by J M Gregson
‘Your impression was that Ms Godwin was anxious to take your relationship further?’
Richard laughed out loud. ‘I suppose you have to use language like that, don’t you? I mean that she was giving me come-on signs from the starters onwards. I have some experience of these things, and I can assure you that I was not imagining it.’ He was trying to get them on his side as fellow males, to see his side of things, but neither of them responded. Professional detachment, probably. It seemed likely to him that they had every sympathy with a man put into his position, but weren’t allowed to show it.
He wished he could see what this starchy young DI was writing. Rushton made another note before he said stonily, ‘Carry on, please, sir.’
‘Well, we finished the meal and had a coffee. Pris had a brandy with that. She was reeling about a bit when the fresh air hit her, I can tell you! She put her arm round my waist and I got her into the car. She kept touching me as I drove back through the lanes. I had to concentrate hard to do the driving, but I managed to keep her in order long enough to get her back to her place. I’m sure if I’d pulled in somewhere on the way, she’d have had my trousers off in a flash, but I’m getting a bit too old for sex in the car!’
‘Best to confine yourself to what happened, sir, don’t you think, rather than indulge in hypothetical conjectures?’
Lambert liked this strain in his inspector.
Rushton was coming along nicely, he decided.
Cullis thought he realized now what was going on. These men had to take the official, politically correct line, but he was sure they understood his account of things beneath the professional veneer. ‘I stopped the car outside Pris’s block of flats. She was all for a passionate smooch in the BMW, but I said something like, “Let’s go somewhere more private, shall we?” I think she said something like “Just try to stop rne!” but I couldn’t be sure of the actual words.’
‘I see. Your memory is that the lady and not you said that, is it, sir?’
Richard tried not to look as ruffled as he felt. ‘She certainly said something encouraging, but I can’t be sure of the actual words. I’d like you to try to picture the scene. I’m only flesh and blood and frankly, I was a man about to get his oats. I had a hard-on after the signs she’d been giving me and I knew she was gagging for it: I wasn’t worrying too much about the nuances of conversation, was I?’
‘I see. Now tell us what happened inside Ms Godwin’s flat.’
‘I think I said I’d like coffee. I slipped into the bathroom and put a condom on, as a responsible man should. When I came out she grabbed hold of me and the coffee was forgotten.’
‘You say Ms Godwin took the initiative in initiating sex?’
He smiled his modest, man-of-the-world smile. ‘Who can say who takes the initiative when the blood runs hot? I wouldn’t like to say who undressed whom, but I can tell you it all happened at great speed. I was looking for a bed, but I think she’d been without a shag for a long time. She had me down on the rug with her legs round me in ten seconds flat. And I wasn’t holding back, I can tell you!’
He looked for some sign of approbation or envy, some grinning male acknowledgement of his luck or his skill in the sex game. But all Rushton said was, ‘Did you feel that there was resistance at any stage from the lady, Mr Cullis? Did she ask you to desist?’ ·
Richard was getting thoroughly pissed off with this strait-laced young man, but he knew that he could not afford to lose his temper. He said, ‘There was no resistance. On the contrary, she couldn’t get enough of it. It was a pretty rough encounter, I can tell you, but that was all because of enthusiasm, not resistance. She’s about fourteen years younger than me, is Pris, but I flatter myself that I kept up with her. Kept my end up, as you might say!’ He sniggered at his little joke, but failed again to draw them into his mirth.
‘And afterwards?’
‘I left fairly quickly. Love ‘em and leave ‘em, as you might say.’ He made his final attempt to nudge his hearers into a male conspiracy, then sighed. ‘I didn’t want her to think this was going to be something serious and ongoing. I uttered a few of the usual platitudes, thanked her for a lovely evening and that sort of thing, and then I was on my way.’
There was quite a long pause. Richard watched Rushton’s pen racing over the paper, finding it had an almost hypnotic effect. Lambert, on the other hand, kept his eyes on the face of the Director of Research as unblinkingly as he had done throughout. Then he said slowly, ‘Ms Godwin’s account of last night’s events differs substantially from yours, Mr Cullis.’
Richard raised his eyebrows extravagantly.
‘Really? I must say that-‘
‘You needn’t pretend to be surprised at that, you know that we wouldn’t be here otherwise.’ Lambert let some of the revulsion he felt for the man creep into his tone, then controlled himself. ‘I am reminding you of this in case you wish to modify anything you have said to us.’
Richard knew that he must be careful. ‘I’ve told you what happened. I can’t make it other than what it was.’
‘Priscilla Godwin will maintain that she at no time consented to sex. On the contrary, she will say in no uncertain terms that she tried to stop it proceeding, that you ignored her pleas, that you penetrated her against her will and in spite of her physical efforts to prevent it.’
‘And I’ve told you that-‘
‘My colleagues from the Sapphire rape unit at Oldford have interviewed Ms Godwin and taken her statement. They have also taken photographs of certain injuries to her person.’
Richard licked his lips, trying to lubricate a smile which would not come to them. ‘I told you, the sex was rough because we couldn’t wait to get at each other. I could probably show you the odd scratch on my back, if you wanted to-‘
‘You have been accused of rape, Mr Cullis. It is a very serious charge. If it comes to court and you are found guilty, the consequences also are serious. A custodial sentence would almost certainly be the outcome.’
‘I have told you what happened and I have told you that her trumped-up version of the facts is preposterous. I don’t think I should say anything else without having my lawyer present.’
