Trespass (P.I. Johnson Carmichael Series - Book 2) (5 page)

Cat Jurdentaag was on an uncomfortable plastic chair sipping lukewarm coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The court had adjourned after three hours for an hour’s lunch break. The media were still camped outside the court, waiting for the chance to interview any of the main players in the trial. Not wanting to have to fight her way through, Cat had chosen to remain inside and had opted for a floppy-looking egg and cress sandwich on stale white bread. She had topped this off with a cup of coffee and a bag of
Skips
; hardly a healthy snack, let alone appetising, but there was only a limited choice.

She knew that it would be her turn to take the stand within an hour of the trial re-commencing. W.P.C. Sharon Ramsay, who was the liaison officer who had originally taken Cat’s statement eighteen months ago, had been tasked with supporting Cat through the trial. Sharon was in her mid-twenties and looked barely eighteen, but had become a good friend of Cat’s during the lead up to the trial. Sharon was to act as a messenger between Elizabeth Collinghurst QC and Cat, as the two were not allowed to formally meet or discuss the case prior to its commencement. Sharon had advised that Cat should remain outside the court while some preliminary matters were discussed and that she would be called in, in due course.

Sharon was a good listener and never seemed to judge Cat for any of her actions on the day the assault took place. From the moment the team investigating Patricia Tropaz’s murder had suspected that Cat’s attack may have been carried out by the same man, Sharon had been by her side, providing updates on the investigation and making sure that she was okay. Unlike Sarah, Cat had been only too ready to tell her story and to seek justice against the bastard who had raped her. That she had been unable to fight her attacker off was something that had bruised her ego and given her the resolve to fight him in court instead.

Born in Amsterdam but raised in the UK since she was twelve, Cat had had a pleasant-enough upbringing and had spent her formative years at an all-girls school in Hampshire. Her parents had separated when she was thirteen and whilst she had attempted to maintain some kind of relationship with her absent father, he had been less inclined, particularly when he had married another woman and started a family with her. At first, the monthly visits had continued, but these had then become more sporadic, with ‘business’ used as an excuse for cancelling and postponing engagements. She had received a birthday card and cheque until her eighteenth birthday but at that point all contact had pretty much dried up. Now, she didn’t even receive a Christmas card from him. It was probably this abandonment that had made her less-trusting of men.

She had attended university in Southampton and had blossomed into a fun-loving student always out in bars and clubs in the city. She had secured a good group of friends, predominantly female and had had a couple of relatively-steady boyfriends down the years, but nobody that she thought was
the one
. Now aged twenty-five and working in a branch of the global bank
General Financial
, she had plenty of would-be suitors but none had impressed her sufficiently to warrant more than a cursory glance. It had been on a night out with work that she had encountered Nathan Green for the first time.

It was an unofficial rule in the branch to go out for drinks every month on the first Friday after payday. The large branch was made up of men and women aged between eighteen and thirty, but the majority were in their early twenties and still enjoying the student convention of spending their money on cheap booze.

The evening had started just after seven o’clock in the local pub and Cat had moved freely from one group to another, catching up with people she hadn’t seen for a while and sharing jokes and comments with her colleagues. As the evening had worn on, some had departed for home until only a core of people remained. The group had decided to move onto a bar in the city centre where the drinks had continued to flow and then onto a club down near the docks just after eleven. Cat had always enjoyed dancing but with alcohol in her system and her inhibitions gone she would move around like a tiger stalking a cage. She would bat off some advances and encourage others, depending on who caught her eye.

As the clock had approached one a.m. that night, she had decided that she had had enough and was ready to go to bed.

Alone.

She could remember saying to one of her friends that she was going to collect her coat from the cloakroom and would then catch a taxi home. Her flat was only a ten minute walk away but she thought it would be safer to be escorted. She had felt the cold air the moment she had left the club and the queue at the taxi rank was at least twelve people deep. Her attire was suitable for clubbing but not for the bitter wind that was blowing about her legs. The thought of standing and waiting in line for a vacant taxi while shivering did not appeal and so she had decided to make the short journey on foot.

It was the decision she had regretted the most ever since.

Cat had been wearing a short skirt, top and a thin, silver sequined jacket. She had also been wearing stilettos as was customary for such a night. The pavements between the taxi rank and her flat were fairly flat, but with the amount of alcohol she had consumed, she was a little unsteady on her feet and had had to stop on a couple of occasions to regain her balance. Although the wind continued to blow, the walk was keeping her warmer than had she remained in the queue.

There were two routes that she could have taken home. The first was along the main road, which was relatively well lit. The alternative, and the route she had opted for, cut across a council estate, but was five minutes quicker than the first route. She had felt so tired, cold and unsteady that the shorter route had seemed the most viable option. She had walked the second route on a number of occasions before so was confident about where she was going and, as she had never heard of any trouble along that pathway, had not thought twice about the possible dangers for a young lady, scantily clad, in the dark.

As she had tried to hurry along between the two tower blocks, she had thought she had heard a noise behind her. She had turned to look over her shoulder as she picked up the pace and had walked straight into the outstretched arms of a man dressed from head to toe in black, wearing a dark balaclava. The first thing she noticed was his gleaming white teeth, through a gap in the material. Immediately above them were two large white eyes staring at her. Her mind had been flooded by numerous thoughts about who this figure could be: was it one of her friends carrying out a prank to scare her? Had she disturbed a burglar exiting a crime scene?

