Invisible

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  ‘Oh, hello,’ sighed Cynthia. ‘How did I know what, dear?’

  Patronising cow. ‘How did you know your son was guilty? I didn’t. I had no idea; I thought he was innocent.’ Each word shot out like machine gun fire. ‘I take it you did know, from the way you’ve wanted nothing to do with him since his arrest.’

  ‘He’s…’ she stretched the word out, thinking. ‘He’s never been right. That’s the only way I can describe him. When I heard what he was accused of, it confirmed everything I’ve ever suspected of him, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And you never thought to warn me?’

  ‘Dear, that’s not my place. For all I knew, you were fully aware of his defects and chose to be with him anyway. Perhaps you even liked them.’

  ‘Fine, great, thank you for the information,’ I stormed, about to launch into a full-on tirade.

  ‘Please,’ she interjected calmly, ‘don’t call me again. This is painful enough. Good luck for the future, dear. Goodbye.’

  Now I’m back under the duvet trying to figure out how this living nightmare started. Was Daryl damaged irreversibly by his cold mum? Or did his mum withdraw from Daryl when she realised she’d given birth to someone so utterly broken?

  And would it make any difference if I had the answers?

  There’s another obvious question too. How could I have been so stupid? I skim read the newspapers and assumed that Daryl had a cast iron alibi for the murder. I was in so much denial that if someone had held a piece of chalk up to my face I’d have sworn it was black not white if it had meant Daryl was innocent. Now I can finally see what was so searingly, staggeringly obvious to the rest of the whole world: Daryl’s guilty as sin. I was so blind.

  Monday 18

  This morning I lay on my mattress for some time staring at the ceiling, occasionally stealing glances at the alarm clock. Was it time to get up yet? No, I could wait another couple of minutes. Then another couple of minutes. And another. Until finally I was reduced to telling myself that I’d get up once I’d counted to twenty…five.

  Eventually I pulled myself together and got up, dressed, and ready for court. Dad stopped speaking to Mum as I appeared in my suit and he set down his cuppa; clearly they’d been discussing me. He cleared his throat.

  ‘You’re definitely going then.’ Less a question, more a statement. His short, clever fingers ran round the handle of his mug, a nervous habit he can’t seem to break.

  I nodded, smoothed the front of my skirt down, then picked up the car keys. I know they think I’m nuts and I couldn’t face a conversation about this.

  ‘At least let me do you a decent breakfast to face the day,’ sighed Mum, jumping up. Ah, they must have decided arguing with me was useless.

  ‘Umm, no thanks. Just a coffee for me,’ I said, wrinkling my nose. The thought of food making my stomach churn uncomfortably.

  ‘You’ve got to eat, sweetheart…’

  ‘Just a coffee. Thanks, Mum.’

  I only took one big, scalding gulp, just to show willing, then hurried from the house, with Mum calling after me, ‘We’ll order you a new bed while you’re out, love.’

  ‘Don’t bother, honestly,’ I shouted back, slamming the door shut. Somewhere to sleep is the last thing on my mind currently.

  The defence started their case today. Really, what hope do they have? At long last I can now understand their reticence about revealing their strategy to me.

  Daryl was going to give evidence but I’ve heard a rumour that his defence team encouraged him not to. Good, because it’s more than I could stand, the thought of seeing him try to lie his way out of this, spinning that mesmeric web of his until I can fight no longer and somehow, against logic and all evidence to the contrary, I fall under his spell of confusion, misdirection and half-truths. I’d go mad. Even madder than I already am.

  With no character witnesses willing to speak out on his behalf either, his barrister was forced to immediately bring out the big guns. In this case, a consultant psychologist who was willing to somehow justify what he’d done and tell everyone that basically he needed a hug rather than punishment. What rubbish.

  Because it turns out that this is all my fault.

  ‘It is your opinion that the accused isn’t responsible for his actions. That, unable to handle his emotions when he was put under pressure, he acted out in the only way he knew how; is that correct?’ put his QC.

