Kill Call (44 page)

‘Ye-es.’

They were both silent for a moment, Murfin chewing the last half of his Eccles cake, Cooper wondering how long he could resist asking the obvious question. It wasn’t long.

‘So what would that be, Gavin? The thing you’ve always really, really wanted to do, all your life?’

But Murfin shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Oh, go on.’

‘No way. You’d take the piss out of me, and I’d never hear the end of it back at the office.’

Cooper gazed at Murfin, watching him lick a few crumbs off his fingers and wipe them on his tie. He was wondering whether his colleague had some hidden psychological depths that he’d never suspected. What was this deep, seething urge that he daren’t even speak about?

‘I tell you what would be embarrassing,’ said Murfin. ‘If you just thought you had four minutes left to live, and you did … well, whatever it was you really, really wanted to do. And then you found out it was a false alarm.’

‘Well, it would depend on what it was,’ said Cooper. ‘I mean, if what you did in that time was something really awful, Gavin.’

Then it was Murfin’s turn to laugh. ‘Yeah. It could be so bad, you might have to kill yourself.’

‘No, really.’

‘Well,’ said Murfin, seeing that he was serious. ‘It would be the ideal opportunity to take the revenge you’d always wanted.’

‘Yes,’ said Cooper. ‘So it would.’

Fry could feel the sweat forming on her skin, the prickling at the back of her neck. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, wanting desperately to get up and walk out of the room. There was something intolerable about sitting here, under the scrutiny of her superintendent and these two people from Birmingham, discussing something that for her was too deep and intimate to be spoken about, yet for them was just another case.

Gareth Blake was watching her carefully, trying to assess her reaction. And so was the woman, of course – Rachel Murchison, the counsellor, there to judge her psychological state.

‘When we get a cold case hit, we consult the CPS before we consider intruding into a victim’s life,’ said Blake. ‘The public interest consideration isn’t in doubt, because of the seriousness of the offence, but we have to take a close look at how strong a case we’ve got, and whether we can do something to strengthen it.’

‘With the help of the victim,’ said Fry.

‘Of course. And in this case …’

‘In my case. This is personal, DI Blake. Don’t try to pretend it isn’t. It’s very personal for me.’

Blake held up his hand again, a defensive gesture, as if trying to fend off an attacker.

‘In your case, we had a very credible witness report from the victim. From you, Diane. Force policy has changed since the 1990s, when we only kept files on unsolved rape cases for five years. Everything is on file for this one. We have an e-fit record in the imaging unit, and a copy of everything has been kept by the FSS. But the bottom line is, we got a DNA match.’

‘And you have to consult a counsellor before you approach the victim. Between you, you will have developed an approach strategy before you even came here.’

‘You know exactly how it works, Diane.’

‘So Rachel here –?’

‘She’s a trained rape counsellor and support worker. She accompanies any of us when we interview a victim.’

‘I’m just here to help,’ said Murchison. ‘There’s no pressure. It’s all about support.’

Support. It was such an over-used word. Fry had already heard it too often during the past week. At least when Ben Cooper used the word, it was with some sincerity. Here, in this overheated room, looking out over the back of the football ground, it had the dead sound of a curse.

‘Diane, we’ll understand if you say you’ve moved on and you don’t want to testify,’ added Blake. ‘But there are things we can do. A victim can agree to interview without any commitment to give evidence.’

‘Don’t keep calling me the victim.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Look, you might not be sure about this until you re-read your own statement. That’s often what we find. A woman has tried to forget the incident, put the trauma behind her – of course. But then she goes back and reads the statement she made at the time, and she changes her mind. She agrees to go ahead and give evidence in court.’

Blake was starting to look a bit flustered at her lack of reaction. He glanced at Superintendent Branagh, as if appealing for support. But Branagh’s face was impassive. For once, she wasn’t weighing in to put pressure on Fry.

And there must be a reason for that. Fry knew that everything Branagh did had a reason. There might be even more going on in this room than it seemed.

