Lost River bcadf-10 Page 15

‘Who is the other girl in this photograph with you?’ he asked.

  There was no answer from either of the Nields. Cooper became aware of one of those awkward silences that seemed to fill a room, as if he’d just broken wind. Was it the result of shock, embarrassment, shame?

  He glanced up quickly to catch the expressions on the faces of the Nields. And he met only hostility.

  Cooper’s return to Edendale had been delayed by a traffic accident. An HGV had toppled into a ditch on the A515 near Sudbury, causing traffic to back up all the way Ashbourne.

  Back at his desk, he thought about his visits to the Nields’ home. While he’d been sitting in his car listening to traffic alerts about the HGV accident, a recollection had come to him of the Museum of Childhood, just a few miles away in Sudbury.

  Among the exhibits at the museum was the Betty Cadbury Collection of Playthings Past. He remembered a three-storey doll’s house, made around the end of the nineteenth century. It had nine perfect miniature rooms, with the figure of a Victorian mother downstairs in the kitchen, and Father upstairs in the study with his pipe. There had been an odd excitement about being able to glimpse the whole life of a house in that way, to know what was going on in every room at the same time. But even then, he’d wondered where the children were, why the bedrooms on the top floor weren’t occupied, and the nursery with the toys laid out on the floor was empty. There was no one to play with the rocking horse or the building blocks, no one running in the garden or helping Mum in the kitchen.

  He’d always been familiar with the expression ‘seen but not heard’ — his own grandfather had used it often enough. But children who were neither seen nor heard? That was a house where something was wrong.

  ‘The Nields have an older daughter,’ said Cooper when he got back to Edendale and found Gavin Murfin waiting for him. ‘Her name’s Lauren. It seems they don’t like to talk about her very much.’

  ‘Black sheep of the family?’

  ‘Well, let’s just say I don’t think she came up to Mum’s high standards. She looked the rebellious type, even in her photographs. I can imagine she might not have been able to tolerate life in that household.’

  Murfin studied the photo. ‘A bit Goth, do you reckon?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Too much eye make-up. Black nail varnish. Miserable expression.’

  ‘All teenagers are miserable, aren’t they? Especially when they’re having their photo taken with Mum and Dad.’

  ‘Yeah, but there’s something different about the way a Goth looks miserable. They make it seem as though it’s some kind of artistic statement.’

  ‘Existential angst.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Cooper took the photo back. He could see what Murfin meant.

  ‘So how do you know about Goths, Gavin?’

  ‘One of our girls brings her friends home now and then. I asked her why some of them looked like rejects from a Hammer Horror film. She explained to me about Goths.’

  ‘There’s more to it than the look, though.’

  ‘Of course. They have a whole culture, if you get into it. They even have their own weekend at Whitby during the autumn.’

  ‘Whitby? Oh, Dracula.’

  ‘Right. But the look seems to be important. Mostly black, but maybe with a bit of red or purple.’

  ‘Lauren has purple streaks in her hair.’

  ‘There you go.’

  ‘It’s funny how things like this can make you feel old, Gavin.’

  ‘Imagine what it’s like being the parent of one.’

  ‘Is the Lowndes operation set up?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘All ready to go.’

  As Diane Fry walked through the corridors of Lloyd House, she was sure that she could sense people turning to look at her. She was just being paranoid, she supposed — like Andy Kewley. She wasn’t used to being the centre of unwelcome attention, and she didn’t like it. The idea that people were talking about her in rooms somewhere made her skin crawl. Never mind what they said about your ears burning, this was an all over hot itch, as if she’d fallen naked into a bed of nettles. Her entire skin felt uncomfortable.

  The sudden silences among members of the team were unnerving her. Blake confirmed the bad news later that morning.

