Without Consent (4 page)

‘What beats me,' she continued, ‘is why even girls don't believe other girls. It's not as though every female over the age of sixteen knows much about sex. Oh, I mean, she may have done the business, but that's not the same thing as knowing anything about men. You want them to like you. You can't believe they'd actually hurt you. You think they can stop and you think they can read your signals. Girls are romantic. That's why it's so horrible. It can't be
half as bad being raped when you're older. You've got less belief to shatter.'

‘Oh, I don't know about that,' Helen said drily, checking the papers, looking at her watch. She had clearly stopped listening and Rose was annoyed.

‘The problem with you, Aunty, is too much respectability. I think maybe you've got it in for youth, you. The number of rape cases you personally have turned down over the last three months … well, speaks for itself. You're positively encouraging testosterone to tread all over timidity. I mean, why did you bother to run this one?'

‘Bruises.'

‘You turned down the husband and wife one, too. What a pig he was.'

‘There wasn't any choice about that. Those kind are virtually impossible to prove unless the couple have separated. One person's word against another.'

‘And you turned down the one with the man in the basement flat,' Rose went on, hotly.

‘Oh, come on, Rose. You know that gave me sleepless nights. She picked him out on parade, but he was nothing like her description of him and there was no forensic and he had a sort of an alibi…'

‘And he's done it again. And he'll do it again …'

‘Probably. Keep your door locked when Mike's not around, won't you?'

The concern in her voice broke Rose's antagonistic mood. She smiled, the grin lighting up her bright eyes, creating dimples in her cheeks and even softening the spikes of her hair.

‘Naa,' she said. ‘If I get any intruders, they won't be
after my body; they'll be after his, or the wedding presents. Time to go, is it?'

‘Yup.'

Rose stood in front of the small mirror to the left of Helen's desk. A policy statement on dress code for court was expected daily. She ran her fingers through her hair.

‘Mike wants me to stop being punk and go curly. Only for the wedding. What d'ye think, Aunty Helen?'

Together they considered the most serious problem of the day.

‘No,' Helen said finally. ‘Unless you buy a wig.'

‘Blond? To go with my flowers, d'you think?'

‘For sure.'

Rose's infuriation with the random nature of justice was always an item festering on a hidden agenda. Although she could recite it, Rose did not understand the Code for crown prosecutors, which so clearly underlined the difference between truth and pragmatism. The Code said that prosecutors should only initiate those cases where they considered there was a reasonable prospect of securing a conviction. That meant, in Rose's eyes, that they had to consider the likely result before considering the facts. It seemed outrageous to her that these middle-class wankers should base their decisions on second-guessing what the jury, or the defence, would do; taking prejudice, skill and incredulity into account before they were even expressed.

She stood up and began systematically feeding paper through the window, passing through the policy dictates contained in the in-tray with all the delight of an old lady feeding birds.

The taxi fare to court would require a form in triplicate
if it was ever to be reclaimed. Helen was unlikely to bother, happy enough to have the prickly Rose alongside again for the day. As they plunged into the gloom of the court foyer and dumped their baggage for the usual check, Rose pulled at Helen's arm.

‘Look, I meant to ask you earlier. One great big favour …'

‘What, buy you the wig for the wedding?'

‘No. I want you to talk to someone.'

‘About what?'

‘Rape.'

A
t this time of year, the yellow fields of the north were full of rape. Brilliant yellow flowers, so vibrant they were positively vulgar in an English landscape; luminous by night, brighter than wallflowers, but the scent of the blossoms heavy and foul. As a farmer's son, Detective Sergeant Todd approved of his homeland, approved of rape in that agricultural context. Rape-seed oil, fit for a thousand uses, his father said. He was homesick for the sight of those flat and ugly fields so full of valuable produce. It would be nice to harvest something in the spectacular dryness of this August, and see what you had done.

‘What's he trying to do?' Todd asked Bailey.

‘Kill himself,' Bailey grunted.

