Instinct took over now and Charlie didn’t stop to ask questions, marching instead towards the small knot of kids who were only fifty odd feet away. Her approach was fast – she was forty feet away, now thirty – but not fast enough, for as she neared the group, one of them took off at speed. The lighting wasn’t good in this part of the park, but Charlie could make out the frizzy hair and bulky form and she knew immediately that she had stumbled on Naomie Jackson.

Charlie wrenched her radio from her pocket as she ran. She was wearing long boots and her tight suit trousers were irritatingly restrictive – she now regretted her lack of gym time since returning to work. But still she hoped to have the edge on Naomie, who had never been much of an athlete.

‘Pursuing suspect through Hoglands Park in the direction of Kingsland Place. I need back-up and officers on South Front, Kingsway Place. I’ll cover Hoglands if she tries to double back.’

Charlie clicked off – it was hard to run and speak – and picked up her speed. If Naomie was smart she’d dart across Kingsway Place and into the City College, whose many buildings and walkways offered decent hiding places. But instead Naomie was heading straight for the northern exit of the park – she was in full flight now, panic driving her forward. She was surprisingly fast and Charlie laboured to keep up with the fugitive. Her breathing was already short and painful – her lungs burning – and she realized how long it had been since she’d been in an all-out sprint. In her early days it had been a feature of day-to-day work, but now it was an unpleasant anomaly.

‘Requesting back-up and officers on Kingsway Place and South Front,’ Charlie gasped into her radio, before clicking off once more. Nobody had responded and she was suddenly gripped by the fear that Naomie might escape her. This girl who had done so much damage, who’d done such terrible things. Charlie could stop her tonight – but only if she could get to her in time.

They were reaching the edge of the park now. And suddenly Charlie realized what was happening. There was an industrial estate just beyond North Front – a depot and a couple of warehouses surrounded by ageing chain link fences. Did Naomie know this terrain? Did she already have a specific escape route in mind?

Naomie was nearly clear of the park now, despite Charlie’s efforts to chase her down. Charlie strained to keep up, but she could feel her pace slowing. Only fractionally but it would be enough to ensure Naomie’s escape.

Then suddenly and without warning, it was over. Two uniformed officers appeared at the mouth of the park just as Naomie reached it. Her forward momentum was too great now and even as she tried to turn back, the officers pounced. By the time Charlie finally caught up with her, she was already being read her rights.

As Charlie got her breath back, she looked down at Naomie – and she was surprised by what she saw. She’d been expecting anger and defiance, as their killer fought to preserve her liberty. But Naomie was exhibiting none of these emotions. Her head was pointing down, her chin almost touching the floor and, instead of directing any hostility towards her captors, she was simply crying quietly to herself.

120

‘Do you self-harm, Naomie?’

It was a strange question for Helen to ask, but one she hoped would get a reaction. So far Naomie had just sat there, slumped in her chair, flanked by a pernickety brief and an earnest social worker, refusing to offer anything except the standard ‘No comment’. The usual questioning – why, when, how – would get them nowhere, Helen sensed – Naomie wasn’t that kind of collar. As she ran the rule over their prime suspect once more, Helen took in the unkempt hair, the muffin top, and the fresh scarring on her left palm. It had been obvious from the start that Naomie had chronic self-esteem issues and Helen had decided to confront these head on.

For the first time in their interview Naomie looked directly at Helen, before dropping her eyes to the floor once more.

‘I’m not judging you, Naomie, or asking you to tell me your life story. I know what it’s like. I know that sometimes things get so bad that you feel you have to hurt yourself. And that it can feel like a release, when you can’t see a way forward, when the world seems determined to hurt you.’

Naomie shrugged, which was progress of sorts, so Helen pressed on.

‘That cross on your palm. It doesn’t look accidental. Did you do that?’

‘Yeah, I did it,’ Naomie mumbled.

‘How?’

‘With a lighter.’

‘And did it make you feel better?’

‘For a bit.’

Helen let that settle, then:

‘Can you tell me why you did it? Was it something your mother did? Your father?’

‘My dad does nothing. Never has.’

‘But you still love him?’

‘Maybe,’ she replied, shrugging once more. ‘Do you love yours?’

It was such an unexpected response that for a moment Helen was speechless. How much did Naomie know about her past? It had all been in the press of course, but that was a few years back and Naomie didn’t look like much of a reader. On the other hand, the internet is a repository of everyone’s misdemeanours and Helen suspected that there was more going on with Naomie than people expected – perhaps she was seeing some of that now.

‘No, I don’t think I do. But perhaps you already know that.’

Naomie looked briefly at Helen, then looked away. Sanderson shot a glance at Helen – she seemed keen to step in – but Helen shook her head gently. She wanted to stay on this.

‘How did you feel when your dad went AWOL for long periods?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Did you ever talk to him about it? Ask him to stay?’

‘He wasn’t interested in talking to me. To him, I was just a stupid, fat kid.’

‘How did your mum react when he moved on?’

‘She used to follow him at first. Have it out with the other women. Then he put a stop to that.’

‘What then?’

‘You’ve seen the state of me – take a guess.’

‘She beat you?’

‘After she’d had a drink.’

‘How many times has she beaten you over the years?’

Helen knew this would be manna from heaven for Naomie’s defence team, if and when this came to trial, but this was about more than the mechanics of justice now. Helen wanted to get to the truth.

‘Twenty, thirty, I don’t know. But that wasn’t the worst of it. After she’d finished, she just ignored me, wouldn’t say two words to me.’

‘So who did you talk to?’

Naomie shrugged again, her defiant pose suddenly deserting her.

‘Did you talk to schoolfriends, teachers, neighbours?’

‘I left school when I was thirteen, didn’t I? And as for the neighbours, have you seen the state of our place?’

Helen nodded, but said nothing. She had seen the graffiti that had nearly been scrubbed clean from the Jackson family home. The sentiments weren’t pleasant and most of them were directed at the overweight young woman. Many of them had nasty racial overtones.

‘And is that why you self-harm?’

Naomie said nothing, picking now at the scar on her hand. Helen noted that her stronger, right hand remained clear of injury, presumably because she needed it to carry out her attacks.

‘Naomie, I’ve already said that I’m not judging you, I just want to understand. Why do you hurt yourself?’

‘It’s just my thing, innit? I just like to feel.’

‘Where do you do it?’

‘In my room. Mum never comes in, so what’s to stop me?’

Naomie’s defiance had returned again, but her eyes were glistening, and despite everything Helen felt a sharp stab of sympathy for their firestarter. Naomie had been belittled, ignored, assaulted, and as Helen looked at the slumped teenager she was gripped by a strong sense of the crushing loneliness this young woman must have felt day after day. While it didn’t excuse her actions, it certainly made sense of them. When the world offers you absolutely nothing, is it any surprise that you turn on it?