red silk tie. His thin sparse hair is dyed black and heavily oiled and his mouth is permanently open, like a thick-lipped fish.

  Lenny is about to speak, but Heller-Smith takes over, calling for quiet.

  He puts his arm around the young officer’s shoulders and announces, “This is Constable Harry Plover.” He gets the name wrong and has to be corrected. “PC Glover has provided us with a breakthrough in the Jodie Sheehan case. But let’s hear the story from him.”

  I can see Lenny quietly seething, but she’s not going to create a scene.

  PC Glover looks nervously around the room, holding his hat in his hands.

  “It was last Wednesday afternoon . . . ah, the day after we found Jodie. I was at Silverdale Walk, protecting the crime scene, when this guy came along walking his dog. He got all chatty with me, saying he used the footpath most days and knew the area well. I asked him if he’d noticed anyone odd hanging around, maybe someone who was following women and such. He said I should show him a photograph if we find a suspect. I took down his name and address.”

  Heller-Smith motions for him to go on.

  “Later that afternoon I had a couple of girls come up to me. They were putting flowers on Jodie’s memorial—the makeshift one—near the community center. One of them said she went to school with Jodie. I asked her when she heard the news and she said she’d been waiting at a bus stop on Southchurch Drive on Tuesday afternoon when a guy came up to her. He had a dog—a kelpie. He told them not to use Silverdale Walk because the police had found a girl’s body beneath the footbridge. I asked Jodie’s friend what time this was, and she said about half three. People knew Jodie was missing, but this guy was aware that a girl’s body had been found. He pinpointed the location.”

  “Exactly,” says Heller-Smith. “That information wasn’t released until the six o’clock media conference and we made no mention of the footbridge.” He holds aloft Glover’s police-issue notebook. “Not only did the constable recognize the discrepancy, but he asked the girl for a description and realized that she was talking about the same person he’d spoken to earlier in the day. Outstanding work. Simply outstanding.”

  He slaps PC Glover on the back, mispronouncing his name again.

  Lenny smiles wryly and thanks Heller-Smith for his “insightful summary.” The words seem innocuous enough but land like a punch. Looks are exchanged. Mutual antipathy.

  The chief superintendent leaves and Lenny relaxes, propping herself on a desk.

  “Our prime suspect is Craig Farley, twenty-six. He lives alone in Bainton Grove, which is less than a mile from where Jodie was found. He was taken into custody an hour ago and SOCO is examining his bungalow. We know that Farley works as a porter at the Queen’s Medical Centre—which is where Jodie was hospitalized with pneumonia eight months ago. He may have seen her there and developed an infatuation.

  “More importantly, he has history—two arrests for exposing himself to women in Central Park, near Nethergate Stream. Both times he claimed to be nude sunbathing. The second time he was given a suspended sentence and a good behavior bond. At age eighteen he was picked up for having sex with a minor. The girl was fourteen. Her parents chose not to press charges, which means Farley escaped with a caution and wasn’t put on the Sex Offender Register.”

  Lenny looks from face to face, making sure that everyone is on the same page.

  “One of Farley’s neighbors saw him on Tuesday morning carrying a bundle of clothes in a trash bag. He said he was giving them to charity, which is why we’re going to check every secondhand shop and clothing bin in Nottingham.”

  There are groans from the detectives. Lenny ignores them, glancing instead at the clock.

  “We can hold Farley for another twenty-three hours, unless we apply for an extension. The clock is ticking. I want to know everything about him. Talk to workmates, friends, family, ex-girlfriends, neighbors. Trace his movements. This is our guy—I’m sure of it.”

  “What about DNA?” asks Monroe.

  “The results will take three or four days. I want a confession before then. I’m going first team with Edgar. Monroe and Prime Time you’re second team.”

  “Has he lawyered up?” asks Nobody.

  “Not yet, but we do everything by the book. We give him a break every two hours. Plenty of liquids and regular meals. Go in hard, but don’t bully him. Next briefing is at four o’clock.”

  As she turns away, she is handed a phone. The chief constable is on the line. I hear Lenny responding: “Yes, sir . . . about an hour ago . . . reasonably certain . . . we’re about to start now . . . yes, sir. I will, sir. You’ll be the first to know.”

  Lenny hangs up and motions for me to follow. We head downstairs to the interview suites, located at the rear of the building. The white-painted room is furnished with a table, three chairs, and a one-way mirror that allows the interrogations to be observed and filmed.

