I Came to Find a Girl (25 page)

Within hours the gallery had been raided, the ‘artwork’ seized, and the following days’ headlines filled: ‘Police Seize Flood’s Murder Trophy Art’ –
The Sun
. ‘Murder and Rape Claims Close Tate Modern’ –
The Guardian
.

Flood denied everything, and I was told there was a strong likelihood I’d have to go to court. I barely slept and when I did, I’d wake with images of myself in the witness box wearing a fox-head mask, unable to speak. Or, there were dreams where I was being endlessly pursued. I was aware it was Flood behind me but I could never see him and I could never get away.

I made a lousy witness. I can only remember what I can remember and it’s limited. I did point that out. But then there was the film, the one with my name on it. And DC Wilson persuaded me I had a lot to offer the prosecution.

Don’t look at him; don’t make eye contact
, I told myself over and over whilst I waited outside the courtroom. I twisted my fingers together, took my rings off and on, and bit my nails, which I don’t normally do. But then I went in, took the oath and looked straight at him.

There are probably only a handful of instances in anyone’s life where you can distinctly recall how it felt to meet someone’s eye. With Flood, there had been a number of times: the evening I first saw him at his show, the time I ran from Ruby’s after seeing him reflected repeatedly in the surrounding mirrors, at my own private view when he made a swift exit and then in court when months of dread culminated in his attempt to intimidate me – his eyes boring into me across the room. That was when all my fear about facing him dissipated as I saw him for the loser he was, flanked by prison officers and stuck behind bulletproof glass.

The formality of the court was intimidating: official, old-fashioned, wooden panels, men and women in wigs, long impenetrable arguments between lawyers and efforts to wrong-foot everyone, not least me and my hole-filled memory.

Why did I go back to Flood’s hotel room?
It’s a question I’ve asked myself time and time again and it was the first question the defence lawyer asked.

He was a short, dark-haired man with blue eyes, in his early thirties and not unattractive. “Miss Jackson, what time was it when you agreed to go with Mr Flood to his hotel room?”

Whatever I say, it won’t sound good
. I had rehearsed this moment in my head during all the nights I couldn’t sleep and yet still I sensed the wrong words were about to slip from my lips. “I didn’t exactly agree to go to his room.”

“You went of your own accord?”

“Yes.”

“Then you agreed.”

“We were going to go for a drink somewhere, that’s what I agreed to do, but Mr Flood needed to change his clothes. He said someone had spilt a drink on him.”

“Could you not have waited in the lobby?”

Why didn’t I do that?
That’s what I had wanted to do. I felt myself flush, frustrated at my own stupidity and angry at Flood, the lawyer and myself.

“Mr Flood persuaded me to share a drink with him in his suite. He said we wouldn’t stay long.” That was it, the truth, one moment in my life when I was duped. I was stupid and it could well have been the end of me.

At that point in the courtroom, my attention slipped and again I looked at Flood. He was so still, in control as always, his dark eyes on me, watching my lips move with every word I spoke. I bit my lip and clenched my fists, determined to hold it together.

“Miss Jackson, can you hear me?” The lawyer was staring at me. Had I missed something? “Miss Jackson, I understand you left it quite some time before coming forward to make a complaint, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why was that?”

“I felt stupid. I couldn’t remember exactly what happened.”
Argh, that’s not what I meant to say at all
. I knew it sounded bad.

A small, thin-lipped smirk passed across Flood’s face.

“And yet here you are now to tell us you
can
remember, is that right?”

“I couldn’t remember exactly because Jack Flood spiked my drink and what I do remember is waking up four hours later, naked and running out and vomiting.”

There was no evidence that Flood had spiked my drink because I took so long to report the ‘incident’ to the police. The judge (who was female) instructed the jury to disregard my comment as ‘speculation’.

“That will be all, Miss Jackson,” said the defence lawyer.

My evidence was all but useless. I wouldn’t look at Flood again.

Stupid Girl: that song was back in my head taunting me, as I held on to the witness stand to steady myself, willing my legs to move in a reasonable fashion in order to get the hell out of there. I glanced back at the jury, tears in my eyes. I am such a failure, I thought. Is that what they’re thinking? They were all watching me of course and I hoped it was empathy I could sense but I had no idea.

