‘Could always rent it out – you know, holiday cottage like.’
I frowned as I thought about it. ‘No. Couldn’t be bothered with all the hassle. Anyway, can you imagine a family with a couple of screaming kids descending on us?’
He grinned. ‘On second thoughts, let’s just leave the old place as it is, eh? Anyways, what would the foxes do if we rented it out?’
‘Are they still in there?’
He puckered his lips. ‘Not sure. There’s been something in there all right. Could be foxes or the old badger maybe. Probably should put a door on it if that’s okay with you? I’ve got an old one up at the farm.’
‘Okay. Do whatever you think. But don’t be out of pocket, George. If you have to spend anything on it, let me know and we’ll square up.’
He grinned and with a casual wave, went on his way. I knew he’d never ask me for a penny.
I lost the day in my study. Answered emails and put in a call to Westwood Park. Martha hadn’t surfaced and in the absence of a Section 2 order, there was little we could do beyond reporting her as a missing person. As I got up to leave, the phone rang. It was my mother.
‘Have you seen the TV?’
‘No, why?’ I reached for the remote.
‘Go to BBC news,’ she said. ‘It’s about this Towpath Killer.’
As the image flickered on, I could see a room set out for a police press conference. Hoyle sat at the centre of the table, beaming proudly. Beside him, the bird-like figure of Lizzie Taylor-Caine, looking professional in a dark skirt suit and white blouse. Her pixie-cut blonde hair making her look more manly than she probably intended. As usual, she wore no make-up and no smile. She shuffled papers in front of her, looking at her notes as Hoyle addressed the press.
‘In the early hours of this morning, a twenty-two-year-old man was arrested in connection with the towpath killings. Teams also searched several locations in Shipley. Vital evidence was recovered and forensic examinations are underway.’
There was a barrage of questions from the floor as the press demanded answers. Hoyle held up his hand to stem the flow.
‘All I can say at the moment is that we are keen to question this man in relation to these events.’
The press pack bayed for more, directing questions at Taylor-Caine. Hoyle answered first.
‘Psychological profiling was used in this case and I cannot emphasise enough the vital part it played. Which means that at this time we’re not looking for anyone else in connection with this offence.’
He glanced across at Taylor-Caine, who still continued to look down at her notes. I wanted to think it was because she was ashamed at the bare-faced implication that the work had been hers, but somehow I couldn’t imagine her having that much of a conscience.
One of the press pack shouted out, ‘Isn’t it true, Chief Superintendent, that there were conflicting profiles initially? And could this have hampered the enquiry?’
Hoyle cleared his throat and ran a finger along the inside of his collar in a classic gesture of discomfort.
‘That is true to an extent. We had the input of an external forensic psychologist and that person’s profile did differ from our own. These things do occur, but thankfully we followed the advice we felt most appropriate and it has resulted in a successful arrest.’
More questions came, but I wasn’t listening. I felt sick. I stared at the TV screen in disbelief. The misdirection was so blatant. I was stunned!
My mother’s voice was buzzing in my ear.
‘Is it you he’s talking about? Phina?’
‘I’ll call you back, Mamma,’ was all I could manage before I hung up the phone.
Harvey came and nuzzled my hand, resting his chin on my knee as I sat on the edge of my coffee table, watching the end of the press conference. My mind tumbled through endless possibilities.
The phone rang. It was Jen.
‘The bastards!’ she exploded down the phone. ‘Did you just see that utter crap?’
‘How much damage can it do me? I’m not officially involved in the case,’ I reasoned. ‘My name doesn’t appear anywhere. Whose to know I was the other psychologist? It’s only if I’m named that the implication is damaging.’
‘I don’t care,’ Jen ranted in outrage. ‘You did this as a favour to Callum.’
I winced at the reminder.
‘Where does he get off allowing them to even hint at such a thing? He should challenge that – it’s not fair!’
‘But if we challenge it, we’re telling everyone I was the other profiler.’ I tried to keep my tone calm even though I was as outraged as she was. ‘We’d shoot ourselves in the foot. At the moment, we’re not implicated directly. All the investigating officers know my profile was spot on. As long as it stays like that, why should we care? We should just let it lie.’
‘Maybe,’ she said, huffily. ‘But Callum deserves a flea in his ear and you should tell him to get stuffed if he ever wants another favour!’
‘I did that already.’
‘Good! If they think Taylor-Caine is so bloody good, let them use her crappy profiles in future and see where that gets them! Why let her bask in the glory of all your hard work?’
I heard Jen’s husband calling her from another room. She had obviously slipped away to call me.
‘Better get back to your weekend, Jen,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you on Tuesday.’
I sat and watched the news unfold for the rest of the day. Hourly bulletins came round, and more and more details about Woodhouse unfolded under the bright red banner of ‘Breaking News’.
All the details fit my profile.
