by Bill Rogers
‘It gives me great pleasure to introduce Sam Malacott.’
Malacott reached behind Miriam Hood, placed a hand on Orla Lonergan’s arm and said something that made her smile and nod. Then he withdrew his hand and stood up.
He was tall, with an oval face, pale blue eyes and a slightly cleft chin. His light brown, medium buzz-cut hair was spiked with gel. Designer stubble suited him. He looked elegantly casual in a silver-flecked, grey woollen jacket, and blue-striped open-necked shirt. He looked strong and athletic. I bet he keeps himself fit, Jo thought. When he spoke, his voice was cultured and engaging. There was a slight trace of an accent. Cheshire perhaps?
‘Thank you, Miriam,’ he said, smiling down at her, ‘for raising expectations way beyond my ability to meet them.’
Cue polite laughter.
‘As if having to follow Orla wasn’t hard enough.’
More laughter, warmer this time. It’s not a competition, you prat, thought Jo unkindly.
‘Seriously though,’ he said, ‘as I sat listening to Orla, I thought how privileged I was to be here, to see and hear you speak, and to witness such a passionate, moving and seminal performance. My only regret was that it wasn’t being streamed live to every smartphone, tablet and television set in the world.’
Someone began to clap, and then everyone else joined in. Including Jo, who was beginning to wonder if she had rushed to judgement. He held his hands up and waited.
‘Then I remembered that courtesy of that camera,’ he pointed to a woman standing off to the right with a video camera trained on the speaker, ‘and your social media campaign – tomorrow it will be out there, and the revolution will begin. That, Orla, is why I feel doubly privileged to be invited to follow you today.’
Hmm, thought Jo, nothing to do with the fact that she’s filming you as well? When the audience had calmed down, he began in earnest.
‘I’d like to start with a quick overview of my presentation. I will remind you of some of the cold, hard statistics that prove that we’re dealing with an epidemic of sexual assault that has far-reaching implications for individuals and for society as a whole. Then I will share with you a range of tips and measures drawn from research, police advice and common sense, which will help to reduce your risk of becoming a victim of sexual harassment and sexual violence. After lunch, I will facilitate a World Cafe event in which you will have an opportunity to share your experiences, your concerns, and your ideas about how to stay safe, and how to engage with Orla’s campaign. And finally, there will be a practical session on self-defence.’ He paused, smiled, made sure he had their attention and added, ‘So don’t eat too much at lunch.’
It was a weak joke, but this audience was now ripe for anything. Jo decided not to stay to hear the rest of it. She already knew the depressing statistics. Half a million adult rapes every year in England and Wales alone, only twelve per cent of them on men. Half a million sexual assaults. Twenty per cent of females aged between sixteen and sixty having experienced some form of sexual violence. And eighty-five per cent of such crimes never reported to the police. And that wasn’t counting the abuse of children under sixteen. She wove a path through the crush, and out into the peace and quiet of the corridor.
Chapter 16
Jo found a quiet corner of Chancellor’s lounge bar, and used the time to catch up with DI Sarsfield on her BlackBerry.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ he said, ‘but the three potential victims we’ve been able to interview so far are non-starters.’
‘And the other three?’
‘One of them, the detective constable who was going to interview her, his pool car broke down outside Oldham, and he’s still waiting for a replacement. Another one insists on having a mate present before she’s willing to talk. The mate’s gone AWOL. They’re trying to track her down as we speak.’
‘And?’
She heard him puff his cheeks, and blow out slowly.
‘The one we thought was date rape? She took an overdose last night, not long after she contacted CrimeStoppers.’
‘So why did she contact them?’
‘Who knows? But it turns out it wasn’t the first time she’d been raped. Poor kid.’
‘How is she?’
‘Alive, more by luck than judgement. One of her mates needed to borrow a book for some work she was behind with. She went to this girl’s room and found her fully dressed on the bed, with an empty bottle of wine on the floor and an equally empty bottle of paracetamol on the bedside locker. Another couple of hours and they wouldn’t have been able to save her.’
It was a scenario with which both of them were all too familiar, but they gave it the moment’s silence it deserved.
‘So, how did you get on, Jo?’ Sarsfield asked.
‘I’m not sure, to be honest. The victim, Orla Lonergan, didn’t tell me when she agreed to meet that she’d be tied up all morning speaking at a conference.’
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘She must have some balls.’
‘You may want to rephrase that, Gerry.’
‘You know what I mean. How long is it since she was abducted?’
‘Ten days.’
‘What was she speaking about?’
‘Her rape.’
‘Bloody, bloody hell!’ he said.
‘If you think that’s impressive, I hate to imagine what you’d have said if you’d been here.’
‘What did she say?’
Jo gave him the potted version.
‘Sounds like you don’t need to interview her,’ he said. ‘Between the case notes and her account, it doesn’t sound like there’s a lot more she can tell you.’
‘That’s what I thought. But I may as well hang on just in case. They’ll be breaking for lunch shortly.’
‘Do yourself a favour,’ he said. ‘Grab a bite to eat yourself, it sounds like you need it.’
