Juliet climbed into Jake Fidler’s emerald green Skoda hatchback. It was more than half an hour since he’d turned up on her doorstep hot on the heels of her mystery peeping Tom. In the time which had intervened, she’d settled him in her kitchen with a glass of wine while she’d retreated to the bedroom to make a fierce attack on her damp curls, discarded the jeans and jumper for cream trousers and a smart black silk blouse, and applied a very modest amount of make-up. When she’d emerged, Jake had given her an appreciative look and insisted that she spent a few minutes relaxing with a small glass of wine for herself. They had plenty of time, he’d reassured her; he was always pathologically early and was sorry he’d arrived before she was ready. He was even sorrier – and inwardly outraged, though he didn’t want to spoil the evening by dwelling on it – that she’d been the victim of some warped street urchin. Jake’s whole life was devoted to children and adolescents, some of them very disturbed indeed, but that didn’t mean he would condone bad behaviour from them.
Juliet was feeling more relaxed now, though still a little apprehensive about how the evening might unfold.
‘Nice car,’ she said, as he took her jacket from her and hung it on a peg above one of the rear doors. ‘Somehow I thought you’d be driving an old banger.’
‘You credit me with being more altruistic than I really am,’ he said. ‘But if what you really mean is you’re surprised I can afford it, you’ve got a point. My salary doesn’t run to vehicles like this. I’m ashamed to have to admit to a wealthy aunt who’s only too happy to help out. I need a decent car for ferrying kids about – at least, that’s how I justified accepting it.’
‘But it’s true that you do,’ said Juliet. ‘You must spend half your life taking kids somewhere: to sports fixtures, or to keep doctor’s and dentist’s appointments.’
‘Or to A & E.’ Jake smiled wryly. ‘Children in care seem to need more hospital visits than average.’
Jake had just been appointed the warden of the children’s home in Spalding. He’d been acting warden for several months while his predecessor recovered from surgery and had only recently been given the permanent post after the latter finally decided that he didn’t want to return.
‘Why do you think that is?’ asked Juliet. ‘Is it perhaps because when a large group of children live together they take more knocks than kids who grow up in an ordinary family?’
‘I suppose there may be an element of truth in that, though, professionally speaking, I’m not sure I should admit to it. We do try to recreate a home atmosphere as much as possible, and we certainly take a lot of trouble over their safety.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean…’
Jake laughed.
‘I know you didn’t. Anyway, it’s a fair point. They may get knocked about more than children living in a smaller household. Then there’s self-harm. As you know, we look after quite a few disturbed kids and they’re likelier than average to hurt themselves. But I think the biggest reason we take children to hospital more often than the average mum and dad is because they draw attention to themselves.’
‘You mean, they pretend to be ill or injured?’
‘Yep. It’s a classic ploy. Either they are genuinely hurt and they make out the injury is worse than it is, or they just fake it. If one of these kids tells you he has swallowed a razor blade or says she’s pushed a bead up her nose, even if you suspect they’re lying, you can’t afford to take the risk.’
‘It seems a bit of an extreme way to get noticed. And I imagine it’s followed by plenty of the wrong sort of attention, once you’ve rumbled them. No doubt you give them what for, for wasting everyone’s time?’
‘Depends on the kid. Some do it out of boredom or sheer devilry, but with others it’s a plea for help. We always take a very considered view on it. If the kid’s sick, we have to deal with it appropriately, nip it in the bud. Otherwise, it’s a trait they’ll take with them into adolescence and beyond and, believe me, it will be ten times worse by then. Some people will do anything for fame; sometimes it’s confined within their own social group, but often it’s more ambitious than that. Psychologists think modern serial killers may be motivated by a compulsion to be famous – or notorious, I suppose I mean. But you’ll know more about that than I do.’
‘I’ve come across that theory,’ said Juliet slowly, ‘but I’m not sure I believe it. Several times I’ve been at close quarters with a serial killer’s handiwork – too close – and I’d say the sense of escalating frenzy with which they carry out each successive crime, if they’re not caught, points to something more than a desire to be noticed. It’s a compulsion, an urge to mutilate and degrade that far outstrips the desire to kill.’
‘That in itself could be a cry for help. Perhaps they want to be caught, so that they have to stop.’
Juliet laughed.
‘And you say you’re not altruistic! That’s the most gullible excuse I’ve ever heard for committing a vicious and terrifying crime!’
‘I don’t mean to be gullible. I just like to take an all-round view of things.’
Juliet settled back in her seat. She was beginning to enjoy herself. They talked of other things for a while. They were heading for the Cambridge Arts Theatre. Jake had been given some tickets by a friend who’d had to go away on business unexpectedly – or that was what he said when he’d called Juliet to ask her if she was interested in seeing Travesties. She’d been surprised – she hadn’t seen Jake for almost a year – and her first instinct was to decline the invitation. But then she’d thought, why not? It was only a trip to the theatre, after all; it didn’t have to go any further than that. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d watched a play.
They drove in companionable silence for a while through pleasant country villages to avoid, Jake said, the horrors of the A14, until they were some eight miles from Cambridge. It was growing dark. The road was busy, and Juliet, herself a careful motorist, was watching it intently, but, she hoped, without Jake noticing. She didn’t want him to think she was a bossy back seat driver. His driving was fine, but when she suddenly drew breath sharply and grabbed his arm he stamped down on the brake, causing the car following them to sound a sharp blast on its horn.
‘God! What did you do that for?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Juliet. ‘It was just that roadside shrine. It took me unawares.’
Jake peered into the murk of the bushes that edged the road.
‘What roadside shrine? I can’t see anything.’
‘No, we’ve passed it now. I hadn’t seen it before, but I remember reading about it. Someone’s still putting flowers on it.’
‘What’s it for?’
‘It was erected by the husband of a woman who disappeared near that spot. She got off a bus at the wrong stop and vanished. It took him quite a while to persuade the council to let him build the shrine. That’s why I remember it: the story made the national papers. And we were asked to distribute some of the missing person posters. He was Polish, I think – they both were – or perhaps from another Eastern European country.’
‘Maybe she just did a runner.’
‘Unlikely. They were a devoted couple, apparently. And the police found traces of blood at the scene, matching her blood group. It’s likely she was murdered, but they haven’t managed to find a body.’
‘No chance it was the husband?’
‘Again unlikely. He waited for her at the right bus stop and then when she didn’t show up he went home. She called him when she realised what she’d done and asked him to fetch her. A neighbour saw him hurrying out again at exactly the time he gave in his statement. The phone records stacked up, too. When he reached the stretch of road where she’d said she would be, she was nowhere to be seen. He was convinced straight away that she’d come to harm. He said she’d never have left the road when she knew he was going to meet her.’
‘A sad story. Can you remember her name?’
‘Not her surname. It was something unpronounceable. I think her first name was Irina. And he was called Feliks – I remember that, because it seemed so inappropriate for a man who was in perpetual mourning. Still is, if those flowers are anything to go by.’
‘When did all this happen?’
‘Not recently. Four or five years ago, at a guess. You know how your memory can play tricks – it could have been a bit longer than that.’