  The psychologist tucked her raven black hair behind one ear and nodded seriously. ‘Yes, and for that reason, simply put, he lacks the capacity to comprehend what he has done.’

  A dismayed murmur ran through the court, everyone realising that this was a play to get Daryl’s sentence reduced. Remembering the sick smile that I’d seen momentarily on his face while hearing evidence, it took everything I’d got not to shout: ‘oh yeah, if he doesn’t comprehend what he’s done, how come he looks like he’s enjoying himself so much?’

  ‘Order please,’ insisted the judge. ‘Quiet in court.’

  The barrister took a moment then turned to the expert witness again. ‘Can you talk us through how this occurred?’

  ‘Certainly. Through a series of conversation with the accused I built up a picture of his character and emotional make up, and also used his wife’s diary as a reference.’

  My heart jumped painfully. She was actually going to use my own words to back up her tin pot theories. I’d handed it over days after the arrest in order to prove Daryl’s innocence, now it felt like it was being used against me.

  ‘You will hear that he was under a lot of pressure to start a family, something he didn’t want to do, and this I believe was the stressor that triggered the spree,’ she added.

  Hold on, hold on, what’s so terrible about wanting to start a family?

  ‘Throughout the diary there are references to the accused’s sexual dysfunction. This will have affected the relationship deeply. He will have felt that he was letting his wife down, the rage building inside him. That, in addition to his feeling of losing control of his life because he doesn’t want children, will have created a powder keg of emotion that would not take much to explode.’

  ‘Can you talk us through the first attack, please?’

  ‘Yes, this was clearly unplanned as it happened just miles away from his home. This indicates that he was out of control, acting on instinct. Then there is the level of violence involved and the lack of sophistication in his approach; this lack of finesse shows it was, as I have said, an explosion of emotion.’

  Lack of sophistication? What did she mean; that he wasn’t using chat up lines or something?

  ‘The third rape is a particularly good illustration of the relationship between the accused and his spouse,’ she continued. ‘By now he has perfected his technique, which has become much more controlled – he is regaining the control in the rapes that he feels he has lost in life. The language he uses during the attacks really shows this; he is cool, calm, emotionally detached almost as he tells the women what he thinks of them.’

  Then she read from a paper Daryl’s words. ‘Listen, whore, I’m not going to lie, this is going to be very bad. But if you behave, you’ll be fine. If you’re a stupid cunt and don’t behave…well, you know what the consequences will be, don’t you?’

  ‘After the third attack, he feels so happy and confident in his actions that he even calls his wife and talks cheerfully to her,’ the psychologist explained. ‘She describes him as being “happy to hear my voice” despite it being 2am. She says “he was in a really good mood; the kind of mood that’s contagious. Honestly, when he’s like that being near him is like being near the sun”.’

  I winced at the words. Remembering that feeling, that person, that innocence I had… Ignorance really was bliss, but now I couldn’t believe I’d ever been that stupid.

  Still the psychologist’s voice boomed out confidently across the court room. She must have taken lessons in public speaking or something, because she certainly knew how to project. There was n
o chance of blocking her out…

  ‘Rape number four occurred after the accused and his wife argued. Again, this will have triggered his feelings of uncontrollable rage. The following day, thanks to his purge, he called his wife and apologised to her for his behaviour during arguments. This proves that only his release allows him to handle his relationship.’

  Right, so the only thing keeping us together was rape and violence? I’m so awful to be married to that I forced him to do those things? And I love her euphemistic terms for rape, by the way: ‘purge’ and ‘release’. Purlease.

  Daryl’s lawyer prompted his witness again. ‘I’d now like to ask you about poor Julie Scrivens’s murder. According to the diary, there doesn’t seem to have been any arguments in the accused’s household. This doesn’t seem to fit into the pattern you’ve described. Can you explain that?’

  ‘The murder is different,’ she nodded pensively, shiny black bob swinging. ‘I believe that by this stage the accused was completely out of control. He was able to stop the attacks for some time, given that previously they’d been occurring around once a month or more, then suddenly there is an extended break of two months because his marriage is less tumultuous.’

