Finding Jennifer Jones

by Anne Cassidy

  Kate’s bags were leaning against one of the table legs. Sara had dropped Kate off at the offices of the television company and then driven to the B&B and packed Kate’s belongings and paid her bill.

  She reached into her rucksack and felt about for her old phone. Now she could turn it on because her whereabouts would be known anyway. In a couple of hours, when the afternoon newspaper came out in London, the story would be public. Then she might get a call from Julia Masters demanding to know what was going on. There might be other calls as well. She switched her mobile on and watched as it came to life. There were a number of beeps indicating missed calls or texts. She looked at the screen. There were seven missed calls; two from Sally and five from Jimmy. There were also six texts; one from Sally, one from Aimee and four from Jimmy.

  The missed calls were on Sunday and Monday. The texts were from the day before, Wednesday.

  She opened Sally’s.

  Hi Kate. I’m guessing you met up with your pals in Taunton. Give me a call or send me a text so that I know you’re OK!!!!

  Next she looked at Aimee’s.

  Hope your camping trip is going well. Don’t forget to call in when you come back. Luv Aimee :)

  Then she looked at Jimmy’s. The first was Wednesday, 6:02am.

  Woke up early and thinking about you. Call me xxxxx

  The second was sent at 12:59pm.

  When you come back you can make me some bread! xxxxx

  The third was late the previous evening, 11:32pm.

  I’m guessing you’ve no reception out on the moors. Did I tell you how much I like you? And it’s not because you remind me of my ex-girlfriend. I’m counting the days till you come back xxxxx

  She turned it off. Soon not just Jimmy but everybody she knew in Exmouth would know about her. Sara had explained to her how it worked. Matt Murray was employed by a news agency. He’d collected the details of her story plus photographic evidence. These things would be in the London Evening Standard. Then the story would be picked up by the television news stations and the following morning it would be in the daily papers. Matt Murray would keep some stuff back, perhaps the photographs of the meeting with Lucy Bussell and the letter, so that he could sell the story over again to one of the tabloids.

  It might be on the evening news or at the very least it would be picked up by local news stations. The address on Kate’s letter was in Exmouth so the local news stations there would cover it. She pictured Sally eating a sandwich at the kitchen table, half an eye on the small television in the corner. Ruth might be making some food for her and Robbie and would look up when the name Kate Rickman was mentioned.

  Jimmy might not find out straight away because he spent a lot of time in his room listening to music or watching DVDs, but maybe there would be a knock on his door and one of the guys would say, That girl you’re seeing, her name’s Kate Rickman, right? Only there’s something on the news…

  The door of the room opened and Mr Cosgrove came in, looking harassed. Sara Wright followed him. From behind him she gave Kate a thumbs-up sign. Kate knew she ought to feel relieved and yet inside there was a sense of dread about what she was going to do.

  “Now,” Mr Cosgrove said, looking down at the piece of paper in his hand. “We have fixed a press conference for one o’clock. It will take place in one of our news studios and it will consist of you reading a statement and taking some questions from the press. At present we have sent out a fairly innocuous description of this conference. We have said that it concerns Conditions of Parole for Ex-Offenders.”

  He paused and glanced at Kate. He took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. His eyes seemed to sink back into his head and he looked like he needed a good night’s sleep.

  “This will attract the more academic sections of the press, those particularly interested in the issue of prison reform and so on. It implies the results of some study or other so no one will be expecting you to speak. When you do read your statement it will cause some surprise and the journalists there will immediately contact their newspapers with what will be seen as a scoop. The news will filter out and there will be huge interest in the story. We will, of course, broadcast an interview with you in all our bulletins during the rest of the day and this evening.”

  Kate nodded. She glanced at the London clock on the wall. It was 12:20.

  “This may have the effect of scuppering the news agency story or it may not. I don’t think that will concern you. There are, however, some things that you need to be ready for. Firstly, the press will say that you only went public because you know that the newspapers already had a story.”

  “That’s true. I can’t argue with it,” Kate said.

  “Secondly, there may be sections of the press who argue that this is a publicity stunt to enable Sara Wright to sell her book. Indeed, this was something I had to consider very strongly when I was approached by Sara. There may be suggestions that you are benefitting financially from this ‘exposé’.”

  Kate didn’t speak. It was something she hadn’t considered.

  “And thirdly,” he went on, “this press conference, the interview you are going to do, this will bring people out of the woodwork. There may be people from your past who will decide they want contact with you. The dead girl’s parents, for example.”

  Kate slumped back in the chair. Mr and Mrs Livingstone. Could she face them, if she had to?

  “There is still the opportunity to get in touch with your probation officer and explain what has happened. You may have to present yourself at a police station and I’m sure Sara will go with you and give you advice. You’ll be reprimanded and moved and start your life again with another identity. There is no need for you to go public if you don’t want to.”

  To start again with a new name, a new history. Looking over her shoulder, waiting for a detective or a journalist or a local policeman to knock at her door and drag her through everything again. She couldn’t do it any more. She shook her head.

