The lounge still smelled of paint from where he had redecorated after his ex and son had sold all of his collectable toys to pay for a deposit on a flat. With every payday since Tom was born Adrian had bought some kind of collectable and over the last sixteen years they had increased in value. After Tom’s stepfather died and all his assets were seized, they sold all the toys and cards to put a deposit on a flat and now the house that had been overflowing with boxes was empty. They had spent the weekend painting together to make Adrian’s front room nice again and it was nice, it just didn’t feel much like home. It looked like he had been burgled by some painters and decorators.
He settled in and turned the TV on. There were a couple of shows he had been recommended, by people who probably hated him now, but hey, at least he had time to watch them.
He was awoken by a gentle knock at the door. He answered to see Imogen standing in front of him. She didn’t look particularly happy. He walked through to the lounge and she followed.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘You know how it is. I fucking hate looking through CCTV, it’s so dull. Can I get a drink?’
‘Sure. You didn’t find anything then?’ He picked up a beer and opened it before handing it to her.
‘The bank was closed and so we have to wait ’til morning to get the footage from the cashpoint. Gary phoned the twenty-four-hour helpline, but they said there was nothing they could do from there, that it was an onsite digital recording and there was no way of accessing it remotely.’
‘Thanks for trying.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, rolling her eyes.
‘You seem angry. What else is going on?’ Adrian said.
‘This is just bullshit, Adrian. I hate it.’
‘How do you think I feel?’ Adrian asked.
‘I hate everything about it. I hate thinking she’s a liar, I hate knowing for sure she is a liar. Because what if one day some other poor woman comes in and says she was raped, and I decide that I know for sure that she’s lying too? Who the fuck am I to be able to decide that? Without evidence, just a decision I have made.’ She took a long swig.
‘I don’t understand,’ Adrian said. He wasn’t lying; was Imogen saying that she didn’t want to believe him or that she wished Caitlin was telling the truth?
‘I thought I would be able to be objective!’ Imogen replied, more animated than he had ever seen her before.
‘Aren’t you being objective?’
‘Well no. Not even slightly. The evidence at the moment kind of says you did it. I saw her get into a car with you, Adrian, I saw the way you were with her, the way she was with you. I saw her injuries, I saw your injuries. Your alibi is shit! There’s no evidence to suggest you didn’t do it!’
‘But?’
‘But I still know you didn’t do it.’
‘And that’s annoying you?’ He smiled a little, trying not to anger her further. He had been worried that she might think he had hurt Caitlin. It had been the thing that scared him the most in all of this. It was nice to know at least that Imogen’s faith in him was unwavering.
‘Wouldn’t it annoy you?’ she asked.
Before he knew what he was doing, he put his hands on Imogen’s face and kissed her hard on the lips. He pulled away and looked her in the eyes. She probably didn’t look as surprised as she should have, and she pushed back and kissed him on the lips herself. He put his arms around her then, pulling her in. Imogen dropped the bottle and they stumbled backwards onto the sofa; he heard the beer fizzing as it permeated the carpet, but he didn’t care. He could feel her angry heart pounding against his chest. They kissed for several minutes, angry kisses, and as their hearts slowed down, so did the urge to kiss each other – and then it just stopped as quickly as it had started and Imogen clambered to her feet.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Adrian said, the half-smile still lingering, trying to bust out, completely gobsmacked by what had just happened.
‘I should go home,’ she said awkwardly.
‘Wait, no, stay for a drink,’ he said, the smile appearing properly this time.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She left and Adrian sat there, wondering what the fuck had just happened.
Chapter Thirteen
Adrian sat at his desk; Gary was on his way up and DI Walsh had called a meeting in one of the soundproofed rooms to discuss the case. Imogen still hadn’t made her way into the office yet; in fact he hadn’t heard from her since the other night. He had lain awake most of that night thinking about what had happened, thinking about what might happen in the future. He’d taken the day off work and had tried to put the case out of his mind. Had forcing their relationship to the surface taken it to a whole new level? All he knew was that he didn’t hate it and that maybe he wouldn’t mind if it happened again.
The door to the side room opened and several detectives came out. DI Walsh motioned to Adrian and Adrian went over to his desk.
‘Well?’ Adrian asked.
‘I found a witness who corroborated your version of events. The results of the rape kit were negative. Forensically speaking, there are no crossover points, which is strange, considering you were in a car together for some time.’
‘What do you mean the rape kit was negative?’ Adrian said, confused.
‘I mean there were no traces of semen or anyone else’s bodily fluids, bar her own.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It could mean any number of things; the point is we went over her statement several times and never once did she mention prophylaxis or penetration with a foreign object. Plus, there were no traces of lubricants.’
‘So, she’s lying?’
‘Something happened to that girl. There is no possible way she could have inflicted all of those wounds on herself. The bruises, the breaks – those are real, and we need to treat them as such.’
‘How do we find out the truth?’ Adrian probed.
‘We’ve spoken to the hospital, but they have said Caitlin is not well enough to be interviewed today. The bruising around her throat has made it almost impossible for her to speak. They think she should be fine by tomorrow morning, at which point I will go and interview her. She doesn’t want her grandfather present for the interview, so her psychology professor is coming.’
