Good Girl, Bad Girl(16)

Forty detectives are working on the case, collecting CCTV footage, knocking on doors, and taking statements. Many of them have been up all night and their eyes sting with tiredness and too much caffeine. Most are men. Lenny has done her best to get more women into the Criminal Investigation Department, but politics and sexism trickle down from the top. Regardless of the difficulties, she rarely complains, although she has become more outspoken with age. Professionally and publicly, she enforces laws that she sometimes regards as being antiquated and unfair—protecting property rather than people—while privately she rails against the real causes of crime: poverty, boredom, stupidity, and greed. None of these are excuses. In Lenny’s view, deprivation doesn’t force someone to put a needle into their vein or gamble away their welfare check or put a trash can through a shopwindow or set fire to a homeless man.

“Every society gets the criminals it deserves” is her philosophy. “And the police force it’s willing to pay for, rather than the one it insists upon.”

The ten o’clock briefing is underway. Lenny is perched on a desk with her feet on a chair, listening as various detectives bring her up to speed. Some I’ve met before. Many have nicknames. Monroe gets called “Marilyn” for obvious reasons, although she does have blond hair. Her partner is known as “Prime Time” because he manages to get himself on camera so often. My personal favorite is David Curran, a sharply dressed younger detective they call “Nobody” because “nobody’s perfect.”

An estimated two thousand people were at the fireworks display on Monday, with as many as three hundred vehicles. Parking was ticketed, but anyone could walk from the surrounding streets and set up a picnic blanket for the show. There were no CCTV cameras focused on the crowd, but the rugby club had one in the parking area, and another covered the traffic lights on Clifton Lane.

A detective sergeant with a crew cut consults a laptop. “Twenty-two names have come up on the Sex Offender Register, living within three miles of the murder scene. We’ve spoken to eight of them and will get to the others today.”

“Any of them known to Jodie?” asks Lenny.

“Kevin Stokes lives three doors away. He served seven years for molesting two boys at a swimming center in Coventry. The victims were five and seven.”

“When was that?”

“He was released eight years ago.”

“Anything since?”

“Nah. He’s on a disability pension. Needs a mobility scooter to get around.”

“Check with his doctor,” says Lenny, before turning to another detective. “Where are we with the family?”

Prime Time licks his finger and flips a page of his notebook. “Dougal Sheehan drives a cab. He says he left home at seven and did a twelve-hour shift, but it’s proving difficult to track down his movements. We’re going to look at his logbooks and credit card machine. The uncle, Bryan Whitaker, teaches at the National Ice Centre. He’s a recovering alcoholic who briefly lost his coaching license eight years ago, following a complaint about inappropriate behavior from one of his students. The allegations were withdrawn.”

“What sort of complaint?”

“She accused him of taking pictures of her in the showers. He denied it.”

“Were there photographs?”

“None were found.”

“Talk to the girl.” Lenny turns to Monroe. “What about Jodie’s brother—Felix?”

“He was at the fireworks early in the evening but left with friends before eight. He says they went to a nightclub where he picked up a girl around midnight and went back to her place. He can’t remember the address or her name.”

“Convenient,” mutters Nobody.

“He seemed pretty cut up about what happened to Jodie,” says the constable I saw outside the Sheehans’ house last night.

“You talked to him?” asks Lenny.

“Yes, Guv, but he didn’t say much. I’d call him strong and silent, but it’s more like brooding and sulky.”

“Did you clock his car?” says Edgar. “A top-of-the-range Lexus. Business must be good.”

“Find out what business,” says Lenny, before turning to Nobody. “Where are we with Jodie’s phone?”

“Her mobile puts her at the fireworks until about eight o’clock, but it stopped transmitting at eight twelve. I figure she must have turned it off.”

Lenny looks at him askance. “Do you have kids, Nobody?”

“No, Guv.”

“For future reference, should you ever find a woman who wants to give birth to a little Nobody, you’ll discover that teenagers can’t go five minutes without their phones. Jodie wouldn’t have turned it off without a very good reason.”

“Maybe it ran out of juice,” suggests Monroe.

“Perhaps,” says Lenny, clearly not convinced. “Find out what sort of phone she was using. She might have had tracking software or some app that allows us to turn it on remotely.”

“Yes, Guv.”

“When and where did we lose the signal?”

“A fish-and-chip shop called the In Plaice on Southchurch Drive.”

“Talk to the staff. See if anyone remembers her. Where are we with her call log and text messages?”