Broken Dolls Read Online Free
was because I thought she was about to go into the water.’ He stopped and drank some coffee. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude but I’ve already told the police all this. I don’t mind going over it all again, but I can’t help feeling I’m wasting your time.’
‘You’re not wasting our time.’ I glanced over at the Jack Russell. ‘I’d like to try something if you’re up for it. Do you think Barnaby would like to go for a walk?’
The dog’s ears pricked up when he heard the word ‘walk’. He jumped off his chair and started barking and twirling, pirouetting like a circus dog. Johnson laughed. ‘I think you can take that as a yes,’ he said.
3
It took us five minutes to walk to Verulamium Park, long enough to smoke a cigarette from tip to butt. Barnaby bounced all the way there, straining on his lead, half choking himself to death, and acting like this was the most exciting thing ever. Dark was descending fast and the streetlamps glowed a sickly sulphurous yellowy-orange in the heavy half-light. The snow wasn’t far off and the air had a choking damp feel. I pulled my jacket in tighter to ward off the chill but it didn’t help. The cold of a damp British winter day could penetrate an arctic suit.
‘Do you do the same walk every time?’ I asked Graham Johnson.
The old guy shook his head. ‘We’ve got a number of routes we take. It depends on the weather, how much time we’ve got, that sort of thing. It’s a big park.’
It was a big park. Off to the right, acres of grassland stretched as far as I could see, empty soccer fields marked out white on grey. The cathedral was off to the left, perched imposingly on a distant hill. Up ahead was a small lake that was separated from the main lake by a humpback bridge. Ducks and swans bobbed on the water, oblivious to the cold.
It was also dark and deserted, making it the perfect place for the unsub to dump Patricia Maynard.
‘The night you found Patricia Maynard, which way did you go?’
Johnson pointed towards the cathedral side of the main lake. ‘We did a quick anticlockwise walk around the lake.’
‘And where did you see Patricia Maynard?’
The old guy pointed to the far end of the lake.
‘Okay, let’s go.’
It took another five minutes to walk there. I got Johnson to sit down on an empty bench, then sat beside him. Barnaby was straining on the end of his lead, yapping and scratching at the concrete, desperate to get free so he could catch a duck. I glanced up at Hatcher, who quickly got the message. For this to work, the fewer distractions Johnson had the better. Hatcher took hold of Barnaby’s lead and walked out of earshot.
A cognitive interview differs from a standard interview in that you’re trying to get the subject to revisit the scene by reliving the feelings and impressions that were imprinted at the time. Rather than hitting the event head-on, you circle around it, looking at it through the different senses. The memories this evokes have been found to be much more reliable than those retrieved through the usual interview techniques. Strictly speaking, I didn’t need to bring Johnson back here, but since we were just around the corner I didn’t see the harm.
‘I want you to close your eyes, Mr Johnson, and then I’m going to ask you some questions. Try not to censor your answers. I don’t care how crazy they might seem, just say whatever comes into your head.’
Johnson looked at me sceptically.
‘It’s okay. I’ve done this before.’
Johnson gave another sceptical look then shut his eyes.
‘I want you to think back to Monday night. You’re taking Barnaby out for a walk like usual. What time is it?’
‘Around ten. I always take him out around ten.’
‘Before or after?’
The old guy’s face creased with concentration, then relaxed. ‘It was after ten. I’d just finished watching a TV programme. The news was about to start.’
‘What’s the weather like?’
‘It’s raining.’
‘Describe
‘You’re not wasting our time.’ I glanced over at the Jack Russell. ‘I’d like to try something if you’re up for it. Do you think Barnaby would like to go for a walk?’
The dog’s ears pricked up when he heard the word ‘walk’. He jumped off his chair and started barking and twirling, pirouetting like a circus dog. Johnson laughed. ‘I think you can take that as a yes,’ he said.
3
It took us five minutes to walk to Verulamium Park, long enough to smoke a cigarette from tip to butt. Barnaby bounced all the way there, straining on his lead, half choking himself to death, and acting like this was the most exciting thing ever. Dark was descending fast and the streetlamps glowed a sickly sulphurous yellowy-orange in the heavy half-light. The snow wasn’t far off and the air had a choking damp feel. I pulled my jacket in tighter to ward off the chill but it didn’t help. The cold of a damp British winter day could penetrate an arctic suit.
‘Do you do the same walk every time?’ I asked Graham Johnson.
The old guy shook his head. ‘We’ve got a number of routes we take. It depends on the weather, how much time we’ve got, that sort of thing. It’s a big park.’
It was a big park. Off to the right, acres of grassland stretched as far as I could see, empty soccer fields marked out white on grey. The cathedral was off to the left, perched imposingly on a distant hill. Up ahead was a small lake that was separated from the main lake by a humpback bridge. Ducks and swans bobbed on the water, oblivious to the cold.
It was also dark and deserted, making it the perfect place for the unsub to dump Patricia Maynard.
‘The night you found Patricia Maynard, which way did you go?’
Johnson pointed towards the cathedral side of the main lake. ‘We did a quick anticlockwise walk around the lake.’
‘And where did you see Patricia Maynard?’
The old guy pointed to the far end of the lake.
‘Okay, let’s go.’
It took another five minutes to walk there. I got Johnson to sit down on an empty bench, then sat beside him. Barnaby was straining on the end of his lead, yapping and scratching at the concrete, desperate to get free so he could catch a duck. I glanced up at Hatcher, who quickly got the message. For this to work, the fewer distractions Johnson had the better. Hatcher took hold of Barnaby’s lead and walked out of earshot.
A cognitive interview differs from a standard interview in that you’re trying to get the subject to revisit the scene by reliving the feelings and impressions that were imprinted at the time. Rather than hitting the event head-on, you circle around it, looking at it through the different senses. The memories this evokes have been found to be much more reliable than those retrieved through the usual interview techniques. Strictly speaking, I didn’t need to bring Johnson back here, but since we were just around the corner I didn’t see the harm.
‘I want you to close your eyes, Mr Johnson, and then I’m going to ask you some questions. Try not to censor your answers. I don’t care how crazy they might seem, just say whatever comes into your head.’
Johnson looked at me sceptically.
‘It’s okay. I’ve done this before.’
Johnson gave another sceptical look then shut his eyes.
‘I want you to think back to Monday night. You’re taking Barnaby out for a walk like usual. What time is it?’
‘Around ten. I always take him out around ten.’
‘Before or after?’
The old guy’s face creased with concentration, then relaxed. ‘It was after ten. I’d just finished watching a TV programme. The news was about to start.’
‘What’s the weather like?’
‘It’s raining.’
‘Describe
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