by Ian Mayfield
They got out of the car and followed O’Dwyer and her shadow into the building. Jingling could be heard on the first floor landing, a key being turned in a lock, then shuffling and a startled scream, quickly muffled. By then they were racing upstairs. Jeff, with his long strides, got a foot in the doorway just before it slammed shut. He braced it with his shoulder against efforts to close it from the other side. Shrieks issued from inside the flat, and sounds of a struggle. Zoltan and Jasmin added their weight to Jeff’s and the door burst open. In the shaft of light from the landing they saw a man hopping away, nursing his foot with one hand and trying to stop O’Dwyer escaping with the other. Jasmin shut the door and switched on the hall light.
‘Let her go, Michael,’ Zoltan said. ‘She’s an impoverished temp. Probably doesn’t have anything of value you could use.’
At this moment O’Dwyer did two things. The first was to scream so loudly Jeff felt his eardrums cringing. The other was to kick the tall man very hard in the shin. He yelled and loosened his grip. Jeff moved in and restrained him.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Colleen O’Dwyer had fled and was cowering behind the first heavy object she had come across, which was the living room door. Her eyes danced like a chased hare’s from one intruder to the next. ‘Who’s this prick?’
‘Good question.’ Zoltan stepped round, looked the tall, gaunt, sneering young man in the face and was sure. He said, ‘Michael Robert Prosser? You’re under arrest.’
Anne White was not surprised to be woken by the sound of Zoltan’s key in the door. He was the only man who’d ever been allowed a key to her life, the only one she’d encouraged to consider her flat an open house. She levered up a gummy eyelid and peered at the luminous red digits of the radio alarm. Ten to three. It could only mean they’d booked their prisoner in and were sitting on him until the morning. The buzz of excitement was quickly dulled. Bayliss was no longer her concern. Be that as it may, she couldn’t just switch off her interest, especially now. Zoltan was her link to the team. Pretending to be asleep as he tiptoed into the bedroom, she started planning a conversation in her head.
‘You with flights of angels?’ he murmured.
She grunted sleepily.
‘Excuse the hour.’
‘Was expecting you.’ It was broadly true. Zoltan, in the morning, would have to go and talk to a serial rapist. Recently he’d confided that it was getting steadily easier to come here rather than crash at home. His own flat was starting to look unlived in. Not conducive to preparing his mind for such an interview.
He finished undressing and climbed into bed, his body cool from the London night. ‘Sorry,’ he said, feeling her tense.
She tutted and drew him close. ‘I’m awake now,’ she said. ‘Mind if we talk?’
‘Of course.’
The ambiguity threw her. She said, ‘Um...’
‘Been meaning to ask anyway,’ he said. ‘Is your offer still on?’
She felt like laughing. He’d stolen her thunder again. ‘About moving in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sure,’ she squealed, and kissed him in delight. ‘Worked out what to do with all your stuff, then?’
‘I thought about it,’ he said, ‘and then I realised most of it’s here already. By a process of gradual migration.’
‘Cluttering up the place,’ she grumbled.
‘I could do a car boot sale or something.’
‘I was joking.’
‘Not entirely, I suspect.’
‘Zoltan?’ she said. It was the moment of truth.
‘Mmm?’
‘Before you jump in feet first.’
‘I can swim.’
‘No, listen. Hear me out before you decide anything.’
‘Let’s have it.’ He ran his fingers through her hair.
‘I’ve got a confession to make.’ She felt it coming out in a rush. ‘I had sex with Roy Gillam.’
‘Was rather afraid you might have.’
Anne struggled to overcome the double take, and groaned. ‘I thought I’d kept it really well hidden.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m a DI and you’re a DC.’
‘Acting sergeant, thank you.’
‘But no longer a detective.’
She let it drop. Something was missing from this conversation. ‘You’re not angry?’
‘No.’
She waited, but it was all he was going to say. She wanted him to rail at her, but then she realised what his game was. He’d keep those feelings to himself, so that she would never know if her sleeping with other men hurt him or not. Especially now they were living together, she would always have to think twice.
She stared at him in the dark.
‘You astonishing bastard,’ she said affectionately.
