by Nick Oldham
‘DC Robson claims that you have sexually harassed her and this has culminated in a serious sexual assault. Namely rape.’
Three items appeared on Karl Donaldson’s desk just as he was in the process of packing his briefcase.
The first was from Madeira and had come by DHL. It was the sample of human tissue taken from under Sam Dawber’s fingernails. It was in an airtight container, with Santana’s signature across the seal as well as the doctor’s who had performed the post mortem.
The next item was a statement from an FBI scientist which contained the DNA profile resulting from the sample taken from under Sam’s nails at the second autopsy. There was a computer print-out attached which meant nothing to Donaldson. It went on to say that the FBI DNA database had been searched, but no match had been made.
He assumed that if he got the police here to DNA test the sample from Madeira, the result would match up with the one from the States.
He slid both items into his desk drawer and locked it.
They would have to wait.
He wanted to get on the road to see Henry, ASAP.
However, the next item caught and held his attention.
It was the photograph of Wayne and Tiger Mayfair taken on their arrival at Madrid Airport a couple of days before. Donaldson had already received a brief written report about the arrival from a field agent out there. They were good quality photographs and Donaldson was pleased by the high resolution. But it was the report which accompanied it that made him sit up. Again, from the same field agent, a guy named Moody, who had been doing a bit of digging. It briefly said that, under assumed names, the Mayfairs had now left Spain en route by air to Paris. The agent had also discovered that they had flown into Madrid from Lisbon.
And into Lisbon from Madeira.
Donaldson looked at the photograph again. Something odd about Tiger Mayfair.
He rooted around his stationery drawer and found a magnifying glass which he held over Tiger’s head.
Yes, there was no mistaking it.
Donaldson laid the photo down and breathed deeply.
Scratch-marks down his left cheek.
Henry stumbled out of Morton’s office with a face of granite and all-pervading waves of cold fear gripping his intestines.
Allegations of sexual harassment, followed by indecent assault and then, possibly, rape, were dreadful to be levelled at anyone. Especially when they were untrue.
And that is what Siobhan had alleged against him.
She had said that from the first moment they’d met, he had constantly made lewd comments to her, sexual jokes and innuendo and he had leered at her virtually all the time. ‘Active mental groping’ was the term used.
She had gone on to tell Morton she had become physically sick as a result of his behaviour, but she felt powerless to do anything about it. After all, he was a Sergeant, she was only a Constable. But above all he was a man.
To Morton she said that Henry had forced her to kiss him at the NWOCS office in King Street when they had been there alone, collecting equipment. He had rubbed his body up against hers but she’d managed to struggle free and tell him not to touch her again. That night, she claimed, she’d gone to bed and cried herself to sleep, petrified at the thought of doing observations with him the following morning in Lancaster.
Things got worse after the shooting incident when, in the casualty department of all places, he had enticed her into the cubicle where he was receiving treatment and exposed himself to her.
It all culminated at King Street, again when they were alone. This time, she alleged, Henry forced her to undress and tried to rape her. He failed to penetrate her and ejaculate because he could not maintain an erection.
She had been terrified. Put through an horrendous ordeal by a man with power.
And now she wanted some action taken against him.
As the story was revealed to Henry, he simply sat there open-mouthed, unable to believe what was being said. It was all nonsense, of course. Both had been willing participants in the engagement until Henry’s head had cleared and he realised how foolish he was being - which was at the point where his very erect penis had brushed up against the lips of WDS Robson’s vagina.
Henry ran quickly through the legal definition of rape in his mind. Only the slightest degree of penetration needed to be proved, neither did the emission of seed have to take place. The other main thread to the offence was the question of consent. Was there true consent to the act of intercourse, or was it obtained by fear, force or fraud? Henry had dealt with enough rapes to know the pitfalls of proving it to a court; Siobhan would struggle to convince a jury she had been raped.
It was the others elements of her allegation which worried him.
Sexual harassment.
Indecent assault.