  There it was again, the dig at me. I didn’t know whether to feel ashamed at myself, or furious at her. It’s not really my fault is it? Is it? Oh God, what if it is…

  ‘But it’s no longer enough for him. He needs the thrill of the crimes,’ the psychologist nodded more enthusiastically, really warming to her theme now. ‘In addition, he is still suffering from erectile dysfunction issues within his marriage, and the only time he seems properly able to have full penetrative sex is during his crimes, when re-enacting them with his wife, or in the immediate aftermath of them when he is probably re-playing them in his mind.

  ‘My theory about the trigger for the escalation from rape to murder is that he was unable to achieve erection during the attack – a post mortem showed Mrs Scrivens was not raped.

  ‘One of his previous victims does mention that at one point during her attack he was unable to perform a second time, and this prompted a rage in him which resulted in her receiving a severe beating from him.

  ‘I believe this happened again, but that this time he was so furious that he completely lost control – in the very situation he has created in order to feel control. His unleashed fury was catastrophic for his victim.’

  You can say that again.

  But she had more on the subject. ‘The diary mentions that when he arrived home that night, immediately after the attack, he vomited. The following day he agrees to the very thing he dreads the most – having a child. These actions are clear illustrations of his panic…and most importantly his remorse.’

  ‘No!’ came a shout to the right of me. Julie’s husband was shaking his head, furious. ‘He’s a monster, he doesn’t care what he’s done.’

  The judge was not impressed. ‘You will be quiet, please, or you will be taken from the court,’ he warned.

  You can’t blame him for his outburst though – I certainly couldn’t. Some of the graphic things we’ve heard have been horrific, but somehow listening to this woman trying to excuse Daryl’s actions is even worse.

  This witness had a last twist of her knife left for me though, involving the final rape, in Turkey.

  ‘No one can have failed to notice how much his final victim resembles his spouse,’ she said. I quickly stared down at my lap as all eyes turned to me momentarily, then swivelled back to the stand.

  ‘He and his wife try to have sex but he can’t manage it. Let me read this section: “This problem of his has been happening on and off for the last two years or so, and seems to have got worse since I really started hammering home how much I want a baby. I’d hoped that him agreeing to that would mean the problem wouldn’t happen again, but seems I was wrong. Am I not enough woman for him? Don’t I turn him on?”

  ‘They have a huge row, and he immediately has to go in search of a victim because now it is the only way he knows for handling his rage. He finds a woman who looks just like the source of his anger…’ Again, people looked at me, accusing rather than appraising this time. ‘…and while he is attacking her, ultimately he is attacking his wife, but lacks the emotional maturity to confront her.’

  The defence lawyer turned to the jury. ‘Lacks the emotional maturity,’ he repeated slowly.

  ‘Yes, and because of that, I believe he lacked the ability to control himself or his rages, and now lacks the capacity to comprehend what he has done, hence his ‘not guilty’ plea.’

  No one said anything, but there was an uneasy stirring through the public gallery. But now it was the turn of the prosecution to cross examine the psychologist. I hoped to God he could undo any damage the defence had done to the chances of Daryl going down for life.

  He made sure everyone had settled and was giving him their complete attention before he spoke in a gentle yet commanding voice. ‘Surely you would agree that someone’s partner desiring to have a child is not normally an excuse to go around raping and killing people?’ he asked.

  The witness frowned. ‘Certainly not. But the right pressure exerted on the right personality type can definitely create extreme reactions.’

  ‘The right personality type… And what personality type does the accused have.’

  ‘He clearly has psychopathic traits, and some sociopathic too, I’d say by the way he is able to charm people. Characters such as this tend to have an inability to comprehend emotions, or the emotional impact of their own actions on others. The accused would have simply ‘acted out’ as a way of regaining control over a life he felt he was losing control over’

  ‘He’s a psychopath?’ checked the prosecuting barrister, throwing a knowing look at the jury. Well, being described like that isn’t going to help Daryl – good.

