A Velvet Scream

by Priscilla Masters

  As they took a chair Joanna felt very relaxed in the doctor’s company. She could understand how he would make a good psychiatrist with his bright eyes, measured tone and careful English.

  He sat down behind his desk. ‘Tell me how I can help you best,’ he began, ‘to unravel this sad tale.’

  ‘We’re interested in anything you have to tell us about Kayleigh’s mental state,’ Joanna said, ‘whether or not you think it has any bearing on our investigation.’

  ‘I shall endeavour to do that,’ the doctor said, ‘without using too many long medical terms. If there is anything you don’t understand I will explain.’

  ‘If it helps, Dr Afarim,’ Joanna said, ‘my degree is in psychology.’

  Afarim’s eyes gleamed with appreciation. ‘Excellent. Well, then. Without further delay, you understand that I am not trying to solve your crime for you. I simply would like you to understand young Kayleigh a little better.’ He leaned back in his chair and regarded them. ‘Her mother and father were in all probability fairly neglectful in her early years and this has resulted in typical attention-seeking behaviour by exaggerating stories and events. She is a very insecure young lady and craves affection. These young ladies are frequently emotionally labile and this makes them vulnerable to approaches from the opposite sex. Kayleigh is textbook typical of these girls. Hysterical and prone to forming unsuitable or dangerous friendships in their desperate search for continuing human contact and approval. When her father abandoned her as a child it planted the idea that she was unlovable – that she would always need to demand it in one way or another. This only serves to irritate people, which makes the subject more needy. Her mother probably didn’t want Kayleigh around when she married her new partner. This would have left Kayleigh in a very lonely state indeed. It was another rejection.’

  ‘But her new stepfather, by all accounts, tried to befriend her,’ Joanna commented.

  ‘Ah –’ the psychiatrist held his forefinger up – ‘but at the cost of her mother’s attention which she had previously had one hundred per cent.’

  Joanna watched the psychiatrist talking and wondered, why was he spending time telling her all this? Was he implying that Kayleigh’s story was a lie? She tried to tease it out of him. ‘Are you telling me that Kayleigh would fabricate stories simply to gain her mother’s attention and sympathy?’

  ‘She wouldn’t see it as fabrication,’ the doctor said. ‘Merely extending or altering the truth.’

  ‘Would she have a conscience about the consequences of her “extending or altering the truth”?’

  Afarim was silent for a moment, his face troubled. He was patently deciding how best to answer this. ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘Unless it had an impact on her, such as, if it was found out and she lost face or friends by her falsehood.’

  It was an old-fashioned word for a lie but Joanna approved. It seemed right to use the lesser word.

  ‘Did you speak to her about her stepfather and where that story led her and her mother?’

  ‘I touched on it.’

  ‘And?’ Joanna asked bluntly.

  Afarim leaned back in his seat. ‘She insists there is some truth in the story.’

  ‘Some?’ she queried. ‘How much?’

  Afarim shook his head sadly. ‘Who can say?’

  ‘Do you believe her stepfather had sex with her?’ Joanna asked bluntly.

  Afarim continued shaking his head. ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Do you think anything happened between them?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  She caught Korpanski’s eye. His face was wooden, expressionless. Yet she thought she caught a hint of anger as he drew in a sharp breath.

  ‘Was she a virgin previously?’

  Zed Afarim shook his head. ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘And the self-harming? What’s the significance in that?’

  ‘That’s more interesting,’ Doctor Afarim said, animated now. ‘When I spoke to her about it there was a definite change in her manner. She appeared depressed. A little defeated. I detected self-pity but also guilt. Normally I would assume that the self-harming could be explained again by attention or pity-seeking – wanting to appear the injured child. But in Kayleigh’s case this would not appear to be the case. She was hiding the marks. Not exposing them.’

  Korpanski almost exploded. ‘In a black boob tube?’

  Afarim was unruffled. ‘She’d put some make-up over the marks,’ he said. ‘She didn’t want people to see them. A nightclub is a dark place. In this context she wouldn’t want to evoke sympathy.’ His eyes twinkled as he challenged Korpanski. ‘I promise you sergeant that this is the case.’

