She's Fallen

by Alex Clare

  Robyn woke up her computer, fingers poised over the keys. ‘Is that G – A – U?’ Her burgundy fingernails clicked on the keys. At home, she thought the bolder colour suited her. At work, it seemed too dark and dressy. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No U.’ Lorraine was looking at Ravi’s list. ‘We should have something on Lassie because according to Ravi’s list, he had a shoplifting conviction.’

  ‘Still nothing on the brother.’ Robyn grimaced. ‘What have you got?’

  For long seconds, Lorraine stared at her screen. A slow smile spread across her face. ‘It’s him.’

  13

  The printer whirred, Lorraine bringing back two images: the arrest mugshot when Bartholomew was a teenager and one of him with the groom, ushers and best man all raising champagne glasses. She laid them in front of the screen. ‘It’s definitely him. The hairline is identical, receding with the big peak at the front.’ She peered between two print-outs. ‘He’s changed a bit since he was fourteen. A lot bulkier and looks like he’s broken his nose at some point.’

  ‘I think we should pay him a visit.’ Grabbing her bag, Robyn stood up. ‘What’s his address?’

  Lorraine tapped into the computer. ‘Oooh, now there’s a coincidence. He lives in Flotilla block, back where we were last night.’ They got the lift to the car park. ‘Are you sure we can let Ravi work on the Newman case, Guv?’

  Robyn slammed the car door, harder than needed. ‘If we can nail this guy sharpish for attacking Shazia there’s no problem, is there?’

  On the drive across town, neither of them spoke. At the Docks estate, the tower blocks merged into the grey sky. Stepping out of the car, Robyn heard a child bawling. The front door of Flotilla block was being held open by a pushchair jammed between the heavy door and the frame. The girl in the pushchair was screaming, writhing against the straps. When Robyn pulled the door open, the girl’s contortions sent a handbag draped over the pushchair’s handles swinging. Lorraine bent to retrieve the spilled items, a packet of cigarettes and a bus pass. In the lobby, a woman was dragging a boy along by one arm, his trainers scuffing the floor.

  Despite the grey skies, the woman wore only a vest-top, the sequinned flower pattern straining over her pregnant belly. She swept the boy up with one arm and grabbed her things from Lorraine’s outstretched hand with the other. ‘I don’t talk to ‘king coppers.’ It wasn’t clear whether she was talking to them, the children or herself as she slammed her trainer down on the pushchair’s brake and walked away.

  ‘I reckon she could tell we’re police because you held the door and I didn’t steal her cigarettes.’ Lorraine pushed the button for the lift. ‘Maybe all this community work we’re doing is having some effect after all.’

  The lift smelt of cigarettes and wet dogs. It whined upwards, juddering each time the number increased. On the sixth floor, the lobby was garish with graffiti tags. Number 36 was at the end of the corridor, the side with the clearest view of the Victorian rows of Upper Town on the hill above.

  After Lorraine’s knock, the spyhole darkened, followed by a hiss of whispered conversation. ‘Who is it?’

  Robyn clasped her hands behind her. ‘Police. We’d like to talk to Colin Bartholomew.’

  Whoever was there moved away and there was another hint of voices before the spyhole darkened again. Somewhere along the corridor, a bass beat was turned up, muffling any sounds from the flat. When the door opened, a man filled the narrow hallway. The singlet stretched across his frame looked as if it was a child’s size. One muscly arm rested on the wall.

  ‘Mr Bartholomew?’ Robyn was hit by a cloud of smells; harsh deodorant, fresh sweat and underneath, the sickly sweet smell of some sort of rot. ‘I’m afraid we have some distressing news.’ She held up her warrant card. ‘May we come in?’

  The man didn’t look at the card or move. To enter, Robyn would have to duck under his arm and squeeze herself against the wall, stepping over a black rubbish sack discarded by the front door. The knowledge of what he had done made Robyn want to puncture his arrogance. She matched his stance, her hand an inch from his on the wall. As his eyes scanned down her, she pulled her shoulders back, to emphasise the bra. ‘I’ll have to squeeze right past you, won’t I?’ They stood chest to chest: Robyn looked down on the lump marring the line of his nose.