The former was strongly condemned by the police service and many male officers had lost their jobs because of it; the latter was a serious criminal offence which was often used in place of rape because it was easier to prove. It could lose him his job too - especially if he was in prison.
And I stopped myself from shagging her just to prevent future repercussions, he thought. Now I wish I’d carried on. What the hell was behind this?
Henry calmly relayed his side of the story.
‘Whatever the truth of the matter,’ Morton said when Henry had concluded, ‘and I don’t suppose we’ll get to it anyway, this is a very serious matter, Henry. Very, very serious.’
‘I realise that.’
‘It affects so many others, directly or indirectly - the job, the squad, your wife, kids. . . God, the effect it could have on them beggars the imagination,’ Morton emphasised, making Henry squirm. ‘Your friends, colleagues. Mud sticks, old lad, even if these allegations prove to be unfounded.’
And wives divorce you.
And friends snub you.
Oh, shit.
‘But at the moment,’ Morton explained, ‘no one but we three know about this. Maybe there is a solution. Let me have a think about it.’
His mind reeling, Henry made his way back to the comfort zone of his desk and slumped heavily down in the chair. His first reaction had been to find Siobhan and demand of her what the hell she was playing at, but he’d been severely warned against this course of action. Anything which smelled of intimidation or victimisation would be dealt with harshly, Morton had said.
Henry’s thoughts were bleak. He had never considered himself to be a sexual harasser. The notion made his skin crawl. Maybe he always had been, but hadn’t recognised it. Maybe he was so immersed in the sexist white heterosexual culture, he couldn’t see when he was harassing a woman. Could he be one of those men who made his blood boil? Those who constantly touched women, patted their arses, brushed against their tits? Perhaps he was.
Kate!
She would go ballistic. His eyes closed in a shudder of despair.
Two years of getting his marriage back on the straight and narrow. Working hard at it. Putting family first. It had taken a lot of dedication and love.
Once again through his own foolishness it was very likely to come tumbling down around his ears.
How the hell could he keep this quiet?
Just then, his day took a further turn for the worse. In stalked Superintendent Guthrie from the Discipline and Complaints branch.
Henry suddenly felt weaker than alcohol-free lager.
For the second time that day, Henry came out from an interaction with a higher-ranking officer with his head in a spin. Again he had difficulty taking in what was told him. This time things were in his favour, but even so it did not feel like a victory. It simply added to his overall confusion.
Shane Mulcahy had been into the police station earlier and retracted his complaint of assault, saying that everything was his fault. He’d pulled a hidden knife on the detective and the officer had acted in reasonable self-defence. In other words, Shane admitted he deserved what he got - a knee in the bollocks.
And to add we
ight to the retraction, Superintendent Guthrie said he had checked the custody record and found it backed up Henry’s description of the fight in the cell corridor.
‘What?’ Henry had said, totally perplexed. ‘You mean the custody record says..?’
‘That you acted in self-defence, yes.’ The Superintendent winked at Henry. ‘I knew things would work out for you. They always do when it’s a flimsy allegation. So, all I need to do is tie the loose ends up and write the whole unpleasant incident off. And I hope you learn something from the experience.’
‘I’m sure I shall.’
On leaving the room Henry made his way quickly to the custody office where he looked up the relevant custody record.
It was true.
Eric Taylor had written that he’d observed the tussle between him and Shane, and had entered it onto the custody record.
Except it wasn’t the original entry, as Henry well knew. Because he’d checked the custody record last week and been in despair that firstly he’d forgotten to make an entry himself, and secondly that Eric Taylor did not leave him any space to write something in later.
Henry knew that Taylor was a good custody officer. Very fair in his dealings with prisoners and police officers alike. So why had he changed the entry in Henry’s favour?
Not something Taylor would have done in a million years.
He replaced the custody record binder on the shelf and sauntered back up to the CID office, trying desperately to get a grip on what had happened. He found it impossible and very disturbing.
