Her office at Southampton Central was deliberately bare; what existed of her life up until now was here. The books she’d read as a child, the few photos she still had of Marianne, the jewellery Grace Simmons had bought her for her eighteenth birthday, her first police uniform, pressed and hanging in the wardrobe. Others had attempted to penetrate this sanctuary before and had been repelled, but Joseph she had invited in and she didn’t regret it. When they were in bed, rank, seniority, even the difference in their characters went out the window, as both sought excitement, affection, comfort and solace. And what struck Helen now as she looked down at her companion was not how weird it was for him to be here, but how natural it felt.
She was still pondering this strange anomaly, when her phone started trilling. Helen seldom slept without setting an alarm – she was used to its tinny, harmonic flourish – yet she cursed it today. It meant a return to real life, to the investigation, to anxiety, worries, fear and death. Switching it off, she slipped out of bed, readying herself for action.
Today was a day like any other day and yet it felt different. So, as Helen walked lightly towards the shower, she offered up a silent prayer for the brief slice of happiness she had been afforded. Perhaps she wasn’t a lost cause after all.
122
Jacquetta was trying her best to be brave, to own her pain, but her distress was plain to see. It was visible in a dozen small signs – the rings under her eyes, her harshly bitten nails, her nicotine-stained fingers. Charlie had come to the interview with a slightly heavy heart – sexual assault cases were always gruelling and she wasn’t sure exactly what they would gain from the conversation – but now she felt utterly ashamed of herself. What this woman had endured was terrible and she deserved all the compassion, attention and sympathy Charlie could muster. Her own problems were nothing compared to Jacquetta’s.
‘He was very charming at first. Inspiring, even. I’d never met a teacher like him.’
Jacquetta had initially rejected Charlie’s request to talk, when she’d contacted her by phone last night. But this morning Charlie had received an apologetic text, her conscience obviously getting the better of her, and now they were huddled together in a café at the top of Jacquetta’s road. She didn’t want to stray too far from home and, having heard the gist of her story, Charlie could understand why.
‘How old were you when he taught you?’
‘Nineteen. I was redoing my A-levels and he made a real difference. I got a D in geography first time round, but that year I was predicted an A.’
‘And what made him different?’
‘He was surprising, clever, funny. He was more like a friend than a teacher. He liked the same music as we did, the same shows.’
‘And when did the lines between teacher and friend start to blur?’
‘Pretty early on. But it stepped up a gear in the summer term. He used to message, call. Not just me, others too.’
‘Did you ever meet up outside of college?’
‘Sure. When the weather picked up, we’d meet at pubs, on the beach, we’d go for walks.’
‘And were you aware that his interest in you had a sexual dimension?’
Jacquetta cast her eyes down, looking slightly ashamed.
‘Sure. But I kind of liked it …’
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Jacquetta. You’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘I suppose … I suppose I was flattered. He was older, smarter, more sophisticated …’
Jacquetta petered out, picking at her nails.
‘And the incident itself? Are you able to tell me about that?’
There was a long pause, followed by a heavy, shaky sigh.
‘It was last summer. A group of us had gone to Tanners Lane beach. It was a full moon and we planned to stay up all night – our version of the Thai beach parties, I guess. It was his idea – Morgan’s, I mean – but we were all up for it. Our exams had finished and we wanted to relax …’
Charlie watched Jacquetta closely. Each word was hard for her, as she took herself back to the seat of her trauma.
‘Caleb was telling stories, playing his guitar, making jokes. He seemed very attentive – to me particularly – and I remember feeling high on life. Yes, there were drinks, some drugs too, but it wasn’t that. It was the place, the atmosphere, the sun on our faces. It was such a release, after all those months of study.’
A fleeting, bitter smile.
‘We stayed up until three, four, I don’t remember, then we all went to bed. I had a tent of my own and crashed out there.’
She paused, her breathing becoming shallow and more rapid as the emotion rose to the surface. But she persevered.
‘Next thing I know, he’s in my tent. On top of me, kissing me. I told him to get off, that I didn’t want it to be like this, but he wouldn’t listen. He told me he knew what I wanted, which wasn’t true …’
Jacquetta was shaking slightly now and Charlie was tempted to reach out to her, but the young woman had withdrawn, wrapping her arms around herself.
‘I tried to fight him off, then I tried to scream but he … he put his fist in my mouth. I thought I was going to be sick, but he kept it there. Kept it there the whole time …’
She was staring at her feet, as if still in disbelief that something so awful could have befallen her.
‘Afterwards, he kissed me on the head and said “goodnight”. Like what we’d done was normal. The next day, it was as if nothing had happened. He was friendly, chatty, relaxed. I almost didn’t believe it myself, except for the fact that he’d hurt me, that I was still bleeding.’
‘So, you didn’t talk to anyone? Your family, your friends?’
Jacquetta shook her head forcefully, looking stricken.
