Two Wrongs

by Mel McGrath

  ‘She’s just pissed,’ he said. ‘Ain’t no one else here. Wasting my time.’

  And that was what he’d say to the police, two weeks later, after Honor had finally managed to persuade Zoe – against all the advice from her tutor, the Dean of studies and the student welfare office – to go with her to the police station and report the rape.

  We have a witness who will swear the alleged assailant was with her from ten thirty and for the whole of the rest of the night, the police said.

  You didn’t like him, because he had a crush on your friend they said. You put ideas in your friend’s head. Why did no one else hear you calling out ‘Get off her’? Why didn’t you get help from another student in the corridor? Why did the security guard find the door closed when you said it was open? How come you didn’t try to find another witness? Why are you claiming you were advised by Zoe’s tutor and others not to go to the police when they all remember advising the exact opposite? Why didn’t Zoe go to the police as soon as it happened? Why, why, why?

  So this is how it will go, she thought at the time. On and on and on until they circle back to the version they have already decided on.

  ‘I let down a friend,’ she says now. ‘I didn’t fight for her. Not hard enough, or not effectively anyway. It would take too long to explain.’

  ‘I’d like to hear one day,’ Alex says. ‘Turn here,’ pointing to a single-track road leading into a dell lined on either side with beech trees. At its lowest point, beside a stream, they come upon a small brick-built cottage with a tiny garden filled with daffodils.

  ‘This is it.’

  Honor pulls the van onto the verge and they get out. A red dog ambles over, twisting in delight at the sight of Alex. An elegant woman in her late forties appears and comes down the path to greet them. Alex gives her a peck on the cheek.

  ‘You must be Honor,’ she says warmly and, taking Honor’s hand in both of hers, goes on, ‘Alex has told me all about you. Please come in.’ Honor smiles nervously, observing Anne’s poise, the graciousness of her welcome. Is this why Alex was so keen that she come? Put her up for inspection by his ex? She’s doomed if that’s the case. Compared to Anne she’s a scruff, a vagabond, a tomboy, a woman who’s never really cared for any of the usual feminine wiles.

  Anne leads them into a small, dark hallway decorated with mostly watercolour landscape paintings and, taking their coats, hangs them on an old-fashioned coat stand. They follow the dog into a cosy kitchen, furnished with framed photographs and a child’s faded crayon drawings in what were once bright primary colours. On a large, scrubbed pine kitchen table sits a plate of cold meat and a bowl of salad. Beside it in a cooler sits a bottle of white wine and a small vase of hyacinths.

  ‘Please, take a seat.’ Alex waits for Honor to sit then takes the chair beside her. Anne remains standing beside them.

  ‘First time this year isn’t it?’ says Alex, putting a distance between himself and his ex, for Honor’s benefit, she suspects. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Well.’

  ‘And how’s that son of ours? He doesn’t Zoom or whatever you call it nearly enough for my liking.’

  ‘Well, you know Tim,’ Anne says and, with exquisite manners, turns to Honor and goes on, ‘Alex tells me you have a daughter.’

  ‘Yes. Adopted daughter.’

  ‘And… she’s studying at Avon, am I right?’

  Honor feels herself redden. ‘Oh, I see Alex has filled you in.’

  There’s a pause until with a flourish of her hand across the table Anne says, ‘It’s only ham and a bit of salad, I’m afraid. The bread’s good though and I’ve made some broccoli soup. Help yourself to a glass of wine.’ Turning, she makes her way to the stove. While she busies herself at the stove Alex raises the bottle and on Honor’s signal pours her a small glass and a larger one for himself and for the next few minutes Honor and Alex sit in solemn silence at opposite ends of the kitchen table, Alex fondling the ears of the red dog, both conscious, Honor is sure, of what was said in the car only a few moments ago.