Fry wiped her palms on the edge of her jacket, then tried to disguise the gesture. Too much of a giveaway.

‘In court, you can have a screen, if you want,’ said Blake, leaning forward earnestly. ‘So that the accused can’t see you and you can’t see him. We often take victims into court to show them where they’ll give evidence from, and where everyone sits. We might not need to do that for you, obviously. But you understand what I’m saying? We bend over backwards to make it easier.’

‘Easier?’

‘Less difficult, then.’

Rachel Murchison would be from a sexual assault referral centre. Fry knew the police would already have examined the stored exhibits for blood, saliva or semen traces, with the help of the Forensic Science Service. They might have found the tiniest speck of sperm on a tape lift from her clothing. Without statements from independent eye witnesses, the police were reliant on forensic science.

But in rape cases, juries were the problem. They were notoriously sceptical of a rape victim’s behaviour if she didn’t put up a struggle, didn’t make her refusal absolutely clear, didn’t rush straight to the police, didn’t tell the full story straight away.

The research said that rape trauma syndrome could make a victim seem unmoved by the experience as she gave evidence in the witness box. But the general public had never read the research. They had expectations of a rape victim – that she should resist physically, make non-consent very plain, that she should rush off to the police station, give a full and consistent account of everything that happened. Without expert witnesses, juries sometimes weren’t deciding cases on the facts, but on preconceived notions.

‘In every case I’ve dealt with since joining the unit,’ said Blake, ‘victims have been delighted to be approached. They say that a conviction brings closure, often after many years of torment.’

‘But you do need consent to go ahead.’

He hesitated. ‘In almost one hundred per cent of cases.’

Fry nodded. DNA techniques had advanced significantly over the last twenty years in terms of sensitivity, reliability, and speed of results. They had become really important in revisiting old cases, reviewing the evidence recovered at the time. Preservation must have been good in Birmingham, because DNA deteriorated over time if it wasn’t kept cold and dry.

‘We had the element of luck,’ said Blake. ‘Our suspect had a DNA sample taken when he was arrested for robbery and possession of a firearm. Criminals don’t just commit sexual offences, but other offences too.

‘We firmly believe that murderers and rapists who think they’ve got away with it should no longer sleep easily, but should be looking over their shoulder.’

Out of the corner of her eye, Fry could see that Superintendent Branagh was nodding. It was a sentiment that no one with any sense could disagree with.

‘How was he arrested?’ asked Fry. It hardly mattered, but she felt a need to know every little detail, to make the picture come together in her mind. Perhaps it was just that the more detail she asked for, the longer it put off the moment when she would have to make a decision.

‘We had intelligence,’ said Blake.

‘Intelligence?’

‘Information from a member of the public.’

‘You mean one of the gang?’

‘No.’

Fry stared at him. She couldn’t imagine what other member of the public he could mean. There had been no witnesses to the assault, at least none that she could remember, and certainly none had come forward at the time. There had been plenty of appeals, of course. Lots of trawling from house to house in the area, hours spent stopping cars that used the nearby roads, and talking to motorists, lots of effort put into leaning on informants who might have heard a murmur on the streets. All to no avail. It was an offence with no witnesses other than the perpetrators and the victim.

Apart from her own statement, the only evidence she had of the attack were bruises and abrasions. And those faded with time, leaving only the crime-scene photographer’s prints to pass around a jury. As for the psychological scars … well, they didn’t show up too well in court.

‘Do I get to find out who the member of the public is?’

Blake pursed his lips. ‘Sorry. They’re on witness protection. You know how this works, Diane.’

‘Yes. They’re putting themselves at serious risk to testify. You must have done some pretty smooth talking, sir.’

‘You know, I don’t like to hear you call me “sir”, Diane. It was always “Gareth”, wasn’t it?’

‘It was, but …’

Fry stopped, realizing that she didn’t quite know how to put into words what she was feeling at this moment. Blake was trying to be friendly, of course. But his insistence on his first name was the way he would talk to a nervous defendant he wanted to put at ease.