‘I wanted to tell someone … but the longer I left it, the harder it got.’
‘I understand.’
‘Eventually one of the other girls he’d attacked came forward. And then I felt I didn’t have a choice. I wish I’d said something earlier, I really do. If I had, then maybe some of those other girls …’
Tears were sliding down her face. Reaching out, Charlie took her hand and this time Jacquetta allowed herself to be held. So many emotions were playing out on her face – shame, distress, anxiety, fear, regret, but Charlie felt only one. Anger. For she knew now beyond all doubt that Caleb Morgan was everything they feared him to be. He was not the victim of a witch hunt, nor an opportunistic sex pest.
He was a seasoned, practised predator.
123
Alexander Newton fiddled with the letter opener, turning it over and over in his hands. He would have looked like a textbook villain, the thin knife twirling between his fingers, were it not for the fact that he was sweating.
‘So Caleb Morgan was a lecturer here from May 2006 to January 2010?’ Helen demanded, her eyes flicking from her notepad to the faculty head.
‘That’s correct,’ Newton said cautiously. ‘We had a rather large roster of staff back then, but since austerity kicked in …’
‘And that was why he left? Cutbacks?’
‘Partly.’
‘And the other part?’
‘Can I ask what this is about?’
The knife now ceased moving. If anything, Newton seemed even more tense than before. Helen had come to the geography faculty at Southampton University to get some further background on Morgan, to explore his relationship with Scott and other students in his care, but ever since she’d arrived she’d sensed something bigger, something unspoken, lying just beneath the surface of Newton’s purposefully bland responses.
‘I suspect you’re aware that Caleb Morgan is wanted for questioning on three counts of sexual harassment and sexual assault.’
Newton nodded slowly.
‘We’re obviously working around the clock to apprehend him, but we’re also trying to build a fuller picture of his behaviour from the mid-noughties onwards, to see if he might be responsible for … other crimes. So, I’ll ask you once again, what
were the other reason or reasons you felt obliged to let Morgan go.’
‘As I said, it was mostly because of the cutbacks –’
‘You terminated his contract in the middle of the academic year, Mr Newton. You don’t do that for financial reasons.’
Helen was staring directly at him. She could have gone on, but held her tongue, letting the heavy silence do its work. Newton squirmed in his chair, then replied:
‘Look, I think perhaps I ought to have our lawyer present …’
‘By all means. But that would mean I would have to make things official. Any interviews would be conducted at Southampton Central and I would have to caution you –’
‘All right, all right,’ Newton responded anxiously, unnerved by the prospect of being treated like a common criminal.
‘So tell me,’ Helen demanded firmly.
The letter opener was now replaced on the desk. Running his hand through his thinning hair, Newton eventually replied:
‘We … we had some complaints. From female students. Nothing too serious, I should say,’ he added quickly, ‘but enough to be troubling.’
‘What sort of complaints?’
‘Flirting, inappropriate suggestions, a crossing of boundaries.’
‘Did he attack anyone?’
‘Dear God, no … but there had been some physical contact that was unwanted, which had caused distress.’
‘How old were these women?’
‘Eighteen, nineteen …’
‘And what did you do?’
Now Newton paused.
‘Well?’
‘We talked to him, obviously. Issued him with a verbal warning. But it didn’t seem to do any good. There were a couple of further complaints, so we felt compelled to take further action.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘We terminated his contract.’
‘Did he deny that he’d acted in this way?’
‘Not really,’ Newton said, evasively.
‘You did confront him about these further complaints?’
And now Newton broke his gaze, staring down at the letter opener once more.
‘You didn’t, did you?’ Helen continued, aghast. ‘You just let him go.’
‘Look, it was very clear that discussion was useless. He had no interest in hearing what we had to say –’
‘So, you just moved the problem on. Least said, soonest mended.’
Newton didn’t try to deny it.
‘He went on to Bournemouth afterwards. Did you ever talk to them about your concerns?’
‘I wanted to … but the board felt it would be unwise.’
‘Then shame on you.’
Helen rose to her feet, shaking her head in disbelief.
‘Shame on you for letting this university put concerns for its own reputation above the welfare of its students.’
‘I did what I could –’
‘Bullshit. You did what was easiest.’
Helen knew she was overstepping the mark now, but her blood was up.
‘So, here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to provide me with everything – and I mean everything – that you have on Caleb Morgan. His relationships with friends, colleagues, his past addresses, his full student list and most importantly details of every complaint that was made against him. This may help us avert further pain, but it will not spare you or your superiors. You haven’t heard the last of this.’
Newton wanted to respond – to appeal for leniency perhaps – but Helen was already on the move. Marching through the door, she hurried back down the corridor, keen to get back to base to update the team. But as she marched across the polished wood, her phone started to buzz. Seeing it was McAndrew, she answered quickly, wishing her a cheery good morning. For once, however, her junior didn’t respond in kind, simply saying:
‘We’ve found him.’
