Finding Jennifer Jones (24 page)

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?”

He was leaning across the steering wheel looking to one side and then to the other, checking the traffic. The car pulled out and Jennifer asked him the question that had been playing around her head ever since the press conference.

“Will they send me back to prison?”

“Hard to say,” he said, without a moment’s thought. “My guess is that there’ll be a hearing in the morning, probably in front of a magistrate. You have certainly transgressed some of the agreed boundaries and of course you’ve come out publicly, which won’t please the authorities. We’ll have to see.”

Jennifer sat very still.

“I’ll come into the station with you and we will see how the police deal with your case. There’s a possibility you may be bailed, cautioned, told to report back to the station in the morning. Or they may want you to stay overnight until the hearing tomorrow – that’s if it is tomorrow. It all depends who is in charge. We shall see.”

They parked along the road from the police station. Jennifer picked her bags out of the back of the car and walked with heavy legs towards the front entrance. The last time she had been here was when they’d taken her in for questioning about the Jodie Mills murder. Then she had come in a car and been ushered into the station from a back entrance. Now they had to press an intercom button and Don Jordan spoke succinctly into the mouthpiece and the doors swung open. Jennifer walked behind the solicitor, ignoring the half a dozen people who were sitting in the waiting area. When they got to the counter she let her rucksack slide off her arm and onto the floor and placed her other bag by its side. A uniformed officer came towards them. Don Jordan spoke immediately, his voice booming out with authority.

“I am Donald Jordan and I’m here to represent my client, Jennifer Jones. I called earlier to outline my intentions. Jennifer Jones is voluntarily attending the station as recent events have led her to break the conditions of her release two years and nine months ago.”

The officer nodded. He picked up a telephone and made a call. Don Jordan stood to attention as though there was no awkwardness in the situation. The officer appeared to be speaking to someone but his words were muffled and Jennifer couldn’t make out what was being said. Don Jordan’s phone beeped and he flipped open the pouch and pulled it out. Kate heard the name
Julia
and thought that it was probably her probation officer.
OK!
Don Jordan said, jauntily.
OK! I’ll tell Jennifer.

“Your probation officer has been held up. She will be here later,” he said, holding onto his phone for a moment before replacing it in its holder.

The officer finished his call. “Someone will be along to deal with you. Take a seat. I’m not sure how long they will be.”

They sat down. Jennifer prepared herself for a long wait. The inner door opened suddenly though and a couple of officers came out, talking, one of them laughing at something the other one had said. Just behind them was a plain-clothes officer, a detective. Jennifer recognised him immediately. DC Simon Kelsey. Her heart sank. He spoke to the officer on the desk who nodded in their direction, then he said something to the other officer who grinned. Then he walked towards them. Don Jordan stood up.

“I’m DC Simon Kelsey, Mr Jordan. Perhaps you and your client would care to come with me.”

He couldn’t even say her name. She watched his back as he pressed an entry buzzer. His shoulders seemed to ripple; perhaps with pleasure.

Thirty-two

She was taken to a cell. It was ten o’clock and she’d been assured that the hearing would take place the following morning and Don Jordan would apply for – and get – bail. A further hearing would have to be scheduled, Don Jordan was positive.
You’ve not committed any crime. You’ve annoyed the probation service and the parole authorities won’t like the fact that you’re choosing to live under your own name. But you’ve served your sentence.

Tonight, though, she had to stay in police custody.

She’d been taken there by DC Simon Kelsey and he had waited in the corridor until the door was locked by the custody sergeant. Even then she had sensed him standing outside the door, listening to see if she would shout or cry out. Instead she sat rigid, her face turned away, staring at the wall opposite the door. There was no window, just rows of glass bricks near the top where light shone through. Eventually she heard him walk away, his footsteps receding.

The cell was small and heavy with the smell of disinfectant. She sat on the bed, a thin blanket pooled at her ankles. She wouldn’t sleep, she
couldn’t
sleep. She thought about the news reports and wondered who had seen them and what their reaction had been. Mainly she thought about Jimmy Fuller, who might think that the only reason she had been with him was so that she could steal his ex-girlfriend’s passport. Jimmy’s heart was already bruised, the girl he had loved working on a dig in Scotland, instead of living in a house in Exmouth with him. Now his rebound girlfriend had proved false in many more ways than one.

There was some noise out in the corridor, a female voice, talking to the sergeant. The door rattled and then it opened and Julia Masters was standing there. In her hand she had a bottle of water and a packet of sandwiches. The custody sergeant was holding a chair. He placed it in the cell.

“You’re allowed to eat this while I’m here,” Julia said, handing the food to her.

“Thank you,” Jennifer said.