She didn’t have to wait long for an answer as a small blade had appeared and been pressed against her throat. She had tried to scream but no sound had emanated from her mouth. The man had seemed so big, his arms easily fit around her and before she knew it he had turned her around and dragged her backwards. She could remember her feet no longer being on concrete and suddenly she could feel the grass under her toes as the shoes fell aside. He had held an arm under her throat which her hands had desperately clawed against but she had been trapped. Overhead she had seen branches blocking out the small image of the moon and she had known that she was being dragged towards a wooded area. She recalled that the council estate backed onto a small park that was surrounded by trees and the adrenaline in her body had started to flow as she had realised that something nasty was about to befall her.

When she could no longer see the sky, he had released his grip on her and she had fallen to the floor. She had quickly glanced around to try and get her bearings but all she could make out were the shadows of trees. She couldn’t even see the tower blocks or main road. The blade of the knife had once more been pressed to her throat and the figure had whispered into her ear, ‘I will fucking kill you if you don’t do as I say, bitch!’

She had frozen in fear.

All thoughts of fighting him and fleeing had deserted her and, as he had pressed her shoulders to the floor and had started to rip the clothes from her trembling body, she had not resisted. He had continued to speak, to tell her what he wanted to do to her; what he expected her to do to him. The whole time she had willingly obeyed his instructions, silently praying that she would survive if she didn’t fight him. Even when he had begun to slash at her skin with the blade, she had remained silent.

He had even commented that she had looked so sexy when she had been dancing in the club. It had told her that she would have seen his face at some point that evening but she could not place the voice: it sounded deep and angry.

He had forced himself on her, had made her touch him and lick him. Just thinking about everything he had done to her made her want to retch.

‘Miss Jurdentaag?’ called the Court Usher from the door of the courtroom.

‘Yes,’ she replied, standing as she remembered where she was.

‘Can you follow me, please?’

Cat followed the usher through both sets of doors and into the courtroom. It was deathly silent as she moved past the legal teams, to the witness stand next to Judge Adams. The Clerk made her swear an oath and then she was told to sit. Cat could feel her heart beating strongly in her chest and was convinced that the rest of the courtroom would probably be able to hear it. Staring at her from behind his glass box, Nathan Green smiled when their eyes met. Cat instinctively looked away, suddenly feeling as paralysed as she had done in the wooded area.

The Clerk asked her to confirm her name and address and then explained that Collinghurst would ask her some questions before Charleston would have an opportunity to ask some of his own questions. Cat confirmed she understood and then proceeded to recount the details of what had happened on that fateful evening. Collinghurst carefully coaxed the information out of her and Cat began to relax as she told the court the story she had told so many times since it had happened.

Charleston’s cross examination was not to be so easy.

‘Can you confirm what you were wearing on the evening of the twenty second of November nineteen ninety-one?’

‘I was wearing a skirt, top, jacket and heeled shoes,’ she replied calmly.

‘No coat?’

‘No.’

‘That’s a bit unusual isn’t it? Evening temperatures don’t climb much over ten degrees in late November, do they? Didn’t you think it a good idea to dress for the temperature?’

‘I was dressed up for a night out. I had planned to catch a taxi home.’

‘Is this how you usually dressed on a night out?’

‘If I was going out to a club or bar, then yes, that is what I would have worn. It is the same thing that most people would wear at a club.’

Charleston looked puzzled and consulted some notes.

‘It’s a bit provocative, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Objection!’ declared Collinghurst, standing.

‘Let me re-phrase the question,’ replied Charleston before Judge Adams had the opportunity to accept or deny Collinghurst’s interruption. ‘You went to the pub straight from work, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘So was this the outfit you had worn to work that day?’

‘No, I had changed in the toilets at work.’

‘Really? I see. What had you worn to work?’

‘Friday was always a day when we could wear our own clothes so I was probably in jeans and a t-shirt. I’m not too sure to be honest.’

‘Jeans and a t-shirt? Why did you feel the need to change?’

‘I wanted to look my best when I went out.’

‘Did you not want to look your best for work too? Why didn’t you wear the skirt, top, jacket and heels to work?’

‘It would have been too…’

Cat paused as she realised where the questioning was going. She had walked into his trap.

‘Would have been too what Miss Jurdentaag?’

‘Too revealing,’ Cat said, unable to think of a less-damning description.

‘So you admit your clothing on the night of the twenty second of November was provocative?’

Charleston let the question hang in the air, but before Cat had chance to think of a good answer he continued, ‘Would it be fair to say that your clothing would encourage the advances of men at the club?’

‘Look,’ Cat began, struggling to hide the frustration from her voice. ‘I wasn’t dressed like a prostitute soliciting for business, if that’s what you are trying to suggest. I…’

‘Just answer the question please,’ he interrupted.

‘No.’

‘I see. So no men made advances towards you at the club that night? Nobody tried to dance with you? I should remind you that you’re under oath, Miss Jurdentaag.’

‘A couple of guys did come on to me, yes, but I wasn’t looking for their attention so I did not act on their advances.’

‘Had you had much to drink on the night in question?’

‘I’d had a couple of drinks, yes.’

‘Define a couple of drinks for me, Miss Jurdentaag?’

‘I don’t know…I had probably had a couple of glasses of wine, maybe a rum and
Coke
.’

Charleston ruffled some papers and then produced a document that he read aloud, ‘Four large glasses of white wine, two
Bacardi
and mixers and a shot of
Sambuca
, according to one of your work colleagues. That’s a bit more than a couple of drinks wouldn’t you say?’