Team Spirit (Special Crime Unit Book 1) (32 page)

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.

The
door from the examining room opened and Dr Ticehurst appeared, alone. Jasmin
stood. ‘How is she?’

 
‘Having a bath.’

Jasmin
nodded, unsurprised. Most rape victims took up the offer after their
examination. After a long soak in a bathroom as luxuriously appointed and
homely as the lounge, the woman would find a closet hung with a selection of
loose, soft clothing in a variety of tastes, styles and sizes: necessary
because her own clothes might be needed for forensic examination. Once dressed,
she would be ushered back through to the lounge, where perhaps the worst part
of her ordeal awaited her.

Ruth
Ticehurst pulled the door to behind her and shoved her hands in her pockets.
She looked desultory. ‘I’m none the wiser, I’m afraid.’

‘Huh?’

‘I
can’t find any medical evidence of assault.’

Jasmin
sat down, frowning. Dr Ticehurst sat opposite, where she could keep an eye and
ear on the surgery.

‘When
I say none.’ She folded her arms. ‘Very, very faint bruises on her upper arms,
positioned where they would be if someone had held her down. People heal at
different rates, but as Larissa’s young and healthy I should say at least a
week old. Same goes for the vagina. Old bruising, which is even less conclusive
because it could have been caused by just about anything, like a stubborn
tampon or even vigorous consensual sex.’

‘What
else?’ Jasmin said, finding she had pen and pad in hand but was writing none of
this down.

‘I
always save the best till last.’ Dr Ticehurst smiled humourlessly. ‘No trace of
semen.’

‘What?’

‘At
all.’

Jasmin
shook her head. ‘He used a condom?’

‘Negative
on lubricant and spermicide,’ the FME insisted. ‘There’s nothing. It’s fairly
safe to say she has not had penetrative sex, willing or otherwise, within the
last forty-eight hours.’

Jasmin
stared at her. ‘Possibly... a foreign object was used?’

‘I
don’t know about that.’ Dr Ticehurst unfolded her arms and spread them wide.
‘I’m just a medic. It’s your job to find the rest out.’

‘But
you have examined her,’ Jasmin persisted. ‘You have talked to her. What do you
think?’

‘Off
the record? My impression - and I want to make clear that this is not a medical
opinion but the opinion of someone who’s seen an awful lot of women like
Larissa over the years - she’s been assaulted all right.’

‘Raped?’

‘Assaulted,’
Dr Ticehurst looked Jasmin square in the eye. ‘But not recently.’

Summerfield went
straight from his audience with the AC down to the interview room where Zoltan
Schneider was grilling Prosser. Zoltan broke off, and accepted the news that
Summerfield was now in charge without surprise. He appraised the DCI of his
progress. There’d been very little. To each of the accusations put to him, from
Denise Cole to Violet McMinn, Prosser had simply replied by shaking his head.
He hadn’t yet been tackled on the subjects of Miranda Hargreaves or Lucky.

‘He’s
in there, pleased as punch with himself, as if he knows something. Fixed smirk
on his face all morning. I think he’s set like it.’

‘Trying
to wind you up,’ Summerfield said.

‘Waiting
to see if I’ll blow my top when it comes to asking him about Lucky?’ Zoltan
smiled thinly. ‘He’s in for disappointment, then.’

Summerfield
nodded, not doubting it. ‘Got the warrant for Albion Street. Wanna come?’

Zoltan
shook his head. ‘Better keep the momentum going. See if his tune changes when I
tell him how Pegley shopped him.’

‘Don’t
forget to let him have a lunch break,’ Summerfield sneered.

‘What
do I look like,’ Zoltan shrugged, ‘a Nazi?’

At the front desk
stood a willowy, fair-haired young woman in a bank uniform. The receptionist
smiled at her.

‘My
name’s Juliet Gow. I’m here about my friend.’ Behind her round glasses the
woman looked anxious. ‘Larissa Stephenson?’

When
a copper is attacked, even civilian staff regard it as against their own. The
receptionist didn’t even need to check her message book. She frowned. ‘We were
expecting a relative.’

‘Her
mum’s at work. Larissa asked for me.’

This
time she did consult the book. ‘I’ll get somebody to come and take you up,’ she
said, picking up the phone.

‘Thanks,’
Juliet said.

The team that
raided 32 Albion Street was five strong. Summerfield had decided to take Jeff
Wetherby, who had a better idea what to look for, one of his own DCs and a
uniformed female PC in case Prosser’s mother needed sorting. At Jeff’s
suggestion, the fifth member of the team was Tom Walker. Vicky Prosser knew him
of old. ‘Thought you’d fucking retired,’ she said balefully.

‘Afternoon,
Vicky,’ he smiled as Summerfield handed her the search warrant. ‘You’ve seen
one of these before.’

‘What’s
it for?’

‘Oh,
items from various burglaries. Evidence in six cases of sexual assault and
rape. It’s all there.’ Summerfield pressed the document into her hand and
pushed past her.

‘You
again?’ she scowled at Jeff as he crossed the threshold. Jeff smiled and went
to join DC Peter Moore upstairs.

An
hour later they’d been through almost the whole house and two of them were now
up in the loft. A voice echoed out through the hatch and down the stairs.
‘Jeff!’

Jeff
came out from the kitchen, where Vicky Prosser had been persuaded to lay on
more tea. ‘Hello?’

Tom
Walker’s uniform-trousered legs could be seen dangling from the loft hatch.
They’d been unable to find a ladder, and Vicky had insisted the space was never
used, but Summerfield had been of the opinion that someone of Michael Prosser’s
height and strength would have no difficulty getting up there without. Tom
jumped down and his knees buckled alarmingly before he steadied himself. ‘You
got that list of stuff that was nicked?’

