by Susan Hill
‘Will … as I see it, nobody in here is going to criticise you for telling the truth. I mean, that’s why we’re all in this. Nobody would have any right to … I know I wouldn’t. I just think maybe if you had the courage to open up you’d … I don’t know … find it easier and … get the point of it. Sorry, I’m not really the right guy to say this, I know …’
The man next to him nodded. ‘You are the right guy though because we’re all the right guy … in here you’re the same as the rest of us, innit. Come on, mate, else the session’ll be over and we’ve just pussyfooted around – or you have.’
‘OK, OK. Sorry.’ Will took a breath and for a moment looked as if he was going to dodge again. ‘I … listen, I’m not making excuses or passing the buck here but there were others in this … it got to be more than … the way it started out. I’d had feelings about children … sex . . about … I got aroused by looking at little children … girls … I’d go to a beach or a pool or … but then it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t … what I wanted. It’s so easy online now, you know … a couple of minutes, even for someone like me who isn’t very up on all the techno stuff … I found a couple of sites … then another which was more a group. I joined that … they send you stuff … and you can just … go into sort of hidden websites … hidden behind legit ones, I mean … that was it.’
‘What?’
‘What was happening … what I was doing.’
‘You don’t get eight years for downloading.’
‘You’re taking the piss.’
Will’s expression was defiant.
The therapist leaned back. ‘Tell us what your feelings were when you got into the sites the first time, Will.’
‘Excited.’
‘Right.’
‘This was – what I wanted, where I wanted to be.’
‘How long did you stay online – on average?’
‘God, I don’t know.’
‘You must know. Ten minutes? Three hours?’
‘No, no. I just – went in here and there … then I started talking – chatting – to the others.’
‘Who were they?’
‘No idea. You don’t exactly give out your name, do you?’
‘Could have been anybody then? Your best friend even.’
‘Not very likely.’
‘Why?’
‘So you started accessing these sites regularly – every day?’
‘No … well, not at first … then, it got more.’ ‘So what did you think?’
‘How do you mean, what did I think? It’s not about thinking, is it?’
‘About the sites – what did you think about how they came to exist? About what lay behind the images?’
‘Nobody tells you.’
‘You’re blocking again, Will. You must have realised in a nanosecond that these were real images – not cartoons.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Real images of real children being abused. So what did you think about that?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘What did you feel about it?’
‘Nothing … it didn’t – I didn’t … just looked at the images. I got off on those.’
‘Are you saying you didn’t ever think of these images as being real kids?’
‘I don’t … well, yes, I must have done.’
‘Did you wish they were real, not just images?’
‘Maybe.’
‘How many real kids did you sort out then, Will?’
‘None.’
‘Come on.’
‘I said – it was pictures.’
‘You went down for more than that.’
‘All right … after a bit you watch the films and you … want to go further.’
‘Films?’
‘I said so.’
‘Pictures and films are two different things, aren’t they?’
‘Depends.’
‘No, in this context, Will, it doesn’t depend – and you were watching films.’
‘After a time.’
‘What was the difference?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘Come on.’
‘OK, films were – more …’
‘What? More what?’
‘Real, if you like. Yes.’
‘It’s a bit like getting blood out of a stone,’ the therapist said. ‘You’re not engaging with this, Will. Talk about the films.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I can’t.’
‘How long had you been part of this website and looking and going into the forum before you got more involved?’
‘Months.’
‘Two? Six?’
‘I don’t remember. Quite a few. Then … there was some chat and they were wanting – some more. Input.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Help.’
Suddenly, he was not playing, he was struggling, twisting his hands, his mouth twitching, moving his head this way and that as if he had a painful neck. Simon watched him. He had been play-acting and trying to slither away from any real engagement. Now, he was anxious, profoundly uncomfortable.
‘I think you’re on the brink of something, Will’, the therapist said, ‘and next time, you’re going to take a bigger step forward. Stay with it.’
Simon was working in the pod, doing vegetable prep and swabbing down. It was hot, claustrophobic and noisy but the jokes and banter whirled about, and as with any uninteresting job, he switched off, did it, and thought about other things. Will Fernley.
He waited until after supper and a basketball game in which he scored once, but then retired, his back painfully reminding him that he was a few years older than when he had last played. The team was too good for him. He showered, changed, and knocked on Fernley’s door. There was no reply. He waited, knocked again, and opened it.
Will was lying face down on his bed, unmoving. For a split second, he looked as if he was also not breathing, but eventually he grunted.
‘Want a coffee?’
‘If you like.’
When Simon brought the drinks back he was still lying there.
‘Quit feeling sorry for yourself.’
‘You fucking wait.’
‘Makes me wonder why you’re here.’
‘Why do you think?’
‘Not for the therapy, that’s pretty clear. That was a load of bullshit you told me. You’ve got no interest at all in being here.’
‘Yup.’