  ‘In her diary, his wife describes a trip to Tilbury and Manchester that the accused takes her on,’ he added. Then he read out an excerpt where I described the great sex Daryl and I had in the cab, when he wore his latex gloves. I didn’t think I could have been made to feel any worse, but having that private, intimate moment shared with a room of strangers managed it.

  The psychologist nodded her understanding. ‘He definitely would have enjoyed what in his mind was a re-enactment. Revisiting two sites where he raped women, then donning the type of gloves he used during those attacks would have excited him emotionally and physically a great deal.’

  ‘At one point in another part of the diary the wife also mentions him wrapping a present with duct tape and smiling…’

  ‘Yes, it would amuse him a great deal to know he was showing off his skill with the bindings, and she was clueless.’

  ‘A show off, someone who relishes re-enacting his despicable crimes…this doesn’t sound to me like a man who doesn’t comprehend what he’s done. It sounds like someone who is all too aware of his actions, and has thoroughly enjoyed himself,’ the barrister said, his formerly gentle voice suddenly biting.

  The room was silent, the psychologist didn’t say a word, looking flatly at her adversary. He let his words sink in then continued. ‘You say that the first attack was an unplanned explosion of anger. What about the following attacks? Why didn’t they happen near his home? They show definite evidence of planning, do they not?’

  ‘There was an element of planning, definitely. Although the victims were chosen opportunistically…’

  ‘Tell us about the planning,’ the QC interrupted.

  ‘He would have chosen places that were away from his home deliberately, because he wouldn’t want to be linked with the crimes; it lessened his chances of being caught and he knew it. At the same time, he wanted locations that he knew well and therefore felt comfortable in. That’s why he chose places at either end of his regular trucking runs,’ the expert admitted reluctantly.

  Right, so basically, he was in control enough to know he didn’t want to shit on his own doorstep! Ha, argue with that, bitch!
>
  ‘Then there was the rape kit he put together, the disguise to put women at ease, the cunning way he then covered his tracks by covering his outfit with his overalls,’ prompted the lawyer. ‘These are the actions of someone who recognises what they are going to do, plans it, enjoys it, and does not wish to be caught. Correct?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s more complicated…’

  ‘Yes or no answer, please.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Incidentally,’ the lawyer added, having a Columbo moment, ‘why bind the victims when the assailant is so powerfully built? He clearly is strong enough to overpower someone if he chose to. Could it be that it’s about the ritual of binding more than the physical restraint?’

  ‘There is evidence to suggest that, yes. The act of binding someone then being able to step back and see how helpless the victim is would heighten his pleasure,’ she admitted reluctantly.

  Her reward was a brilliant, triumphant smile from the prosecution as he thanked her and told her she was free to leave the witness box.

  It’s an odd feeling, wanting to cheer someone who is putting the nail in your husband’s coffin. As well-trained as Pavlov’s dog, I couldn’t help feeling guilty, and glanced automatically over at Daryl.

  He didn’t look shocked or worried. He looked amused. Catching my eye, he smiled cheekily, like that first smile he’d given me all those years before, the first time I’d clapped eyes on him. Then he mouthed something. I frowned, unable to work it out.

  A quick check around to see if anyone else was looking, and he silently repeated the words, pointing at me. ‘Your fault.’ Then he settled back in his seat, satisfied, a little grin playing across his face and his eyes twinkling.

  Well, it’s nice to know someone is happy with the psychologist’s conclusions.

  Tuesday 19

  I was tempted to stay at home today yet I find myself, against all logic, unable to stay away from court. Macabre curiosity, maybe? A sado-masochistic tendency to have pain inflicted upon myself? No, more like I don’t know what I’d do otherwise, so, on automatic pilot, I get ready while Mum and Dad look on in despair; drag myself through the crowds (rather hoping they’ll succeed in their bid to tear me to pieces) and then sit in my usual seat and watch the court circus.