Tuesday
Lucky’s journey to work felt like a procession to the gallows. If she was honest with herself, this whole enquiry had been suffused with a dull sense of impending doom. She’d kept it in her head that as long as she could forget, things would be OK. She’d survived crises before. She’d got over Dad’s leaving, she’d got over Julia’s moving out and she would get over the shock of finding Nina. She would -
But it was the little things, the nagging imps that tormented her, kept knocking her down just as she was struggling upright. How had she even dreamed she could be impartial? She’d been all right in herself, but what about all the idle remarks of her colleagues when they discussed the case, the mindless snap diagnoses of a dozen armchair shrinks? What did they know? Several times she’d been unable to stop herself carping back at them, a coded cry, ‘Look, this is what it’s really like.’ And no-one had twigged. Not even Juliet, and she’d been bladdered then, for crying out loud.
She’d half-known who they were looking for after they’d spoken to Mrs Beckett, and even before then the victims’ consistent descriptions ought to have given her a hint. But the MO… it was nothing like. It couldn’t be him. She told herself it would be too much like a sick joke. Even the name was wrong.
But it was a sick joke. That had been obvious from the moment she’d seen what was written on the back of Jeff’s gas bill. They were on their way to pick Prosser up. When they questioned him he’d tell them, and she would be finished.
No-one said anything when she walked into the office. No-one stared, or asked her if she was OK, and there was no summoning note from Sophia. Everything seemed the same as yesterday, grim faces talking into phones or scowling at computers, persisting despite all the odds with their hunt for Nina’s attackers. She felt disorientated.
‘Lucky.’
She whipped round as though someone had kicked her. Sophia stood behind her, holding a large buff envelope, and Lucky knew without being told what was inside.
‘Ma’am?’
‘I’d like you to fax this to Rye,’ Sophia said, handing her the envelope, ‘then ring Miranda Beckett and warn her there’ll be someone calling round with a picture for her to identify.’
‘Right,’ Lucky heard herself saying. She was shaking like a washing machine on spin and the guv’nor surely must see it. ‘We’ve got a body, then?’
‘Zoltan arrested Michael Bayliss last night. He’s just about to start interviewing him. The reason we weren’t able to find him before is that he’s been using the name Prosser.’
She felt her knees go. She grabbed the edge of a desk for support. Then she turned and dashed out of the office, dropping the envelope and trying not to imagine the expression that must be etched on Sophia’s face.
Sergeant Bob Price was nearing completion of the tedious forms that were required for DCs Winter and Wetherby to remove Michael Prosser from his cell when the sound of running footsteps distracted all three of them. It is the last sound a policeman who cherishes peace of mind wishes to hear in a cell block because his immediate fear is that it means either a breakout or a death in custody. When he looked up the first thing he saw was Jasmin Winter being barged aside by someone with long black hair, a grey
top and blue jeans. Bob didn’t remember anyone of that description being booked in and besides, they were running towards the cells. Muttering, ‘What the fuck...?’ he got up and hurried after the figure. ‘Oi!’ Jeff and Jasmin turned to watch.
Breathing laboured, Lucky shambled down the cell corridor checking names. Prosser was in number three, on the right at the far end. She skidded to a halt and slammed the Judas hole open. She let slip a strange little noise. Bob stepped aside in alarm as she fled past him.
Jeff and Jasmin glimpsed the ghastly look on her face and both had the same thought. They broke into a run and joined Bob as he reached the door, braced himself and peered through the hatch.
Michael Prosser hadn’t hung himself, suffocated on vomit or run head first against the wall. He was sitting laughing at them. Bob opened the door.
‘That stupid little bitch,’ Prosser said, ‘thinks I raped her.’
It wasn’t hard to tell where Lucky had gone. Jasmin just had to follow the pointing arms. A middle aged civilian clerk was the only visible occupant of the locker room when she walked in.
‘Have you seen - ?’ The clerk pointed to a closed cubicle. Jasmin said, ‘Is it OK for you to leave, please?’
‘Sure,’ the clerk said, wiping damp hands on her skirt. ‘I was just finishing up anyway.’
