‘There was someone who turned up at the kitchen door. One of the caterers came and found me. He said a girl was looking for someone at the party. She wouldn’t give a name. She wanted to wait for a text message. I told her to leave.’
‘You saw her?’
‘No. I told the caterers to tell her.’
Jimmy makes an exasperated sound, suddenly less certain than before. ‘Who is this witness?’ he asks, sceptically.
‘The person who drove Jodie here and watched her walk through the gates,’ replies Lenny, studying Jimmy’s reaction. ‘For the record, when did you last see Jodie Sheehan?’
‘Not that night.’
‘When?’
‘A few weeks ago. Dougal asked me to be Jodie’s sponsor. I covered some of her travel expenses; a few grand here and there.’
‘How did you pay the money?’ asks Lenny.
‘Directly to Dougal. But I told Jodie that if she ever needed anything she should come and see me.’
The statement resonates deep within me. Jimmy made the same promise as we watched the caskets of my parents and my sisters being wheeled from the cathedral. He had no ulterior motive. It’s what he does.
‘Is Dougal Sheehan working today?’ asks Lenny.
Jimmy glances towards a four-car garage where two of the doors are open.
‘Please don’t harass a grieving father.’
‘Thank you for your co-operation, councillor,’ says Lenny.
Jimmy tries to match her politeness but hasn’t taken his eyes off me. He thinks I’m responsible for bringing the police to his doorstep, for failing to warn him.
‘You should have called,’ he mutters when Lenny is out of earshot.
‘I don’t have a phone.’
Dougal is polishing the Range Rover as we step into the dark cool of the garage, which smells of wax and window cleaner. He shakes out a cloth and dabs his brow before tucking it into the pocket of a vinyl apron that is protecting his clothes.
Lenny isn’t as polite as the last time she spoke to him.
‘Why didn’t you tell us you were working for Councillor Verbic on the night Jodie disappeared?’
‘I said I was driving a cab – same difference. I picked people up. I dropped them off.’
‘Did you see Jodie that night?’
‘No.’
‘But she was here,’ I say.
Dougal looks genuinely surprised.
‘Jodie was dropped outside the gate just after nine o’clock.’
‘Why would she come here?’ asks Dougal.
‘We’re hoping you can tell us that.’
He looks from Lenny to me and back again. ‘Did Jimmy see her?’
‘Councillor Verbic doesn’t recall seeing Jodie that night.’
I notice a faint tremor in Dougal’s left hand, which isn’t a sign of infirmity. He doesn’t know how to react, or what to say.
‘Did Jodie know where you were working?’ asks Lenny.
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Has she been here before?’
‘Once or twice. I can’t be sure.’
‘If we have forensic officers look at these vehicles, are they going to find Jodie’s DNA inside?’
Dougal’s gaze drops to his feet as though he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure of whether he should jump. ‘She’s been in the Silver Shadow.’
‘With Jimmy?’
‘Yeah. We picked her up from skating practice and drove her to school.’
Lenny is walking around the Rolls-Royce. She cups her hands to peer into each window, deliberately leaving smudges on the glass.
‘What else do you do for Councillor Verbic?’ she asks.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ever run errands?’
‘Yeah, sometimes.’
‘Pick people up?’
‘Sure.’
‘Drugs?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Why would Jodie have a burner phone?’
‘A what?’
‘A cheap disposable phone,’ says Lenny. ‘We also found spare SIM cards and hidden cash in her locker – all the trappings of a spy, or a terrorist or a drug dealer.’
A light seems to trigger behind Dougal’s eyes, something red and bright, which flares and remains burning. For a moment I think he might tell us something important, but instead his voice drops to a harsh whisper.
‘Our Jodie was raped and murdered. She was left to die alone in a dark cold place. I thought nothing could be more horrible than seeing my baby girl in the morgue, but I was wrong. This is worse. You’re the real monsters.’
44
‘What did you make of that?’ asks Lenny, shaking Tic Tacs into the palm of her hand. She rattles the container, offering me some. I refuse.
We’re still parked outside Jimmy Verbic’s house, sitting in her unmarked police car. An elderly couple shuffles past. The husband rocks forward on a Zimmer frame and his wife pauses at each intersection to wait for him.
‘Jodie didn’t come here looking for her father,’ I say.
‘Agreed.’
‘She came to deliver something or pick something up.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘How much do you know about Felix Sheehan?’
‘He has an alibi.’
‘A partial one. You still haven’t confirmed where he spent the night.’
Lenny rubs her eyes with the heels of each hand.
‘Does Felix have a criminal record?’
‘Not as an adult.’
‘Before?’
‘Juvenile records are sealed.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
Clearly, Lenny could tell me more but chooses not to. It’s another reminder that I may work for the police, but I’m not part of the club. I don’t have the unambiguous, unerring certainty needed by someone like her, a crusader who divides the world into good and evil.
She reaches for the ignition, but something moves in the periphery of her vision. The electronic gates are opening. Moments later, a black cab pulls out and accelerates past us. Dougal Sheehan is behind the wheel, in a hurry.
Lenny doesn’t hesitate before pulling out and following. She’s better at this than I am – tailing someone – keeping at the optimum distance to avoid being caught by red lights or clocked in the cab’s mirrors.
We drive in silence, but my question about Felix is on her mind.
‘Do you know why juvenile records are sealed?’ she asks.
‘To assist with rehabilitation and treatment,’ I reply.
‘Exactly. We don’t want youngsters stigmatised or labelled as career criminals. They deserve a second chance.’
‘I agree.’
‘Felix was picked up at a summer music festival in Sherwood Forest. A sniffer dog found him carrying small amounts of crystal meth and ecstasy. He was fourteen – too young to be charged – but he was most likely a runner for a local gang.’
‘Could he be still involved?’
‘If he’s stupid. We’ve had three stabbings since January, all of them unsolved. The Moss Side Bloods are moving in from Manchester and those guys are seriously dangerous. Most of the gangs operate away from home because they’re less likely to draw attention from the competition or be known to the local coppers. When they move into an area, they look for a base – normally a squat, or a derelict building, or sometimes they target the vulnerable, like an addict, or someone with mental health problems, befriending them and moving into their house. They call it cuckooing. Once they establish there is a market, they begin recruiting runners. Usually they trawl the train stations, amusement arcades and skate parks, looking for strays or kids on the margins, from dysfunctional families or failing at school. They might offer them alcohol or cigarettes or computer games. Some get turned into junkies; or the girls are groomed for sex.’