by Hunter, Cara
* * *
Archive › 2018 › May
Oxford Mail online
Wednesday 18 May 2018
Local MP accuses UK universities of failing victims of sexual violence
By Richard Yates
Didcot and Cholsey MP Petra Newson took part in a highly charged debate in the Oxford Union last night.
Speaking in support of the motion This House Believes That UK Universities are Failing to Protect Students from Sexual Crime, Ms Newson described the current situation as an ‘utter scandal’. ‘It’s clear to me that universities and colleges are not taking adequate or appropriate action against students accused of rape and sexual assault, and in far too many cases these incidents are not even referred to the police. Even worse, when teaching staff are accused of harassment or assault, some of these institutions are closing ranks and protecting their own. Lecturers – both male and female – are in loco parentis for the young people in their care, and if this duty of care is abused, they should be prosecuted with all the severity the law allows.’
The second speaker, Maria Gleeson, a former student at a Midlands university, attempted to bring an action against her professor two years ago, but ultimately withdrew the charge because the process was so distressing. ‘The people who were questioning me obviously had no experience of dealing with this,’ she said. ‘It was intrusive, and traumatic. I felt like I was on trial, not him.’
Speaking on the other side of the debate, Gareth McFadden of Universities UK, which speaks for 130 of the country’s largest institutions, acknowledged that there was growing concern about sexual violence on campuses, and said his organisation had published a detailed report on harassment, violence against women, and hate crime in 2016, which recommended a number of measures to help institutions address this issue and provide better support for victims.
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* * *
Clive Conway has pretty much wrapped things up at St Luke Street. Not that there was much to do. The two champagne glasses on the draining board had already been rinsed and dried, and without any obvious signs of a struggle he’s not sure what else CID could reasonably expect to find. He finishes taking his photos, makes a note to himself to collect the empty champagne bottle from the recycling bin on his way out, and bags up the glasses.
He’s packing up to leave when he gets the call.
‘Conway? It’s Anthony Asante. Marina Fisher’s being processed and something’s come up.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘She doesn’t have her mobile with her. She thought she did but it isn’t in her bag. She thinks it’s either in her office at Edith Launceleve or at the house. Can you see if you can find it?’
Conway glances around the kitchen. ‘There’s nothing down here, but I’ll have a look upstairs.’
‘Great, thanks. And collect the laptop too, if you can find one – given how sensitive this one’s going to be, Fawley wants us to check her phone. Just to be on the safe side.’
‘OK, I’ll let you know if I find anything.’
He finishes packing up and makes his way up to the sitting room and starts looking round. A few moments later he spots the mobile charging on a coffee table. He bags it and slips it into his case, then straightens up. It’s only now he notices that the boy has been in the room the whole time, sitting at a low table under the far window, so intent on whatever he’s doing that he doesn’t seem to have noticed anyone else is there.
Conway wanders over. The child’s working in a large drawing-by-numbers book – a huge, intricate design of what looks like St George and the Dragon. If it’d been one of his own kids the colours would be spilling out of the lines all over the place, but this boy clearly has more patience and better hand–eye coordination than all his three put together.
‘That’s really good,’ he says jovially. ‘Must help having so many colours to choose from.’
Conway’s kids had Caran d’Ache sets too, but he didn’t know you could get them three tiers deep. There must be over a hundred pencils in there. He stands there for a few minutes more, and each time the boy finishes with a colour he watches him put it carefully back exactly where it came from. The table remains tidy, the spectrum in the box perfectly graduated, the only sound the scratch, scratch, scratch against the page.
* * *
* * *
Conway pulls the front door shut and hears it click behind him. Monmouth House is on a corner so, unlike most of her neighbours, Marina Fisher has side access to her house, and doesn’t have to deal with the besetting conundrum facing owners of Georgian terraces from Bath to Bloomsbury: What To Do With The Bloody Bins. Fisher’s are just inside the side gate, tucked neatly out of sight in a purpose-built enclosure trailed with clematis. Conway opens the recycling bin to retrieve the champagne bottle, and finds it, as expected, right at the top. He bags it up and is about to close the lid again when he notices for the first time what was immediately underneath. He frowns slightly, hesitates a moment, then reaches into his case for another evidence bag.
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
20.15
‘OK, I know it’s late and it’s hot and it’s Saturday and you’d all much rather be interrogating a cold beer, but I just want to capture first impressions while they’re still fresh.’
I look round at them. Ev, Quinn, Asante. ‘So, which one do you believe? And no, it’s not a trick question.’
‘If you forced me to go one way or the other, I’d go for Morgan,’ says Everett. ‘He answered all the questions, kept good eye contact. He even admitted he fancied her, which he must have known would complicate matters. But he was asked the question, and he gave an honest answer.’
I turn to Quinn. ‘What about you, Quinn?’
He shrugs. ‘I can’t understand what Morgan’s doing here at all. Nothing actually happened, so why put yourself through a shitshow like this? And risk fucking up your career at the same time? He’s not stupid – he must realize there’s a sod-all per cent chance of a conviction. Just doesn’t add up.’