‘We need to judge this just right,’ Morton was saying. His audience consisted of Gallagher, Tattersall and Siobhan Robson. ‘Henry’s a dangerous individual because, basically, he’s honest. He might bend the rules to get a conviction, but you can bet it’ll be watertight in the end and will survive even the most ruthless scrutiny. So, people, how do we proceed?’
Gallagher replied, ‘He might be honest, but he’s not stupid. He’ll know when the cards are stacked against him and I’m sure he’ll hold his hands up.’ He laughed.
‘Siobhan?’ Morton raised his eyebrows to her.
‘Go straight for him,’ she said in a brittle tone. ‘Lay it on the line. He’ll realise he hasn’t any choice and he’ll stick with us. He’s not stupid, as Gallie says.’ She nodded towards the DI. ‘He doesn’t want to lose his job and his wife.’
There was a knock on the door. ‘Come,’ said Morton. Superintendent Guthrie, Discipline and Complaints, poked his head through the door. He held up a finger. ‘Done and dusted,’ he said.
‘Thanks, Will,’ Morton said. ‘See you later about it.’
Guthrie closed the door.
Morton clamped his fist tight triumphantly. ‘Right! This will be a difficult time, for us and him. His first reaction may be to go running to someone else and blurt everything out. If he does that, we need to be watertight. Are we?’
‘I am,’ said Siobhan.
‘Me too.’ Gallagher.
The laconic Tattersall merely nodded.
‘Right. Let’s wheel him in, drop a few more bombshells on him, then see where we stand.’
Henry tapped without confidence on Tony Morton’s door. He had been summoned once more, probably, he guessed, to receive an update on the Siobhan affair. ‘Come,’ he heard Morton call out.
Henry pushed the door open, expecting to see only Morton. It knocked him sideways when he firstly saw Siobhan, then Gallagher, then Tattersall, sitting in there too. They were in a semi-circle facing Morton’s desk. At the open end of the semi-circle was an empty chair.
Henry had a quick look round for The Four Horses of the Apocalypse.
Overcoming an urge to run away and hide in a toilet, he entered the room. If he’d had a tail it would have been between his legs. His eyes avoided contact with Siobhan’s; his mouth was arid extra dry. Tattersall stood up and approached Henry. ‘Let me search you.’
‘Eh?’
‘You heard.’
Gallagher rose from his seat and without warning he and Tattersall hurled Henry against the wall.
‘What the fuck’s going on here?’ Henry demanded. He flicked around and tried to pull himself out of their grasp.
Gallagher punched him hard in the chest with the base of his hand.
Henry bent double as the pain from the bullet-wound corkscrewed out through his heart and lungs.
Gallagher and Tattersall hoisted him up against the wall and searched him quickly and expertly. They then manhandled him to the chair and threw him onto it. His arms crossed over his breast and nursed the pain. He looked up at Morton, unable to speak for the moment.
Gallagher seized a handful of Henry’s fine hair and pulled his head back. He looked down at him and said, ‘That is to show you we are not pissing about, Christie.’
The two detectives sat down.
‘What the fuck’s going on here?’ Henry struggled to say.
Morton took a deep sigh and stared coldly at him before he began sombrely. ‘There are a few things that have been brought to my attention since this morning’s complaint from DC Robson here.’
There was a sheet of paper on the desk top. Morton held it up for Henry to see. His watery eyes found it hard to focus. ‘This a photocopy of the firearms authorisation sheet used by the NWOCS. It clearly shows you booked a firearm out without my signature to authorise it.’ Morton indicated the offending blank space on the form.
‘But she said,’ he turned hopelessly to face Siobhan, ‘it was OK to do that. That you’d automatically sign the form later.’ He looked at Morton again. Then back to Siobhan. ‘Come on, tell him. I did what you said.’
A warm trickle ran down Henry’s neck. He wiped it and saw blood on his hand. His ear had started bleeding again.
She remained silent, her eyes as cold as ice cubes.