Jeff
took it from his pocket. ‘Er, one silver trophy. Brass candlestick. Wooden
Welsh love spoon. A plaster of Paris statuette. Possibly some sort of
documentation relating to a flute…’

Tom
looked upwards. Peter Moore’s hands appeared through the hatch and handed him
down a cardboard box. ‘Look what we found,’
 
he said, coming downstairs.

He
carried it through to the kitchen table. Summerfield and Vicky Prosser joined
the cluster of heads peering into the box.

‘Oh,
this,’ Summerfield said slowly, ‘is choice.’

Even
neatly packed and wrapped in sheets of paper kitchen towel, it was clear that
most of the fifteen or so objects in the box were in some way phallic. They got
them out and spread them across the table, a feeling of grim triumph rising
within the group.

‘Gotcha,
you bastard,’ Jeff muttered.

But
there was no trophy and no brass candlestick.

‘Keep
looking,’ Summerfield said.

Lucky was still
wearing her grey top and jeans when she finally emerged. She shook off Jasmin’s
guiding hand and went to sit down next to Juliet, who put her arm round her
shoulders. Jasmin sat opposite.

‘Do
you feel a little better now?’ she asked.

‘I
felt fine before,’ Lucky said impatiently.

‘You
were hysterical, almost,’ Jasmin said. ‘I mean do you feel OK to talk?’

Lucky
pressed her lips together and nodded.

‘My
God, Larissa, what happened?’ Juliet was tearful.

‘I
got raped,’ Lucky snapped. She looked at Jasmin. ‘Yes, I know what she’s
probably told you. So you won’t believe me.
I
wouldn’t believe me,’ she said
with a self-contemptuous laugh.

Juliet
looked puzzled. ‘Who did it?’ she blurted out. ‘D’you know?’

‘Please.’
Jasmin tried to calm her.

‘That
piece of shit down in the cells,’ Lucky said. ‘Prosser. Michael fucking
Bayliss, as known and loved by Special Crime. And the reason Dr Ticehurst
couldn’t find anything,’ she quavered, ‘is because it happened thirteen days
ago.’

There
was a box of Kleenex on the coffee table. Jasmin reached out and pushed it
closer to Lucky as cover for some stunned thinking.

‘That’s
right. I’m all eager and anxious to please. My career’s just gone into orbit,
yeah? I go home at lunchtime to change and that bastard’s waiting for me.’

Jasmin’s
head was in a spin. Two weeks ago. That would have been... What was
I
doing? With a guilty start she
realised she’d been too damn tired to notice much of what was going on around
her. The arson had happened around then - that was it, the Tuesday - so it must
have been the day she and Nina had first linked the McMinn and Abernetty
incidents and... good God. It had been Lucky’s first day.

There
were a million questions. But she must keep a clear head, follow the line. Larissa
must be strong to have carried this around for so long, but how close was she
to snapping?

‘So
you know him?’

‘Vaguely
from school,’ Lucky said. ‘He didn’t have a key, if that’s what you’re worried
about. Got in through an open window.’

‘Of
course.’ Jasmin leaned forward. ‘Larissa, I’m trying to think how to say this.
For two weeks you knew who he was, but you worked the rape enquiry and still
you said nothing. I don’t understand.’

‘I
didn’t
know! I didn’t
know it was him. I sort of decided it couldn’t be.’

‘OK.’
She waited for Lucky to grab two fistfuls of Kleenex, cover her eyes and leave
them there. ‘Let’s try to figure out - ’

‘I
know what happened.’

‘Sure
you do.’ Jasmin swallowed. ‘You were there. Now you came home. Were you alone
in the house?’

‘Yeah.
My mum was at work.’

‘Did
you notice anything unusual?’

‘Just
that Mum’d left the bathroom window open.’

‘The
bathroom, it is upstairs, downstairs...?’

‘
Up
stairs.’ She bunched her fists,
emphasising it. ‘Why it didn’t connect, right? Our guy had never done upstairs
windows.’

‘You
said he was in your room. That’s upstairs also?’

Lucky
nodded. A strand of hair snagged on her cheek and she brushed it away.

‘So
you didn’t know he was in the house straight away?’

‘You’re
gonna love this. No, I didn’t know he was there. If I’d known he was there,’
the bitter edge to her voice grew sharper, ‘I wouldn’t’ve stripped off and been
prancing about in my best satin undies.’

Jasmin
let it go, but she knew Lucky could read in her eyes the mental note she was
making. She had to pick up on the point. A defence QC would be guaranteed to.

‘I
thought I was on my own,’ Lucky whispered with a note of pleading. ‘I was
wearing nice undies because it was my first day in a new job and I felt good.
Is that unreasonable?’

‘No,’
Jasmin said. ‘So you did not see him until you went into your room?’

‘He
was behind the door. I saw him in the mirror.’

‘Did
you call out, scream?’

‘No
point.’

‘Why
no point?’

‘Nobody
to fucking hear.’

‘He
wasn’t to know...’ Juliet began, but tailed off when she saw Jasmin’s warning
scowl.

‘The
rest of it’s quite straightforward,’ Lucky said, trembling with humiliation.
‘He raped me, on the bed, and then… left.’

‘He
raped you?’ Jasmin said. ‘He really - ?’

‘He
really raped me,’ Lucky cried. ‘He didn’t shove a brass candlestick or a statue
or a flute up there, he really, really did it.’

‘So
again because of this, you did not think it was him?’ Jasmin whispered.

‘Because
he didn’t... use... a foreign object,’ Lucky said. ‘And the name was wrong too.
Everything was wrong. When we were at school his surname was Prosser.’ She
looked at Juliet, who nodded dumbly. ‘Where he gets Bayliss from I have no
idea.’