  Craig Farley is alone, slouching in a chair, biting at a hangnail as though it’s a splinter. He stands suddenly and walks to the door. He raises his fist, as though ready to knock, but changes his mind. Now he’s in front of the mirror, glancing past his reflection with a studied casualness, as if he’s aware there might be someone watching him.

  There is nothing unusual about his looks. He’s five ten, brown-haired, and thirty pounds overweight. Although anxious, his face is strangely blank, as though he’s not completely sure how he managed to get here.

  Lenny and DS Edgar enter the room and introduce themselves. They ask Farley if he’d like something to eat or drink. He says he wants to go home.


  “You’re under arrest,” Lenny explains.

  “There’s been a mistake. You got the wrong person.”

  “For what?”

  Farley hesitates. “For whatever you think I did.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” says Lenny. “Because things were looking pretty serious for you, Craig. But if it’s all a misunderstanding, we should be able to sort this out tout suite.” She pulls her chair closer. I watch how Farley examines her, checking out her breasts and her hips. He can’t help himself.

  “Exactly what mistake have we made?” asks Lenny.

  “I had nothing to do with that girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “The one in the papers.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Jodie something.”

  “You mean this one,” says DS Edgar, opening a file and taking out a photograph. “For the record, this is a recent picture of Jodie Sheehan. It was taken by a school photographer in March 2018.”

  Farley looks at the image and away again.

  “Pretty, isn’t she?” asks Lenny.

  “Not my type.”

  “What’s your type, Craig? We know you like them young.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “You had sex with a minor.”

  “I was never charged.”

  Lenny corrects him. “You were never convicted. According to the medical report, you really tore her up.”

  Farley nods. “She wanted it.”

  “And she was your girlfriend.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So why be so rough on her?”

  “Her dad was the problem, not me.”

  He looks from face to face, wanting to be understood.

  Lenny switches focus. “So where did you meet Jodie?”

  There is a momentary glimmer of recognition in Farley’s eyes, but he’s taken too long to answer.

  “I never met her.”

  “What about at the hospital?”

  He frowns.

  Lenny produces a small plastic test tube from her pocket. “Do you know what this is, Craig? It collects skin cells from inside your cheek. Open wide and I’ll have a quick brush around inside.”

  Farley shakes his head. “I don’t trust you. You’re going to plant my DNA at the scene.”

  “What scene?” asks Edgar.

  “On that girl. You’ll take my spit and you’ll spill it around.”

  “We’re trying to remove you from our list of suspects.”

  Farley presses his lips together and shakes his head.

  “It won’t matter, Craig,” says Lenny. “We can hold you down if necessary. I can get four officers in here right now and we’ll do this the hard way.”

  Farley shrinks from her and glances at his reflection in the mirror, raising his hand as though he’s unsure if he’s watching someone else being interrogated.

  “What’s your dog’s name?” asks Edgar.

  Farley reacts as though every question is loaded.

  “Clancy.”

  “What breed?”

  “A kelpie.”

  “Do you walk him every day?”

  “She’s a bitch.”

  “Where do you normally take her?”

  “Lots of different places—along the river mainly. Sometimes I go to Rushcliffe Country Park.”

  “How about Central Park?” asks Lenny.

  “No.”

  “That’s right—you prefer to nude sunbathe,” says Edgar.

  Farley bristles. “That was a misunderstanding.”

  “What about Silverdale Walk?” asks Lenny. “You told Constable Glover that you used that footpath every day.”

  “Not every day.”

  “What about on Monday night?”

  There is another pause. Silence. I can see Farley’s mind working overtime because he doesn’t have the intellect or the speed of thought to maintain his lies or second-guess what the detectives know or don’t know. He has a below-average IQ and limited social skills, which fits with the clumsy attempt to hide Jodie’s body and his lack of forensic awareness and his history of underage sex and lower-grade sexual offenses.

  Lenny and Edgar slowly ratchet up the pressure, unpacking Farley’s movements on Monday evening. There is nothing subtle about their approach. Everybody in the room knows what role they have to play—even Farley.

  If he were a patient of mine, I would interview him differently. I’d begin by exploring his childhood, his schooling, and his family relationships. After taking his history, I would slowly explore his sexuality and fantasies. What does he look for in a woman? What turns him on? What does he picture when he masturbates? Is it their smell or the clothes they wear or the way they walk? Over numerous sessions, I would identify the progression that led his normal, consensual romantic fantasies to become corrupted by thoughts of violence, exploitation, and coercion. Perhaps he was abused as a child, or maybe his first attempts at having ordinary relationships were rebuffed. Girls ignored him or laughed at him or belittled his failings.