‘Clever, when you think of it, although I suppose when you do, it isn't, really. Not for a copper. You go straight home. You have a shower and put your undies in the washing machine. I bet Ryan does that every night he's home late.'

‘Ryan's wife might have put the stuff in the machine.
She may well swear she did. Just like she said he'd been in all evening, when you lot went to pick him up. Poor woman.'

DS Todd reserved his small supply of sympathy.

‘Well, she wouldn't pass her GCSE in telling lies, that's for sure. It was obvious she was saying the first thing that came into her head. Pointing the finger at him even more. As if she'd assumed his guilt.'

‘Don't leap to conclusions,' Bailey said mildly.

‘Difficult to avoid. I don't see, at this stage, how even the CPS could find a way of turning this down. Even without any forensic. Even if they don't go for rape, make it attempted rape or indecent assault; same difference. She's covered in marks, wearing his jacket, and all he'll say is, no comment.'

Todd was keen as mustard. Imported from another police force, he was one of the few who did not know Ryan, even by reputation. He was not a man for gossip, Bailey concluded, but one whose sharp nose touched the grindstone with dedication every week he was not on yet another training course. Bailey smiled at him to cover the dislike he would not show. He recognized all too well the necessity of having about his person throughout this ghastly mess a nit-picking stickler to whom Ryan was a stranger.

‘Was he drunk, I wonder?' Bailey asked.

‘Oh, merry. Not so drunk that he didn't remember to take his wallet and warrant card out of his pocket before dunking his shirt into hot soapy water.'

‘Hardly evidence.'

Nothing was more debilitating than Bailey's strange
sense of grief. Todd and he sat together in the canteen, relieved at its relative emptiness. From the direction of the counter, over the Formica-topped tables and plastic plants, raucous laughter sounded as two large West Indian ladies poured glutinous soup into the heated container which would render it inedible by lunch-time. Soup was always on the menu, even in August. A few coffee drinkers huddled together, as far distant from Bailey and Todd as they could make it, as if whatever contagion they carried could drift and move above the smell of fried food.

‘C'mon on then,' Bailey said reluctantly, uncurling his long legs. ‘Got to go and see about a girl.' The chair he pushed back made a loud fart-like noise on the floor. The place fell as silent as a church.

T
he station by day was an entirely different building to the station by night. This time, they traversed the front counter as an easier route to the suites at the back, passing
en route
the counter queue. It comprised mainly young men shuffling and scratching, signing on for bail; drivers producing documents; ladies with tales of stolen handbags, the air thick with subdued anxiety. While Todd excused himself to find the gents, Bailey took his chance, nodding to the custody sergeant, who pressed the buzzer through into the cells, watching without a word while Bailey practically ran to Ryan's cell and opened the flap.

‘You all right?'

There wasn't much else to say. Ryan was sitting still, staring at nothing. He turned a blank face on Bailey, then looked away. Something was said which Bailey almost missed.

‘Pardon?'

There was a glimmer of a smile, the voice only slightly louder.

‘I said, I never liked that jacket, sir. Never.'

There was little enough Bailey could do for Ryan without showing signs. Keep him clean and tidy for one. Get him out of the cell soonest and try and use some form of telepathy to stop him crying. His gaolers, those solid uniformed men, were bound to see that as an admission of guilt.

T
here was something terrible about a man weeping. Mrs Mary Ryan had read many a magazine article about the virtues of the new kind of man who wept at the drop of a hat, in case the hat was hurt, and was otherwise honest about his emotions, but it was not a culture with which she was familiar, or one she expected any man of hers to embrace. True, she would have preferred more honesty from her husband, or at least a greater ability to articulate when something was on his mind, instead of which he would put on a mood and hang around like the walking wounded, sulking and barking and waiting for her to guess the cause. Crying, however, was another matter. Tears were her prerogative, and even she did not shed them often. Daughter of a police officer, married to a police officer, with one of her sons dreaming of nothing else but becoming one of the same, she was watching the possible demise of every tradition which kept her family afloat, and there was her husband, her conquering hero, with a face puffy from tears.

