by Sarah Ward
87
Connie sat at her desk reading through the case files and feeling the visceral heat of raw anger. Case number five: a woman who had turned up at the police station claiming to have been raped, but she refused to give any further details or to be medically examined. Classified as ‘no crime’. Case number eight: a woman claimed to have met a man at a nightclub, and he had taken her somewhere in his car and raped her. A doctor’s examination the next day declared her injuries to be consistent with the victim having fallen while inebriated. Victim was an alcoholic. Classified ‘no crime’. So it went on. Case number twelve: transcript from the police interview, ‘Did you, at any time, enjoy the experience?’
Connie put her head in her hands. She briefly looked up to see Palmer walk into the office. He ignored her, which was just as well given that she felt like slapping someone. He would do. She put the files to one side. Despite herself, she couldn’t resist glancing over to where he stood. He was more smartly dressed today than his usual attire, which was saying something, given that he was easily the best-dressed man in the place. He had on grey trousers that looked like they could be part of a suit, and a leather jacket. Connie felt her heart lurch. It’s only sexual attraction, she thought. A purely physical response. She saw his compact movements suddenly tense. ‘What is it?’
He focused on her. Not as the lovers that they had been nights earlier, but as a colleague. ‘These photos from Julia Miles’s wall. Have you looked through them?’
‘I’ve not had time. They were only collected yesterday from Shallowford House. What’s up?’
Connie got up and crossed the room to him. He froze and moved away from her slightly. Don’t respond, she willed herself. Stay calm.
‘Look at this.’
She could do nothing but lean in towards him, although she noticed he moved away from her again.
The picture was poor quality. Probably someone had snapped it on an iPhone and then printed the image off onto cheap paper. It showed Stephanie Alton squinting into the sunlight, wearing cut-off denim shorts and a lemon T-shirt with a logo that Connie couldn’t make out. She had her arms wrapped around her daughter, who looked around thirteen. She was smiling into the camera uncertainly, but the arm that she had wrapped around her mother was confident. It was a moment of happiness frozen in time.
‘It’s her daughter, Mary. I interviewed her after her mother died. She’s older now, nineteen.’
Palmer was scrutinising the photograph. He turned the image towards Connie. ‘Look at her. Forget about the bobbed hair. Look at her body.’
Connie frowned. ‘She’s in her early teens there. She hasn’t started developing properly yet. Could be a boy or a girl.’
‘What does she look like now?’
‘Definitely a gi—, bloody hell.’ She took the photo from him. ‘You know, she cakes on the make-up, but she’s built all gawky and angles. You think this is our teenage boy?’
‘It’s got to be a possibility, hasn’t it?’
*
‘You knew, didn’t you?’
Pamela Fisher opened her mouth to say something and then shut it.
Sadler had eventually managed to get some sleep, but only about three hours in total. His head felt heavy on his shoulders, and he was fighting the urge to call around to his sister’s house even if it meant entertaining her boisterous children. He needed normality, of the kind you can only get from your own family. Certainly not from the warped sense of family solidarity that assailed him from all directions in this case.
‘You knew that your son attacked women and you shielded him. Is that why you encouraged him to marry Lena? To give him another alibi?’
‘I never encouraged him to marry either of his wives. They were his choice. I did want him to settle down, but he never could. It was that Philip Staley. He was a bad influence.’ The woman’s tone was bitter.
‘I don’t think it was as simple as that. They fed off each other. They worked as a pair.’
She refused to look at him.
‘Is this where he stayed? When he came back from Whitby? Did he stay with you? Or did he go to Lena?’
‘Lena? Of course he didn’t go to her. When he wanted to come back here, it was me he came to.’
‘And you knew he was in Whitby all along?’
The woman shrugged. ‘I knew he was alive. I never saw him but I knew where he was.’
Sadler swayed on his feet. He hadn’t been invited to sit down, and, in any case, he wanted to get this visit over as quickly as possible. ‘Do you know why he had to leave Whitby?’