‘So why?’
‘Because I got sick of having my head stuck down the loo, sick of being tripped up as I went down the corridor and being punched up in the showers and sick of the screws making snide remarks and treating me like scum. I thought it might be easier in here and it is, because if I’m a nonce then at least I’m among other nonces. And so are you.’
Twenty-eight
‘I’ll be as gentle as I can but it will be uncomfortable. It’s important that I try and get as many samples as possible.’
‘What about the clothes?’
‘The lab will test those. Because you took them off and bundled them into a bag rather than wash them there’s a very good chance that they can get semen from them and that means they’ll have your attacker’s DNA. But, of course, positive samples on clothing don’t prove there was rape, as I’m sure you understand. Now, just lie as still as you can, Shelley.’
The atmosphere was clinical because of the job the doctor was doing, but it was also calming, accepting, gentle. Shelley felt almost relaxed, for the first time since it had happened. The examination was painful, unpleasant, invasive, embarrassing but nothing more, and it didn’t last long.
Far worse was the account she had to give, in as much detail as she could remember. The counsellor sat with her, the machine recorded silently, there was a glass of water and a cup of tea beside her, plus a box of tissues, none of which prevented her from shaking as she went over it all, from the minute she and Tim had arrived at the dinner and se
en Richard Serrailler, to the minute Tim saw her torn dress in the car when they got home. It seemed to take a very long time to recall everything and it was almost more vivid, more affecting, more repulsive than when it had actually happened. Being raped did not fade in the memory – on the contrary, it grew, and it was accompanied by feelings of shame and distress, fear and a strange sense of unreality. It could not have been him, he could not really have been doing that to her, they had not actually been in that place. She would wake up in a minute and the nightmare would begin to loosen its grip. But it did not.
St Catherine’s had looked so institutional and forbidding from the outside that she would most probably have gone away without even ringing the bell, if the policewoman had not been with her. The entrance hall, the concrete stairs, the dismal lift reminded her of a cell block. But once inside the third-floor suite, everything was different – fresh pastel paint on the walls, wide windows letting in the light, comfortable sofas and chairs, decent coffee and tea, made freshly, biscuits on a plate. But most of all, there was friendliness and an atmosphere so welcoming that it lifted Shelley’s spirits. She was exhausted after giving the lengthy recorded statement and having the physical examination, but talking to the counsellor made her feel not only calmer, but quietly determined.
‘Shelley, it shouldn’t affect you at all that the man you are accusing has a high public profile locally, and is very well respected. It certainly doesn’t affect us. Nor should the fact that his son is a detective chief superintendent. Forget that too. The police are expert at dealing with anything related to one of the force and it won’t even come near him. And that’s right. If it’s hard for you, and women like you, it is actually very hard for relatives of men accused of rape. I know how I’d feel, if it was my father or brother facing prosecution for this. You have to set all that aside and leave other people to deal with it. Focus on yourself – you’ve had a traumatic experience. You’ll take time to recover – maybe longer than you expect. But you will because we’re here for you, as long as it takes, OK?’
‘So, how long will it take?’
‘Forensics will come back in a couple of weeks – depends how stretched they are at the moment. Could be a bit more than that but not usually. Assuming they have a positive result – and I’ve no reason to suppose that they won’t – then the police will pay your attacker a visit and charge him.’
‘And that’s that? It’s all like a moving train and no one can get off it.’
‘No. You will be asked if you want to press the charge of rape. You can change your mind at any point, even up to the moment you all go into court for the hearing, assuming it comes to that. You know about the way a case has to be handed over by the police to the CPS?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, if the CPS decides there’s enough evidence to bring the charge of rape, then a date will be set for the court hearing. That could take several months. None of this is going to happen in a hurry. That’s just one reason why it’s all so stressful and you don’t have any choice except to endure it. It’s why I said we’ll be here to support you all the way – and after it’s over, if you still need us, no matter what the outcome.’
‘I keep rerunning what happened. I see hideous images and scenes …’
‘I understand … do you want to talk about them?’
‘No. I want to forget them. And I don’t think I could tell you – they’re muddled, they swirl about … it’s the atmosphere of nightmares. That sounds daft.’
‘No, it doesn’t. To be honest, I’d worry if you weren’t going over things.’
‘God, I hate all this. It’s going to sound ridiculous but … in a way, everything that’s happening now is almost worse … and it’s going to go on, isn’t it?’
‘But the difference is, then you were on your own, now you have us and you won’t be alone again so long as it lasts.’
Twenty-nine
‘Anyone seen Austin?’
‘Out.’
No one in the CID room looked round.
‘How long has he been out?’
No reply.
DS Lois Dancer went to her own desk and sent the DCI – Austin Rolph was acting head of CID in Simon Serrailler’s absence – a text message. Urgent. Important. Call me.
