I’m not far behind Felix. I half expect him to notice me and turn, but he’s too busy flirting with the girls. He’s reached his Lexus. My ageing red Fiat is parked opposite. That’s when I make the decision. I cross the road and open the car door, while Felix says goodbye, bumping fists and shoulders. One of the girls whispers something in his ear. He brushes her off.
I’ve never tailed a car before. It’s not like following someone home from the pub or to a picnic spot in the countryside. Felix drives impatiently, accelerating hard between lights. Twice I think I’ve lost him, but the traffic is so heavy that he can’t get too far ahead of me. We cross Trent Bridge and follow London Road past Meadow Lane Stadium before turning left into Queen’s Road. He pulls into a multi-storey car park near Nottingham Railway Station and drives to the rooftop level. He parks and locks the Lexus, twirling the keyless fob around his forefinger, as he walks quickly down the stairs. I can hear his footsteps echoing below me, masking the sound of my own progress.
I emerge thirty yards behind him, watching him enter the station concourse, past the taxi rank and through the automatic doors. He stands beneath the arrivals and departures board but isn’t studying the timetable. Instead he seems to be looking for someone. Maybe he arranged to pick them up.
He walks slowly along the concourse, checking out the cafés, the booking hall and the men’s toilets. Beside a row of vending machines, he stops and studies two backpackers, who are lying on the floor with their heads resting on their rucksacks. Felix says something. A baseball hat is lifted. A shake of the head.
Leaving the main entrance, he crosses Station Street to a Jobcentre Plus on the opposite side of the road. The automatic doors open to reveal a queue of job seekers waiting for interviews. Felix loiters near the access ramp, watching people arrive and leave. Occasionally he approaches one of them, but the conversations are brief.
Another youth emerges, hands in pockets, a hooded sweatshirt covering his head. Felix greets him, his face full of boyish good cheer. A cigarette is offered. Accepted. Lit. Exhaled smoke mingles and dissipates in the cool air. They don’t know each other. This is a first meeting.
They chat for a few minutes before Felix reaches into his pocket and takes out a pen. He motions for the teenager to pull up his sleeve and then writes something on his forearm. A phone number? An address? I’m too far away to see.
They separate. The youth doesn’t look back. Felix checks his phone. Types. Two-handed. Seemingly satisfied, he turns away from the Jobcentre and heads back to the railway station. I’m not exactly sure what I’ve just witnessed. Some sort of recruitment, or business arrangement.
I still want to ask Felix about the money in Jodie’s locker but not now, not yet. I don’t want him to know that I’ve followed him. He’s passing a homeless man, dozing beside a dog. Felix pauses and takes a ten-pound note from a money-clip and tucks it into the man’s pocket, before walking away with a lightness to his step, as though all is now right with the world.
20
Wednesday morning and the wind hints of winter. Mottled clouds are being driven across the sky, heading towards the Peak District and beyond to Ireland. I had planned on going for a run but quickly went off the idea when I saw the temperature outside. The central heating didn’t trigger again. The pilot light had gone out. It takes twenty minutes and a sore thumb before the spark becomes a solid blue flame.
I order a cab for nine o’clock and slide into the back seat. The driver is listening to the radio. I can only see the back of his head, which is shaved and oiled and the colour of an old leather football.
‘A hospital porter has been charged with the rape and murder of Nottingham schoolgirl Jodie Sheehan, whose body was found a week ago beside a local footpath. Craig Farley, aged twenty-six, was arrested on Sunday at his Bainton Grove bungalow, which is less than a mile from where Jodie’s body was discovered.
‘At a press conference held late yesterday, Detective Chief Inspector Lenore Parvel said that Farley had made a full confession and would appear in Nottingham Crown Court this morning.’
I hear Lenny’s voice take over the commentary.
‘By choosing to co-operate with the police, the suspect has spared Jodie’s family added heartache. I would like to thank my team, who have had very little sleep over the past week. This quick arrest is down to their professionalism and hard work. They did it for Jodie and for everyone whose life she touched. We cannot bring her back, but we can make sure she’s not forgotten.’
The driver is talking to me.
‘Sorry, did you say something?’ I ask.
He nods towards the radio. ‘Me and my mates got it wrong.’
‘About what?’
‘Jodie Sheehan. We figured it was going to be family, you know. Someone close to her.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Normally is, eh? Eighty per cent of the time.’
Where do people get figures like this?
He’s waiting for me to agree with him.
‘Do you know the family?’ I ask.
‘The old man. He’s a cranky prick.’
I want to say the name Dougal Sheehan, but leave it unsaid.
‘He’s one of us – a cabbie,’ says the driver. ‘Had some trouble a while back. This woman complained that he assaulted her. He’d driven her all the way out to Calverton before she told him she couldn’t pay. Said her purse had been stolen. Dougal threatened to call the cops, but she got in first and accused him of holding her hostage. She had bruises on her arm. Could have been Dougal did it. Could have been her boyfriend.’
‘What happened?’
‘Never went to court.’ He glances into the rear-view mirror. ‘That’s why I got myself one of these.’ He points to a small box on the dashboard. ‘You’re on candid camera. Say cheese!’
We’re heading along Derby Road past Lenton Abbey and the university. Taking the first exit on a roundabout, we cross the River Leen, little more than a concrete culvert, and follow Abbey Street. The plane trees form a golden tunnel that is crumbling in the wind, and between the branches I get a glimpse of Nottingham Castle perched on the aptly named Castle Rock. Having been conquered, razed, rebuilt and conquered again, it now looks more like a grand house than a fortress with turrets and battlements.
The cab drops me outside the Crown Court, a modern building with an arched glass entrance. TV crews are sheltering inside the main foyer, away from the wind. They have set up their cameras in front of the large coat of arms, ready for reporters to cross live to the studio with news of Craig Farley’s first court appearance.
High Court hearings are in a different part of the building. Evie Cormac’s case has been listed for ten-thirty. I try to imagine her being anxious, but it’s not an emotion I associate with Evie.
The corridors are bustling with lawyers and clients. This part of the precinct handles family law matters – divorces and child custody applications. I recognise the couples because they avoid eye contact, while their respective lawyers mingle with each other, chatting and smiling. Marriages that began with heartfelt promises ‘to love and honour and respect’ have been reduced to ring-bound folders that detail who gets what and when and where. The arguments have led to this, a hearing before a judge, who will undo what God put together and no man was meant to put asunder.