Ev looks across at him. ‘Would you be saying “nothing actually happened” if the genders had been reversed? If it was a male tutor and a female student? No, of course you wouldn’t.’
‘I know we all know this,’ says Asante evenly, looking from the one to the other, ‘but sexual assault isn’t about sex. It’s about power. And Fisher’s the one with all the power in this relationship. If she was abusing that power some other way – academically, I mean – then Morgan would have every right to make a complaint. Why is this any different?’
Quinn is shaking his head. ‘He’s still taking a massive risk –’
‘What about her?’ says Ev quickly. ‘Coming on to a student like that, knowing he could go straight to the college authorities and report her? That’s what I call taking a risk.’
‘But that’s the point,’ I say. ‘They’re both risk takers. Morgan said so himself, in interview. He said anyone working in that field has to be prepared to take risks or they’ll never get anywhere.’
Ev frowns. ‘They’re both as bad as each other, is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying these are both people
who might be more prepared than most to play a high-stakes game.’
There’s a pause. They’re not sure where that gets us and, frankly, neither am I.
‘I don’t know why CID are even on this,’ mutters Quinn. ‘Never mind the whole bloody team.’
Classic Quinn, but for once I sympathize. I wouldn’t have the entire team on it either, given the choice, but we don’t have the excuse of a more pressing case, and – rather more pertinently – I’m anticipating that sooner or later the Chief Constable will be ‘taking an interest’ or ‘just checking in’ or whatever apparently-casual-only-clearly-not phrase his PA comes up with. As my first Inspector once put it, ‘It’s only a suggestion, but let’s not forget who’s making it.’
‘There’s something about Fisher,’ says Asante eventually. ‘I can’t put my finger on it but something’s definitely off. All that stuff about not being able to remember – it’s a bit too convenient, if you ask me.’
‘On the other hand,’ I say, ‘why hasn’t Morgan mentioned the rip to the dress? He’s been upfront about the fact that there was a physical altercation – why not mention that the dress got ripped in the process?’
Ev shrugs. ‘Perhaps he didn’t realize? Perhaps he just doesn’t remember?’
Quinn gives a dismissive snort and looks away. ‘Yeah, right. He can’t remember, she can’t remember. He said/she said. It’s all bollocks – the whole thing.’
I see Ev about to object and decide to step in.
‘OK, we’ve probably all had enough for one day. But DC Quinn’s right about one thing: the CPS will never run with this as it stands. If we get DNA from Morgan’s body, it could be a whole different ball game. But meanwhile, whether we like it or not, we can’t ignore who his mother is. Not least because I doubt she’s going to let us. Remember that debate about sexual violence in the Union a couple of months back? She’d be all over this, even if the victim in question wasn’t her son.’
Quinn sighs heavily. ‘Just what we need. Being crapped on from a great height by an up-themselves politico.’
‘Right,’ I say briskly. Because that sort of attitude isn’t going to get us – or Quinn – anywhere. ‘So let’s not give her the satisfaction. Forensics will be at least a couple of days, and that’s if we’re lucky. So in the meantime, we do our homework. We need to confirm Morgan’s story with his girlfriend and talk to Fisher’s colleagues, both here and anywhere she’s worked in the past. I want to know if there’s been even the slightest hint of anything like this before. And check whether any of those people were also guests at the Balliol dinner – let’s see if we can find out if there were any signs of damage when she left, either to her or that bloody dress.’
‘We’ll need to be careful though,’ says Asante cautiously. ‘This sort of allegation – it would wreck her career. And if it turns out she didn’t do it –’
‘Precisely. So discretion, please. I want to eavesdrop on the rumour mill, not start it.’
I stand up; Asante’s making a note, Ev is gathering her things, Quinn just looks narked.
‘I’ll get DC Baxter going on Fisher’s phone and I’ll also see if we can get Bryan Gow to have a look at Fisher’s interview footage. If Asante’s right and something really is off here, he’s our best chance of nailing it. As for the rest of it, DC Quinn, you’re stand-in DS. Over to you.’
Quinn looks up. ‘Yes, boss,’ he says.
He’s perked up already.
* * *
It’s dusk, that most deceptive time of the day. The memory of light still in the sky, but the earth dark below. No one’s noticed the man parked up by the side of the road, not even the usually nosey old chap who’s just gone by with his dog. But why would he? The man hasn’t moved for a while – hasn’t read a newspaper, turned on the radio, dug a packet of mints out of the glovebox. The vehicle is silent, and so is he. He does nothing. Nothing, that is, but watch.
A few moments later a door opposite opens and a woman comes quickly down the path to the trellis enclosure by the gate. She lifts the lid of one of the bins and drops a black plastic bag inside, before turning and looking up and down the street. She’s looking directly at him now and he slides a bit further down in the seat, even though he knows it’s too dark, and too far, to see his face.