The woman stayed silent.
‘Can you guess?’
Silence.
‘Did he leave anything here?’
The woman looked like she was debating whether to say something. ‘Andrew? Only the clothes he brought from Whitby. Nothing special.’
‘Can I see them?’
Pamela Fisher led him up the stairs to a small back bedroom. Whatever her affection for her son, she’d put him in the box room with a view of the neighbour’s wall. Sadler shook the contents of a rucksack onto the single bed and looked through them. She was right; there was nothing special. He could feel her eyes on the back of him. What was he missing? ‘There’s nothing else?’
‘From Andrew, no.’
The hairs on the back of his neck began to rise. ‘But you have something from someone else?’
She hesitated. ‘There’s an envelope. It’s not from now but from before.’
‘Before Andrew went missing?’
‘Yes, even before that. He used to come here. When he was married to Lena. Get changed, that sort of thing.’
‘Get changed?’ Sadler could hear the incredulity in his voice.
She flushed. ‘Sometimes Philip came with him. I didn’t like the man.’ She folded her arms. ‘Then, that September . . .’
‘In 2004?’
‘Yes. Philip came here with a load of stuff. He was supposed to move abroad. I think he said Australia or New Zealand. I can’t remember.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Sadler was impatient to hear what was coming. ‘He left some things.’
Pamela nodded at the rucksack. ‘It was like that. Full of stuff.’
‘Do you still have it?’
She went over to the built-in wardrobe and opened one of the high cupboards. ‘It’s there.’
Sadler helped her bring down a scruffy navy-blue rucksack and opened the flap at the top. ‘Have you looked through this?’ he asked her.
‘Just once.’
There was an odd assortment of things. Scrappy notebooks, some clothes. Near the bottom was a large blue envelope folder. Sadler pulled it out and opened it. Photographs. Of women’s faces. He felt the bile rise in his chest and gather in his throat. ‘Have you seen these?’
‘Just once,’ she repeated. She sounded like she was on automatic pilot.
‘Don’t you feel any compassion for the women affected?’
‘They were at a club. Wearing God knows what. What do you expect, going out looking like that?’
Thank God Connie’s not here, he thought.
88
‘I’m going to sell this place.’
Mark looked up briefly from the bag he was helping Kat pack. A policeman had accompanied them upstairs and stood sentry on the door of the bedroom. He’d warned them that he would be itemising everything Kat removed. ‘You don’t need to do anything rash. Now’s not the time to make that sort of decision.’
Kat emptied the rest of the drawer. That was all the T-shirts. She’d leave the thick winter jumpers until another time and make do with a couple of cardigans now the weather was warming up.
‘What next?’ Mark was looking around her bedroom. ‘Take enough to see you through for a couple of weeks. I don’t want you to have to come back again until things have settled down.’
Kat thought of Mark’s spare bedroom. ‘Is there room in the car for one of Lena’s pictures?’
‘Of course.
I’m going to show the copper what we’ve taken from here.’
She crossed over to the landing, went down the stairs and into Lena’s studio. The room smelt stale, the odour of paint that had been there on her last visit now nothing more than a lingering echo. She took in the scene. In the shabby room, the canvases suddenly looked like things of beauty. The hues of blue, which had once appeared lacking in passion to Kat’s eyes, now had an icy rigour to them. Stifled emotions, perhaps, but even repression was an emotion of a sort. She wondered which one to take.
She crossed over to the window and looked out into the garden. She could see, over by the ancient fence, a bunch of tulips bowing gently in the breeze. She looked through the canvases, and, sure enough, she found a picture of the blooms. She picked up the painting and put it under her arm as she went downstairs.
A shadow outside the front door caused her heart to miss a beat. The knocker slammed against the door. A man in uniform came quickly out of the kitchen. ‘I’ll get it.’