Forty

Interior, unspecified: Flood’s face fills the screen but it’s slightly fuzzy, the film quality poor and he is so close his face appears distorted; his cheeks look bigger than normal. He has a large stitched laceration to his left cheek and a swollen mouth.
Has he been attacked?

“Who lives in a place like this?” Flood moves the camera away from his face and does a 360-degree scan of the room. There is a basic bed with a thin mattress, a small two-drawer cabinet and a heavy, locked door. The walls are bare, though there is a reasonable amount of light filtering in through the barred window.

“I’ve not been able to film until now.” His voice is quiet, conspiratorial. “They’ve taken everything.” He shakes his head. “Creativity is a basic human right and yet I have no creative outlet. They say it’s negotiable and dependent on my behaviour.” He shakes his head again. “I just got hold of this mobile that I’m filming on. I’m the prison scribe. I write letters for the illiterate inmates.”

Film cuts and recommences. “This phone isn’t good enough. It has an inbuilt camera but it only records short clips, not that anyone will listen. They’re not used to artists. They don’t understand. They tell me there will be opportunities to draw and paint but not to film. It’s prohibited. But filming is my thing. I told them that I am Britain’s foremost video artist. They’re philistines, especially the governor. He’s the worst kind – a philistine who thinks he’s cultured – his art appreciation stops with Constable and Lowry.”

The camerawork is shaky. He’s agitated. “The fundamental issue here is that I’m innocent. The films that they used as evidence against me are art. No one was hurt in the making of those films. They’re art.” Flood touches the scar across his cheek. “I have a room of my own. I’m on ‘seggy’. It’s a social dustbin – nonces and low-life. I am not like them.”

He looks down. There are heavy bags under his eyes. His hair is greying (no more hair dye). He has aged ten years in a matter of months. There is shouting and a door bangs shut. Locks are turned.

“I’m told a lot of prisoners claim to be innocent at first, so no one listens. I write letters to the press and my MP. It’s a gross miscarriage of justice. Someone has to see that. Believe me, the truth will out.”

Camera cuts momentarily.

Flood remains in his cell. His tired, grey head looks up at the camera he’s holding at arm’s length. His baggy eyes plead. “They must let me work. It’s the only way I’ll get through this. Without my work I am nothing.”

Forty-one

It was good to know where Flood was. I no longer needed to rely on the tabloids for information as, despite my poor courtroom performance, he was banged up for life, brought down by his own ‘artwork’.

The seventeen films of seventeen different women and his magpie need to keep trophy mementoes of his victims made the evidence compelling.

Jenny, Loretta Peters and Connie Vickers all featured and that fact, along with some locks of their hair sealed in plastic, is what really did for Flood. His compulsion to record everything meant he was found guilty of three premeditated murders.
 

The seventeen charges of rape were not quite as straightforward. The jury was split, as some of them believed Flood’s claims that the filmed sex (which was everything but penetrative) was consensual. As with most rape cases there was an element of ambiguity involved. The judge said she would accept a majority verdict and after three hours of deliberation he was finally found guilty. The severity of his crimes, the sexual nature and the fact he abducted women and committed multiple murders led the judge to issue a whole life order. He wasn’t getting out. Ever.

And I could let it go –
or at least try to, for my own sanity.

Forget Flood. Move on. You’re in London now – anything is possible.

A fortnight before the anniversary of the day Jenny went missing, an invitation arrived. There was to be a memorial service and that meant Nottingham.

I didn’t want to go back but felt I couldn’t say no. I tried to persuade Tamzin to accompany me but she said she couldn’t get the time off work and Kelly had only just started a new job at a call centre so there was no way she could go. I would have to face it alone.

I called Kelly on her mobile. She couldn’t take personal calls any other way as the company she worked for taped all calls for ‘training and monitoring purposes’.

“I’ve been thinking of you all morning,” Kelly said. “Where are you?”

“I’m on the train – feels weird to be going back.”

“You’ll be all right.”

“How’s life in the Collections Department?” It was Kelly’s job to chase people who were behind with their credit card payments.

“You have no idea. I don’t know if I can last the week.”

“Don’t ring me looking for money.”

“Have you got one of our cards?”

“It’s probably the only one I haven’t got. Did you hear about Tam? She’s seeing someone new.”

