FOURTEEN
‘I have so many questions. It haunts me not knowing what happened to her, if she might still be alive. . .’
Olivia Paul’s mother was on television last night, yet another documentary about Matty. It’s been twenty years since his conviction, yet the public’s fascination with him hasn’t waned. They’re still greedy for details, intrigued by the man behind the mask.
How could someone so apparently normal be so evil? they ask. What drove a seemingly well-adjusted, smart and handsome man to rape and murder? How was he able to hide his true self for so long?
I’m intrigued too, though for different reasons. Intrigued to know why, when. If. . .
Over the years, the internet has become both my kindest friend and my cruellest foe. It offers rays of hope that quickly fade; nuggets of information that turn out to be false leads or wild fantasy. A suggestion he was framed (that one surfaces a lot). That the evidence against him was fabricated. That another serial killer he never met has it in for him.
A preponderance of police reports, trial transcripts, photographs. Witness statements, interviews with fellow inmates, forum threads. So many threads.
A rabbit hole of information and misinformation that I dive down regardless, an addict in need of a fix, much the same as the addiction they say drove Matty. Highs that could never live up to the thrill of his first kill, and yet which he was compelled to seek out again and again until he was caught.
I still struggle to believe it though; the gentle-eyed man I loved, stalking women, cutting them up. Hankering after his next hit. Yet other people describe it so clearly, seem to understand him so well.
Richard Klein, the FBI criminologist, described him as ‘a shadow; a creature of the night leaving no trail’.
The press dubbed him the Shadow after that. I imagine the name would have rather appealed to Matty. Image always was important to him and the Klein moniker was certainly more dramatic than the anodyne ‘North London Killer’, which everyone called him at first.
Over the years I’ve read a library of profiling books. Klein, Ruskin and Doyle piled up on my nightstand, in a desperate bid to understand him. To get inside his head as if that’ll finally shine a torch on the truth. Why, when, if.
The internet calls to me most though. La Belle Dame sans Merci. The temptress I can’t resist, offering a treasure trove of information at my fingertips. The hope of new evidence. The punch-the-air excitement when I think I’ve finally caught hold of a clue, swiftly followed by gut sinking disappointment when it turns out to be another dead end.
I don’t have friends any more; no one I can call for a chat or a gossip. No one who wants to hear the honest answer to, ‘How are you doing?’ Janice doesn’t count. She’s paid to listen.
No one wanted anything to do with me after Matty was arrested, although the papers were constantly printing quotes from, ‘a source close to Matty’s daughter. . .’
Never mind that I wasn’t his daughter. That I hadn’t spoken to anyone. That there were no sources close to me.
When I first came to London, I longed to be accepted, after his arrest I just wanted to be left alone. I found I didn’t have anything in common with the girls who’d once been my friends. They were interested in clothes and boys. I knew where those interests could lead. When I heard them whispering about so and so’s smile, all I could think was that Matty had a nice smile too.
Twenty years on, I still keep to myself. I date a little, but nothing ever lasts and nothing is ever serious. Buster’s the only one who knows my secrets and whilst I know he’ll keep them, his advice isn’t worth much, though his cuddles are gold.
‘We were too trusting,’ my mother says. ‘That was the problem.’
‘Not any more,’ I tell her.
The pendulum has swung the other way. I no longer trust anyone.
Trust is about allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Having faith the person you open your heart to won’t maul it to shreds.
How can I do that after what happened? How can I even trust myself?