  Joanna decided it was time to try and pin the psychiatrist down. ‘So what about Tuesday night? Did she fabricate the rape? Did it actually happen or did she pass out, drunk, and try and blame it on someone or something? Did she have consensual sex that night? Was she in a position to consent to sex? Or did she simply pass out because she was drunk and had had a cocktail of drugs? What’s the bottom line here?’ Joanna felt a burst of fury. ‘What am I investigating, Doctor? Nothing but a teenage girl’s desire for attention?’

  For the first time Afarim looked uneasy. He frowned. ‘I can’t tell you that,’ he said. ‘Not for certain.’

  ‘Her story was detailed and clear,’ Korpanski said, looking at Joanna as he spoke.

  ‘I suspect that the very clarity of the story makes at least part of it that. She’d had a lot to drink and on top of that had taken or had administered some sedative. Although she did not say this in so many words the implication was that the truth is that she remembers little of that night: certainly in the later hours. What happened is possibly as much a mystery to her as it is to you. She simply does not know. And yet . . .’

  The two of them waited as Zed Afarim continued thoughtfully. ‘There is something about that night that is deeply troubling to her. I don’t know what it is. What is significant is that she wants to hide it from me. Ergo it is of importance. But, Inspector –’ his eyes rested on her – ‘if you have a degree in psychology, you will understand this. If someone is determined to keep something from you the signs are there but it can be difficult – if not dangerous – to force them to tell. And stupid to try and guess.’

  Joanna nodded. ‘Will you be seeing her again?’

  ‘One more time – and then only if she wishes it. She has the right to refuse, even to discharge herself. I cannot force her to stay. In the end we have to let her go.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Home. To her mother. I have spoken to Mrs Bretby and she is in agreement with this plan. We will assess her in a month. If this fails she will be placed in foster care.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think of trying to contact her father?’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ Dr Afarim said. ‘But we would have to see what she would feel about it. And her father too. Remember – these two are perfect strangers.’

  Perfect strangers.

  The phrase seemed important, significant. It lay, like oil, floating on the surface of her mind, swirling and indistinct, puzzling and polluting her thoughts.

  She waited until they were outside before sharing her thoughts with Korpanski. ‘So where do we go from here? We don’t even know whether she was raped.’

  ‘It’s not going to stand up in court,’ Korpanski agreed. ‘We’ll never get a conviction out of this. And if our friendly psychiatrist speaks up – well – he could almost be acting for the defence.’

  ‘Then we drop the case, Mike?’

  Korpanski looked troubled. ‘I don’t see we’ve got much choice, Jo. We probably won’t even get a conviction of underage sex. She’s fourteen and looked older. The CPS will only prosecute if the parents insist. And I can’t see Christine making much of a fuss or the absent father. And the truth is that Kayleigh hardly knows what happened. Under the circumstances she’s not going to make a good witness.’

  She picked up the magazines from the passenger s
eat. ‘So?’

  Mike simply huffed out a big sigh.

  ‘Come on, Mike,’ she said. ‘If this was Jossie . . .’

  ‘But it isn’t Jossie. If it was I would string the bastard up by his balls.’

  She eyed him and knew it was true. ‘Do you mind if I talk to her alone this time, Mike? I think I’ll get more out of her if you’re not there.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to wait around or –?’

  ‘Why not go and talk to the Newcastle-under-Lyme Police,’ she suggested. ‘There are lots of clubs round here. See if anything like this has happened before and what the outcome was.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll meet you in the car park at three thirty.’

  This time Kayleigh was watching television in the day room. She was wearing blue pyjamas with Disney figures on and had applied some make-up, lip-gloss and heavy, thick black mascara that contrasted with her skin and made it look even paler. She still looked tired but managed a smile as Joanna handed her the most recent Hello!, OK and Closer magazines.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said weakly, then looked up. ‘What do I have to do to deserve these?’

  ‘We need another talk.’