It was a clear signal that their relationship wasn’t going to be a professional one. They weren’t to be considered a DS and a DI working together, no longer colleagues who could safely share information fully with each other. From this moment, from the second she called him ‘Gareth’, she wouldn’t be a police officer any more. She’d be the victim.

Now Blake changed tack, thinking that she was on side. Hit her with the bad news.

‘I’m afraid the conviction rate in rape cases is still very low in this country.’

‘Yes, I know that.’

Blake tilted his head in acknowledgement. ‘Of course you do. And I’m sure you’re aware, too, that there’s a lot of pressure to improve conviction rates.’

‘Absolutely. The inference from the poor figures being that the police don’t take rape allegations seriously enough.’

‘Well, that’s a perception the public might take away from the statistics. We know it isn’t true, though, don’t we? Generally speaking. There are lots of other factors that make convictions difficult to achieve, especially in cases where the defendant is known to the victim.’

‘Like the fact that it’s impossible to provide objective evidence on whether consent was given.’

‘Exactly. It always comes down to one person’s word against another. And juries don’t like that. They want to be presented with evidence. We’re handicapped by those old-fashioned notions of people being innocent until proven guilty, and having to establish guilt beyond reasonable doubt. When it’s just a question of “he says, she says”, there’s always going to be room for reasonable doubt. It would take a piss-poor barrister not to ram that point firmly into the heads of a jury.’

‘Or a defendant who’s not very convincing on the stand?’

Blake smiled. ‘Ah, yes. There are some people who just look so guilty that jurors will convict them whatever the evidence. But that’s the chance you take in a jury system, isn’t it?’

‘Have you lost many convictions turned over as unsound?’

‘Through prejudiced juries?’

‘Yes.’

‘One or two. The information age is a killer.’

The information age. Fry knew what he meant. For many decades, newspapers had been subject to restrictions on what they could publish during a trial without being guilty of contempt of court and prejudicing a jury. But the internet had changed all that. There were archives of news stories from the time of an offence being committed, or from a suspect’s arrest, which could be accessed at the click of a key. For many jurors, it was too much of a temptation not to do a bit of research for themselves. The Court of Appeal had quashed convictions as unsound on those grounds alone. Too much information. A real twenty-first-century curse.

She realized that everyone in the room was looking at her again. Had she been asked a question? She would be a hopeless witness on the stand if her attention wandered from the question so easily.

‘So what do you say, Diane?’ asked Blake.

‘I need time.’

‘Of course. All the time you want.’

Fry looked at Superintendent Branagh, and thought she might have detected a tiny hint of sympathy in her eyes. She thought of all the times she’d observed the behaviour of victims and felt a twinge of contempt at their weakness, wanted to tell them that it wasn’t so bad as all that, for God’s sake, have a bit of backbone and do what you have to do.

And Fry had so often seen people going into court to confront their past. She knew the worst part was waiting in the witness room, and the long walk down the corridor to take the stand. She’d watched people taking that walk. It might only be a few yards, but when you were going to face your own demons, it could seem like a million lonely miles.

For herself, Fry knew that the long walk down that corridor would be the most difficult thing she’d ever done in her life.

41

As Cooper drove through Birchlow towards Rough Side Farm, he noticed that there was now just one car parked behind the village hall. He almost missed it through his rain-streaked window, but for a brief flash of bright metallic blue, which made him stop and reverse a few yards to take a better look. A blue Mercedes. Had the same car been there on Wednesday? He had no idea.

Cooper drew into a lay-by just past the church and called the office.

‘Gavin, what sort of car does Michael Clay drive? Isn’t it a Mercedes?’

‘Yes. Do you want the reg?’

‘Please.’

Murfin read the registration number to him, spelling it out in the standard phonetic alphabet.

‘Romeo, Echo, Zero, Eight …’

Even before he’d finished, Cooper knew he had the right car. And he knew he had the answer to another mystery as well.

‘Is Diane around, Gavin?’

‘She’s just come down from upstairs. But you don’t want to talk to her, Ben.’