  That’s when his fantasies were formed—richly detailed scenarios in which he won the girl and landed the job and got a nice car and cool friends. But the more his real-world attempts at intimacy failed, the more his fantasies changed. Instead of romantic love and sexual compatibility, he imagined punishing the women who shunned him, the bosses who sacked him, and the bullies who bullied him. In his imagination, he didn’t just get the girl, he made her pay. He made them all pay.

  Fantasies of sexual revenge have to be fed. Pornography and violent films provided some of what he needed, but soon it wasn’t enough. He sought out real-world details—locations, victims, souvenirs . . . He began following women home or stealing underwear from their clotheslines or peeping through their windows. When he did approach women, they tended to be young and impressionable and easier to talk into having sex.

  All of this behavior is part of a progression, yet raping and killing Jodie was way ahead of anything he’d done previously. Something must have triggered the escalation—a family tragedy, getting fired from a job, or some unexpected setback or humiliation.

  If I were asking the questions, I would take my time, but the police don’t have that luxury. Unless they seek an extension from a judge, they have twenty-four hours to either charge Farley or let him go.

  After two hours, the team takes a break. Lenny arrives in the observation room. She looks pleased with how it’s gone. Farley is still in the interview room, pacing the floor, muttering to himself.

  “What do you think?” she asks.

  “I think you’ll get a confession.”

  She waits, expecting more.

  “I think he’s highly suggestible.”

  “We’re not putting words in his mouth.”

  “Pushed hard enough he’ll say almost anything.”

  Lenny frowns so deeply that her eyes disappear. She’s angry in a hip-jutting, pissed-off way.

  “He’s not going to make up a murder.”

  “I know, but you’ll get his DNA and fibers from his clothes. You don’t have to break him. Farley is isolated and confused. The adrenaline rush that led him to raping Jodie has disappeared and he’s realizing the magnitude of what he’s done . . . of what he is.”

  “You think he’s a suicide risk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Saving us a lot of time and expense.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  19

  * * *

  CYRUS

  * * *

  “Christ! That’s all I need,” mutters Lenny, looking through the glass doors of the station.

  A crowd has gathered on the footpath, spilling onto the road.

  “They’ve been arriving for the past hour,” says a uniformed sergeant.

  “That’s because this place leaks like a church roof,” grunts Lenny.

  I recognize Felix Sheehan among the crowd. He’s with another young man and two teenage girls who look school age but are dress
ed to look older or colder depending what you consider functional or fashionable.

  Two uniformed officers are guarding the main doors.

  One of the protesters yells, “What’s his name? Has he confessed?”

  Others react and begin chanting, “Bring him out! Bring him out!”

  I notice a TV crew arriving, hoisting cameras onto shoulders and bathing the crowd in a spotlight. The escalation is immediate and the noise level increases. I’ve always been fascinated by the psychology of the mob, how it provides anonymity and abrogates responsibility and diminishes any sense of “self.” People don’t lose their identity when they join together—they gain a new one as part of a tribe.

  “Get some more bodies down here,” mutters Lenny, pushing through the glass doors. Cameras fire and reporters jostle to the front.

  “I’ll make a short statement, then I want you all to leave,” she says. “A local man has been taken into custody and is helping us with our inquiries into the murder of Jodie Sheehan. That is all I can say.”

  “What’s his name?” yells one of them.

  “We won’t be releasing that.”

  “Let us talk to him.”

  The statement triggers laughter.

  Lenny continues. “Please, go home. Let us do our job.”

  “We have every right to be here,” yells the ringleader, who has tattoos on his shaven head and a T-shirt that says FREEDOM ISN’T FREE with a picture of Tommy Robinson, the far-right activist, emblazoned on a Union Jack flag.

  Lenny ignores him. The crowd starts chanting, “Scum! Scum! Scum!”

  I notice Felix slipping back through the crowd, trying to fade into the background. Stepping out of the main doors, I walk along the footpath, trying to locate him among the heads. I’m almost ready to give up when I spy him crossing the road, ducking between stopped cars. He’s with the same group, the young man and teenage girls. I follow from a distance, watching them saunter along Rectory Road, slouching and smoking. Felix has his arms around the two girls, sliding his hands down their spines until his fingers tuck into the pockets of their denim shorts.