Perhaps it was someone she knew. She could have been brought here, or lured by somebody she trusted. She was picked up in a car earlier in the evening. She had a second mobile phone. This suggests a secret liaison. A boyfriend or a casual hook-up.
At some point Jodie was struck from behind, most likely without warning. She had turned her back. She either trusted this person, or she was trying to flee. Barely conscious, she fell or was pushed off the bridge. The cold water shocked her awake. She swallowed some of it. Almost drowned. Her attacker dragged her from the pond or followed Jodie after she saved herself. She ran, disorientated by the darkness. Branches and brambles tore at her face and skin. She collapsed, close to death. Dying.
He undressed her hurriedly, clumsily. He unwrapped a condom . . .
No! It doesn’t make sense. Use of a prophylactic suggests forensic awareness. He wanted to conceal his identity. But why use a condom and then ejaculate into her hair? That’s an act designed to humiliate or mark his territory or signify unconditional acceptance.
Maybe they had sex and she denied him a second round. More likely he couldn’t maintain an erection and grew frustrated? Which means he’s not experienced around women. He’s a loner. Socially inept. He wants a girlfriend, but nobody wants him. He knows this area. This place.
Some rapists panic and kill victims to protect their identity. Others take pleasure from abusing a victim at the moment of his or her death or afterwards. The timing of the penetration reveals clues about them. I don’t know the exact sequence of events, but this man and his corrupt lust sacrificed a human life for an orgasm. Afterwards he left her to die, or he watched her take her last breath. He covered her body with branches, trying to hide what he’d done.
He went home. Showered. Changed his clothes. Tried to forget. But he won’t stop thinking about this. Part of him will be horrified, but another voice will tell him that she deserved it, that she led him on, that she was like all the other women who ignored him, belittled him, laughed at him . . .
My knees are hurting. I’ve been squatting on my haunches for too long. I straighten, drinking in the cold air and begin to move away from the footbridge, walking in a widening circle, feeling the softness of the ground beneath my feet.
Everywhere I see signs of the police search – evidence markers, broken twigs, boot prints – but I’m not looking for the same things they were. A psychologist views a crime scene differently from a detective. Police search for physical clues and witnesses. I look at the overall picture and the salience of certain landmarks and features. Where are the obstacles and boundaries that alter behaviour? How quickly does someone disappear from sight? How far can I see in each direction? What are the vantage points and the shortcuts?
Ahead of me, I glimpse something straight edged through the trees, embowered by ferns. It’s an old groundkeeper’s cottage or hunting lodge, which has fallen into disrepair. Grey with age, the walls are streaked with rust from the downpipes and creepers have twisted around the spindle wood railings that fence in a small front veranda.
The path is overgrown, but not unused. There are muddy boot prints and torn cobwebs. The police must have searched here yesterday. Stepping inside the derelict cottage, I take a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. The wooden floorboards are splintery with age and stained by innumerable spills and leakages. Rubbish is strewn across the floor and the walls are covered in graffiti, none artistic, some of it obscene or as harmless as initials inside a heart. An old mattress yellowing with age has been positioned in front of a hearth, which is full of crushed beer cans, blackened by a recent fire. A half-drunk bottle of apple cider is within reach. Two more empties are nearby.
I move to the next room – a kitchen that reeks of damp and decay. Rubbish floats in an ankle-deep puddle. Crisp packets and condom wrappers. Someone has ripped out the copper pipes, no doubt for scrap metal. The final room, most likely a bedroom, has a roof that has partially collapsed, giving me a glimpse of blue sky and the tops of trees.
I understand instinctively where I am – not the original purpose of the building, but what it has become: a place where youngsters can avoid the gaze of adults. Where they break up, make up, hang out and make out; where they experiment with alcohol, drugs and sex. Did Jodie ever come here? Did this place mean something to her, or her killer?
The police have searched the cottage, but I doubt if any of them recognised the likely salience. Detectives don’t understand the ley lines that teenagers use to navigate their world. The shortcuts. The meeting places. The secret language.
Later I call Lenny from a phone box opposite the school. It goes to her voicemail.
‘The killer is in his late teens or twenties. Physically strong, but not overly intelligent. He’s local. This is his territory. He knows the area. He knows the footpath and maybe the cottage. Look for someone who’s been arrested or questioned for lesser offences like exposing himself to women or stealing their underwear.
‘I don’t think he planned the rape, or the murder – it was too disorganised – but he possibly knew Jodie or was aware of her and she may have played a part in his sexual fantasies.
‘He’s going to feel bad about what he’s done. Ashamed. This is the first time for him. His first murder. He’ll be following the police investigation closely, frightened and appalled, but also fascinated, which means he could return to the scene as an onlooker, or bystander. Look for his face in the crowd. He’s somewhere close by. Watching.’
12
Angel Face
I hear a knock.
‘Are you decent?’ asks Davina.
She’s a big woman with coloured beads woven into her dreadlocks that tumble to her shoulders, curling at the ends like pigs’ tails. She leans on the frame; thrusting out one hip.
‘You have a visitor.’
‘Who?’
‘Dr Haven.’
I feel a surge of excitement. Tossing aside my magazine, I swing my legs off the bed and go to the mirror, touching my hair and brushing my fingertips along my eyebrows. I reach for my make-up bag.
‘He’s not your boyfriend,’ Davina chuckles. She’s still standing in the doorway.
I want to slap her for being a bitch.
‘Shall I tell him you’re coming? I could throw rose petals in your path.’
‘Fuck off!’
‘That’s a red card.’
I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my hair and follow Davina down the hallway, less certain than before. Normally, I don’t care about shrinks and social workers. I’ve dealt with so many. But this one unsettled me the last time. It was nothing he did or said. He didn’t ask about my family, or my real name, or where I came from, or what happened to me as a child. Instead he seemed to hold up a mirror to me, wanting me to look.
Entering the dining room, I find him sitting at a table nursing a cup of tea. He stands and bows in an old-fashioned way like he’s Prince Charles, which makes me smirk.
I take a moment to decide where I should sit. Opposite is best, so I can see his face.
Cyrus is smiling. He looks tired, like someone is blowing air into his eyes, making him blink.
‘Why are you smiling?’ I ask, guardedly.
‘I’m pleased to see you.’
I make a scoffing sound and study his face but cannot find a lie.