Connie stood on the doorstep. ‘Can I come in? I need to ask Kat about Stephanie Alton.’
‘Steph? I thought we’d discussed all this. I knew her as a teenager.’
Connie stepped into the hall. Kat didn’t want her to go into the living room where Lena had been found. It was the room she’d been avoiding, and she didn’t want to face it now. The detective looked briefly towards it but remained still. Mark, alerted by the bang on the door, came downstairs.
‘It’s about her daughter.’
Kat frowned. ‘Mary?’
‘Do you know what she looks like?’
‘I’ve never met her. It’s Lena who’d met up with Steph and Mary. I told you all this.’
‘We think there’s a possibility, a strong possibility, that the boy who left you those gifts from Lena was Mary.’
Kat opened her mouth and shut it again. The boy was a girl? She thought of the musky masculine sweat emanating from his clothes. ‘I’m not so sure about that.’
The detective shrugged. ‘Well, we’re not positive, either, but I need to check it out. Where did Lena say she’d been staying while she was in Bampton?’
Kat shook her head. ‘I told you. She said she’d been staying with Mary. I don’t have any more information. A flat somewhere in Bampton, I assumed.’
Connie’s mobile rang, and Kat watched her answer it. A voice barked down the phone. The detective’s features brightened as she cut the call. ‘I’m going to go there now. You sure Lena didn’t say anything else about Mary?’
Kat heard Mark move behind her and felt him lay a hand on her shoulder. ‘Lena told me only what she wanted to tell. That was always the case with her.’
*
They drove in silence back to Mark’s house, the car stuffed full of her things. He pulled up outside the house but didn’t get out.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I could almost hear that girl’s address. You were closer to that policewoman. Did you hear what they said?’
Kat nodded. ‘12b River Terrace.’
He looked behind him.
‘I want to come with you.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll take the car. We can unpack it later. I know where River Terrace is.’
‘But—’
‘I’m worried that if Mary is the boy who’s been leaving you the things, then she’s still a danger to you, or to someone else. He was carrying a knife when you last saw him.’
‘But Connie’s going to see Mary. Why can’t we just leave it to the police?’
‘I’m going to help someone I understand. Someone whose position is not a million miles away from my own. You know who’s to blame for that.’
‘Lena?’
‘Your sister screwed up someone’s life. No, don’t protest. Whatever happened in 1987, it doesn’t justify her manipulating someone just out of childhood. That young girl will be grieving for her mother.’
‘She was traumatised.’
‘I know all about trauma and about feeling helpless, but the question, Kat, is how many people are you prepared to make pay for someone else’s crime? And where does it stop?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I didn’t make anyone pay. Neither did Stephanie Alton. But Lena did. And it’s time to stop things. I do understand. I really do, but not everything can be condoned, and not all is forgivable. You know that as well as me.’
After he had gone. Kat stood in the road for a moment then pulled out her mobile from her bag. She flicked through her contacts until she found the number. Theresa, who had endured years of counselling in an attempt to come to terms with her own experiences at the hands of her attackers. Probably either of those two men. She needed to know that there were others out there. The call went to voicemail. Kat thought about leaving a brief message but instead clicked off. Almost immediately, the phone rang.
‘Did you just call? I’m sorry I didn’t get to the phone in time.’
‘It’s Kat Gray.’
‘Is everything all right?’
Kat took a deep breath. ‘Theresa, I really do think you should go to the police.’
89
Sioned Rhys sat in front of Llewellyn, holding her cup on her knee. She’d turned down Margaret’s offer of coffee from the shop across the road, preferring instead a cup of mint tea from a packet she kept in her handbag. She spotted Llewellyn looking at the pale-green liquid.
‘I drink two glasses of red every evening. In case you think I’m one of those goody two-shoes. I’ve just got sick of drinking crap coffee in the stations I visit.’
Llewellyn grunted. ‘I’m spending a fortune at that new place. Three quid for a cup of coffee. It’s daylight robbery.’