  With a grunt, Bartholomew retreated into the main living area swinging his leg over a weightlifting bench in the centre of the room. A rack of weights, rubber mats and an exercise bike filled the space: there was no television or sofa. In one corner, a laptop sat on the floor in a mess of cables. Standing behind a kitchen counter, a young woman was almost hidden behind plastic shopping bags.

  ‘Hello. We’re police officers.’

  The girl’s eyes flicked up to Robyn for no more than a second, then moved to Lorraine who hovered at the end of the corridor. Robyn moved so she was no longer reflected in the full-length mirror propped between two of the windows. ‘Mr Bartholomew, I believe you attended a wedding yesterday at the Lady Ann Hotel?’

  ‘Time to go.’ Bartholomew jerked his thumb towards the door.

  It took a second for Robyn to work out he was talking to the woman.

  ‘You’ll be late for work.’

  The woman shuffled forward, hands feeling her way along the edge of the counter, as if blind or uncertain of her balance. She hesitated at the edge, looking as if she wanted to move and not sure where to go next.

  ‘Were you at the wedding yesterday, miss?’ Robyn wondered whether the woman’s nervousness was caused by their presence or something else.

  ‘She didn’t come to the wedding because she wouldn’t know anyone.’ Bartholomew’s reedy voice didn’t match his bulked-up frame. Without warning, the woman dashed out from behind the counter and into the second room off the hallway, closing the door. Robyn caught Lorraine’s eye and tried to signal ‘catch her when she comes out’.

  Robyn turned back to look at the man. In the light room, the skin around his left eye was bruised with patches of yellow and purple.

  ‘What do you want, copper?’ Hands on the back of his head, Bartholomew seemed to be trying to make himself look bigger.

  ‘Well first, I have some bad news.’ Robyn kept her tone conversational. ‘I’m afraid your fellow usher, Jake Newman, was found dead in the car park outside in the early hours of this morning.’

  ‘Dead?’ Bartholomew brought his arms down to his sides.

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. We are trying to get a picture of events yesterday, starting with the wedding.’

  ‘You’re telling me Paul is dead? How?’

  ‘That is what we are investigating.’ Wiping the smug expression from the man’s face gave Robyn a certain crude satisfaction. ‘Could you tell me about the wedding?’

  ‘It was a load of fuss. Lulu didn’t want anything so big, it was all Vasanti and her family. Kept demanding more and more.’ Bartholomew flexed his shoulders back and forward before selecting a weight from the rack.

  ‘Can I use your bathroom?’ Lorraine stood up and began walking towards the front door without waiting for an answer.

  Bartholomew began bicep curls, the movement slow.

  ‘Can you tell me what you did at the wedding?’ If the display was meant to impress her, it was not working. The veins bulging on each movement made Robyn worry something was going to burst: even the man’s eyes were bloodshot.

  He switched the weight to his other hand and began the repetition again, the fitness tracker on his wrist moving in and out of the light with each motion. ‘Yeah. Nothing special, just be there with Lulu. Once everything broke up, me and Axe went for a couple of beers. I don’t normally drink because of training, so although he wanted to make a night of it, I came back here. Paul wasn’t answering his phone.’

  Robyn watched the impassive face. There was no acknowledgement he knew anything about what had disrupted the wedding. One eye was always in the mirror, watching his movements.

  ‘So you came back here. Was any
one with you?’

  ‘Yeah. Lyndsey.’ His head jerked towards the bedroom.

  ‘You must have been upset about the girl.’

  ‘Yeah well, shit happens.’ Up, down.

  From the hallway, there was a low exchange of voices. To draw Bartholomew’s attention back to her, Robyn cleared her throat. ‘What happened –?’

  ‘– you nothing.’ Lyndsey dodged around Lorraine, a leopard-print plastic bag slapping against her legs. The front door banged shut.

  ‘… to your eye?’ Robyn raised her voice. ‘We’ve seen the wedding photos – you didn’t have a black eye on Saturday.’

  ‘A weight slipped in my hand.’ Up, down. ‘Did it this morning.’

  ‘Given how much it’s bruised already, you should have put something cold on it.’ She hoped the banality had covered her lack of sympathy. ‘Going back to Saturday, you got ready in room 108?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Up, down.

  ‘What did you do once the formal part of the wedding was over?’ Moving one foot outward, Robyn found herself shifting her stance, wanting to appear more forceful.