‘This is fucking outrageous,’ Henry spat, and got to his feet. ‘What the hell is this?’
Tattersall moved quickly, followed by Gallagher. A well-aimed blow to the kidneys from the DS brought Henry to his knees in front of Morton’s desk. Gallagher forced his head onto the desk, holding his cheek to the wooden surface, squelching his features, but allowing him to look up at Morton.
‘A very serious discipline offence,’ he heard the Chief Superintendent say. Morton’s eyes lifted and looked at Gallagher. ‘Put him back on the chair.’
Two pairs of hands lifted him bodily back and deposited him like dumping a sack of rubbish.
‘I don’t know what’s going on here, but as soon as I get out of this room every one of you is in deep shit.’
Morton laughed. ‘Henry, you’re splitting my sides. If you do anything like that, I promise you’ll face a charge of rape as well as a civil litigation suit for harassment. Both will stick. That’s a promise too.’
Henry had lost all sense of comprehension. His mind was being blown, like he was on some kind of hallucinogenic drug, and he was adrift on the Sea of Unreality.
‘How did your D & C interview go?’
‘What’s that gotta do with anything?’ As he was speaking he analysed the question. ‘You!’ he said.
‘No, not quite,’ Morton said affably. ‘In essence, yes. But in reality - no. You did it, Henry. It was all your work. Bribing that poor custody officer to change the record so it read in your favour. You beat the living shit out of that defenceless young man - what’s he called - Shane. Just so he would retract his statement. All in all, you’ve been a very busy and naughty boy, Henry. What do they call it? Perverting the course of justice.’
‘I deny it.’
‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you? But that’s neither here nor there. The point is that we’ - here Morton indicated everyone in the room, including himself - ‘could, if necessary, prove you did. And that’s all that matters, isn’t it? So all in all you’re well and truly stitched up, as they say.
‘Let’s look at it. Firstly there’s sexual harassment. Then there’s rape, or indecent assault at the very least. And
we can find the necessary witnesses if we have to. Then there’s the discipline offence re the firearm. That in itself could lose you your job. Then there’s perverting the course of justice and, of course, planting evidence.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Those guns found in Anderson’s Shogun. You were left alone with the car for a few short minutes and lo and behold, guns appear. Very neat, wouldn’t you say?’
Henry thought back to the incident. How Siobhan had gone to the toilet, leaving him to start the search of Anderson’s vehicle. And then him finding the guns.
‘Fucking bad news all this,’ Morton said. ‘Individually they’re horrendous. Put them all together, pal, they’re devastating. You are a very corrupt and perverted individual, and we have done well to unmask you, wouldn’t you say? You will never recover from these allegations professionally or personally, once they start being investigated. What d’you say, Henry? Cat got your tongue?’
‘I’m not guilty of any of those allegations,’ Henry replied stubbornly to Morton’s prodding.
‘Doesn’t matter whether you are or not. I mean, I know you’re the cleanest cop in the world. Bet you don’t even have skid-marks on your undies, do you? What matters is that we will make sure that, at the very least, you will lose your job and your private life will go to rat-shit.’ The matter-of-fact way in which Morton spoke the words hit Henry like a hodful of bricks.
A hush descended on the room.
Henry stared past Morton’s left shoulder out of the window where he could see Blackpool Tower, now painted a garish blue colour to promote a fizzy drink. It was raining hard, driving against the glass, obscuring the view, distorting the Tower.
He blinked, brought his vision back to focus and said, ‘Why?’
‘If you haven’t sussed that out by now,’ said Morton, sounding a little exasperated with him, ‘you’re not the great detective I thought you were.’
‘Dundaven and Marie Cullen,’ he stated. His brain cells shuffled through the incidents of the last week. ‘Marie Cullen I can see. You have some connection with Harry McNamara and I suppose you’re protecting him because he’s as guilty as fuck. I can only speculate about Dundaven. Must have something to do with the guns. Presumably you’re protecting somebody else and I was getting too close to them, and they - or you didn’t like it.’