  ‘What people don’t realize is that the conviction rate is even lower for crimes other than rape,’ he said. ‘Four per cent for burglaries, one per cent for criminal damage. The number of rape convictions has doubled in the past twenty-five years. But the number of allegations had increased dramatically. The definition of rape has been widened twice, and there’s been a push to get victims to report. Those are two good reasons why the number has increased, anyway.’

  Fry noticed that Blake could hardly bear to look at her. He was avoiding the real subject.

  ‘The CPS used to insist on independent corroboration before they would take a case to court,’ he said. ‘But they’ve been under pressure, too. Now they don’t insist on it so much. But that means a case is more difficult to prosecute. A jury is less likely to convict when it’s a question of the complainant’s word against the defendant’s.’

  ‘But in this case, you have DNA,’ said Fry.

  ‘Right.’

  Fry watched him steadily, detecting his unease.

  ‘You do have DNA?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘You do have DNA evidence, don’t you?’

  ‘We have a bit of problem,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘There seems to have been some procedural issues with the DNA evidence. Contamination.’ Blake raised his hands in an appeal for understanding. ‘We think the CPS are taking an overly cautious attitude, but you know what it’s like…’

  ‘Tell me the truth,’ said Fry. ‘What’s the strength on Shepherd and Barnes? Have we got a case?’

  ‘Not one the CPS will run with.’

  ‘What about my statement?’

  ‘Its evidential value is limited.’

  ‘Evidential value?’

  ‘Well, okay, Diane — the fact is, as evidence it’s practically worthless. But it does give us another lead.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘We won’t be abandoning the case altogether.’

  ‘Oh, yes? With a hundred other cold cases waiting their turn?’

  Fry knew she must be only one of scores of victims waiting for justice. She practically could see Blake’s fingers twitching to stamp her file NFA — ‘No Further Action’.

  ‘It’s just going to take more time, that’s all,’ he said.

  That’s all? No matter how many platitudes Blake and Murchison and their team spouted about support, and putting the victim first, they always fell back on the jargon. It was as if they were going through a prepared script, hiding behind a barricade of acronyms and euphemisms. It must be useful to be able to protect yourself from the nasty odours of unpleasant reality with a mask of officialdom, to swat away that irritating fly with a closed case file.

  ‘We can interview pub staff and customers to find out who was at the Connemara that night.’

  ‘So many years ago? You’re kidding.’

  A splash of coffee fell on to the glass-topped table and began to spread. They both watched it widen, then stop as it lost its impetus. It would stain unless someone wiped it off.

  Fry could feel the anger growing inside her now, rushing through her veins in an adrenalin surge. Her hand was shaking as she put the cup back in its saucer. Blake stared at it, responding to the rattle of china as if to the sound of gunfire. Damn cappuccino. She’d never really liked it anyway.

  ‘Paragraph 10.4,’ said Fry.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The CPS code for the prosecution of rape cases. The Code sets out the obligations of the CPS towards victims. One of these obligations is to tell a victim if the CPS decides that there is insufficient evidence to bring a prosecution, and explain why they’ve made the decision. Normally they do it by writin
g a letter to the victim. But if a police officer notifies the victim, it means the decision not to charge has been during a face-to-face consultation with that officer — without a full evidential report. That’s paragraph 10.4. I expect we’ll be moving on to 10.5. A personally delivered explanatory letter.’

  ‘Under the CPS/ACPO Rape Protocol — ’

  ‘You can stop now,’ said Fry. ‘Just stop, okay?’

  Everything had been done by the book. In this case, the book was the CPS/ACPO Rape Protocol. Snappy title. It could be a best seller.

  Fry stood up, pushing her chair back so hard that it scraped on the floor. Blake placed both his hands on the table, as he might do if he was feeling threatened by an aggressive suspect in an interview room. He was still seated and motionless, so as not to provoke more aggression, but poised to respond if necessary.

  Fry couldn’t deny that she wanted to hit him, wanted to do it so much that it was eating her up inside, needed it so badly that she could almost feel the impact run up her arm as her fist smashed into his smug face. Let him smile with a broken nose, the bastard.