When the man glances up again two women are coming towards him along the pavement. Yakking away, their toddlers bundled up in buggies. There’s an older kid too, a boy with red hair and big glasses, drifting along behind. The man frowns. Mothers are too distracted, too frazzled, to notice pretty much anything, let alone someone just sitting quietly in their vehicle, minding their own business. But kids are different. They don’t care. They just stare straight in.
The women are drawing level now, shreds of conversation drifting across.
‘I think you just have to tell them –’
‘But you know what that place is like –’
‘When I spoke to Pippa about it she said the same thing –’
The women pass, but the kid is still dawdling, and the man can now see why. He’s stopping at each car, looking at the make and noting something on a small red clipboard. The man’s eyes narrow. Just his bloody luck to stumble over the only kid on the planet who wants to be a sodding traffic warden when he grows up.
The boy is closer now, but still too far to read a number plate. Not in this light. He can see the woman, still at her gate, straining forward, trying to see.
The man curses under his breath, reaches for the ignition key and starts the engine.
* * *
When Niamh Kennedy pulls in opposite Monmouth House there are no lights in the tall facade on the other side of the road.
‘Beatriz must be in the kitchen,’ says Fisher, peering up at the windows. ‘Poor woman – I had no idea I would be so long.’
‘These things are always interminable,’ says Kennedy. ‘If you take my advice, you’ll have a large glass of wine, a hot bath, and go straight to bed.’
‘I will,’ says Fisher. ‘I just need to spend some time with Tobin first. Heaven only knows what he must be thinking.’
‘Kids are more resilient than you think. He’ll take his cue from you. As long as you talk to him calmly, he’ll be fine.’ She reaches across and squeezes Fisher’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, Marina. I know you feel overwhelmed right now, but you’re strong. If you were the sort of person who was going to be defeated by this you wouldn’t have got this far in the first place.’
Fisher gives a quick nod, then gets out of the car and strides across the road, not looking back. She holds her head high as she struggles to get the key in the door, but as soon as she hears the car pull away her shoulders slump and she half staggers across the threshold into the hallway.
She stands there a moment, adjusting to the gloom. There’s a pale shape hunched on the bottom step, which lurches towards her, the eyes huge and ghost-dark in the pale face.
‘Where have you been, Mummy? You promised you would look at my drawing. I’ve been waiting for hours. Where were you?’
* * *
8.15pm Saturday
Just now, when I went out to the bins, he was there. Again. Parked down the road, far enough away that he knew I wouldn’t be able to see him – not properly. Then two women went past with pushchairs and I think they must have spooked him because as soon as they got close he drove away.
But it was him. I know it was.
He was there.
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
21.54
When I get home, the house is in shadow. Inside, there’s a single light on in the kitchen, and a note saying there’s salad in the fridge if I want it. I pour myself a glass of Merlot and slip upstairs. The door to the baby’s room is ajar. It was Jake’s, before. A couple of months ago we spent a whole weekend carefully packing all his things away. We didn’t discuss it – we didn’t need to. We just knew it was time. And now, everything in there is new. Wallpaper, furniture,
bedding, curtains; the piles of baby clothes still in their packaging, even the mobile hanging over the cot. The smell of paint lingers. Yellow paint. Everything is white or yellow – not a scrap of blue or pink in the whole place. Alex has known the sex of our child for months but she’s never let it slip, not once. Downstairs, the list of names stuck to the fridge is as busy with girls as it is with boys. Added, scratched through, question-marked, ticked. We seem to have finally agreed on Lily Rose for a girl, but we’ve been brought up short when it comes to boys. Literally: she wants Stephen for her dad, but I hate Steve; I like Gabriel, but she can’t stand Gabe. Impasse.
I move softly across the landing, inch open our bedroom door and stand for a moment, listening in the twilight.
Outside, I can hear a distant siren, the murmur of traffic on the ring road, a late last burst of blackbird song.
But here, in the room, my sleeping wife moans softly in her sleep, restless in unquiet dreams.
* * *
At just gone 9.00 the following morning Anthony Asante is sitting in the bay window of his apartment, talking to his mother on the phone. He’s pulled one of the blinds to screen out the sun but it’s already too hot for him to sit there much longer. ‘Bay window’ probably has you picturing him in a flat in one of those classic Oxford Victorian houses – four storeys, red brick and stone mullions – but you could hardly be more wrong. This bay window is rectangular and juts from the wall like a half-open door, and the flat is a sleek wood-and-white duplex which anyone visiting can hardly believe even exists in this town, especially this close to the centre. But visitors of any kind are largely notional as yet, since Asante has only been here a few weeks. Even if that weren’t the case, he’s always preferred to keep his private space private. Though he knows he’s going to have to make an exception for his parents. He shifts the phone to his other ear, scrolling all the while on his tablet. He’s good at multitasking, and in any case, talking to his mother doesn’t require too much brain capacity. She’s saying something now about taking him for lunch next weekend. Something about a gaudy at her college the night before.