  Kayleigh’s mouth instantly twisted so she looked cynical and old. Without a word she stood up and led the way back to her room. Once there she closed the door behind them and sat on the bed facing Joanna, who had settled back in the chair.

  ‘Kayleigh,’ Joanna began by meeting the girl’s eyes. ‘You understand that a charge of rape is very serious?’

  The girl nodded, chastened.

  ‘And that while you almost died because you were left in the snow a rape charge will be a difficult charge to make stick as you don’t really remember the details of that night and there is no specific evidence.’

  A more hesitant nod this time accompanied by a cunning, wary look which disturbed Joanna.

  ‘You also understand that a great deal of police time will be spent in trying to find this man who you claim,’ she said carefully, ‘raped you.’

  Kayleigh’s face changed. ‘What are you tryin’ to say,’ she demanded. ‘That I’m lyin’? You don’t believe me.’ Her face tightened and she tossed her head. ‘Oh, well, I’m no stranger to people not believin’ me. I’ve met it before – prejudice.’

  ‘Ah, yes – your stepfather, Neil Bretby,’ Joanna said. ‘Tell me about him.’

  Kayleigh moved her face so she stared straight at the wall. But Joanna could see her expression in the mirror over the sink. What she saw – or thought she saw – puzzled her. Kayleigh’s expression was deeply sentimental.

  So she spoke very slowly, fumbling her way, trying to tease out the truth. ‘You alleged he made inappropriate sexual advances towards you.’

  Kayleigh nodded.

  ‘Was that true?’

  The girl’s shoulders stiffened but she neither nodded nor shook her head. Simply sat still; her face sphinx-like.

  Joanna repeated the question. ‘Did he?’

  Again there was no response.

  ‘Kayleigh,’ Joanna said finally. ‘We don’t have enough resources in the police force to go on to spend thousands of pounds investigating a story,’ she used the word deliberately, ‘if that’s what this is. It’s a criminal offence to waste police time.’

  The girl’s shoulders drooped. She was defeated.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Joanna said, ‘but we would need a statement from you, detailing exactly what you remember of what happened on Tuesday night. I suspect that the truth is you were drunk and don’t remember.’

  The girl’s shoulders dropped even more and Joanna wondered, was she letting this child down? Was she right? ‘The story about your stepfather was dropped, wasn’t it?’

  Kayleigh’s head hung.

  ‘This will come out in any trial. It will prejudice the jury against you.’

  Tears began to roll down the girl’s cheeks. ‘I don’t count, do I?’

  Irritatingly Joanna felt herself torn. She felt sympathy for the girl but anger too. Her instinct for the truth almost made her want to shake it out of her. ‘You do count, Kayleigh,’ she said gently, ‘but I have to make the decision whether or not to proceed with the investigation. And to continue with it I would need to be certain that I am likely to secure a conviction. Do you understand?’

  Kayleigh nodded.

  Korpanski, meanwhile, had chanced on Detective Inspector Sandra Johnson at Newcastle-under-Lyme police station. And Sandra, newly single after a very messy divorce, liked the look of the burly DS from Leek with his muscular frame, black hair and dark eyes, and made a quick decision. She would prefer to help him with enquiries than pursue her current, unpromising case: an octogenarian’s body which had lain undiscovered for a number of weeks. According to the pathologist the octogenarian had died of natural causes and there were no suspicious circumstances – no forced entry into her council bungalow. It was simply a case of isolation and loneliness so time was not exactly of the essence.

  She listened to Korpanski’s questions before settling down in front of the police computer in the main office. Korpanski was not above using his personal charms to his advantage. ‘Thanks for agreeing to help,’ he said. ‘I really appreciate it.’

  Sandra’s thin face lit up. She wondered if the DS was married. He wore no wedding ring, she noticed.

  But she was not generally lucky in love. She gave a sigh and turned to peer into the screen. ‘We did have a case,’ she said, ‘back in May. Whether it is connected with your current investigation, Sergeant,’ she looked at him slyly, ‘is kind of hard to be sure of but there are distinct similarities. A teenage girl who had recently had sex, we couldn’t know whether it had been consensual or rape, was found unconscious outside a nightclub early the following morning, barely conscious. We got her to hospital but she died.’

