“Bloody hell. Bet he doesn’t fall for that one.”
But he did. Goldilocks met Bigbear and flirted discreetly for a week. Dan Fry and Ian Matthews sat for hours in front of a computer screen, their working life compressed into a tiny room in the forensics department, lit by a buzzing fluorescent tube, with Jodie’s life story pasted up on a wall beside them. Fry had found a photo of a girl he’d admired at college on Facebook and had an enlargement of her face stuck just above the screen.
Hi, Goldie.
How’s things?
How are you feeling tonight?
Sparkes, occasionally watching over his shoulder, felt a mixture of excitement and nausea as the nightly tango with Glen Taylor continued. Fleur Jones had given Dan Fry extensive coaching, and she was on the end of a phone if they needed her, but even with Matthews in the room, Sparkes worried that his newest recruit must feel very alone.
He’d gone out on a limb, and Sparkes realized it was all about pushing himself up the ladder. But he knew it could also finish him if it went wrong. “It’ll work,” Fry kept saying when spirits dipped.
Occasionally, another member of the team would put their head around the door. “Shagged him yet?” one asked Fry. “Has he asked what color your eyes are?” said another. Matthews had laughed—joined in the joke—but Sparkes realized the young detective had become a sideshow. He saw one night that Fry had caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the window behind the desk. He’d pushed back from the keyboard and was sprawled, legs splayed and spine curled back into the chair. Perhaps realizing that he was probably the mirror image of his quarry, Fry straightened up instinctively.
Fry was also having to engage with other blokes (at least he thought they were blokes) in the rooms so Taylor didn’t feel singled out, and the puerile humor and endless innuendo was beginning to wear him down. He could picture them, he said. Heavy metal T-shirts and bald spots.
Sparkes began to worry that being the bait would prove too much for Fry.
He couldn’t fault the younger man for his commitment—he found Fry leafing through women’s magazines to get in character and starting to talk about premenstrual tension, much to Matthews’s disgust.
And it was all taking so long. After fifteen nights in the chat room, Matthews was getting restless and told his boss it was a waste of time.
“What do you say, Daniel?” Sparkes asked. It was the first time he’d used the junior officer’s first name, and Fry realized he was being put in the driver’s seat.
“We’re building a relationship with him because we don’t want it to be a quick sex session. We want him to talk. Why don’t we give it another week?”
Sparkes agreed, and Fry, glowing with a new sense of power, rang his former tutor to urge her to up the ante. She was doubtful at first, but they agreed that Jodie should play hard to get and disappear for a couple of days and then hit Glen hard.
Where’ve you been? Bigbear asked when Goldilocks reappeared. Thought I’d lost you in the woods.
My dad said I was on the computer too much, Goldilocks said. He punished me. Both knew by then that she was twenty-seven, but the game was on.
How?
Don’t want to say. I might get into trouble again.
Go on.
And so she did. BB, as she now called him, was hooked.
Why don’t we meet up, somewhere online where your dad will never find us? he suggested.
TWENTY-FOUR
The Detective
TUESDAY, JULY 10, 2007
Glen Taylor said he was tapping the keys softly, telling his new friend that everyone in the house was asleep apart from him.
Goldie, as he now called her, had sent a photo of herself, in baby-doll pajamas, and he was trying to persuade her to take them off.
DI Sparkes had asked Fleur Jones to be present during all the private e-mail sessions with Taylor, and they sat behind Dan Fry, barely lit by the glow of the screen.
You are so sweet, Goldie. My lovely girl.
Your bad baby girl. You know I’ll do what you want.
That’s right. My bad baby girl.
There followed a series of instructions from BB that Goldie told him she was obeying and enjoying. When it was over, Dan Fry took the next step. It wasn’t what Dr. Jones had scripted, but he was clearly growing impatient.
Have you ever had a bad baby girl before? Fry asked. Reflected in the window, Sparkes could see Fleur raise a hand to urge caution.
Yes.
Was it a real baby girl, or like me?
I like both, Goldie.
Dr. Jones signaled for him to get back on the agreed track. They were going too fast, but it felt like Taylor was ready to open up.
Tell me about the other bad baby girls. What did you do with them?
And Glen Taylor told her. He told her about his nightly adventures online, his encounters, his disappointments and triumphs.
But you’ve never done it for real? In real life? Dan asked, and all three of them in the room held their breath.
Would you like that, Goldie?
Sparkes went to put up his hand, but Fry was already typing.
Yes. I’d like that very much.
He had, he said. He had found a real baby girl once. Sparkes wavered. It was happening too fast to think straight. He looked at Fleur Jones, and she got out of her chair and stood behind her protégé.
Fry could barely type, he was shaking so hard. I’m really turned on. Tell me about the real baby girl.
Her name began with B, like mine, Bigbear said. Can you guess?
No. You tell me.
The silence suffocated them as the seconds ticked by, and they waited for the final piece of the confession.
Sorry, Goldie. Got to go. Someone knocking on my door. Speak later . . .
“Shit,” Fry said, and put his head on the desk.
“I think we’ve still got him,” Sparkes said, looking at Dr. Jones, and she nodded firmly.
“He’s said enough for me.”
“Let’s put it in front of the grown-ups,” Sparkes said, and got up. “Excellent work, Fry. Really excellent.”
Six hours later, the three of them were sitting in the DCI’s office, putting up the case for arresting and charging Glen Taylor.
DCI Brakespeare listened carefully, read the transcripts, and made some notes before sitting back to give his judgment.
“He never used the name ‘Bella,’” he said.
“No, he didn’t—” Sparkes began.
“Did Fry go too far in his prompts?”
“We’ve talked to the legal team, and at first glance, they’re comfortable with it. It’s always a fine balance, isn’t it?”
“But”—Brakespeare talked over him—“we have him talking about taking a real baby girl with a name beginning with B. Let’s get him back in and put it to him. Say we have a witness statement from Goldilocks.”
The room nodded.
“We’ve got very good reasons to have pursued this line: We’ve got him in the area on the day, the blue van, the child porn on his computer, his predatory nature shown in his chat-room outings, a shaky alibi from his wife.
“And key is the risk of further offenses.”
The room nodded again.
“Do you believe he’s our man, Bob?” Brakespeare asked finally.
“Yes, I do,” Sparkes croaked, his mouth dried by anticipation.
“So do I. But we need more to nail it down. Fine-tooth comb, Bob. Do it all again while we’ve got him in. There must be something linking him to the scene.”
The team was sent back up the M3 to the South London suburb to start afresh. “Bring everything he has ever worn,” Sparkes said. “Everything. Just empty the cupboards.”
It was pure chance that they picked up Jean Taylor’s black Puffa jacket. It was wedged between her husband’s winter coat and a dress shirt and was bagged and tagged like everything else.
The technician who received the bags stacked them according to type and started the tests on outerwear, as it was likely to come into contact with the crime victim first.