Rhys looked down at her cup. ‘Sign of the times. You’ve got to move with them. Talking of which . . .’
Llewellyn picked up the bound document in front of him. ‘So this is your report.’
‘You’ve read it? What do you think?’
‘I think it makes depressing reading.’ Llewellyn flicked to a page. ‘Complaint number one,’ he read out, ‘Failure to show understanding or knowledge of the CPS policy with regard to prosecuting rape cases. The Rape Investigating Officer openly admitted in interview that he had no knowledge of the CPS Policy for Prosecuting Rape Cases at the time of this investigation.’ He looked up at Rhys, who was watching him calmly. ‘Finding, therefore,’ he continued, ‘that I consider there to be sufficient evidence to substantiate this complaint.’
Rhys put the cup on his desk. ‘I’m sure you’ve got the gist. In the vast majority of the cases that were examined, the behaviour of the detective sergeants and constables involved fell well below the standard expected of them.’
‘And your recommendation is . . . ?’
‘That the officers involved are subject to disciplinary proceedings.’
‘You mention individual and organisational failings though.’
‘As part of the recommendations, I’m going to ask that the policy and procedures of the treatment of women who make allegations of sexual assault are reviewed. But from what I can gather, the current system works much better. Significantly better.’ She looked across to Llewellyn. ‘Do you know the officers involved?’
‘Of course I know them. I’m so old, I think I know everyone here.’
‘It wasn’t just lack of training, you know.’ She made a face. ‘I seriously wonder how some of the individuals involved got through the recruitment process.’
Llewellyn put the report down on the desk with a bang. ‘The thing I’m worried about, what’s keeping me awake at night, is did we damage the investigation into the murder of Andrew Fisher by keeping quiet about this one?’
‘I don’t think so. Andrew Fisher and Philip Staley were allowed to continue their attacks because of our failure to treat the reports seriously. But nothing we did has impacted on the investigation into their murders.’
Llewellyn grimaced. ‘But it’s connected, isn’t it? What happened now. Mistak
es from our past are coming back to haunt us.’
Rhys smoothed her skirt. ‘Mistakes usually do.’
90
The station was boiling as usual. Sadler had rolled his shirtsleeves up to above his elbows and made a mental note to ask the facilities manager to turn down the heating. Palmer also appeared to be sweating slightly. His usually neat appearance was tempered by a five o’clock shadow that shouldn’t have been there at eleven in the morning. Sadler thought about asking if everything was all right but baulked at the potential consequences. Connie had also been looking down recently, and if the reason for this was what Sadler suspected, then he really didn’t want to get involved, even though he knew, eventually, that’s what he would be doing.
Palmer was flicking through the notes that they had spread around the table. ‘I can’t believe it went this far and no one picked it up. We’ve got a mixture of unreported attacks that Connie discovered through finding old patrons of that bar, and ten or so clear reports of rape that absolutely nothing was done about.’ His voice was shaking with anger.
Sadler picked up a file. Case number nine had been particularly badly treated, in his opinion. The victim had drunk four blue Bols and lemonade. She had said in her statement that she was drunk but had not particularly responded to the man’s advances and had been leaving the bar when he pounced. The officer who took the statement had reported it in the standard way, but the dismissal of her claims, mainly due to the amount of alcohol she had drunk, made Sadler hot with an anger to match Palmer’s.
He wondered what the victim was doing. Was she a Stephanie Alton or a Rebecca Hardy? Because it was the Rebecca Hardys of this world that you had to hold on to. She’d gone on to make a decent life for herself. A happy marriage and three children. Just that one lingering resentment, a prickle of unhappiness in the life she had made. That an unprovoked attack made years earlier had not been investigated with the vigour it had warranted. Sadler thought about Connie’s righteous indignation regarding everything that happened. Surely things had changed. And Stephanie Alton. What made someone a survivor and another not? The eternal question.