“Who is it now?”

“He’s called Steve. He’s a builder.”

“What happened to Greg?”

“He’s totally oblivious. I don’t know how she gets away with it.”

“I’d better get back to work,” Kelly said. “Let me know how it goes.”

I gazed out the window at the passing fields: cows, fencing, trees, outbuildings, flashes of train stations, car parks, busy gardens, shiny office blocks – all silver like the platinum credit cards they promote. And then I thought of Jenny and how unfair it all was.
And Jason – he’ll be there. How will that go?

The train pulled in. Lethargically, I disembarked and made my way up the metal steps and out of the station, turning right for the city centre, and then left onto Maid Marian Way towards the Catholic cathedral.

The place was packed, but then that’s untimely death for you; it stirs something even in the remotest acquaintance. I felt a lump in my throat as soon as I entered.
Get through this,
I thought, as I felt myself well up. I accepted the printed order of service from an usher, shuffled into a seat halfway back and tried to do the right thing: standing when everyone stood, kneeling and singing.

Mags from Saviour’s got up and read out a poem that went something like: ‘Sleep dear angel, please don’t weep/ Your beautiful face is a memory we keep.’

If she were alive, Jenny would run marathons to escape all this.

Jenny’s mum gave a reading. She was poised and dignified, although her voice was brittle. Then her dad said a few words, which were almost unbearably moving, and finally it was Jason’s turn.

I hadn’t spotted him till then. He looked good in a dark suit. I’d never seen him smart and everything he said was heartfelt. I felt guilty even being there.

Back at Jenny’s parents’ smart Victorian villa, with its matching cream sofas, there was tea or white wine, egg sandwiches and cake and a chance to talk to the old Saviour’s crowd.

Donna’s hair was puffed up in a higher cockatoo fashion than ever, but she still looked short. “You did so well, Jase,” she said.

A heavy line creased his brow. “I wanted to talk about the Jenny I knew. She wasn’t the goody-goody everyone makes out. She had a wicked sense of humour.” I touched his arm and felt an instant frisson. But it wasn’t going anywhere. I knew that. It was good to see him again and good to see him looking so well but I just wanted the best for him and that wouldn’t be me.

“How’s it going at Saviour’s?” I asked.

He looked around, making sure Vivienne wasn’t in the vicinity. “I’m jacking it in. I don’t want to be a chef any more.”

“But you’re so good, and we need you,” Mags said.

“Shit hours, shit pay, little thanks. All this TV chef bollocks making it sound glamorous. I’ve got to get out while I’m still young enough to find something else.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I’m going travelling round Europe with Warren – on motorbikes.”

“Warren too, oh my God, Vivienne’s going to freak,” Donna said. “And what am I going to do? It won’t be the same without you guys.”

“You’ll be having babies soon.” Warren gave Donna’s hips a squeeze.

I stayed a while longer, let the wine go to my head, before I made out I needed to catch a certain train home. I wanted to walk and take in a little of Nottingham before I left the place for good.

It was hard saying goodbye. I tried to make it easier, saying I’d be up visiting Saviour’s regularly and everyone went along with it, though I’m sure they knew it wasn’t true.

Jason gave me a hug. “Stay lucky.”

“You too. Happy travelling. You go for it.” We kissed cheeks and I left without looking back.

Outside, I walked fast – determined to once again see the good side of Nottingham. The city had become a tatty place in my mind: crumbling student digs, pawn shops, takeaways and red light areas. It was good to go back and reclaim its better side. It’s all right here, I thought, as I walked through Market Square with its grand classical buildings and fountains, but I’m ready to go now.

I had about half an hour to get to the station. I crossed the street to take a pedestrian walkway, and saw the newspaper stand with its billing written out in thick black marker pen: ‘KILLER ARTIST FLOOD IS DEAD’.

Forty-two

Flood is dead?
I read the piece in
The Nottingham Post
, trying to contain a smile that intermittently broke out across my face. I shook my head, and almost laughed.
I have to tell someone
. I considered rushing back to Jenny’s parents’ place to tell them and Jason and everyone else, but how would they react?
They might think death too easy for him. Perhaps they wanted him to rot away in jail for a good thirty years or so.
I checked my watch. I was going to miss my train unless I hurried. I tucked the paper under my arm and ran.