‘I’ve just spoken to Bethan Trott. It took me ten minutes to convince her Laura was in custody before she’d open up. She admitted providing the sisters with the original alibi because she was scared of Laura. Once she’d told that lie, Laura had the power to make her tell more. It seems like Laura was especially proficient at playing “good cop, bad cop”. On one hand, she told Bethan that she was doing the right thing by leading the police to Marion’s killer, Karen. On the other hand, she threatened to expose her original lie if she didn’t go along with everything Laura said. Bethan was so scared of being charged with perverting the course of justice, and so scared of Laura, that she did exactly as she was told.’

I thought back to Shep’s bullying of Bethan during her interview: we’d played right into Laura’s hands.

Shep took a breather, pacing about to reflect on the course of events.

‘So why did Karen keep lying? Did Karen know that Laura and Terry were going to Marion’s home to “sort her out” that afternoon? I will argue that she didn’t. Terry only made the decision that day on the spur of the moment. It all comes back to Laura. She wanted Karen out of the way so she could frame her for the murder.

‘Did Laura tell Karen what happened afterwards? How it had all got out of hand? Of course not. She was too busy framing her. Did Karen or Peter suspect that her sister and dad had murdered Marion? Again, I don’t think it’s a line worth pursuing.

‘One thing is certain: Karen never suspected that her own sister was trying to set her up. All Karen feared was the exposure of her affair with Peter and how it might look. That’s why she stuck to the alibi that she and Laura had been shopping that day. Laura would have assured her, over and over: they can’t get you for this because you didn’t do it. But she also drummed into Karen what she’d already used to brainwash Bethan: “All they can get us for now is lying, so we must stick to our stories.” So they did.’

Shep stopped walking, frowned and turned: ‘You know something, if we hadn’t found Laura’s trainer print on the flat door at 21, we never would have cracked this case. When I asked Peter Ryan how Laura’s shoe print might have got there he exhibited, for the first time in this whole sorry episode, a tinsy slither of shame. After six weeks pissing us about, he suddenly came clean: the day before the murder, while Marion was visiting her folks in Enfield, he fucked Laura Foster in their bedroom, in their sitting room, in their kitchen, in their bathroom and, on her way out, against the flat door.’

Chapter 42

The Roundhouse Pub, South London

Sunday, August 18, 1991; 20:00

I called Lilian from the Roundhouse pub and told her I had big news. She told me she’d be there in fifteen minutes.

The rest of the team were in the Falcon. I’d join them later, after I tied up my life’s loose ends.

I ordered another pint and thought about everything that had happened over the past seven weeks. I was in no doubt that Marion’s spirit had directed me to two key clues in the case. The first had been Karen’s unwitting admission that she’d parked twice near Marion’s home on the day of the murder. From that point on, I knew Marion had been steering me towards her killers, I’d simply guessed the wrong one.

Had she not persisted in pointing me towards the door to her flat, we never would have made the breakthrough with Laura’s trainer. It was illogical, an affront to science. But it was true.

I thought about poor Samantha and Jazmine Bisset. Why hadn’t they come to me? I resolved to do all I could to help them, even if it meant returning to the scene of their murders and risking the wrath of their restless souls. Whatever I’d suffer would pale in comparison to the warped depravity of their wretched deaths.

My thoughts then turned to Meehan, three long years ago. What the hell had he wanted with me? Would I ever get to the bottom of the event that started this whole thing? Had he somehow opened up this channel to me from the other side?

Lilian turned up, humanised by free-flowing hair and a yellow summer dress. She smiled and threw me a little hand wave, both catching me by surprise.

We got straight down to business. I felt empowered relaying my extraordinary story as she wrote feverishly, obediently recording every detail. When I finished milking the udders of my undoubtedly unique gift, I asked her what she thought.

‘I’ve already written most of the paper,’ she announced breathlessly, ‘the only thing missing is you uncovering hard evidence as a direct result of a sleep paralysis episode. This is the missing link, but I can finish it now. I really think I might be able to get it published.’

‘Can I read it, when you’re done?’

‘Of course,’ she said.

‘And just so we’re straight on this, you’re definitely not revealing my identity.’

‘I promised,’ she sighed. ‘I call you The Empathist, because you clearly identify with these victims. It’s like you feel their agony.’

‘The Empathist,’ I said, giving it a good roll around my mouth, ‘I like it.’

Then, adopting film trailer gravitas, I announced: ‘In a world where tormented souls seek justice, one man offers hope.’

Lilian laughed, properly. It felt like my biggest breakthrough yet, so I ploughed on, genetically compelled to spoil a good gag: ‘Paramount pictures presents: The Empathist.’

Cue dead-joke awkward silence. I should have bailed out when I was on top.

‘So what now, Doc?’

She took a deep breath: ‘Well, I’ve done all I can do for you, clinically speaking.’

‘So I am no longer your patient?’

‘I am no longer your psychologist,’ she announced, holding out her hand. I smiled and shook it.

‘My God,’ I thought to myself, ‘this woman knows the real me and doesn’t seem to hate me or find me terrifying. And now, just like that, our relationship is over. I’ve confided in her, spilled my guts. I can’t just let her slip away.’

‘So, you’ve done all you can for me clinically,’ I teased, ‘but I think there’s still work to be done, emotionally. I’m not at all well in that department.’

This silence felt less awkward, more cringing. Finally, Lilian reached for her drink, then changed her mind.

‘I’d really like to get to know you better, Donal,’ she said, choosing her words carefully, ‘I think you’re a really nice guy.’

I stopped myself saying but? She’d clearly figured this all out already.

‘There are strict rules about this sort of thing. The Association expressly forbids us from starting any kind of relationship with a patient until at least two years after we’ve finished treating them. Even a friendship.’

My brain recoiled: two years? Two. Whole. Years. ‘But you weren’t treating me. I was helping you,’ I argued, a little too pleadingly.

‘But if my paper gets published, and they find out I’m involved with the patient, no one would take my research seriously. There’s a good chance I’d get struck off before I even qualify. I can’t risk that.’

‘Fine, then. I’m withdrawing my permission.’

That felt good.

‘What?’

‘Listen, Lilian, I’ve made up my mind, I don’t want you to publish anything about me or my condition.’

‘What? Oh my God. So this is the real you, is it, Donal? You try it on with me and when I turn you down you … fuck me over?’

She wanted me to say no. I couldn’t.

‘Well I’m glad I got to see the real you before anything more developed.’

‘Yeah well, you give yourself a big slap on the back for working that much out, Doctor. What a brilliant reader of minds you are. Like I said, I’m expressly forbidding you from publishing anything about me and my condition.’

‘It’s too late for that, Donal,’ she said, quietly but firmly, holding my glare.

‘What?’