  Anne brings three bowls of green soup to the table, distributes them in front of each of their places and pulls up a chair. The conversation turns to Bristol, then to Bath and to other local matters. Chit-chat. When the plates are finished, Anne rises once more and brings out of the fridge a large bowl of berries and a jug of cream and, coming to the table, says, ‘Alex mentioned that you’re interested in the copycat suicides at Midland?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Honor, glad to have the silence broken. ‘A few days ago my daughter’s best friend tried to kill herself then another student in the same department threw herself off the Clifton Suspension Bridge. The university seems to think that the first was an accident and the second a one-off. The head of student welfare was very evasive with me. And I’m worried, obviously, that they haven’t put in enough safeguards to stop it happening again. It doesn’t fill me with confidence to know that the woman responsible has form in covering up suicides among the student population, or, at least, not taking them very seriously.’

  Waiting until she has decanted the berries into cut-glass bowls and handing round the cream, Anne says, ‘I found my old file in the attic. Alex, darling, will you make us some coffee and I’ll go and fetch it.’

  At the word ‘darling’ Alex swallows and, flushing, lays his napkin down and rises from the table. ‘I’ll put my best man on to it.’

  Moments later, Anne returns with a cardboard file and, sitting, begins leafing through a pile of handwritten notes. ‘Back then I did most of my notes the old-fashioned way, in a reporter’s notebook. I can show them to you but they won’t make a lot of sense unless you read shorthand?’

  Just then Alex returns carrying a tray on which sits a full cafetiere, three mugs and a carton of milk.

  ‘There was quite a lot of stuff that didn’t make it into the paper because I couldn’t substantiate it. Things were so different back then. People didn’t talk about sexual assault in the way they do now. It seems students were always having affairs with tutors and no one batted an eyelid unless something went terribly wrong. Which, obviously, in this case, it did.’

  She scans her notes for a few minutes, flipping the pages of her notebook.

  ‘Oh yes, I remember now. The suggestion was that Reynolds had somehow persuaded or coerced several male students into sexual activity. All that only came out later, after the boys died. Reynolds denied it, of course. I’m not sure he was ever even questioned by the police.

  ‘Midland University first insisted that they didn’t know the boys had killed themselves, though I later discovered that they’d sent a representative to the coroner’s hearings, so evidently they did know and decided to lie about it. Then they tried to paint the first student as unstable and mentally unwell and suggested that his death began a sort of unstoppable chain reaction.’

  ‘You disagree?’ Honor asks her.

  She looks away as if rerunning the events in her mind. ‘Back then my view was that the university created a culture in which predators like Reynolds could operate because they knew that the university would collude to cover up their criminal behaviour. So they were every bit as culpable as Reynolds. That’s still my view.’ She starts and recovers herself. ‘Oh, how rude of me not to offer you more coffee.’ Lifting the cafetiere from the table, she goes on, ‘I’m assuming this is of interest to you because you think something similar could happen at Avon.’

  ‘I think it’s possible, yes. At least, the copycat suicide bit. As to why the two girls at Avon were driven to take their own lives, and one succeeded, I have no idea. You didn’t have any proof that the suicides were as a result of Reynolds’s activities?’ Honor says.

  ‘Well, no. We couldn’t ask the dead boys, obviously, and none of them left any kind of suicide note. But people often don’t. I do remember someone at the Samaritans telling me that. She said that people who are driven to kill themselves have often already got beyond the point where they can share their shame or
even name it. They only know that carrying it has become so intolerable that in their minds the only way to put an end to it is to put an end to themselves.’

  A chill comes over Honor and a sick feeling of familiarity. She’d heard this too.

  ‘There were a lot of rumours swirling around. But Reynolds had been good at covering his tracks. We did find one student, a boy named Gary Bond, a friend of one of the dead boys, Michael Fincher, who said that Michael had told him that he’d been raped by Reynolds and we confronted Reynolds but, obviously, he denied it.’

  ‘Were the police ever involved?’ asks Honor.