Mrs Ryan hugged Mr Ryan and, in its way, the embrace
was heartfelt. She was not a hard woman, merely a practical one, and they had been together a long time. Married far too young, of course; twenty-one apiece and with all the sense of a pair of kids, so that each of them had kicked over the traces a few years later, taken their marriage to the brink once or twice, then, after more than a decade, got a grip. On her way here, driving with automatic care and rehearsing a dozen versions of what to tell the kids, she had made herself remember all she respected about Ryan. He was generous to a fault, he was funny, he did not judge, he was ultimately reliable, and yes, she loved the way he looked; always had. She scorned the assumption that sensible women did not bother so much about a man's looks, when really, the way they looked, if they looked like Ryan even on a bad day, always helped them get away with murder. That handsome mug would go down well with a jury, she told herself, and shook her head in disbelief that she should think such a thing. It would never come to that.

He was not a pretty boy today, though. Seedy was the word which sprang to mind.

‘You'll be out this afternoon,' she said briskly.

‘Who says?'

‘Custody sergeant. Your bloody precious Bailey left a message with him to tell me.' Mrs Ryan, who had always secretly credited Bailey with the development of her husband from imbecile to grown man, now felt and spoke of him as an object of hate, purely for his current power over their lives.

‘Bailed for further enquiries. Something like that. What did you tell them?'

‘Nothing.' She nodded, approving, but wanting more.

‘What's the Brief like?'

‘OK. I only did what he said.'

‘For once.'

Mrs Ryan produced the Thermos of coffee and Mars bar which the sergeant had allowed her to bring in. They seemed such a pathetic offering in the circumstances, she almost put them away, but the chocolate seemed to bring colour to his skin.

‘A Mars a day helps you work, rest and play,' he remarked, his voice a touch stronger.

‘Did you get any breakfast?' she asked, resorting to the lowest level of wifely consideration, conscious of what she was doing and even more acutely aware of the atmosphere of the place. Echoing footsteps, a muted banging on the wall from somewhere, the conflicting smells of disinfectant and urine.

‘Didn't want breakfast.'

She could see why.

‘Oh, I bought you a newspaper.'

‘Thanks.'

All speech was desultory. She felt as if every word was being overheard and could scarcely raise her voice above a whisper. There was also that sensation peculiar to hospital visits: the fear of saying anything which was not banal and the acute guilty desire to escape. Get out. He seemed to sense it, and for that, she felt a rush of love for him.

‘You'd better go, love. No point both of us being stuck in here, is there?' He attempted a laugh. Although she wanted to go, being invited to go still felt like rejection. Perhaps he simply wanted his space back, so he could cry in peace.

‘S'pose not.' She rose to her feet gratefully and rang the bell, then sat down to await the response, dying for those footsteps to come down the corridor towards them. She was aware of him watching her.

‘What are you thinking?' she demanded; a last attempt to make this encounter fruitful.

Ryan stretched his legs so that they touched the wall opposite. Single cells were not designed for the swinging of cats.

‘I'm thinking that I shall never, ever again, bang a bloke up in a cell without thinking long and hard about it first.'

You might not have the chance, she thought. You might never have the chance. You are going to be formally suspended from duty this afternoon, whatever else happens, and our world will come to an end. How could you do this to me?

‘I
never think of Old Bailey, without thinking of your Bailey,' Rose said as they stuffed the bundles of paper and files into the back of the taxi, this time without attempts to keep them in order. ‘They have the same craggy appearance.'

The afternoon sunshine made them blink. Out of the cooler corridors of the court, they felt like moles ascending into daylight. Rose's face shone. She was chattering for the sake of making noise, hiding the fact that she was angry and disappointed.

‘Didn't take them long, did it?'

‘No, not long. Probably the weather.'

On a day like this, even the most conscientious juror would want to be gone. Back to a flat, a house, a bus ride,
away from sordid tales of bodily fluids, out of the gloom and the security checks, into the warm sunlight.