‘Thanks.’
The clerk nodded and went. Jasmin looked around for some way of keeping people out, but there didn’t seem to be anything. She’d just have to hope. She cleared her throat, stepped up to the cubicle and knocked on the door.
‘Lucky, are you in there? It’s Jasmin.’ There was no reply, but Jasmin could hear her breathing. She tried again. ‘Lucky?’ Suddenly the sobriquet didn’t seem appropriate. She called gently, ‘Larissa, come on. I want to talk to you.’
There was movement, and the bolt was drawn. Cautiously she pushed the door open. Lucky sat on the toilet seat, hugging herself. Jasmin could smell the fear coming off her, like a wind.
‘Hi,’ she said. Lucky stared at her knees. Jasmin sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her and tilted her head, coaxing her into making eye contact. The hand that finally allowed itself to be taken in hers was cold and trembling. She whispered, ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s him,’ Lucky said with a sob. ‘Oh, God, it’s him.’
The rules state that the supervising officer in an investigation of rape must be of the rank of inspector or above. Even in the 21st century that generally means a man: one who, while he will have been on all the requisite courses and be sincerely sympathetic, will find it difficult even to come close to appreciating what this most humiliating and personal of crimes means to the victim. For that reason he will find a female officer to talk to her, at least to begin with; an experienced policewoman, not always a detective, but specially trained in the craft of separating facts from the pain, distress and confusion that accompany them in the victim’s memory. She will not always succeed, but at the very least she is often the only person who can convince the woman that, in spite of all the cruel questions they must ask, the police are on her side.
It was this principle that was under hot debate in the office of Chief Superintendent Coleridge, the borough commander. Coleridge, on hearing the news, had immediately called in his boss, Assistant Commissioner Parmiter, and it was them, as well as DCI Summerfield, against whom Sophia Beadle was defending her corner.
‘Sir, you agreed to let me continue the Benton enquiry even after one of my officers was injured,’ she said to Parmiter. ‘Why am I considered competent to handle that and not this?’
‘DC Tyminski was attacked in the line of duty,’ Coleridge butted in. ‘She was following up a lead.’
‘Nina wasn’t on duty.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘The point is,’ Drew Parmiter raised his voice just enough, ‘Tyminski was attacked in her capacity as a copper. PC Stephenson was raped in her capacity as a woman.’
‘That’s the general idea,’ Sophia snapped, and wished she hadn’t. ‘Look, sir, no-one’s even interviewed Lucky - PC Stephenson - yet. We don’t know what happened, or why.’
‘That’s it exactly,’ Summerfield said. ‘All we know is Prosser sat in his cell and told Bob Price he’d raped Stevens.’
‘He said nothing of the kind.’
‘He implied it.’
‘What he said was, “She thinks I raped her.” You know as well as I do that consent is the only viable defence against a rape charge.’
‘You’re too close,’ Summerfield said.
‘Oh, put your handbags away.’ AC Parmiter sat back and unwrapped a stick of gum. In spite of his elevated rank, he still liked to portray himself as laid back, one of the troops. His manner was irritating Sophia; he was acting as if the carpeting he’d given her only four days ago over the DNA result had never taken place. He pushed the gum langorously into his mouth as if it were a square of expensive dark chocolate and looked at them. ‘I’m not calling Sophia’s ability to conduct an impartial enquiry into question. Point is, through no fault of their own, two of her officers have come a cropper one after the other. Not a good hit rate.’
‘So this is down to image, is it, sir?’ Coleridge, to both Sophia’s and Summerfield’s surprise, sounded genuinely outraged by the notion. ‘Never mind a young woman’s human dignity.’
‘Sometimes image is important, Simon,’ Parmiter said. ‘Within a very few hours I’m going to be fielding cries from inside and outside the service for Special Crime to be disbanded. We all know the circumstances are bad luck, but a lot of people won’t see it that way.’
‘I see,’ Coleridge said. ‘Delicate little ladies who shouldn’t be exposed to the dangers of high risk policing?’