  ‘As I recall Michael Fincher’s parents went to the police after Gary came forward, but Reynolds was dead by then and they didn’t get any cooperation from the university either. To be honest, I don’t think there was any appetite to pursue Reynolds even when he was alive. The Finchers aside, none of the parents of the dead boys really wanted to bring a complaint. It was too awful and too painful and there was probably some concern that their boys would be labelled homosexual. There was still shame or public opprobrium attached to being gay, and in those days, the assumption was that if a boy had “allowed” himself to be raped then it must be because he was gay. Men like Reynolds get away with rape because they know that their victims aren’t likely to report it. Back then even more than now. It was the perfect storm of privilege, denial and homophobia. He might have exploited the fact that the boys were over eighteen and officially adults so it would be easier for a predator to hide behind a fiction of consent, but if you think about it, those boys really had no choice in the matter. Reynolds was entirely responsible for their academic futures. And there was also the terror of being exposed. The shame of what had happened. It probably didn’t help that Reynolds was a lawyer, incredibly well connected, and nobody wanted to accuse him outright, even after his death. So the whole thing died on the vine.’

  Alex is shaking his head.

  ‘Oh, and Reynolds had an accomplice of sorts. A young woman who worked in his department. Fiercely clever, wildly ambitious. I interviewed her but the story moved on and I didn’t follow up. As I recall, she was his PhD student and protégée. I’m guessing that her career depended on keeping him sweet. He might have promised her something particular, a promotion maybe, in exchange for her loyalty, but if he did, I never managed to find any evidence of that. I’ve no doubt she knew about it though, or that she lied to protect Reynolds. Can’t for the life of me remember her name. It’ll be here somewhere. I’d love to know what became of her. Quite the piece of work.’

  Anne shuffles a paper and, catching Alex’s eye, says, ‘I know that look. You’re about to tell me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Her name was Madeleine Ince.’

  Anne snaps her fingers. ‘That’s it!’ Her gaze lights on Alex then Honor, then back to Alex. ‘What?’ The eyes blading left and right. A sudden intake of breath and something between shock and excitement scudding across the elegant features.

  ‘Good God, I can see it in your faces. You know her, don’t you?’

  Chapter 37

  Cullen

  Cullen finds himself at the sticky table in the corner of the saloon bar of the Rose and Crown. He and Mark Ratner meet there sometimes to discuss academic matters away from the distractions of campus.

  Cullen catches the barman’s eye and signals for another round. Another double will settle his nerves.

  ‘Oh come on. How did you think this was going to end? You were having sex with her on campus. I walked in on you, remember?’

  ‘I’m not likely to forget it.’

  ‘Natasha has to go.’

  ‘I said I’d sort it.’ Ratner’s hands are trembling as he says this, Cullen notices.

  ‘But you didn’t.’ Cullen blinks back his irritation.

  ‘How did you find out about the grades?’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult, Mark. We both know that the girl was on the verge of being kicked out, before you decided to start sleeping with her. I brought up Natasha’s file and checked her record. She’s a poor student, with no aptitude, no drive, no head for academics, barely scraping a pass, suddenly starts getting firsts in her coursework. You weren’t exactly subtle about it. I’d have let it go if it hadn’t been for your last paramour deciding to jump from the bridge.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Ratner’s eyes are suddenly etched with panic, his face an untamed mess of blotches and muscle tics. He, Cullen, can feel his fear spilling out into the air between them. There is something to be enjoyed in watching him. What a fool the man is to imagine that he could keep his affair with Jessica Easton a secret.

  ‘Jessica Easton was a nutjob. Unstable. That was why I got rid of her and that was why she killed herself. It had nothing to do with me. Natasha Tillotson is completely different, much more…’

  ‘…malleable?’

  ‘Pragmatic, reasonable.’