Jo’s next call was to Ram. She brought him up to date, and then told him there was something she wanted him to do.
‘Sounds intriguing,’ he said.
‘What makes you say that? I haven’t told you what it is yet.’
He laughed.
‘I can tell from your voice. I bet you weren’t even aware that you’d lowered your tone, as though afraid of being overheard.’
He was right, she realised. Not that it had been a conscious decision.
‘You’re very perceptive,’ she told him. ‘I want you to run a background check on Anthony Ginley.’
‘That investigative reporter who waited for you after the press conference?’
‘He turned up here today. Asked victim number five what she would say to the rapist if she got the chance, and then tried it on with me again.’
‘Cheeky bugger.’
‘Exactly.’
She could almost hear his brain working overtime.
‘You don’t think he might be our unsub?’ he said.
‘I have no idea, Ram. But it wouldn’t be the first time that a serial rapist hung around one of his victims. Demonstrating his omnipotence. Getting a secondary thrill from seeing her continued suffering.’
‘From what you’ve told me he’ll have been disappointed with the way that Orla Lonergan’s come out fighting.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ she said. ‘You take my point though: there are precedents?’
‘Sure. Like murderers turning up at their victims’ funerals. Or dogging the police investigation. There are plenty of examples of those.’
‘So you’ll do it?’
‘Of course I will. You’re the boss.’
‘Don’t forget to tell the loggist.’
‘Would I?’
She smiled as she remembered Detective Inspector Gordon Holmes’ favourite response to that – ‘Don’t call me Wood Eye,’ from his repertoire of classic jokes. What would she give to have Tom Caton’s team around her right now?
‘Thanks, Ram,’ she said. ‘Got to go. I think they’ve stopped for lunch.’
Some of the
delegates were coming into the lounge for a pre-lunch drink. Others were making their way outside on to the decked area for a smoke. Jo put her phone and her tablet in her bag, and went back towards the conference hall.
The speakers were still at their table, surrounded by a clutch of delegates desperate to speak with them. Orla Lonergan was the centre of attraction. Jo decided to take a seat, and wait until she was free. After a couple of minutes, Sam Malacott leaned over to say something to Miriam Hood and then stood up. He picked up his satchel and walked towards Jo.
He was loose-limbed, and his gait exuded the same confidence as had his opening remarks. The closer he came, the more attractive she realised him to be. He had the sort of penetrating gaze that ought to have made her feel uncomfortable, but did not. When he stopped in front of her and smiled, his face lit up.
‘You’re Senior Investigator Joanne Stuart,’ he said.
She felt a jolt of alarm. How the hell did he know that? Her face betrayed her. He immediately looked embarrassed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘that was rude of me. Only I saw you on television. That appeal you made?’ He smiled again, more tentatively this time. ‘You were bloody good, by the way.’
She stood up so that he was not towering over her.
‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘you were pretty impressive yourself. What I saw of it.’
He pretended to look hurt.
‘I know. I saw you leave.’
Now it was her turn to feel awkward. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t be daft,’ he replied. ‘You must have heard it all before. You’d have probably done a better job than I did with all the experience you must have had.’
Jo decided it was time to put an end to this mutual admiration.
‘Orla Lonergan was really impressive,’ she said.
Malacott looked back towards the table. Orla Lonergan and Miriam Hood had extricated themselves, and were walking towards them.
‘Yes, she was, wasn’t she? Magnificent.’ He shook his head. ‘God knows where she found the strength to do that.’ He lowered his voice. ‘To be honest, I’m a bit worried about her.’
Jo thought she knew what he meant, but there wasn’t time for him to elaborate. The other two were almost upon them. She stepped to one side, and held out her hand.
‘Miss Lonergan, I’m Senior Investigator Joanne Stuart.’
Jo detected a flicker of anxiety in those bright green eyes. I was right, she thought, the bravado is a mask concealing the depth of her suffering, as are the contact lenses, and the dramatic change to her hair. Jo wondered if someone had let slip that the unsub had been deliberately targeting blondes. Orla’s hand was cool, and her grip less firm than Jo had expected.
‘I’m sorry you had to wait so long,’ she said. ‘I should have warned you.’
‘Not at all,’ Jo replied. ‘I’m glad I heard you speak. I thought you were inspirational, Miss Lonergan.’
‘Call me Orla, please.’
The student disengaged her hand, and turned to the others.
‘Can you save me a place? I’ll join you as soon as we’ve finished.’
‘You’re welcome to join us for lunch, Miss Stuart,’ said Miriam Hood. ‘You could have your meeting afterwards. There’ll be plenty of time.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Jo. ‘I’d love to.’
Only when the first course arrived did Jo realise just how hungry she was. She had to make a supreme effort not to show herself up by shovelling the food down at a rate of knots. The four of them had a table to themselves, and the conversation was deliberately polite, none of them wishing to pre-empt the discussion that she and Orla would be having. At the end of the meal, while the coffee was being served and Orla and Miriam were busy discussing the plans for the campaign, Sam Malacott turned to Jo.
‘If you ever think I could be of some assistance,’ he said quietly, ‘don’t hesitate to give me a bell.’
