Good Girl, Bad Girl(11)

“Turn it off!” begs Maggie. Dougal reaches for the TV remote. Fumbles. Curses. The screen goes black.

“Why would anyone hurt our baby?” whispers Maggie. Her shoulders heave, as though shifting weight from one to the other.

Lenny glances at me, but I have no words to make this right. I know what awaits them. In the days to come, Jodie’s life will be picked apart by the media, who will feast on this story: the young “golden girl” of skating, who dreamed of Olympic glory but died in a cold, muddy clearing less than a mile from her home.

As a forensic psychologist, I have met killers and psychopaths and sociopaths, but I refuse to define people as being good or evil. Wrongdoing is an absence of something good rather than something fated or written in our DNA or forced upon us by shitty parents or careless teachers or cruel friendships. Evil is not a state; it is a “property,” and when a person is in possession of enough “property,” it sometimes begins to define them.

Would it benefit the Sheehans if I told them this? No. It won’t bring them comfort when they lie beside each other tonight, staring at the ceiling, wondering what they might have done differently. People who lose children have their hearts warped into weird shapes. Losing a child is beyond comprehension. It defies biology. It contradicts the natural order of history and genealogy. It derails common sense. It violates time. It creates a huge, black, bottomless hole that swallows hope.

Dougal is pouring himself a drink at a bar cabinet. Most of the bottles have duty-free stickers still attached. Maggie seems more relaxed when he’s not focused on her. She talks more freely. Remembers.

“When Jodie learned to ride a bike, I wouldn’t let her leave the cul-de-sac because I didn’t want her riding out of sight. People said I was overprotective, but I know how these things happen. Later, when she started school, I let her walk to Tasmin’s house, but never in the dark—not on that footpath. We used to call it the Black Path because it had no lights. Even when the council finally put them in, we still called it the Black Path.”

“Why did Jodie and Tasmin split up last night?” I ask.

“Jodie went to get fish and chips,” says Felicity.

“By herself?”

Nobody answers.

“Does she have a boyfriend?” I ask.

“Not a proper one,” says Felicity. “Sometimes she hangs out with Toby Leith.”

“The rich kid?” Dougal says, in a mocking tone.

“He’s not that rich,” says Bryan. “His father has a car dealership.”

“How old is Toby?” I ask.

“Too old,” says Dougal.

“He’s eighteen,” explains Felicity, who doesn’t like correcting her brother-in-law. “They only hang out.”

Dougal reacts angrily. “What does that even mean? Jodie was supposed to be in training, not running around with some redneck in a flash car.”

Maggie flinches and looks even more miserable.

“When did you realize that Jodie was missing?” I ask, wanting to change the subject.

“She was supposed to come back to ours,” explains Felicity. “Tasmin waited up until eleven and then fell asleep.”

“Did Jodie have a key?”

“Tasmin left the patio door unlocked.”

“She was out there all night,” says Dougal, his voice breaking.

Felicity sits on the edge of his armchair and brushes his cheek with her hand. It’s an intimate gesture, like watching Androcles pulling a thorn from the lion’s paw. These people are close, I think. They have raised their children together, celebrating birthdays, christenings, anniversaries, and milestones. The highs and the lows.

“When did you realize Jodie was missing?” asks Lenny.

“I went to wake Jodie for training, but she wasn’t in Tasmin’s room,” says Bryan. “I figured she must have gone home last night, so I drove by here to pick her up. That’s when we realized that she’d been missing all night.”

“And you phoned the police,” says Lenny.

The couples look at each other, waiting for someone else to answer.

“We looked for her first,” says Bryan. “I went to the ice rink. Tasmin began phoning her friends.”

Lenny studies Dougal. “What about you?”

He motions to the window and the black cab outside. “I was working last night. I got home around seven and went straight out again, looking for Jodie.”

“Where?”

“I walked along the footpath.”

“What made you immediately think of Silverdale Walk?”

“It’s the way home,” he replies, as though it should be obvious. His voice catches. “I must have walked right past her.”

Maggie is staring at the wall, as though looking into the past.

“What did you do?” I ask.

“I prayed.”

“Someone had to stay here in case Jodie called or came home,” explains Felicity.

Lenny seems to be quietly plotting the timeline of events. It made no difference when the police were called. Jodie had been dead for hours.

“Is there anyone who might have wanted to harm your daughter?” Lenny asks.

Maggie looks lost. “What do you mean?”

“Did she talk about anyone following her? Someone who might have looked out of place or made her feel uncomfortable or unsafe?”