‘There is that to it,’ Parmiter replied, unperturbed. ‘Of greater concern to me are the implications of Special Crime’s existence for Larissa’s welfare. Or the welfare of any female officer under my command who’s unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of something like this.’ He surveyed their uncomprehending faces and smiled. ‘Matthew,’ he said to Summerfield, ‘how many women have you got in CID at the moment?’
‘None,’ Summerfield said. You don’t have to sound so happy about it, Sophia thought angrily.
Parmiter pointed at him triumphantly. ‘And Joe Gottlieb up at Gipsy Hill has only got one,’ he said. ‘These two BOCUs have got fewer women in regular CID than anywhere else in the Met. Why?’
‘They’re all in bloody Special Crime,’ Summerfield said nastily.
‘I recruited eight women because eight women were the best people for the job,’ Sophia argued. It occurred to her to hope Coleridge or the AC didn’t think she was including herself in that number. It further occurred to her that it might be a subliminal way of reminding them the team still wasn’t back up to strength. One of her original DCs, Sarah Craig, had lasted barely a month before resigning to move to America with her physicist husband, who’d been offered the job of a lifetime at MIT, and she had never been replaced. They needed another body, and they needed a DC, not – Sophia felt a little stab of guilt for thinking this – another trainee.
‘Still looks a hell of a lot like affirmative action,’ Summerfield commented.
‘Bottom line,’ Parmiter said, raising his hand for peace, ‘when Special Crime was set up nobody imagined this was going to happen. The specific problem now is we have eight women in Special Crime - counting yourself – ’
Damn it, Sophia thought.
‘ - all trained in handling rape victims, but who all have a conflict of interest. Which leaves us with Marian Southworth from Gipsy Hill...’
‘...who Lucky knows from her last posting,’ Sophia finished for him resignedly.
‘What’s wrong with bringing a WPC… someone in from another BOCU?’ Summerfield wanted to know.
‘Here’s what we’ll do.’ Parmiter puffed happily on his cigar. ‘Matthew, d’you think you can take charge of this?’
Summerfield glance
d at Sophia before answering. ‘It’s no secret I don’t particularly approve of women police, sir,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got two daughters and my younger one’s about the same age as WPC Stevens. I wouldn’t wish rape on any woman.’
‘You’ll do an impartial and thorough job, in other words?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Be sensitive about it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Even if I give you a DC from Special Crime to talk to Larissa?’
Summerfield’s reply missed a beat. ‘No problem, sir.’
‘Three things,’ Parmiter said to him, winking at Sophia. ‘One, the suspect’s already had his collar felt, so you shouldn’t need long. Liaise with DI Schneider, who’s got him in custody for other offences.’
‘Right,’ Summerfield grunted, not best pleased.
‘Second.’
‘Sir?’
‘We dropped the W many years ago.’
‘I know, sir. Force of habit.’
‘And three,’ Parmiter said, ‘for Christ’s sake get the kid’s name right. It’s Stephenson.’
The rape suite was tucked away in a quiet corner of the admin floor, which was populated largely by clerical staff and so well away from the raucous banter of coppers. The surroundings were a world removed from the spartan, regimented rooms and corridors of the rest of the nick. This was tasteful and quiet, done up in pastel shades, floral curtains, pictures on the wall, a three piece suite, a coffee table, a lamp, books, plants; all done with a woman’s touch, and striving hard to look like a comfortable domestic scene. It had always struck Jasmin Winter as rather contrived: it was too clean and tidy and cosy, trying slightly too earnestly to put you at your ease.
She couldn’t deny, though, that it seemed to work. In this case, Lucky’s deliverance into Dr Ticehurst’s reassuring hands would probably help a lot. Ruth Ticehurst was a calm, sisterly Jewess in her forties, married to a Gentile and the senior partner of a general practice in Waddon. She’d been a forensic medical examiner for eleven years and a rape specialist for most of those, as well-trained and tactful as any of the team. Depending on circumstances, her examination of a victim could take anything from ten minutes to an hour if running repairs needed to be done prior to the woman going to hospital. Nowadays, standard procedure included tests for HIV, hepatitis, gonorrhoea, as well as advice on contraception and pregnancy. If necessary, she would prescribe the morning after pill.