Good Girl, Bad Girl(15)



In the weeks that followed the story slipped from the headlines until Angel Face was discovered and the case became an international news event. A mysterious child in a secret room—it sounded more like a Grimm’s fairy tale than reality.

Among the files that Guthrie has sent to me is the original admission form from Great Ormond Street Hospital.

Gender:

Female



Name:

Unknown



DOB:

Unknown



Height:

50 inches



Weight:

57 lbs



Condition:

Underweight. Filthy. Signs of scabies, head lice, and rickets. Evidence of long-term sexual abuse, including deep perineal and vaginal lacerations that have formed fibrous connective scar tissue.



Markings:

Birthmark on her left inner forearm the size of a penny. Scar on her right thigh, four inches above the knee. Multiple lesions on her back and chest most likely caused by cigarette burns.



Property:

Eight pieces of colored glass. A large tortoiseshell button.



Clothing:

Soiled jeans. A woolen sweater with a polar bear on the chest. Cotton knickers.



The admitting officer is listed as Special Constable Sacha Hopewell. She was photographed carrying Angel Face into the hospital—an image that became synonymous with the case. I call it up on my computer. Constable Hopewell is dressed in dark gym gear—leggings and a jacket and trainers. Her knees and elbows are smudged with some sort of white powder. The girl in her arms looks filthy and emaciated, her hair a tangle of snakes, her face gaunt. She’s dressed in the same clothes described in the hospital admission form.

Sacha Hopewell was twenty-two when she found Evie. She’d be twenty-eight now. A lot of people become special constables as a stepping-stone towards a full-time career in policing. Sacha could still work for the Met. I want to ask her how she found Evie. What made her go back to the house so long after the murder?

I call Barnet Police Station in north London and negotiate a maze of automated choices before reaching a desk sergeant.

“Never heard of her,” he says, wanting to get rid of me.

“She was the officer who found Angel Face.”

“Oh, her! She doesn’t work here.”

“Where can I find her?”

“No idea. She was only a volunteer.”

“She was a special constable.”

“Yeah, same thing.”

I hang up and type Sacha’s name into Google, hoping she might have a Facebook page or Twitter account, but come up with nothing. Instead I stumble across several newspaper photographs of her leaving a house identified as being in Wembley Park—possibly her parents’ place. She is surrounded by photographers and reporters, forcing her way grimly through the pack.

Farther down the screen, I find a story from the Harrow Times. Sacha’s father, Rodney, is quoted, asking the media to leave his daughter alone. “She’s not allowed to speak to you. She doesn’t have anything to say. Please, let Sacha have her life back.”

A street name is mentioned. I try the reverse phone directories, but the family’s number is unlisted. Eventually, I call an old friend who works for the DVLA. Donna Forbes was a year ahead of me at school and is one of the good ones.

“How do I know you’re not trying to trace an old girlfriend?” she asks.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, but how do I know?”

“I’m trying to find the special constable who found Angel Face. Do you remember the case?”

“Of course. Why her?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“I’m going to assume it’s police business,” says Donna, sucking air through her teeth. “But if I get caught, I could lose my job.” I can hear her typing in the background. “Every search creates a data trail.” More typing. “There’s a Rodney Hopewell in Wembley Park.” She gives me an address and phone number.

“I owe you a drink,” I say.

“I expect dinner.”

“You’re married.”

“A girl still has to eat.”

*

Rodney Hopewell answers on the fourth ring. He gruffly recites his phone number before saying, “Can I help you?”

“Is Sacha there?”

There is a pause.

“Who are you?”

“A friend.”

The phone goes dead. I don’t know if he hung up or the line dropped out. I call again. The number rings off. I try one more time. Someone picks up the receiver and drops it into the cradle.

I’m listening to dead air.





8




* * *





CYRUS




* * *



The major incident room at West Bridgford Police Station has a makeshift feel, as if put together in a hurry. Computer cables snake haphazardly across the floor and desks are pulled into clusters. A series of whiteboards dominate the space, covered with data collected over the past twenty-four hours—crime scene photographs, timelines, and phone wheels. Some of the information is highlighted or circled with fluorescent markers or linked by hand-drawn lines, creating a storyboard of Jodie Sheehan’s final hours.

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