  Korpanski felt his pulse quicken – and so did DI Johnson. ‘She actually died of a combination of alcohol poisoning and an overdose of a benzodiazepine.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘We didn’t secure a conviction, though we must have interviewed every person who was at the club that night. The man used a condom.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Don’t they all?’ She rubbed the back of her neck as though it was stiff. ‘We made enquiries but finally dropped the investigation after three weeks. We never got to the truth of it but as the girl had died of natural causes and we had no other evidence we were never going to find out exactly what happened.’ She met Korpanski’s eyes and smiled. ‘I’ve kept it on file, though. After all – someone out there knew what had happened.’ She seemed to feel Korpanski’s judgement weigh heavily on her and rubbed her neck again.

  ‘I know,’ she said resignedly. ‘I know. Leaving him to do exactly the same again.’ She sketched out a few more details.

  ‘Can we have all your notes?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She flicked a few keys and finally handed him a memory stick. ‘That’s most of it. The rest you’ll get by using the link.’ She risked a flirtatious smile. ‘Let me know how you get on, Sergeant.’

  Friday, 3 December. 3.30 p.m.

  Joanna listened to Korpanski’s story with interest. ‘Did they have any description?’

  ‘Not really. Unlike Tuesday at Patches in a snowstorm this was Lymeys on a summer Saturday night. The place was packed solid.’

  ‘Lymeys?’

  Korpanski grinned. ‘Newcastle-under-Lyme? A bit of a pun.’

  Joanna couldn’t resist a smile until she focused back on Korpanski’s story. ‘And the girl died? What was her name?’

  ‘Danielle Brixton. She was fifteen.’

  She thought for a moment; bent slightly forward in the car seat. ‘You know what bothers me?’

  Korpanski nodded. ‘If they are the same man he’s either local or he has visited this area more than once.’

  ‘You know, Mike, it might help if I speak to Neil Bretby. Perhaps I’ll understand a bit more then.’

  NINE

  I
t was almost six when they arrived back at the station. Joanna glanced at the clock as they walked in. If she was to get changed before dinner she didn’t have much time but still she clicked on the computer until she found the Newcastle-under-Lyme case. She leaned her chin on her hand and peered at the screen, feeling the familiar tingling in her toes. The facts were startlingly similar. A nightclub, some sort of assault, a teenage girl very drunk, raped and left for dead. Only in this case the victim had died. Joanna felt stunned. All police know that a criminal leaves his identity behind in every crime scene. This unique fingerprint tells you when the crimes were committed by the same guy. A guy who was careful enough to use a condom to rape a drunken girl; careless enough to not even care whether she lived or died. It was sickening.

  Joanna felt a shiver of apprehension. This was man at his worst. She sat and thought and pondered, oblivious to time passing.

  Korpanski broke into the silence, looking over her shoulder. ‘It is the same guy, Jo, isn’t it?’

  She looked up at him and read the revulsion in his eyes which must be mirrored in her own, then focused back at the screen. ‘He’s got away with it once, Mike; it was only in the summer and the case was dropped.’ She was silent before speaking again because another thought had pushed in, unwelcome but it had to be voiced. ‘What if,’ she began, turning around in her chair to meet Korpanski’s eyes again. ‘You’ve read the article,’ she said slowly. ‘They’re graphic and dramatic, headlines like this . . .’ She indicated the image and writing across the Evening Sentinel’s front page: GIRL LEFT FOR DEAD AFTER RAPE OUTSIDE A NIGHTCLUB. ‘What if Kayleigh read this article and . . .’ She shook her head. ‘No. Forget it.’ But her mind was active, puzzling through things. She didn’t know it but she was scowling. ‘Why did she say he had a cockney accent?’ She frowned. ‘Where did that come from?’ Then: ‘I just don’t get it,’ she said finally. Tempted and frustrated, she glanced at the memory stick which held more data; maybe the key. ‘Let’s have a quick peep at that.’