“Dessie, Dessie Barton.” She gave an apologetic grimace. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to dash. I’m late for class.”
They watched as she picked up her bag and an armful of files and carried them out to a car parked further up the road.
“Teacher,” muttered Rob, as the battered blue Ford chugged off towards the school day.
“I’m Paul Daley,” said a voice from within.
They both turned as an older version of the man in the Linkedin profile picture came down the stairs.
Jo’s heart sank. He didn’t look like the Michael Robertson she remembered. That boy had been skinny, nerdy, with big glasses. This guy had a stocky build, a little soft around the edges, with understanding eyes and a full, non-judgemental mouth.
“What can I do for you?” he said.
Jo cleared her voice. “I’m DI Maguire and this is DCI Miller. We understand Angie Nolan was one of your clients?”
He didn’t pretend he didn’t know who she was. “Yes, I read her body had been found on the heath in Bisley. So tragic.”
Jo narrowed her eyes. “Yes, it was. Do you mind if we come in and ask you a few questions? It shouldn’t take long.”
He gestured for them to enter. They followed him into a sparse but clean living room and took a seat on the couch. It creaked under their dual weight.
Daley sat down opposite them.
“When did you last see Angie Nolan.” Jo opened her notepad. It was more for show than because she needed it. She had the questions memorised in her head. She’d been through this interview a thousand times.
Now she was here, in his house, it was different.
Had this man really killed Rachel and all those other girls? It was so… normal. But then what did a serial killer’s house look like?
She pushed the self-doubt aside and waited for an answer.
“Gosh, it was some time ago now.” He scratched his head. “I think my last session with her was October last year.”
“So, just before she disappeared,” said Jo.
“I wouldn’t know.”
Jo looked into his dark, empty eyes and she knew. It was him. She didn’t know how she knew. She just did.
She supressed a shiver. “Could you tell us what your sessions were about?”
“That is confidential information. I’m not sure I’m allowed to talk about it.”
“It would be confidential if she were still alive,” Jo pointed out. “But since Angie is deceased, there’s no reason not to tell us.”
His dark gaze flickered. “Still, I should probably check with my employer.”
“We can wait,” she said evenly.
There was a pause.
“You know what, I’m sure you’re right. The poor thing has been dead a year, what difference does it make now.”
Jo smiled benignly.
“She was referred to me by child protective services. Her teacher had reported she’d become withdrawn of late, wouldn’t engage with others, and there were odd markings on her skin.”
Jo nodded for him to go on, grateful for Rob’s solid, reassuring presence beside her.
“At first, she was reluctant to talk, but her mother encouraged it. I think she was worried her husband was physically abusing her daughter.”
“What then?”
“It turned out that Angie’s father had a filthy temper, and when he mixed that with alcohol, he ended up taking it out on his family.”
Jo shook her head. Empathising. She had to act normally or else he’d know. That she knew. Then he’d clam up.
He leaned forward. “But that wasn’t the worst of it. He’d been forcing himself on Angie too.” His voice hardened. “She was ten years old.”
“Did you report him to the authorities?” His anger surprised her. But she couldn’t fault him for that. She wanted to throttle the man herself.
“I tried to persuade Angie to talk to the police, but she wouldn't. She said if she was questioned, she’d lie. She was terrified of her father.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I only saw her a couple of times, and then I filed my assessment. I recommended removing Angie to a place of safety, but then her mother got divorced.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
He settled back in his chair. “You’d think so, but her father was appointed joint custody.”
Rob stiffened beside her.
“She was trapped.” Jo studied him, looking for a spark of malice, a twist of the lips, anything that would indicate the monster he was inside.
He nodded sadly. “There was nothing I could do. The case was closed. In order to re-open it we’d need another referral, which wasn’t forthcoming.”
“Did you see Angie after that?”
“No, but I spoke to her on the phone. I called the house to see how she was getting on and her mother let me speak to her. She answered in monosyllables. I could tell she’d given up. She knew help wasn’t coming.”
“And you just left it at that?” Jo asked. “When you knew she was still being abused?”
He met her gaze. “I did my best. As I’m sure you know, detective, we can’t save them all.”
His words turned her cold. Was that a reference to Rachel? Was she imagining things now?
She took a deep, steadying breath, surveying the room as she did so. The shiny coffee table, the out-of-date television, the even older computer standing on a worn desk in the corner. Paul Daley wasn’t materialistic.
“Was that your wife we saw leaving when we arrived?” she asked, conversationally.
He laughed. “No, that was my partner, Dessie. We don’t live together.”
Jo nodded. She opened the file on her lap.
“Do you know any of these girls?” She showed him a photograph of Elise Mitcham.
He shook his head.
She held up Lucy Chang.
Another shake.
Finally, Arina Parvin.
“Should I know them?” he asked.
“They were all found buried in the woods with Angie Nolan. I thought they might be clients of yours?”
“I can’t say I recall those girls, but I have seen a large number of teenagers over the years. It’s possible I did see them, or spoke to them over the phone, and don’t remember.”
“Do you speak to a lot of the children on the phone?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. I volunteer for several child