She peeled back the wrapper, took a sandwich out and bit a corner of it off. She hadn’t realised that she was hungry. Julia was making herself comfortable, placing her bag on one side of her chair and her briefcase on the other.

“I had some appointments. Then I had to go home and wait for my husband to get home from work so that he could sit with Justin and Peter.”

“Sorry to cause you so much trouble.”

“Are you, Kate?”

Julia looked pointedly at her.

“It’s
Jennifer
now.”

Julia let out a sigh. She looked tired. Her hair was pulled back with a tie and she had no earrings on.

“Do you really think that reverting to your birth name will make your life any better?” she said. “It won’t. It will make it a lot worse. Everyone will know what you’ve done! Is that what you want? To go through your life with people staring at you, pointing fingers at you?
That’s the girl who killed the ten-year-old
.”

“I was ten years old myself.”

“You don’t need to tell me. I know everything about your case. Every single thing!”

“I’m tired of living a lie.”

“Maybe you’ll feel differently in a few weeks’ time.”

“Why are you so angry at me?”

“Because of the trouble we went to hide your identity. Arrangements had to be made, people’s time was taken up. Public money was spent on you, Kate!”

“Have you just come here to shout at me?”

“No. No.” Julia looked sheepish. “Course not. I guess it’s just late and I’m tired. I came to tell you that I’ll be there at the hearing in the morning and I’ll be speaking on your behalf.”

“Thank you.”

“But you know that it won’t make any difference to your commitments to me. You’ll still have your appointments with me whatever your name is.”

“I know.”

“I just wanted you to know that you have my support.”

“Do I?”

Julia stared at Jennifer, her mouth open, an expression of exasperation on her face.

“You’ve never liked me, have you?” she said.

Jennifer was taken aback. It might well have been true and maybe they both knew it, but it was an awkward thing to say out loud. She didn’t know how to answer.

“I had such good reports about you from your other probation officers.
A bright girl, a terrific student. A person who wants to do what is right. She is a delight to work with. Just be careful that she doesn’t crumple under pressure.
But I never found that person. All I found was a stroppy teenage girl who thought she’d been dealt a bad hand. I’ve tried to help you as much as I could, but you didn’t go out of your way to make it easy.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just tried to keep myself to myself.”

“Standoffish I could have handled, but at times you’ve been like a snappy dog.”

Jennifer felt herself slump. She put the half-finished sandwich back into the packet.

“I’ve been close to people before. My first probation officer, Jill. She was great. She looked after me whatever happened. The woman I lived with in Croydon, Rosie. She… She was like a mother to me. I had to leave her and Jill behind though. That was hard. I missed them. I missed Rosie every day. It was like I was grieving for her. I just thought it was better not to get close to people again.”

Julia blew through her teeth.

“I didn’t want to take anyone’s place. I just didn’t want to feel that you weren’t always at odds with me.”

“I’ll try to be different.”

“Maybe you will,” she said, softly. “Finish your sandwich. Then I’ll go.”

Jennifer ate the sandwich and drank the water. When Julia got up to leave she remembered something.

“Where will I live? After the hearing?”

“Where you’re living now!” Julia said.

“But Sally and Ruth might not feel comfortable about my past….”

“They’ve always known! Why do you think they took you in? I told them right at the beginning.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“OK,
Jennifer
. Let’s hope tomorrow and what comes after is what you wanted.”

Later, long after Julia had gone home, she lay down on the bed. Sally and Ruth had never given any hint that they’d known. And Julia had arranged it all. Why had she always been so harsh on her? It was a question she couldn’t quite answer.

She dozed for a while then woke up with a start. It was 01:06. She listened for sounds of other prisoners but there didn’t seem to be any. It was Thursday night and not much crime, perhaps.

She thought about Jodie Mills, murdered by a man who worked at Sandy Bay as a gardener in the caravan parks. Had he sat here, in this very cell? It made her shiver a little, and yet what was the difference between her and that man? He had taken a girl’s life, but
so had she
. Did that make her the same as him?

She shook her head. She was not the same,
she was not.
She turned her face into the pillow. Too much death.

She remembered Joe Bussell who had gone to a DIY store and bought wire cutters and rope. He’d queued up like everyone else and paid maybe with cash or a card. Then he’d carried his purchases in a bag and hanged himself at the back of Kings Cross station.

Mr Cottis came into her mind. Mr Cottis always seemed to be somewhere at the edge of her thoughts, a recurring ghost. Joe Bussell had been doing some kind of apprenticeship with him. He’d been coping really well, Lucy had said, and then for no reason he had killed himself. Jennifer wondered what his days with Mr Cottis were like; photographing family portraits? Wedding photos?