  ‘So they’ll escape justice.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it like that.’

  ‘What way would you put it? What is the politically correct management-speak these days for letting a rapist off the hook?’

  ‘Diane — ’ he said.

  ‘Don’t say any more. Just shut up.’

  ‘But — ’

  ‘Shut up.’

  The urge to commit violence was slowly passing. In its place, Fry felt a cold determination taking over her heart. Enough was enough.

  13

  Diane Fry remembered the immediate aftermath of the attack in Digbeth that night. In those first few minutes, her thoughts lost in a turmoil of shock and pain and fear, it had been foremost in her mind to say nothing about what had happened to anyone, or not to report it as a rape, at least. She’d felt so ashamed that it had happened, shuddered at the thought of what people would say — and, worse, what they would be thinking. The idea of going back to the car and telling Andy Kewley, then having to explain it again to her colleagues, over and over again, the way she knew that it went…well, she could hardly bear to think about it.

  She recalled standing in the darkness, clinging to the wire fence to support herself, then searching on the ground for her radio handset, finding the pieces crushed into the dirt, feeling in the pockets of her jacket for her phone before realizing that it had been taken.

  And then she had sobbed for the first time, feeling herself so desperately alone and helpless in the darkness, terrified of what might be lurking in the shadows, frightened of what lay waiting for her back in the glare of the streetlights. She was scared to be alone, yet more afraid of being with other people. Her skin crawled with disgust, her body’s instinct was to shut down, to turn away from the world and curl up in a ball.

  She also remembered hearing the sound of water. The dirty brown River Rea sucking against the bricks, thick and sludged with rubbish, carrying away the dirt and detritus of Digbeth. She thought of the river disappearing under the walls of factories, deep in its own tunnel, water swirling in the darkness where no one would ever see it.

  Why not another piece of debris, a bit of rubbish used and tossed aside by the world? It would be so much easier than all the endless hassle and humiliation that faced her. So much more final, so quick, so inviting…

  ‘Do you think it’s because you’re a cop?’

  Angie was doing her best. Understanding didn’t come naturally to her, but even she was shocked by the suddenness of the blow that had fallen, and the effect it had on her sister. They were in Diane’s room in the hotel off Broad Street, the only place Diane could tolerate for a meeting. Thank God for the anonymity of a hotel, where no one knew who she was, or cared.

  ‘Why would you think that?’ she said.

  ‘I dunno. I’m just turning things over in my head, and that’s what came out of my mouth. It’s just that it all feels, well…’

  ‘Wrong?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, damn it — it’s definitely that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Diane flopped back on her bed. They sat silently together for a few minutes. If she closed her eyes, she could picture herself back in Warley as a twelve-year-old, telling her big sister her troubles, waiting for Angie to come up with a solution and make everything right again.

  ‘Diane, you’re not going to let them get away with this, are you? What are you going to do?’

  Opening her eyes again, Diane found herself staring at the ceiling, saw the winking red light of a smoke alarm and the sprinkler. A hotel room. Oh yes, she’d forgotten. It was entirely up to her to make her own decisions now.

  ‘It’s the system,’ she said. ‘It’s as if every victim of rape is given a raffle ticket, and one ticket is pulled out of a bowl. Then the CPS says “We’ll take that one to court, we’ll not take that one, or that one.” The CPS has a lot to answer for. It’s no wonder people who don’t get convictions stop believing in the system. If I met a rape victim right now, I’d tell her to have a bath and get counselling.’

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ said Angie.

  Diane sighed. ‘No.’

  She felt so helpless, knowing the men were still out there and would probably do it again. Because most of them did do it again. And so many women who’d gone through the experience still continued to blame themselves. Healing was difficult to achieve. She wasn’t sure whether she’d ever be able to describe herself as healed.