124
Charlie clutched her mobile tightly in her hand as she hurried along the road. She’d had to park some way from the café Jacquetta had chosen, which allowed her time to reflect. On what the young woman had been through, on what her description of her ordeal told them about Caleb Morgan, but also on her own situation. Suddenly she felt very foolish – how minuscule her problems seemed by comparison, how weak she was next to the young woman who was battling hard to rebuild her life.
Charlie had suffered, that was true. But so had they all – Helen, Ellie, in fact every member of the team who had worked with Joanne. And at least they had friends, family to support them, unlike Joanne’s mother, Nicola, who was having to face her ordeal alone. Charlie had tried to deal with her grief, her anxiety, as best she could, but what had she succeeded in doing? Pushing her lovely boyfriend away and upsetting her daughter. What right had she to be so self-indulgent when others were really suffering?
Stopping by her car, she massaged her aching leg, then pulled her phone from her bag. Quickly, she opened up WhatsApp and clicked on ‘Steve’. This was their private conduit for pointless messages of affection, but it had been unused of late, which made Charlie sad. Their relaxed, easy relationship had always been the bedrock of her happiness. So now she didn’t hesitate, typing swiftly and intently.
‘Sorry for being such a nut job. I do love you very much and want us to be happy.’
It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And Charlie knew she wouldn’t be able to do any better, in the short term at least. Experience had taught her that often the most important things in life were the hardest to say.
125
‘I’m not exactly sure what you’re implying, Emilia.’
Ross’s tone was even, but had an edge. The pair of them were tucked away in a booth in Carluccio’s, a venue Emilia had deliberately chosen for their interview – populated enough to be safe, not busy enough to be overheard.
‘I’m not implying anything. I’m just saying that I was surprised to find that Lauren Scott featured in your exhibition.’
‘It’s not my exhibition.’
‘It’s your school.’
‘Dozens of photographers contributed to that exhibition. They selected the subjects, people who had criminal records or –’
‘But you chose which images to display, right?’
‘Sure. But I still don’t see why that should be a problem.’
Ross was starting to get agitated now. Perhaps he’d assumed her text inviting him here was the prelude to a cosy chat. If so, he had been sorely disappointed, Emilia beginning her questioning almost as soon as the pleasantries were concluded.
‘It’s a problem because you haven’t been frank with me. You made no mention of the fact that you knew who Lauren Scott was.’
‘What makes you think I did?’
‘Because the exhibition has been running for over a month. You must have come across her weeks before she …’
‘Before she … what?’
‘Before she died,’ Emilia returned, defiantly.
Ross shook his head angrily.
‘She was one image among a hundred. I didn’t even take in her name when I was curating the exhibition. It was only in the last day or so that I made the connection.’
‘And what about Tom Campbell?’
‘What about him? Don’t tell me he was in the exhibition too?’
Ross was trying to be withering, but there was unease behind his hostility now.
‘You didn’t tell me you knew him too.’
‘I don’t.’
‘He enrolled on your course four months ago. Did twelve sessions.’
‘Not with me, he didn’t.’
‘He was there every Friday afternoon, for nearly three months.’
‘I have a roster of staff and I seldom teach there. I don’t have the time.’
‘Do you keep records of who takes which sessions?’
‘Not formally, it’s mostly cash-in-hand work. They tell me who they’ve taught and get paid for it. I trust them.’
‘So we have no way of knowing for sure who took Campbe
ll’s sessions?’
‘If I looked at my notes, I could tell you.’
‘But we’d only have your word for it.’
‘For God’s sake, Emilia, what is this?’
Finally, his anger rose to the surface. He was staring directly at her, fire in his eyes. A passing waiter turned, alarmed by the sudden rise in volume, but Ross didn’t seem to notice.
‘I’m just trying to get to the bottom of your connection with –’
‘There is no connection.’
‘So it’s just a coincidence, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t believe in them.’
She stared back at him, refusing to be cowed by his visible anger.
‘Then consider this conversation over.’
He rose, shaking his head angrily.
‘That’s ok,’ she shot back breezily. ‘I have everything I need.’
Ross had taken a step towards the door, but now hesitated, a horrible realization dawning.
‘You’re not … recording this, are you?’
He glanced down at her phone. Emilia lunged for it, but she was too slow, Ross getting there just ahead of her. He opened it up, scanned the apps furiously, then finding there was no cause for alarm, tossed it back on the table. Emilia let it land without looking, determined to appear insouciant. Rattled, unnerved by her studied calm, Ross shot a look at her bag, then dismissing that notion, dropped his eyes to the table. He scanned the surface, then suddenly got it, dropping down quickly to look underneath. This time Emilia was ahead of him, snatching the small recorder away and depositing it in her jacket pocket.
‘I wouldn’t if I were you …’
Down to the Woods: DI Helen Grace 8 (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 29