Good Girl, Bad Girl(38)

One of the protesters yells, “What’s his name? Has he confessed?”

Others react and begin chanting, “Bring him out! Bring him out!”

I notice a TV crew arriving, hoisting cameras onto shoulders and bathing the crowd in a spotlight. The escalation is immediate and the noise level increases. I’ve always been fascinated by the psychology of the mob, how it provides anonymity and abrogates responsibility and diminishes any sense of “self.” People don’t lose their identity when they join together—they gain a new one as part of a tribe.

“Get some more bodies down here,” mutters Lenny, pushing through the glass doors. Cameras fire and reporters jostle to the front.

“I’ll make a short statement, then I want you all to leave,” she says. “A local man has been taken into custody and is helping us with our inquiries into the murder of Jodie Sheehan. That is all I can say.”

“What’s his name?” yells one of them.

“We won’t be releasing that.”

“Let us talk to him.”

The statement triggers laughter.

Lenny continues. “Please, go home. Let us do our job.”

“We have every right to be here,” yells the ringleader, who has tattoos on his shaven head and a T-shirt that says FREEDOM ISN’T FREE with a picture of Tommy Robinson, the far-right activist, emblazoned on a Union Jack flag.

Lenny ignores him. The crowd starts chanting, “Scum! Scum! Scum!”

I notice Felix slipping back through the crowd, trying to fade into the background. Stepping out of the main doors, I walk along the footpath, trying to locate him among the heads. I’m almost ready to give up when I spy him crossing the road, ducking between stopped cars. He’s with the same group, the young man and teenage girls. I follow from a distance, watching them saunter along Rectory Road, slouching and smoking. Felix has his arms around the two girls, sliding his hands down their spines until his fingers tuck into the pockets of their denim shorts.

I wanted to talk to him, to ask about the money we found in Jodie’s locker, but now isn’t the time. Instead I follow, watching from a distance. This is how I learn things about people. I study the way they walk and talk and interact with the world. When a structural engineer looks at a bridge or a building, he automatically thinks about axial forces, load-bearing points, and tensile strength. I look at how people use their bodies, faces, and voices; what they wear, how they drive their cars and relate to each other. Without trying or wanting to, I learn things about them—not the details of their lives but the shape of their personality and what influences their behavior.

I’m not far behind Felix. I half expect him to notice me and turn, but he’s too busy flirting with the girls. He’s reached his Lexus. My aging red Fiat is parked opposite. That’s when I make the decision. I cross the road and open the car door, while Felix says good-bye, bumping fists and shoulders. One of the girls whispers something in his ear. He brushes her off.

I’ve never tailed a car before. It’s not like following someone home from the pub or to a picnic spot in the countryside. Felix drives impatiently, accelerating hard between lights. Twice I think I’ve lost him, but the traffic is so heavy that he can’t get too far ahead of me. We cross Trent Bridge and follow London Road past Meadow Lane Stadium before turning left into Queen’s Road. He pulls into a multistory car park near the Nottingham railway station and drives to the rooftop level. He parks and locks the Lexus, twirling the keyless fob around his forefinger as he walks quickly down the stairs. I can hear his footsteps echoing below me, masking the sound of my own progress.

I emerge thirty yards behind him, watching him enter the station concourse, past the taxi rank and through the automatic doors. He stands beneath the arrivals and departures board but isn’t studying the timetable. Instead he seems to be looking for someone. Maybe he arranged to pick them up.

He walks slowly along the concourse, checking out the cafés, the booking hall, and the men’s room. Beside a row of vending machines, he stops and studies two backpackers who are lying on the floor with their heads resting on their rucksacks. Felix says something. A baseball hat is lifted. A shake of the head.

Leaving the main entrance, he crosses Station Street to a Jobcentre Plus on the opposite side of the road. The automatic doors open to reveal a queue of job seekers waiting for interviews. Felix loiters near the access ramp, watching people arrive and leave. Occasionally he approaches one of them, but the conversations are brief.

Another youth emerges, hands in his pockets, and a hooded sweatshirt covering his head. Felix greets him, his face full of boyish good cheer. A cigarette is offered. Accepted. Lit. Exhaled smoke mingles and dissipates in the cool air. They don’t know each other. This is a first meeting.

They chat for a few minutes before Felix reaches into his pocket and takes out a pen. He motions for the teenager to pull up his sleeve and then writes something on his forearm. A phone number? An address? I’m too far away to see.

They separate. The youth doesn’t look back. Felix checks his phone. Types. Two-handed. Seemingly satisfied, he turns away from the Jobcentre and heads back to the railway station. I’m not exactly sure what I’ve just witnessed. Some sort of recruitment or business arrangement.

I still want to ask Felix about the money in Jodie’s locker but not now, not yet. I don’t want him to know that I’ve followed him. He’s passing a homeless man dozing beside a dog. Felix pauses and takes a ten-pound note from a money clip and tucks it into the man’s pocket before walking away with a lightness to his step, as though all is now right with the world.