FINTAN MURPHY:
Well, I suppose his recollection of events is probably more accurate than mine, and I’m sure I was being recorded, so there’s not much point disputing it. I would say that the man had a real way about him, though. He couldn’t have been happier that this instance of human weakness had found its way to my door. So I’m not proud of that first response, but I don’t think it was monstrous or irrational or outside of what anyone might say or do in similar circumstances, and I called him back a few minutes later for more details.
The second I got off that call, once I was convinced that what he’d told me was true, I began making arrangements to try and fix things. It wasn’t the kind of awareness I wanted, and especially not so close to December 17, but I’m not one of those people who buries their head in the sand and pretends the world’s not out there.
KIMBERLY NOLAN:
They’d been quiet years for me—quiet if not necessarily easy. I read an article about a man who’d lost his right hand in a climbing accident, and even though he knew it wasn’t there anymore, from time to time, he’d find himself reaching for something with it. That was what my relationship with Zoe was like by then. I knew she was gone, but I still found myself reaching for her. She moved in and out of my life in cycles. We shared a birthday, so that was always interesting. Hard to celebrate anything while you’re wondering where your sister is. And of course there was September, a month that started with so much promise for us back then, rapidly followed by December, the anniversary of her disappearance…
They were all like open-ended questions, times for self-interrogation, self-flagellation, self-harm. You know, What could I have done differently? When I left France, I’d felt sure it was over. I thought I could put my problems and my sister to rest, prove my worth to my parents and save my family, but that wasn’t how it worked out. I brought some confidence back across the Channel by looking Gary Matthews in the mouth, seeing what a bloated joke he was and walking away. But I had to accept what Victor Bisset and the French authorities told me.
Zoe’s wasn’t the body burned up in that house.
There was no evidence she’d ever been a target. Everyone else they’d grabbed had been someone seen by chance, not much forethought or planning, just a pill in their drink and then thrown in the back of that van.
I always tried to make sure I was busy in December, working as much as possible, so last Christmas was no different. I was still with the National Trust but at various other sites around the Lake District. I can’t remember where I was—driving out to Wordsworth House or something—when I got a phone call from the office saying a Mr. Murphy was trying to get hold of me. We’d never been close, we hadn’t spoken in years, so I knew it must be something serious. It was raining like crazy, and the reception was bad. I pulled to the side of the road and shouted, “Fintan Murphy wants to speak to me? You’re sure?”
ANDREW FLOWERS:
What do you call a group of teenagers who are let loose in the wild? A murder? A bastard of teens? Well, whatever it is, there was one in the shop that day, five or six of the fuckers, all dicking around making the computer screens sticky, typing “gay sex” into the search engines and being extremely amusing. When you have all that stuff on display, the gadgets and tablets, I suppose it’s inevitable. My job was essentially to move the mouth breathers along long enough to let an actual customer get a look in edgeways.
What was strange was that these kids were looking at me like I was their long-lost dad or something, and I don’t mean lovingly. More like I’d left their mother with a fake phone number and a tear in her eye, then never bothered to stump up for child support afterward. It’s a look I get occasionally. Whenever the story’s in the news again or the foundation launches a new appeal, the picture of me with scratch marks on my face inevitably floats to the surface somewhere, and I find myself on the receiving end of all these lingering hostile stares. That, coupled with all the Christmas decorations up in the shop, was making me pour a little heavier than usual when I got home. I think my liver was going gray faster than my hair.
KIMBERLY NOLAN:
When I got Fintan on the phone, we both said hello, probably both felt the temperature drop a few degrees, then he got right down to business. He said I could probably expect some press enquiries over the next few days, that it might get rough, and he wanted to offer me his full support. I said, “Press enquiries about fucking what, Fintan?”
EMMY MOSS, Zoe’s Angels alumna, 2015–18:
I was seventeen years old, so it would have been 2015. I didn’t know much about Zoe Nolan, but we—me and my mum—were struggling to work out how I’d pay for university. The course I was applying for was structural engineering. The fees alone were too much, and after that, I’d still need somewhere to live. My tutor at sixth form suggested I apply for a grant from the Nolan Foundation, and I did, not really thinking much of it. A few weeks later, I got an email from Fintan Murphy that felt like a miracle. He said they were prepared to pay my full fees for that first year in exchange for some nominal work for the charity. Once I’d read up about Zoe and the work they were doing, it sounded like a really good thing, something you’d want to be involved with anyway. I took a train to Manchester to meet Fintan and Zoe’s dad, Robert. They explained where they were coming from and what they could do for me. When they got some sense of how serious I was about my studies, it seemed perfect. Everything was agreed, and they followed through on their end, absolutely.
But then Robert Nolan started texting me…
I knew I needed to show up to some functions, and I did, and they were usually fine. I met some of the other girls they’d helped—Zoe’s Angels—and we all got along well, although it was weird. We all looked the same. All of us were blond, we had similar builds, similar smiles and eyes. We all looked like Zoe. And then Robert started calling and texting me when there weren’t even any events to go to, sometimes making things up that I had to attend. I’d get there and it would be just the two of us, sometimes in bars or restaurants, sometimes for whole evenings. And a part of me thought, Well, if this is what he wants, some stake in your life, then what’s the harm? It just got a lot over that first year, and it got personal. He’d want to know where I was and who I was with. He was always warning me about drugs and “bad guys.” He’d send me selfies and encourage me to reply the same way, saying, “I just want to see where you are.” There was always this undercurrent, this constant suggestion and mention of money when I resisted. He’d say, “Well, I really hope we can continue to help you, Emmy. I really hope we can support you into your second year, LOL, smiley face, kiss, kiss, kiss,” all this passive-aggressive, sweaty stuff. And Mum was so grateful to them, I didn’t know who to tell.13