‘What about the CCTV? Or the camera from the bank? Did they corroborate my story?’
DI Walsh sighed and looked down. Adrian could tell that he wasn’t a man who liked to be put on the spot. Adrian also didn’t really care. He had to know.
‘Yes. Whatever happened to Caitlin Watts, it didn’t happen the way she said it did. If she is lying about that, then we have to ask ourselves why. What on earth would make a girl falsely accuse a police officer of rape?’ Matt Walsh said.
‘I have no idea,’ said Adrian, wondering why anyone would do that.
‘I’m not sure anyone does, but the fact is we need to find out what is going on. I’m sorry if you feel like you’ve been treated unfairly, but we had to do this by the letter. No room for error.’
‘I understand. I’m just glad that the truth is out.’
‘Well, actually, we need you to keep it under wraps for now. At least until after we interview Caitlin. We need to hear her side of the story again and look for holes. Or listen to her in case she remembers something else. It’s entirely possible that because of the level of trauma involved, her memory has been affected. You won’t be officially off the hook until after we either confirm your alibi or secure a confession. Best if you only tell Imogen for now. If the press get wind of it they will think it’s a massive cover-up, as usual,’ Matt said.
Adrian supposed it was better than nothing. He knew that the officials at least believed him now. He knew they had his back. No doubt rumours would continue to circulate and there would be some insinuation that the witness had been pressurised to change her statement. To cover up the truth. Adrian couldn’t worry about that. The evidence was enough for hi
m to keep his job and that was what mattered right now.
At that moment Imogen walked in and sat at the desk. At least now he had something to talk to her about, something other than their kiss.
Adrian waited until he saw Gary approaching before he made his way back to the desk. He didn’t have the courage to face her alone. As ever, Gary was holding a thick wad of paper. For someone so tech-savvy, Gary sure did like hard copies of everything.
‘What have you been up to?’ Adrian asked.
Imogen looked up, her face flushed. She obviously thought that Adrian was addressing her. He kept his focus on Gary.
‘I’ve been looking into Caitlin. There are some strange things going on with her file,’ Gary answered.
‘Strange, how?’ Adrian said.
‘Technically speaking, she shouldn’t even be on that course. She looks like a charity project.’
‘What do you mean?’ Imogen said.
‘Her grades were nowhere near as great as the ones she should have achieved in order to get onto that psychology degree. I learned that she got a partial scholarship and that her entrance to the university was personally endorsed by her lecturer, Gillian Mitchell.’
‘I’ve never been to university, so you’ll have to explain that to me,’ Adrian said.
‘I’m saying that Gillian Mitchell wanted to make sure Caitlin Watts came to that university, and what’s more, she wanted her in her department. The entry requirements for the psych degree are three As and Caitlin got B, C, C,’ Gary clarified.
‘Didn’t Owen Sager’s mother say something similar happened with him and Hugh Norris?’ Adrian turned to Imogen.
‘She did. I think once we’ve got to the bottom of what is going on with Caitlin, then Gillian Mitchell should be the next person on our list to interview; she was quite evasive when we spoke to her at the university,’ Imogen said.
‘Do you think she is part of this?’ Gary asked Imogen.
‘I only wish I knew what this was,’ Imogen said.
Chapter Fourteen
Gillian Mitchell had agreed to be present at her student Caitlin Watts’ police interview. Caitlin was a first-year student of hers. The only family Caitlin had was her grandfather, the Reverend Nigel Watts. Her parents were still alive but no longer a part of her family and, for obvious reasons, she didn’t want her grandfather to have to listen to her witness statement of a violent sexual attack. Gillian made herself look presentable but nothing too overstated. She opted for a matt lipstick instead of her usual metallic shade; she wanted to look respectful, sombre.
Gillian had noticed Caitlin’s potential from the first day of the course. Some kids just got it. Having an unconventional and somewhat traumatic background usually went some way towards an understanding of psychology. If you have had to spend your life adjusting to your own world versus the world around you, or what you perceive to be normal, then you just see things differently. Over the years, Gillian had noticed that it was usually the kids from atypical backgrounds who took an interest in psychology anyway. Caitlin was different from the other girls in the year, though. First of all, she had this magnetic power over men – completely unintentional, but it made Gillian almost glad she wasn’t a straight man; she would hate to be a slave to sexual attraction.
There was some jealousy there, of course. Gillian had got better looking with age and she knew how to do her hair and make-up in the most flattering ways, but she was no natural beauty. She had small hazel eyes and thin eyelashes, and her nose was slightly off-centre, thanks to a hockey accident when she herself was at university. Her lips were small and modest. She wouldn’t say she was obsessed with her looks, but now that she was getting older, noticing the crow’s feet, she had considered a face lift or Botox or something to slow down the ageing process. This was her time.
The interview was early morning; Gillian had asked the police officer if he wouldn’t mind doing it that way because she would find it hard to get cover for her first lesson. Caitlin agreed and so it was set. Caitlin had already had a preliminary interview, where she outlined the basics of the attack and labelled her accuser. They had tried to interview her again but couldn’t get much out of her, so they asked for her to have someone she knew and trusted present. Naturally, she asked for Gillian. They had grown close over the last few weeks.
