‘That’s all I did.’
‘What?’
‘I pulled down her jeans.’
The detectives exchange a glance, trying not to reveal their excitement.
Lenny clarifies. ‘So you’re saying you followed Jodie along the footpath?’
‘No.’
‘Where did you first see her?’
‘By the pond.’
‘What was she doing?’
‘She was lying on the ground next to the pond. I thought she might be drunk.’
‘Where were you?’
‘On the footpath.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I wanted to make sure she was OK, you know.’
‘Did you talk to her?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘She was coughing. I must have frightened her because she tried to run.’
‘You chased her.’
‘No. I mean, I was worried about her.’
‘Who brought the condom?’
‘What?’
‘You used a condom.’
‘No. I tried to help her.’
‘By raping her?’
‘By keeping her warm.’
‘Your semen was found in her hair.’
Farley’s face crumples and locks in a long grimace.
‘You have to speak, Craig . . . for the tape.’
He mumbles.
‘Speak up.’
‘I didn’t mean . . .’
‘What didn’t you mean?’
‘To touch her,’ he says in a hoarse whisper. ‘I wanted to help her . . . I did . . . she was on the ground . . .’
‘You pulled down her jeans?’
‘I wish I could . . . I didn’t mean to . . .’
His voice breaks and he sobs, rocking in his chair, snot bubbling in his nostrils.
As I watch his capitulation, a shape begins to form in my mind. Not a shape – a weight. No, not a weight – a shadow that emerges from the murkiness of the detail. It’s as though Craig Farley has fallen into step beside me and I am seeing the world as he does, feeling the earth beneath his shoes – a lonely inept young man; the slow kid at school, the last one picked for teams, the butt of jokes, the one too stupid to realise he was being teased. Socially anxious, clumsy, tongue-tied, yet longing to be included.
Some boys like this grow more confident with age, or befriend other outsiders, or muddle through life as an after-thought. A few of them suffer depression, sliding into alcohol or drug abuse, hoping stimulants can conquer their low self-esteem. Occasionally, one will develop a pathological desire for perfectionism, losing weight, pumping iron and growing to hate their former selves for being weak and pathetic. If the rejections and isolation continue, they may grow angry, blaming others for their failures. It’s not their fault if they don’t have a girlfriend, or a good job, or a nice car, or are still living at home with their parents.
All of this I can see, yet I cannot see a killer. Jodie ran from someone but had no defence wounds. Most likely she was unconscious when Farley removed her jeans, yet she was conscious when she had intercourse. There were no signs of forced penetration.
The sequence of events is the key and I can’t make the facts fit the timeline. Unless. Unless . . . Even as the thought occurs to me, I want to dismiss the idea as being too far-fetched. I know what Lenny Parvel will say. She’ll laugh and refuse to listen. I have to at least try.
I punch out her number. She doesn’t answer. It goes to her messages.
Beep!
‘We need to talk.’
27
Lenny Parvel is walking uphill, going nowhere. Strands of hair are plastered on her forehead and sweat drips from her nose, landing on the treadmill. Mirrors are everywhere, reflecting her back to me from several different angles, in a room that looks more like a dance studio than a gymnasium.
Dressed in silver boxing trunks and an oversized T-shirt, Lenny isn’t trying to fit in among the gym junkies in their Lycra leggings and brand-name tops. Maybe she doesn’t care about fitting in, or what others see when they look at her. I wish I had that confidence. I’ve been stared at too often. Pointed out. Talked about.
‘You’re not serious,’ says Lenny, looking at me incredulously.
‘I know everything points to Farley, but what if Jodie was already dead or dying? What if she was semi-conscious when he stumbled across her body?’
Her face has turned to stone. ‘No, no, no.’
‘Hear me out, please. Normally in a case like this, we’d see signs of control and dominance. The perpetrator becomes sexually aroused. He follows a woman, he abducts her, he instils fear. He rapes. He silences. That’s not the right order for this crime.’
Lenny presses the stop button and jumps off the ramp, striding away from me. I hurry to keep up.
‘I know it sounds—’
‘Far-fetched? Absurd?’
‘Unusual.’
‘Do you know the chances of a sexual predator happening to stumble across a dead or dying teenager?’ she asks. ‘The chief constable will laugh me out of his office.’
‘Tell him about Violet Jessop.’
‘Who?’
‘In 1911 Violet Jessop was working as a stewardess on RMS Olympic when it collided with a British warship and almost sank in the Solent. She survived. A year later she was working on the Titanic when it sank in the Atlantic. Again, she survived.’
‘Is there a point to this?’
‘Four years later, Violet was working as a nurse on a hospital ship, the Britannic, when it hit a German mine and started sinking. She jumped overboard and was sucked under the ship’s keel, only to be dragged out of the water with a fractured skull. Again, she survived.’
‘What in God’s name are you on about?’
‘I’m saying that stranger things have happened. Bigger coincidences. I think Jodie was already dead or dying when Craig Farley found her. I think someone else fractured her skull and threw her off the footbridge.’
Lenny grunts scornfully. ‘It’s ridiculous. More to the point it’s dangerous. Farley hit her on the head, raped her and he left her to die. He confessed, for God’s sake.’
Turning her back, she climbs onto an exercise bike and begins pedalling, pushing buttons to set the level of difficulty. I hold onto the handlebars as though stopping her from moving. I argue, putting facts in a different order.
‘Jodie was hit from behind and either fell or was pushed into the pond. The shock of the cold water brought her round and she dragged herself onto the bank. She was disorientated. Coughing. Cold. Freezing. She stumbled along the path, only to collapse, unable to clear water from her lungs. Her respiratory system failed. If that didn’t kill her, it was the sub-zero temperatures.’
Lenny ignores me, but I know she’s listening.
‘Farley is fascinated by pornography and young girls. He has a history of exposing himself. What does someone like that do when he stumbles across an unconscious girl?’
‘Any normal person calls for help.’
‘Farley isn’t normal. He undressed Jodie and masturbated over her. Afterwards he realised what he’d done and panicked. He tried to clean up. He covered her with branches. He went home and dumped his clothes.’