  ‘Which is why you need to get her to accept my offer. The point is to rectify the situation in a way that best protects all of us. Natasha Tillotson can transfer, complete her degree in some less exacting institution where she’ll be allowed to scrape through and in a couple of years, she’ll have forgotten all about this little episode. And you and I will have the luxury of being able to forget all about her.’ He takes a breath to calm himself and continuing in a measured tone says, ‘How do I make myself clearer? Your career is on the line, Mark, your marriage too, I shouldn’t wonder. Your wife can leave you, I couldn’t give two hoots, but you impact me or the reputation of my department, I’ll take you down myself.’

  Ratner, chewing on his nails now, says, ‘I’ll work on Natasha. Just give me a bit more time.’

  Cullen downs his second whisky chaser and calls for another. ‘We don’t have time.’

  The barman comes over with the drinks. Cullen picks up his whisky and downs it in one. He watches Ratner’s fingers sliding nervously up and down his pint glass. A sly smile comes on Ratner’s face. Cullen senses exactly where he’s about to go, the fool.

  ‘You haven’t exactly been an angel yourself.’

  ‘Grow up, Mark. You sound like a silly little schoolboy in the playground.’

  ‘If I wanted to, I could…’

  Cullen holds up a hand. ‘I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you. Just make the Tillotson girl keep quiet and do as she’s told.’

  Cullen pushes back his chair and taking his jacket turns and walks as quickly as he can out of the pub and into the car park. Before he’s got as far as the car, Ratner’s voice reaches him.

  ‘I saw you at lunch with Nevis Smith the other day.’

  Cullen turns and shakes his head. Ratner is standing only a few feet away, working his hands together. ‘And?’

  ‘And pot, kettle is what.’

  This time Cullen lets out a belly laugh. The man is preposterous. ‘Nevis Smith is my eyes and ears, you moron, she’s my spy, my useful idiot. She tells me everything I need to know about what the students are saying. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she doesn’t already know about you and Natasha.’

  Ratner comes closer. ‘Natasha says Nevis is investigating the incident on the bridge last Sunday.’

  Cullen lets out a snort. ‘Investigating? We are talking about the same nineteen-year-old oddball with zero confidence, I assume.’ An eyeroll as he repeats the word ‘investigating’ doing his best to give the word the requisite tone of contempt. He feels something unstable rise up in him, like a great elevator whose cables are about to snap. Leaning towards him, he says, ‘Hear this. I don’t give a damn what your little tart says. I’m getting rid of her, you understand? And if you give me any more trouble, I’ll get rid of you too.’

  ‘I’d like to see you try.’

  Even as his legs are propelling himself forward Cullen is thinking, don’t do this, don’t let him get to you, but it is already too late. He is grabbing Ratner’s shirt at the neck and shaking him. Ratner pulls back, a look of shock on his face, and there is an
instant when Cullen tells himself that it is not too late to stop now, that no real damage has been done. Then his fist makes contact with Ratner’s cheek. Ratner lurches back, his hand coming up to the injured part. His eyes are stormy. He is considering whether to retaliate and for a moment the two adversaries are freeze-framed, pumped up with shock but powerless to move. Then the moment passes and Cullen sees Ratner slump and turn, hurrying towards his silver VW, muttering darkly to himself, checking to make sure there are no witnesses to this little lapse in judgement. Ratner won’t tell. He’ll be too ashamed. All the same, it was stupid, stupid, stupid. I should go back to the office. Act normal but pretend I’ve got some urgent work and can’t be disturbed. Get Tina to hold all my calls and appointments. Drink some coffee, maybe have a quick snooze on the sofa, put myself back together.

  Mark Ratner has driven off now. Cullen walks over to his Volvo, presses the electronic key and lowers himself into the driver seat. He leans his hands on the steering wheel, inspects the swelling already coming up on the knuckles of his right hand where they made contact with Ratner’s face. He shuts his eyes and, taking a deep breath, reaches automatically for the glove box, takes out the quarter of Bell’s and empties it into his mouth.