  “And,” Sara said, “your mother may want to see you.”

  Kate looked down at her hands. Her fingers were woven tightly. Her knuckles were white.

  “Can I stop my mother from seeing me? Am I allowed to do that?”

  “If she refused to leave you alone, you’d have to make a case for it, in front of a judge. Maybe get a restraining order.”

  “Are you absolutely sure about this? Kate?” Mr Cosgrove said, his eyes searching her face.

  “Yes, I am,” she said.

  ***

  The news studio had three people sitting in the audience as Kate entered, walking between Mr Cosgrove and Sara. It was a small area with a long table down one end and rows of chairs filling the rest of the room. The table had four seats behind it and microphones at each place. There were no windows but bright lights which made it feel muggy and warm. Sara placed a chair in front of the door to keep it open.

  When they sat behind the table Kate suddenly felt panicky. In front of her was the statement that she and Sara had written. It was in her handwriting, like the letter she had sent to Lucy. That had been weeks before. Back then she’d thought that that was the extent of what she would do. An apology to a girl who she had treated badly; but then there was the other girl who she had treated much worse. There was no apology that she could make to Michelle Livingstone. She stared down at the page in front of her and saw that her hands were trembling. How long would this take? Longer than she wanted.

  Looking up she saw that there were now five people in the audience. Just then several other people came into the room, all talking to each other, one or two laughing. They sidled along a row and one or two of them looked curiously at Kate.

  “Is this everybody?” Kate whispered to Sara.

  “This is a good number for a low-key press conference,” Sara said, her face turned to Kate’s ear. “Remember, it’s not these people who are so important. This will be broadcast on the twenty-four-hour news stream.”

  A few moments later an
elderly woman rushed in, apologising. She sat down and proceeded to take a sandwich from a packet and eat it hungrily.

  “Prison rights campaigner. Freelance journalist,” Sara said quietly.

  Mr Cosgrove started to speak. His voice sounded very loud in the small space.

  “You all know, me, James Cosgrove, Commissioning Editor. This press conference has been called at short notice. Indeed, I only knew about it myself an hour or so ago. It is, however, an important briefing, for reasons that you will see. The announcement here could have a bearing on the debate regarding the treatment of ex-offenders. For that reason I would like to introduce Jennifer Jones, who has a statement to read out, and then will take questions.”

  A couple of people looked up and directed their gaze to Kate. The prison rights campaigner stopped chewing.

  “You can start now,” Mr Cosgrove said.

  Kate cleared her throat.

  “My name is … ” she began.

  The level of her voice was loud, too loud; people would probably hear it all through the building. She moved her head back from the microphone and started again, her voice running swiftly through the words in front of her, hardly taking a breath.

  “My name is Jennifer Jones and I would like to read you a short statement. Eight years ago I killed a girl called Michelle Livingstone and I was sent to a secure unit. Two years and nine months ago I was released and given a new identity. I lived in Croydon for nine months but had to move again and for the past two years I have been living in Devon and have been a student at Exeter University under the name of Kate Rickman.”

  She paused and looked round. Most of the audience were staring at her. Some were sitting up straight, their faces rapt, not quite sure of what they had stumbled on. A couple of the men immediately began to tap at their phones. Kate went on, her voice quavering, sounding high.

  “Some weeks ago I sent a letter to Lucy Bussell, the third girl who was involved in the events of that day. I sent this letter to apologise and I knew as I was doing it that it was going against the terms of my release. A few days ago I left the place I lived in Devon and took a train to London in order to start a new life on my own without the knowledge of the authorities. I was wrong to do that and shall bear the consequences of that action over the coming days.”

  There wasn’t a sound in the room. Every face was fixed on Kate’s.

  “My reason for giving this press conference is that I now intend to live my life with my birth name, Jennifer Jones. I am no longer prepared to live a lie. If this means I have to stay in prison then so be it. I hope that in time the authorities and the public will allow me to live normally.”

  She looked around for any appalled expressions. She went on to say her last line. She started to speak but found she couldn’t. She picked up a glass and drank some water. Then she looked around, making eye contact with as many in the audience as she could.

  “However I end up living, no matter how my life turns out, I will never forget nor forgive myself for what happened to Michelle Livingstone.”

  She sat back. There was a moment’s silence. It sounded comforting, like being underwater. Then the voices exploded as the questions started. Mr Cosgrove stood up.

  “One question at a time, please. One at a time.”

  Kate was sitting in a coffee bar at Paddington Station with Sara Wright. She was to catch the 4.20 train to Exeter. She’d spent the afternoon doing an interview for the evening news shows. The televised interview would last about ten minutes but the filming seemed to have taken forever.

  While she was waiting she composed a text to Lucy Bussell.

  Dear Lucy, you will see things in the press about me today. Don’t be upset. It’s nothing for you to worry about. The one good thing about coming to London was meeting you. Hope you and Donny are OK. I will write again if I’m allowed xxxxx

  She sent the message.

  “You all right?” Sara said.