  Up, down. ‘If you’re asking me did I shag anyone, then yeah, I did.’ The fitness tracker beeped and Bartholomew changed his movement to lift vertically, bringing the weight close to his chest each time. ‘Couldn’t really say no, even with the colour she was.’ From outside the flat came the sound of a baby screaming and a roar from a man. Bartholomew’s steady movements had an almost hypnotic quality.

  ‘Did you need to get your girlfriend out of the room before you admitted you’d had sex with someone else?’ Lorraine spoke from the corridor, sounding as if she were speaking through gritted teeth.

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend. She’s messed up and I’m helping her out.’ Bartholomew paused long enough to shrug. ‘More like a pet, ‘spose.’

  ‘And that’s why you treat her like a dog?’ Lorraine folded her arms.

  Robyn shot her a warning look. ‘For your information, the girl you had sex with is now in a coma with severe head injuries.’ There was no reaction. ‘You were with Shazia; tell us exactly what took place yesterday afternoon.’

  The weight was switched to his left arm and the movement began again. ‘Not much to tell. After the speeches, the dancing started. We was supposed to do this dance and then get everyone out on the floor. She ended up dancing near me.’

  Robyn waited until it became clear he was not going to say any more. ‘How did Shazia end up in your room?’

  ‘She wasn’t feeling well. Don’t think she was used to champagne. I knew no one would be in our room, so said she could go and lie down.’

  ‘Did you go up with her?’ Robyn felt herself tensing: she knew the answer to this question.

  ‘Nah. Think she wanted to be sick, so just gave her the key.’ Bartholomew put down the weight and flexed his shoulders a couple of times.

  ‘Why did you go up there?’

  ‘Thought I’d better see if she was OK.’ A flicker of a smile passed across his face. ‘Didn’t want her passing out.’

  ‘And was she?’

  Bartholomew stretched out for a towel hanging over a weight stand. He wiped his face, neck and underarms before turning back towards Robyn. Close to, his skin tone was uneven, livid red veins and bulging tendons.

  ‘She must have felt better because she grabbed me.’

  ‘She grabbed you – can you be clearer about what you mean?’ Robyn saw Lorraine tense, rocking on the balls of her feet.

  ‘Christ, you’re enjoying this, you sick bastard.’ Bartholomew put his hands to his head, elbows out. ‘I’ve already told you what I mean. I went up to the room, we shagged. What was a bit weird was there was a suit hanging up.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I couldn’t work out who’d left. Anyway, I cleaned myself up and went back down because she was worried about people finding out.’ He looked towards the window. ‘They’re a funny lot. All pretending to be nice girls when underneath, well.’

  ‘So you had sex with Shazia.’ Robyn took a breath. ‘Did she consent to intercourse?’

  ‘You kidding? She jumped on me.’

  Lorraine took a half step forward. ‘Despite the fact she was sick?’

  ‘Yeah, she could have done with some mouthwash, know what I mean?’ Bartholomew laughed, scratching the back of his neck. ‘It must have been to thank me for being a gentleman.’

  ‘You think it’s being a gentleman to take advantage of a woman when she’s drunk?’ Lorraine took another step forward. Robyn tried to catch her eye again but she was staring at Bartholomew.

  This time, Bartholomew made no attempt to conceal a smile. ‘Why do most women get drunk? Because they want to have a bit of fun. She had a chance to relax a bit and must have liked what she saw.’

  ‘Was there anyone else in the room while you were there with Shazia?’ Robyn kept her voice neutral. Bartholomew knew what he was doing, trying to be as offensive as possible, winding them up.

  ‘Nah, I’m not into those kind of things – are you?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘With your type, do you get hard or wet?’

  Beside her, Lorraine gasped. There was no way to let her know she was finding Bartholomew’s attempts to shock almost cartoon-like.

  ‘How was Shazia when you left her?’ Lorraine’s hands were balled into fists.

  ‘Properly shagged.’ The man scratched a hairless armpit. ‘Never had it before and now she’s had the best.’ His lips pulled back from grey, irregular teeth. ‘She must have realised she’ll never get it that good again and maybe that’s why she jumped.’ He picked up a red stick and began rubbing at a point near the top of one thigh, a smirk on his face.