She tried hard to hide her surprise.
‘I’m not sure I follow?’
‘With the investigation.’
‘Oh.’
‘Only I’ve had a lot of experience talking with victims, and even with some perpetrators when I was conducting my research for the MA. You’d be surprised what I’ve learned.’
‘I see.’ She hoped she sounded non-committal.
‘For example,’ he said, warming to his subject, ‘have you considered concentrating your search on men who regularly travel between different universities?’
‘Like you?’
It had just slipped out. To her surprise, he didn’t take the slightest offence.
‘Exactly!’ he said.
‘As a matter of fact, we have,’ she told him, ‘but I’m afraid that I can’t discuss any details of the investigation with you. And I do already have a team of extremely experienced officers. But thanks anyway.’
‘I understand completely,’ he said. ‘But the offer’s there, just in case.’
Chapter 17
She looked very different up close. It wasn’t just the heavy-handed make-up – exaggerated eyebrows, blotchy artificial tan, excessive lipstick, and coloured contact lenses – it was as though a mask had slipped, revealing someone lost between her real self and the alter ego she was trying so hard to project.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Orla. ‘I don’t remember anything else. Nothing at all.’
They had been talking for over ten minutes. Gone was the confident and commanding voice that had so transfixed her audience. Now the adrenaline that powered her performance had leached away, she looked exhausted. Jo’s heart went out to her.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘it’s almost always the case with GHB. Four out of every five women we interview have no memory of what happened, and those who do have such a confused recollection that it’s impossible for us to act on it.’
Jo realised that it was going nowhere. As with the other victims, the perpetrator must have used a massive dose of the drug on her, not only to ensure that she was submissive, but also so that she would remember nothing. Jo was aware that there was a fine line between sedation and overdose. Mixed with alcohol, it had led to numerous cases of coma, and several resulting in death.
‘Not even a smell that was out of place?’ said Jo.
Orla frowned.
‘Sorry, no.’
Jo decided to wind the interview down.
‘How have your parents taken it?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t told them yet.’
Orla read the look on Jo’s face.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘They’re bound to find out when my campaign begins.’
‘That’s tomorrow,’ Jo gently reminded her.
She nodded.
‘Tomorrow.’
Orla sighed and looked down at her hands. The blue varnish, to match her dress, was already chipped where she had chewed her nails.
‘I’ll ring them tonight.’
‘Were you hoping to protect them from this?’
‘Not them,’ she replied, ‘me. I’ve been trying to protect myself.’
‘From what?’
For the first time, Jo saw the pain in her eyes.
‘Mum will scream and rage, and then cry and cry until she’s exhausted. Then she’ll want to treat me like an invalid, suffocating me with love and care and protection. And my dad . . .’
She faltered. Jo could see the tears welling up, and the student battling to keep them at bay. Orla swallowed, took a breath, and continued.
‘My dad will be calm, sympathetic and understanding. He’ll hug me and tell me not to worry. That it’s not my fault. That I’ll be alright. But his eyes will tell another story. I’ll catch a glimpse of them when he thinks I’m not looking, and they’ll be full of hurt and disappointment. Like the time he found out I was pregnant by the boyfriend I’d just dumped.’
‘You have a child?’
A teardrop swelled, teetered on the edge of her eyelid and then tipped over.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I miscarried.’
Orla reached for her handbag, and searched in vain for a handkerchief. Jo took a small pack of tissues from her bag and handed them to her. Orla took one and dabbed her eyes. Jo waited until she had regained her composure.
‘I gather you turned down the offer of victim support and you’ve refused to see a counsellor?’
The student stuffed the crumpled tissue into her bag while continuing to clutch the rest of the pack. Her knuckles were white with tension.
‘You heard my presentation,’ she said. ‘I refuse to be a victim.’
‘So you should, but that shouldn’t prevent you from coming to terms with what happened.’
‘It’s how I’ve come to terms with what happened.’
Jo considered her bloodshot eyes, the pale streaks where her tears had caused her tan to run, and the desperate charade of her new incarnation. It was a dangerous kind of denial. One to which Jo had almost succumbed herself.
‘I thought it was that easy,’ she said, ‘but it wasn’t.’
Orla seemed not to have heard, her mind somewhere else as she stared at the pattern on the carpet. Jo waited. When the student looked up, she seemed confused.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said that I also thought it was easy to refuse to accept that I’d been a victim. To simply carry on as though nothing had happened. To put a brave face on it. But I discovered that it wasn’t.’
The confusion was replaced by surprise, and something else. A hint of relief?
‘You’ve been raped too?’
Jo shook her head.
‘Not raped. Abducted, tied up, sexually assaulted. Told that I was going to be raped, and that when he’d finished he would kill me.’
Orla’s hands went to her face, and a little gasp escaped her lips.
‘How did you get away?’
‘My colleagues arrived just in time. I’d been working undercover. Only he was smarter than we were.’
‘You’re alright now though?’
It was said with a hint of certainty, and of hope.
‘Most of the time,’ Jo told her, ‘but only because my boss insisted that I go for counselling.’