  “Fine.”

  “Time to go? Got your ticket?”

  Kate showed the ticket. She followed Sara towards the ticket gates.

  “Not nervous about going back?”

  “Not really. I’ve got to get it over with. Face people.”

  “Don’t forget to look out for Don Jordan. He said he’d wait just outside the station for you. He’s done a lot of legal aid work in Exeter so he’ll make sure everything’s done properly.”

  Mr Cosgrove had arranged for a local solicitor to meet Kate and take her to the police station so that she could hand herself in. It was a relief that it was out of her hands now.

  “I’d better go,” she said.

  “Look after yourself,” Sara said. “Maybe this will all be for the best.”

  “I know one thing,” Kate said. “Your book will sell more copies.”

  Sara nodded and shrugged at the same time. Kate slipped her ticket into the machine and went through the gates. She didn’t look back.

  PART FIVE

  EXETER

  Thirty-one

  Jennifer sat on the train, slumped against the window. She was tired. The carriage she was in was half empty and she stared out onto the passing countryside as the train sped through. She’d deliberately turned her phone off and put it into her bag. After the stress of the morning and the time it took to do the interview she didn’t want any actual contact with anyone. There would be plenty of that once she got to Exeter.

  Her mother crept into her thoughts, though.

  The press would contact Carol Jones asking for her opinion on the latest developments. Carol Jones, the model, would be keen to get involved. Will you be sending a photographer? she might say and begin to sort out her clothes and apply her make-up. No doubt she would hold up her outfits so that her new husband would look them over and decide which showed her in the most flattering light.

  Would she, for whatever reason of her own, jump in a car and come down to Exmouth and try and see her daughter? Jennifer hoped she wouldn’t. She had no interest in Carol Jones. It was some years since she’d had any contact with her at all. The last time had been when she was in detention. During a visit her mother had taken a photograph of her sitting on a bench in the grounds. Days later she’d sold that photograph to a tabloid newspaper and Jennifer had stopped any contact between them. Photographs were a kind of currency for Carol Jones – she paid for things with them or she was rewarded with them for doing some sort of dirty work. Her life was one long reel of film. Somewhere along it, Jennifer had faded out.

  She’d glimpsed her mother for the last time two years before when her life in Croydon had ended. Carol Jones had been on her way then to stage a meeting with Jennifer but Jennifer had been spirited away so the meeting had not happened.

  Would she be able to avoid such a meeting now?

  It was one of the problems she would have to face.

  She thought about the interview that she’d done. She’d had to have make-up put on by a girl who looked about her age and who had chatted about her boyfriend who had asked her to move in with him. She’d stared at her face in the mirror as foundation had been applied, and blusher and lipstick. It had seemed bizarre and strange to be treated like a celebrity.

  Another journalist, an older woman, Jane Curran, had taken the interview. Her questions had been sympathetic but then, at the end of the interview, out of the blue, she’d said, And how do you expect the parents of the dead girl to react to this media circus that has exploded? She had stumbled over her answer, saying that she hadn’t wanted it to be like this, but Jane Curran had simply looked her in the eye and said, If you’d stayed where you were, Miss Jones, none of this would have happened. Many prisoners are released with new identities to protect them from reprisals. Why was it so difficult for you to live with it?

  She stumbled out her answers and then, all of a sudden, it was finished and she could go.

  The train was due into Exmouth Central just before seven. As it began to slow she walked along the carriage with her bags. Further up,
near the front, in a seat where someone had been sitting until a couple of stops before, was a copy of the London Evening Standard. She looked at the front page. There was an article about a football player at the top but the bottom half of the page had her story. Jennifer Jones in London: Child Killer Attempts Contact with Third Girl. Underneath, at the side of the article was a photo of her taken that morning, on the pavement across the road from Finsbury Park station. She looked at it for a few moments, her mouth hard and straight. She was public property: it was something she would have to get used to.

  She got off the train and headed for the ticket barriers. Just beyond them she could see a small man with straggly hair standing looking quizzically at the travellers. She put her hand up and he smiled.

  “Jennifer Jones?” he said, when she got up to him.

  She nodded. Her real name felt odd now, as if it belonged to someone else and she was borrowing it. He began to walk and speak at the same time.

  “I’m Don Jordan. My car’s close by. I’ve spoken at length with Sara Wright and she’s filled me in on your situation. I’ve been in touch with the police and informed them that you intend to present yourself voluntarily at the Exeter station, in effect to hand yourself in. What they intend to do with you, well, we’ll have to wait and see.”

  He was in a hurry. He was wearing dark trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. On his belt at the side was a holder for his mobile phone and he reached for it as she followed him towards the car park. He took a call briefly and then placed it back, fastening the top flap so it was hidden away.

  “This is my wife’s car so it’s a bit of a mess.”

  Jennifer put her bags into the back seat to the side of a child’s car seat. There were a couple of rattles lying in the footwell.

  “I’ve also been in touch with Julia Masters, your probation officer. She will try to get to the police station this evening after her appointments. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”