  As he applied the liniment, Robyn struggled to keep her nose from wrinkling at the smell. She was so focused on keeping her face steady, she jumped when the front door slammed. Lorraine had gone. The look on Bartholomew’s face was like a child who had got his way.

  ‘Mr Bartholomew. You seem very confident your attention was welcome.’

  ‘I told you – she started it.’

  ‘Did you use a condom?’

  ‘Christ, are you getting turned on by this, tranny?’ Bartholomew pulled his legs closer together.

  Robyn smiled and leant forward. She relished his wriggle backwards along the bench. ‘Just part of routine enquiries. Did you?’

  Bartholomew stood up, walking in the widest circle possible around Robyn and into the kitchen area, pulling open the fridge. ‘No. Didn’t have any with me.’

  ‘That’s taking a risk, isn’t it?’ Robyn tried to put a caring note into her voice. ‘What will your girlfriend say? You might expose her to something.’

  Bartholomew took out a fluorescent bottle and took a swig.

  ‘You have got a girlfriend, haven’t you?’ Robyn up and stepped onto the lino marking the edge of the kitchen. By resting one hand on the far counter, she was blocking him in.

  ‘Enough! Get out, piss off. Don’t come near me.’ Standing as far away as he could, Bartholomew began shuffling from foot to foot.

  ‘Tell me what I need to know, or come with me to the station.’ Robyn stood square in the aisle, arms folded.

  In the silence, Bartholomew’s trainers squeaked against the lino. ‘All right. I don’t have a girlfriend.’ He squeezed the bottle. ‘Not because they’re not interested just I’ve never found one who understood the training comes first.’

  The close air of the flat, the sweat and her suppressed anger was making Robyn feel light-headed. ‘Where were you when you heard Shazia had fallen?’

  ‘Shazia. Right.’ He took a swig from the bottle. ‘With Lulu. He was gobsmacked, stuff like that on your wedding day.’

  ‘Did you tell him you’d just had sex with her?’

  ‘Course not.’ Bartholomew tipped the bottle to get out the dregs. ‘Anyway, we didn’t know what had actually happened for a while, just lots of people shouting.’

  ‘What did you do when you found out it was her?’

  ‘What could I do?’
The smug expression was back. ‘Anyway, I heard someone came into the room and that’s why she jumped. He’s the one you want to be talking to.’

  ‘I need a formal statement and a DNA sample from you.’ She breathed in. Bartholomew’s sweat now had a bitter, pungent tang. Her grip tightened on the counter as she tried to keep her breathing shallow.

  ‘Why?’ Bartholomew crushed the bottle in one hand. ‘Well, I ain’t giving one. I’ve told you what I done.’ He threw the bottle, which hit Robyn on the shin. ‘Whoops, missed the bin.’

  ‘We will check your story.’ The sting of the impact had cut through the fog in her mind and given her an idea. ‘We already have your fingerprints on file: if you won’t give me a DNA sample, I will get a warrant.’ She smiled, letting the words hang in the air for a second before walking towards the front door. She stopped and turned back to him. ‘Tell you what, to show you I’m here to help, I’ll take the rubbish downstairs for you.’ The door slammed behind her.

  The air in the corridor smelled of damp which was a welcome relief after the stifling flat. Robyn took a deep breath as she walked to the lobby.

  Lorraine stood by the lift, eyes down. ‘Sorry, Guv. He really managed to play me, didn’t he?’

  ‘At least you realised what he was doing and took action. It would have been just what he wanted if you had lashed out.’ She pressed the button for the lift. ‘He really didn’t think he’d done anything wrong.’

  The lift doors hadn’t even closed before Lorraine started. ‘Why couldn’t we arrest him? He admitted it!’ She banged the side of the lift with the flat of her hand. ‘He must know we believe it’s rape. Why let him go?’ The lift clanked. ‘And why are you carrying his bin bag?’

  The lift doors opened. Outside, the weather had closed in, rain driven in different directions by an irregular wind. Wet leaves were plastered to the windscreen.

  ‘Think it through. He had just admitted having sex with Shazia. Are we really certain it was rape? We don’t have a lot of physical evidence to go on because the doctors were too busy saving her life. A lawyer could pick the point apart in a few minutes. Bruises – oh, she liked it rough. We need evidence.’