Six feet tall and weighing in at fifteen stone, Woodhouse was muscular and fit. He had a fascination for martial arts and worked out at a gym three times a week, although people there said he was a loner. Originally from Blackburn, he’d moved to take up his job in Fordley. He didn’t have a girlfriend, but the local prostitutes in Fordley were giving interviews to journalists saying they’d done business with him around payday at the boatyard. When he got a reputation for violence, they’d stopped seeing him.
I half expected Callum to call. It hurt that he didn’t and I had to hear all of these details on the news like everyone else.
I wasn’t sure how I felt. Used – certainly. Humiliated – definitely. Alone – absolutely.
6 August
Saturday drifted into Sunday, which was as grey and depressing as my mood. I finally decided to walk Harvey for miles in companionable but grumpy silence across the moors, with my mobile phone switched off.
At four o’clock, I got back to the farm to find my answer machine on meltdown.
Three calls from my mother and two from Jen, all asking whether I had seen the Sunday papers. The office machine had one call from Marissa asking the same thing, and at least a dozen calls from journalists on newspapers across the country asking for my opinion on a story that had been run by Fordley Express.
I left the house without returning any of the calls and drove to the nearest newsagent in Kingsberry. Normally I would have walked to the village, but decided to keep a low profile until I saw the paper. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it until I was back at the farm, but nothing could prepare me for what I saw when I finally opened it on the kitchen table.
There it was across a double-page spread – a grainy black and white photograph of me and Callum standing by my car, heads together, looking very conspiratorial. It had obviously been taken by the paparazzi on the canal bank on Thursday morning.
The banner headline read:
Did botched profile cost Julie her life?
Botched profile!
I stared at the article in total shock. My stomach churned and twisted in a tight, cold knot of anger and a feeling of monumental betrayal.
My name wasn’t mentioned once. But references to ‘A police spokesman’ alleged there had been two different offender profiles – one of them by an external psychologist, who was not on the payroll and had not been of
ficially invited to contribute to the investigation.
The article continued relentlessly:
“One of the offender profiles was so wide off the mark that it took detectives down a completely false line of enquiry, undoubtedly meaning the offender was at large for longer. Did that fatal delay cost Julie Lamont her life at the hands of this brutal killer? Something that a review into the way this investigation was handled needs to address. With hindsight we ask, in these most serious criminal cases, should investigators rely so heavily on a branch of science that many feel is unproven and, at worst, can cost an innocent woman her life?”
It ground on and on.
I sat riveted to the spot not wanting to read any more, but compelled to take in each painful, miserable detail, which seemed to crucify me with every inference. As I reached the end of the article, the phone rang.
‘Phina, it’s me.’
I groaned. ‘Before you ask, Mamma, yes I got the paper.’
‘Is it true, Phina? That your profile got that little girl murdered?’
‘No, it’s not true!’
My mother always saw the negative side of everything. Especially my career, which she had never understood. And like most people who read the article, she would think there was no smoke without fire.
‘They don’t mention my name – it’s not me they’re talking about.’
‘But your picture is there, Phina. Why would they put your picture there if they’re not meaning you?’
I rubbed my temple, willing the throbbing in my brain to give me a break.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.’
‘What can you do?’ she ground on, as relentless as the article. ‘It’s out there now – everyone has read it!’
I could hear the panic as her voice went up an octave. ‘What do I tell the girls at the bowling club?’
And there it was.
She talked to her friends about, ‘My daughter the doctor’. Never actually saying what type of doctor. Never having to explain my world to those with sensitive dispositions, who would be horrified to know I worked in psychiatric hospitals and prisons with some of the country’s most criminally insane.
‘Tell them they should be ashamed to read a crappy tabloid like The Express!’
‘Phina! Be serious. This means you can’t work! You’ll have to give it up now, and what about Jen?’
She rolled on with her endless stream of disjointed non-logic, which for years had driven my father to despair.
‘I can prove my profile was right. In the meantime, I’ll get a solicitor. By next Sunday, you’ll have a more positive article to show the girls at the club!’
Her tone was hurt now. ‘It’s not about what I show the girls at the club. It’s you I’m worried about. I never liked you doing this job and this just goes to show you…’
She never elaborated on what it exactly showed me, but it was one of her favourite ways of ending a conversation on what felt like a victorious note.
As I hung up, the phone rang again.
‘Jo, it’s me.’ Jen’s voice was a welcome relief. ‘I hope you’re going to sue?’
‘You were going to be my next call.’ I sighed as I imagined her family cursing me as I robbed them of a normal weekend. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’
‘Forget it,’ she huffed, and I could hear the anger in her tone. ‘I’m going to call Fosters tomorrow.’ They were top-flight litigators in London. Marissa had put me in touch with them when we’d needed representation in a case a few years before. They had called me occasionally since then to be an expert witness.
‘They’ll have that editor swinging by his balls!’
I couldn’t help but laugh. Jen was usually so calm and composed. This was so unlike her.
‘Shame Taylor-Caine hasn’t got any,’ she ranted, protectively. ‘Or I’d have them for earrings! What a bitch! We’ve got to go after her for this, Jo.’
‘You’re supposed to be taking the day off tomorrow, remember?’
