Bella’s mum is on the telly all the time. She’s being interviewed on every talk show, spewing out the same old stuff about “her angel” and how she cries herself to sleep every night. She never misses an opportunity. I wonder if she’s getting paid.
I raise the question on a radio phone-in late at night. Chris from Catford comes straight on the line to back me up. “What kind of mother is she?” he screeches. I’m glad other people see through her.
Since “retiring,” as Glen calls it, I spend my days watching daytime telly, doing word searches in puzzle books, and taking part in radio phone-ins. Funny, I used to think that the radio was for brainy people—all that talking. But I started to put the local commercial stations on for company and I got pulled in. There is a sort of gang of people who phone in—the same voices week in, week out. The old bloke who wants all immigrants thrown out, the woman who can’t say her Rs who thinks politicians should be put in pwison, the young lad who blames women for the rise in sex crime. They start out angry and their voices get higher and louder as they work themselves up. It doesn’t matter what the subject is, they can be outraged, and I got addicted to it.
I finally picked up the phone one day when they were discussing whether pedophiles could be cured. I said my name was Joy and told the presenter that pedophiles should be strung up. It went down well because there were loads of calls agreeing. And that was it. I was one of them. I changed my name every week or so. Ann, Kerry, Sue, Joy, Jenny, Liz. It was brilliant being someone else, even for ninety seconds, and having someone listen to you without knowing who you’re married to and judging you.
I found I had lots of opinions. I could be Mrs. Angry or a “bleeding heart liberal,” as Glen puts it. I could be anyone I wanted.
And it stopped me being lonely. Of course, Lisa had disappeared with the rest of my life. At first she kept calling round and inviting me in. She wanted to know all about it and was so sweet to me. She said she didn’t believe a word of it. But the kids didn’t come around anymore. There was always an excuse: Kane had a cold; Daisy was practicing her ballet for an exam; Lisa’s sister was coming to stay. Then she nailed the gate shut. Just one nail, high up.
“I was worried about break-ins,” she said. “You understand, Jeanie?” And I tried to.
TWENTY-THREE
The Detective
MONDAY, JUNE 18, 2007
Over the weekend, Dan Fry and Fleur Jones had picked the name Jodie Smith. Jodie because they thought it had a childlike ring to it and Smith for anonymity. Jodie was a twenty-seven-year-old woman from Manchester, a junior secretary in a large office who’d been abused as a child by her father and who got a sexual thrill from dressing up as a child for sex.
“It’s hardly subtle,” Sparkes had commented when presented with the first draft of the lurid backstory. “He’ll see straight through this. Couldn’t we tone things down a bit? Anyway, why would a woman who’s been sexually abused want to relive that as an adult?”
Fry sighed. He was impatient to get going, finally get his teeth into some real police work instead of acting as the incident room gopher, but he could sense the mood was changing in the room; the DI was in retreat. “That’s a good question, sir,” he said, using his favorite positive reinforcement technique.
Sparkes thought Fry was a patronizing little twat but decided to hear him out.
The younger officer pointed out that Jodie was modeled on an actual case study, and there followed a detailed psychological analysis of motives, post-traumatic stress disorder, acting out, and the darker side to human sexuality. Sparkes looked impressed and interested, his misgivings pushed back into a recess for the time being.
“What does Dr. Jones say? Has she signed off on this?” he asked.
“Yes, well, almost, sir,” Fry said. “I read the final draft to her on the phone this morning, and she seemed happy with it. I’m sending it by e-mail in a minute for her comments.”
“Okay. Once we have her approval, we’ll present the strategy to the DCI,” Sparkes said.
Detective Chief Inspector Brakespeare loved new ideas. Innovation was his byword, along with a clutch of other management clichés—and, crucially, he was as determined as Sparkes to nail Taylor. “This could make our names,” he said, rubbing his hands together as he heard them out. “Let’s take it to the chief super.”
It was decided to put the whole team before Chief Superintendent Parker. The meeting was a classic. Dr. Jones arrived wearing what looked like pajamas, a diamond glinting in one nostril, and CS Parker, in full uniform and Brylcreem, sat behind his master-of-the-universe desk.
He listened in silence as DCI Brakespeare outlined the plan and the risk assessment and quoted the necessary legislation to go undercover, then blew his nose and said, “Where’s the evidence that this will work? Has anyone else tried it? Sounds like entrapment to me.”
Brakespeare, Sparkes, and Fry took turns offering answers, and Dr. Jones interjected with scientific data and charm. Finally, CS Parker put up his hands and pronounced judgment.
“Let’s give it a try. If we don’t get the evidence here, it sounds like we’re unlikely to ever get it to put in front of a jury. Let’s make sure we have clean hands—no prompting or leading. Everything done by the book. We’ll get the evidence and then see if the judge allows it. Let’s face it. If Taylor takes us to a body, it won’t matter how we got it.”
He called Sparkes back in after the others had left to ask him about Fleur Jones. “Is she flaky, Bob? She looked like she got dressed in the dark and we are trusting her as our expert. How will she stand up to cross-examination?”
Sparkes sat down again. “Very well, sir. She knows her stuff—has degrees and research papers coming out of her ears.”
Parker looked dubious.
“She’s an expert in sexual deviance and frequently works with criminals,” Sparkes plowed on. “And that’s just the university staff.” The joke fell to the ground, writhing.
“Right,” the chief super said. “Okay, she’s qualified, but why her and not our own people?”
“Because she’s got an excellent working relationship with Fry already—he trusts her. And she’ll look good in front of a jury.”
“This is on your head, Bob. Let’s see how she gets on, but make sure you are there every step of the way.”
Sparkes closed the door quietly.
He joined Fleur Jones and the others in the forensics lab for a tour of Glen Taylor’s virtual playground. It was not an edifying experience, but Dr. Jones seemed the least affected. They stood behind the technician as he scrolled through the websites and chat rooms they had found on Taylor’s hard drive during their first search, spotting his favorites, the times when he visited, length of stay, and other helpful habits. LolitaXXX seemed to be top of his list of porn sites, and he hung out in Teen Fun and Girls Lounge chat rooms, using five different identities, including Whosthedaddy and Bigbear. Matthews smirked. “Not Mr. Darcy, then, boss.”
Taylor’s public chats were fairly innocuous, flirtatious, and jokey—the sort of small talk you’d hear at a teenage party. The more explicit stuff happened away from the chat rooms. The in-box of an e-mail address used only for his “sexcursions,” as Taylor called them in his e-mails, offered up a far more sinister glimpse into his secret world. Here, he persuaded others to join him. According to the photos sent to him, some were teens and others adults, but they all looked like kids.
Sparkes asked for a printout of all the chat-room conversations and private e-mails, and Fry took them away to confer with Dr. Jones.
“Is he up to this?” Matthews asked. “He’s only just got here and he’s got no operational experience.”
“I know, but he’s got the knowledge . . . and we’ll be there every step of the way. Let’s give him a chance,” Sparkes answered.
“You’re going to call yourself Goldilocks? Are you sure?” Matthews laughed when Fry and his tutor reappeared in Sparkes’s office.
Fry nodded. “We think it will speak to his interest in children and fantasy,” he explained.