Three hours later he had not called and Lois had had to leave the building to attend to a case of a missing teenager who turned out not to be missing, and the case of a stolen car which turned out not to have been stolen. He did not call her until she was about to go off shift.
‘What is it, Lois? I’ve been at this car-shunting workshop. Can it wait till the morning?’
‘It ought not to. It’s not so much urgent but it’s pretty sensitive and I’m not sure what to do.’
‘Use your intelligence – it’s why you’re a DS.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Tomorrow, Dancer.’
‘Bastard,’ she muttered, knowing he had already switched her off. The DCI was one who thought that as women aspired to be treated in the same way as men in the force, they should be spoken to in a way no male officer would tolerate.
Rolph was a good copper, an instinctive one with a great record, and he was a decent enough stand-in for Serrailler as head, in the sense that the administration flowed smoothly, but he had no tact and no empathy. He was not a team player, he simply expected to provide the lead and for them to follow, without much question. If they objected or put forward their own ideas or point of view, he would always listen, before ignoring them.
She joined a couple of the others from CID for an hour in the pub, went home and had a Skype call with her sister and family in Vancouver, got her gear ready for her Territorial Army weekend assault course, watched a particularly violent horror film with her husband Lee, then went to bed. And all the time, she thought about the bombshell that was in her notes, the bombshell she had to present to Rolph. She had liked Shelley and more importantly, had believed her story, though she knew nothing about the Super’s father, beyond his name and reputation. But that the case was a ticking bomb, whatever the outcome, she had no doubt.
She had only been at Lafferton a couple of years, having transferred from Bevham on promotion, and did not know DCS Serrailler well. They had worked together, he had been approachable and was good at delegating and trusting his juniors, but there was a reserve about him. He would be forgiving of any genuine errors, especially those made by rookie cops, but hard on stupidity, even harder on disloyalty, and he would never dream of calling her ‘Dancer’. But clearly, in spite of his apparent openness, he was a very private man who might not cope well with anything like this, so close to home. Given that his whereabouts and the length of time he was likely to be away were unknown, at least to most of them in CID, Lois didn’t envy Austin Rolph, to whom she would be handing over the Shelley Pendleton file.
She was in the office well before eight o’clock but it was after eleven by the time Lois saw Rolph drive onto the forecourt.
‘Right, DS Dancer, what’s all this about? You’re like a cat on hot bricks.’
She followed him into his office and set the file down on the desk.
‘Can you look at this now. It’s tricky.’
‘Why?’
‘Just look at it – sir.’
The DCI was putting his things down, taking off his jacket, opening his laptop, at the same time as he started reading the first page of Lois’s report, and for a few seconds and to her annoyance, he was clearly only paying it cursory attention. And then he let his jacket fall onto the floor and sat down, reading rapidly.
‘Why didn’t you show this to me straight away?’
Lois simply looked at him.
‘Right, OK.’
He sat back and put his hands, folded together, up to his face.
‘Has anyone else seen this yet?’
‘No.’
‘What’s the latest with Mrs …’
‘Shelley Pendleton.’ Lois filled him in.
‘W
hat was your advice?’
‘That she press charges.’
‘Right.’
He was silent for a moment, drumming his fingers on the desk. Then he said, ‘Nothing’s going to happen until forensics report on it, so you leave this one with me and get on with whatever else you’ve got on.’
‘I was going to see Mrs Pendleton.’
‘No. Leave this to the St Catherine’s lot, it’s what they’re for. And for the time being, the name of the accused doesn’t go further than you, me and the report. File it separately, password protect it and that’s that.’
‘Sir …’
‘I’m talking about discretion until we know more. These things always boil down to he says/she says, especially when the two are well known to one another. Right now, you can take someone down to Carter’s Buildings – there’s a body. About a hundred years old from what I gathered but uniform want a presence.’
Lois went back to the CID room with pent-up anger like heartburn in her chest. ‘Discretion’? Cover-up? Where was the difference? She resented Rolph’s implication that she was not able to maintain confidentiality and his assumption that Shelley had been exaggerating, and that the sexual encounter had been ‘six of one, half a dozen of the other’. He had not talked to her or assessed her state of mind and the shock she was still in. He had not taken her to St Catherine’s, white-faced and shaking, but still quietly sure of what she had experienced. And now, because the man was related to a top cop, Rolph wanted to brush the whole thing under the carpet.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen. It was her case, she had the details, she was not going to let it dematerialise. Nor, she suspected, would Simon Serrailler want that. Oddball he might be but he was straight and honourable and the last thing he would ever entertain was so much as a hint of a cover-up.
She collected a brand-new, shiny DC and went off to find the hundred-year-old body, filing the Shelley Pendleton case at the back of her mind – pending, not forgotten.
The DCI put in a call to the Bevham Police HQ and asked for a meeting with the Chief Constable that day.
‘He’s out till after four on the other side of the county. Can I help?’