Gillian now settled in her seat next to Caitlin, whose face was multicoloured with bruising, reminiscent of the greasy rainbows you would see in oil-slicked puddles, circles of colour radiating out from her eyes. Gillian tried not to be pleased that Caitlin’s pretty face had taken a beating. She had never really liked beautiful girls; it was jealousy, pure and simple. Although she had finally figured out her own look and how to turn heads, albeit significantly fewer than someone as beautiful as Caitlin would, she’d realised long ago how much easier life was for attractive people and that made her mad.
‘Tell us in your own words what happened,’ DI Walsh said, his notebook out.
‘I asked for a lift home, from anyone at the station. He offered to take me himself.’ Caitlin’s face screwed up as she tried to swallow. The doctor was poised to stop the interview if Caitlin appeared to be in too much pain.
‘Do you want some water?’ Gillian asked, squeezing Caitlin’s hand a little harder than necessary. She really needed Caitlin to sell this.
‘We got home and he walked me inside. I made us a drink in the kitchen, and he pushed me up against the units and kissed me. I was nice, but I asked him to leave. He grabbed me by the hair and hit my head against the cupboard.’ She reached up and touched a gash in her forehead.
Caitlin started to cry and looked at Gillian. Gillian could see what she wanted, she wanted Gillian to stop this so that she didn’t have to say the next few words. Gillian dug her nails in as she squeezed Caitlin’s hand this time. The tears poured out of her and Gillian pulled her hand away.
‘If this is too much …’ Doctor Hadley said.
‘No, it’s OK. He hit me and told me that he could do what he wanted because he was a police officer. He pushed me over the table and pulled my pants and tights down. Then he raped me.’
‘After he attacked you, what happened?’
‘He had his drink and I didn’t do anything, I just waited for him to leave. I was too scared to say anything. Then he raped me again. He was there for a while. He already knew my grandfather wasn’t coming back that evening, so I guess he was in no hurry. He really hurt me.’
Gillian was pleased with Caitlin’s performance. She was really selling it. She just hoped the men in the room were so blinded by their own hero complexes that they wouldn’t question her too much. She didn’t like the way DI Matt Walsh was looking at Caitlin though. She would have to keep an eye on him; they could deal with him later.
Gillian made all the right noises when Caitlin was explaining the horrific ordeal that she had been through and the DI made a face every so often in Gillian’s direction. He was trying to convey how sorry he was, how awful what had happened to Caitlin was, how not all men were rapists. Caitlin kept looking to Gillian for comfort, for a clue of what to say, for a way out. Occasionally Gillian squeezed Caitlin’s hand in support, occasionally she squeezed it because Caitlin was pissing her off, and in those instances she made sure she squeezed it hard enough to hurt. Gillian always picked the pretty girls. They needed to be taken down a peg or two.
When the interview was over, Gillian played the distraught and concerned friend, enough for the uniformed police officer to put his arm around her; she could feel his biceps through his shirt. In a couple of weeks maybe, she would seek him out again for comfort. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring and so when she did offer him no-strings sex, he would probably jump at the opportunity. Most men did. She would use him for a couple of weeks and then finally get rid of him when he started to notice her lack of feeling, lack of empathy for others. Gillian had left a string of meaningless relationships behind her and that was fine with her.
She walked back to
the car and got in, throwing her bag on the back seat, pleased with how the interview went. When she arrived at the university, it was still in the process of waking up. She loved this time of day. The time before everything started; it was like the sucking in of breath before a large exhale. It was a time of possibility. The night was over and the new day could begin.
Gillian put her key in the door to her office, but it clicked open – it was already unlocked. She was sure she had locked it the night before. Since the murder of Hugh Norris everyone at the university was on high alert, everyone was paranoid, except for Gillian. She knew that bad things were just a fact of life. Hugh’s office was directly underneath Gillian’s. She hadn’t heard or witnessed anything, though; she was elsewhere, she had made sure of it beforehand.
There was something wrong in her office; someone had been here, someone had been looking for something. She wondered if they had found what they were looking for and what that something was.
She couldn’t quite understand why she was jumpy this morning. There was something in the air, a taste she wasn’t used to, a feeling she hadn’t felt for a long time: she was afraid. Not even the police presence had made her particularly nervous, so what was she sensing now? Whatever it was, it was making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. There was someone else in the room.
‘I know what you did.’ The man’s voice came from behind her. ‘Don’t turn around.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is ridiculous. Get out of my office.’
‘I know all of the things you did, Ms Mitchell. I’ve been watching you.’
‘You should go before you get in trouble,’ Gillian said.
She could hear his voice getting nearer until she could almost feel his breath disturbing her hair.
‘With who? You? I’m out of your league.’
‘You don’t know what you’re getting into!’ she said. She had heard the voice recently, but for the life of her she couldn’t place it. It wasn’t someone she knew, but it was someone she had spoken to before.
Truth or Die Page 7