  She couldn’t bear the thought that she’d been reduced to a case file. Somewhere there was a charge sheet, a witness statement, an interview record, a list of key exhibits. She was starting to feel like an exhibit herself. I present to the jury Exhibit A. Examine it at your leisure.

  The file would also contain a Phoenix print, a PNC print-out of the suspects’ previous convictions and cautions. What she wouldn’t give to get access to that print-out.

  ‘I might talk to Andy Kewley, see if he knows anything else. I’d like to know more about this William Leeson he mentioned, for a start — what is his connection to this case? He’s a lawyer, so has he put some legal block in the way of a conviction? Andy might be able to tell me, if he dares. But he’s scared of something. Or somebody.’

  ‘And he’s reporting back,’ Angie reminded her.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I don’t like this Kewley, Diane.’

  ‘I didn’t say I liked him either. But he’s useful. And he was my old partner. There ought to be some loyalty there still.’

  Diane thought back to her meeting with Kewley in the cemetery. Had he been right, after all? Had she been sacrificed for some purpose she wasn’t even aware of? I mean any case, no matter who the victim is. Anybody can get tossed aside, if it suits them. Yes, justice was a slippery concept indeed.

  Angie shook her head. ‘I really don’t like him, Diane. And I don’t trust him. I think he’s dirty. I think he probably always was dirty.’

  ‘Maybe he was. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Like Hell it doesn’t. You suspected him yourself, didn’t you? That was why you wanted to follow him. I know this sort of character. He’s playing both sides. If you don’t watch him, he’ll lead you into a trap, Sis. Someone wants you to mess up big time.’

  ‘Angie, we don’t have a lot of choice.’

  ‘Well, I don’t trust him, and that’s that.’

  Seeing her sister’s stubborn expression, Diane had a momentary shock when she realized that she was the one arguing against Angie’s scruples. That shouldn’t be the case. It was the wrong way round.

  ‘But who do we trust? Who is there we can trust?’

  Angie laughed. It was a short, bitter laugh that seemed to sum up decades of hard experience.

  ‘No one, Sis,’ she said. ‘There’s no one we can trust.’

  Diane thought about the information that Blake and his team must have, the evidence that she’d never been giv
en access to. She was the IP, the victim. She didn’t get that sort of information. But somewhere there were names in a file — the names and addresses of suspects, and of witnesses. There were DNA profiles and results from a database search. Even the medical examiner’s report on her injuries after the assault. Her file would consist of at least forty pieces of paper, probably over a hundred. It was all there, if she knew how to get hold of it. But then, if she did get her hands on that information, what would she do with it?

  Diane’s muscles tensed and her fists clenched as her body responded to the thought.

  ‘What are you thinking, Sis?’ said Angie. ‘I don’t like the look on your face. You’re scaring me.’

  Diane sat up. ‘I need to know the names of those witnesses. Why did the key witness change her mind and decide not to testify? If only I could get my hands on their statements.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No. I need to get details of those two men — Marcus Shepherd and Darren Barnes. Addresses, aliases, their known associates. And photographs. I need photographs.’

  ‘You can get that sort of information from the police computer, can’t you?’ said Angie.

  ‘The PNC, yes. But I can’t do that here in Birmingham. I can hardly go to Gareth Blake and ask him to look it up for me.’

  Angie nodded. ‘Right. Well, it’s a pity you can’t just nip back to Derbyshire, then. Or…have someone up there do it for you?’

  Cooper was surprised to get the call from Diane Fry. He’d thought about trying her number a couple of times, but changed his mind when he considered how unlikely it was that she’d want to talk to him. Now, when he took the call, he was so taken aback that he thought she must have the wrong number.

  ‘You’ve been wandering around Birmingham?’ he said. ‘On your own?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘Yes, of course it’s safe. You just need to have your wits about you, that’s all.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Besides, I’m not on my own.’

  ‘Oh, is that West Midlands DI with you?’

  ‘Gareth Blake? No, not him. I meant Angie.’

  ‘Oh.’