‘I can still do the family party around making a phone call. This is more important, Jo.’
‘Maybe we can release our original transcript through Fosters? They’ll sort it. I’m sure this’ll be tomorrow’s fish and chip wrappers.’
‘Well…’, she said, slowly. ‘I hope Marissa thinks so. She’s already called my mobile. She’s worried about the book.’
Marissa had persuaded me to write my latest book after realising that, over the years, some of the most infamous murderers in the country were behind bars as a result of my profiles or testimony as an expert witness at their trials.
In the Minds of Monsters, not a title I was wholly in favour of – was due out at the end of the year.
This journalistic silver bullet could end my monster’s premature life.
‘Has Callum called?’
‘No. He probably got it in the neck from Hoyle for using me in the first place.’
Was he just keeping his head down? I wasn’t sure how that thought made me feel. Disappointed, I supposed
‘I thought he was different, Jen,’ I said, quietly, feeling the unexpected sting of hot tears. ‘Some expert profiler I am!’
‘Hmm. Well it’s not your fault if he turns out to be a bastard like the rest of them,’ she said, stiffly. ‘But if it’s any consolation, I thought he was different too.’
I put the phone down. I really couldn’t bear any more of this. Before I wearily went upstairs for a bath and an early night, I switched off the office phone and my mobile. Let the journalists sweat until tomorrow.
7 August
The bed was oppressively hot. I tossed and turned, trying to quieten the maddening chatter in my brain. I didn’t remember falling asleep before a relentless pounding pressed at the edges of my tumbling nightmares.
I sat up suddenly, disoriented, trying to make sense of the insane commotion I could hear throughout the house.
The clock said 5.30am.
Harvey was barking and throwing himself against the kitchen door, which was being hammered on by frantic fists. The whole house reverberated with banging and howling.
As I crossed the kitchen, blue flashing lights from outside illuminated the room in a surreal pulsing glow.
Harvey strained at his collar as I heaved him back and swung open the oak door.
The police officer’s face told me instantly something I had come to recognise and dread ever since my first experience of it over twenty years before. Someone had died.
‘Sorry, doctor, we tried all your listed numbers but couldn’t get through.’
My throat went dry. ‘Is it my mother? Alex?’
His expression altered. ‘No, sorry, nothing like that. Your family are fine, doctor, absolutely fine.’
I looked behind him to his colleague sitting in the car. The window was down and radio chatter crackled through the still and humid early morning air. The blue light painted his face a garish colour.
The feeling they were bringing me death wouldn’t go away. My pulse raced.
‘Then what for God’s sake?’
‘Martha Scott.’
My brain froze momentarily as I processed what he had just said. I stepped aside as he followed me into the kitchen. Harvey growled suspiciously.
‘Harvey, stand.’ He took his cue and came to stand beside me. His posture defensive. His gaze never leaving the officer.
I felt shaky as my body realised it didn’t need the sudden surge of adrenalin for fight or flight.
‘I don’t understand. What about Martha?’
‘She’s dead,’ he said, simply.
I automatically began to fill the kettle, flipping the lid on the Aga.
‘She’s a potential suicide. Is that what’s happened?’
‘Not unless she stabbed herself over thirty times.’
I stared at him for a moment as his words sank in. He nodded, gesturing towards the humming kettle.
‘So if it’s okay with you, I don’t think we’ve got time for a
brew, doctor. CID want you down at the station.’
I’d made the journey to central police headquarters in Fordley more times than I cared to count, but never in the back of a police car. It gave me a different view. A view a lot of my clientele were familiar with and one I never wanted to get used to.
As we pulled into the high-walled courtyard at the rear of the building, I couldn’t remember the journey through the deserted roads on this early Monday morning. My mind was too busy running all the possibilities for Martha’s murder.
What were the chances of her being murdered the same way as the women in her nightmares? Slim to none. Or was she just monumentally unlucky to cross the path of a vicious killer by chance?
Then there was the haunting recording of my last interview with Martha – or with Jack? I still hadn’t decided what to think about that.
Had Martha committed murder as she believed? I didn’t think she was capable of it. If that were true, then any fragmented personality her mind may have created would also be incapable of it – that’s what all the research concluded.
Was it an elaborate faking by Martha? Unlikely. I didn’t think she had the intellect for such a deception. Then what was I left with?
My thoughts were interrupted as we stopped.
The air was humid and sticky but at least it wasn’t raining. We walked in silence around puddles and across the high-walled courtyard to the rear door of the station.
‘What’s wrong with using the front? Or am I being treated like a criminal?’ I was half joking, but I couldn’t raise a smile as I said it.
‘Press,’ he said, simply. ‘Swarming around the front, hoping to doorstep an investigating officer. This is the only place they can’t get access.’
It hadn’t occurred to me before, but in light of the Towpath Killer, another killing just a few days later meant the press would be having a field day.
The interview room was stark and depressing. Bright strip lights illuminated the small, white-walled, windowless room that smelled faintly of sweat and stale coffee.
The Murder Mile Page 9
