Good Girl, Bad Girl(39)
20
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CYRUS
* * *
Wednesday morning and the wind hints of winter. Mottled clouds are being driven across the sky, heading towards the Peak District and beyond to Ireland. I had planned on going for a run but quickly went off the idea when I saw the temperature outside. The central heating didn’t trigger again. The pilot light had gone out. It takes twenty minutes and a sore thumb before the spark becomes a solid blue flame.
I order a cab for nine o’clock and slide into the back seat. The driver is listening to the radio. I can only see the back of his head, which is shaved and oiled and the color of an old leather football.
A hospital porter has been charged with the rape and murder of Nottingham schoolgirl Jodie Sheehan, whose body was found a week ago beside a local footpath. Craig Farley, aged twenty-six, was arrested on Sunday at his Bainton Grove bungalow, which is less than a mile from where Jodie’s body was discovered.
At a press conference held late yesterday, Detective Chief Inspector Lenny Parvel said that Farley had made a full confession and would appear in Nottingham Crown Court this morning.
I hear Lenny’s voice take over the commentary.
“By choosing to cooperate with the police, the suspect has spared Jodie’s family added heartache. I would like to thank my team, who have had very little sleep over the past week. This quick arrest is down to their professionalism and hard work. They did it for Jodie and for everyone whose life she touched. We cannot bring her back, but we can make sure she’s not forgotten.”
The driver is talking to me.
“Sorry, did you say something?” I ask.
He nods towards the radio. “Me and my mates got it wrong.”
“About what?”
“Jodie Sheehan. We figured it was going to be family, you know. Someone close to her.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Normally is, eh? Eighty percent of the time.”
Where do people get figures like this?
He’s waiting for me to agree with him.
“Do you know the family?” I ask.
“The old man. He’s a cranky prick.”
I want to say the name Dougal Sheehan but leave it unsaid.
“He’s one of us—a cabbie,” says the driver. “Had some trouble a while back. This woman complained that he assaulted her. He’d driven her all the way out to Calverton before she told him she couldn’t pay. Said her purse had been stolen. Dougal threatened to call the cops, but she got in first and accused him of holding her hostage. She had bruises on her arm. Could have been Dougal did it. Could have been her boyfriend.”
“What happened?”
“Never went to court.” He glances into the rear mirror. “That’s why I got myself one of these.” He points to a small box on the dashboard. “You’re on Candid Camera. Say cheese!”
We’re heading along Derby Road past Lenton Abbey and the university. Taking the first exit on a roundabout, we cross the River Leen, little more than a concrete culvert, and follow Abbey Street. The plane trees form a golden tunnel that is crumbling in the wind, and between the branches, I get a glimpse of Nottingham Castle perched on the aptly named Castle Rock. Having been conquered, razed, rebuilt, and conquered again, it now looks more like a grand house than a fortress with turrets and battlements.
The cab drops me outside the Crown Court, a modern building with an arched glass entrance. TV crews are sheltering inside the main doors, away from the wind. They have set up their cameras in front of the large coat of arms, ready for reporters to cross live to the studio with news of Craig Farley’s first court appearance.
High Court hearings are in a different part of the building. Evie Cormac’s case has been listed for ten thirty. I try to imagine her being anxious, but it’s not an emotion I associate with Evie.
The corridors are bustling with lawyers and clients. This part of the precinct handles family law matters—divorces and child custody applications. I recognize the couples because they avoid eye contact, while their respective lawyers mingle with each other, chatting and smiling. Marriages that began with heartfelt promises “to love and honor and respect” have been reduced to ring-bound folders that detail who gets what and when and where. The arguments have led to here, a hearing before a judge, who will undo what God put together and no man was meant to put asunder.
I spot Caroline Fairfax. She is wearing her “court clothes,” a matching skirt and jacket, both black, over a white collared blouse. As I draw nearer, I realize that she’s not alone. Details slowly register—the freckles, birdlike skeleton, and upturned nose. Evie has been transformed. Her hair is dyed to a more natural color and she’s wearing a dress and cardigan buttoned up to her neck. Ankle-length boots give her another few inches in height. She looks great, yet miserable, as though forced to wear sackcloth or a hair shirt.
I smile.
“What are you looking at?” she snaps.
“Doesn’t she look great?” says Caroline.
I nod. Evie tells me to fuck off.
“You have to stop doing that,” says Caroline.
“What?”
“Swearing. It can’t happen in the courtroom.”
“I’m not a complete moron,” says Evie, who tugs at the collar of her cardigan and adjusts the elastic of her knickers in a less than ladylike manner.