Lambert gave him the first smile he had allowed himself since they had entered this office. It was a grim one. ‘That is certainly one thing on which I would agree with you, Mr Cullis. It is our job to collect evidence, not to take sides, in matters like this. We shall present our findings to the Crown Prosecution Service, who will decide whether legal action is appropriate. We shall require a formal statement from you in due course. I remind you again that no charges have yet been preferred and there is still time to change your account of things in that statement.’
Detectives do not need small talk. It can be a distraction from clear thinking. Lambert and Rushton had driven a full mile from the Gloucester Chemicals factory before the chief superintendent said, ‘You’ve seen Richard Cullis before, haven’t you, Chris?’
‘Yes. I interviewed him after he’d been abducted and threatened by the All God’s Creatures mob. I had sympathy for him then because he was a victim, but I can’t say I liked him much. I like him even less after today.’
‘You think he’s guilty?’
‘I know that it’s our job to gather evidence and be objective. Between the two of us, I think he’s as guilty as hell.’
‘He won’t be easy to pin down.’
‘There’s evidence. Cuts and bruises on his victim, tom clothing.’
They drove another half mile, reviewing the contrasting stories in their minds, needing to say little because they were used to weighing the chances in situations like this. Then Lambert said, ‘He’s a slippery customer. He’ll do well in court, once he’s been prepared for it by his brief.’
‘If it ever comes to court.’
They drove the rest of the way back to the station in silence, their minds united by the copper brotherhood against the cowardice of the Crown Prosecution Service and the shortcomin
gs of the law in general.
Bert Hook was more exhausted after three hours of exam frenzy than he would have been by a full day’s work. He was looking forward to a quiet beer and an evening slumped in front of undemanding television. The last thing he wanted was to be quizzed on the day’s events by insensitive teenagers. Family life being what it is, the teenagers were what he got.
He suspected that Jack and Luke had compared notes in preparation for this inquisition over their evening meal. It was the younger of the two who said innocently, even solicitously, ‘How did the exam go, Dad?’
‘Not too badly, thank you, Luke. For someone whose sons think he is barely literate, I think I did all right.’
Jack pursed his lips and weighed those words. ‘All right, eh? Did you select carefully which questions you were going to answer?’
‘Of course I did, son. Elementary examination technique, that.’ Bert smiled patronizingly at the elder boy, deciding to play a straight bat and enjoy this. He had in fact seen a question which appealed and been so relieved that he had plunged straight in, only later bothering even to read the rest.
‘Space your time out properly, did you, leaving yourself as much time for the last question as for the first?’
‘Indeed I did. I flatter myself that I kept a proper sense of balance and was aware of the time throughout. I was rather pleased about that.’ Bert had spent an hour on the first answer of the four and left himself only fifteen minutes for his last, very hurried, answer. He’d told Eleanor in the car on the way home that this had been his greatest mistake, that he thought he’d get very few marks indeed for his last hurried scrawl. Now he had to ignore his wife’s astonishment on the other side of the dining table.
Jack pursed his lips again, in that annoying, quasi-judicial, gesture he had picked up from television. ‘Hmmm. I can’t think that an arthritic old has-been like you would handle things as well as that. I should have thought your ignorance of the time factor would be your biggest handicap, myself.’
‘Well, now you know it wasn’t!’
Luke decided that it was time he fired another shot in this intriguing game. ‘Mrs Fogarty says it’s important you write legibly. She says that your calligraphy affects examiners, even though it’s not supposed to.’
Bert, who’d abandoned his fountain pen for a ball-pen after half an hour in the interests of speed as panic had set in, tried to blot out the rnemory of his almost indecipherable scrawl in the latter stages of his ordeal. He said sarcastically, ‘And I suppose Mrs Fogarty knows all about these things, does she?’
‘She seems to, Dad. She’s a chief examiner for A levels.’ Luke’s face was a vision of unwrinkled innocence.
Jack came back in, as if he had been waiting for his cue. ‘Did you plan your answers properly, Dad? Mr Johnson says three minutes spent planning is well worth it in the long run. It gives you a properly balanced answer, you see.’
‘I planned.’
‘That’s good. And I expect you left yourself time to read through your work and check for errors at the end. Saves a multitude of lost marks through carelessness, Mr Johnson says.’
‘Does he? Well, I expect he knows, then.
Don’t you have any work of your own to do?’
‘Just trying to be helpful, Dad,’ said Jack, with a face full of hurt.
‘Just trying to be helpful,’ echoed Luke, as they scrambled through the door. A chorus of boyish laughter echoed at the other end of the hall.
Bert Hook sat down gloomily with the paper.
On the way home from his practice exam, he had voiced a fear to Eleanor that he might have made rather a fool of himself in the eyes of his tutor. Now he felt he’d better don his jester’s cap and bells before he collected the results next week.
Nine
It was a cool, crisp morning. There were no clouds, but the sun was still low in a clear blue sky. There was no frost, but the sharpness in the morning air reminded both hunt and spectators that autumn was at hand.
The dogs had already caught the scent; they were barking in impatient anticipation of their release. The horses were less excited, but there was the occasional whinny and pawing at the ground as their riders made them wait for the off. Over the horses’ heads, a variety of accents now cut through the clean air, where thirty years ago there would have been only the cutglass tones of the English upper class. But the hunters were clearly distinguished, not only by the fact that they were mounted upon expensive horseflesh, but by the hunting jackets and spotless fawn jodhpurs which most of them wore.
The Master of Hounds rode over to speak to the owner of the ancient house behind them. ‘The sabs are out,’ he warned quietly.
Lord Elton looked towards the woods and the shadowy movements evident there. ‘Don’t these people have anything better to do with their weekends? We’re observing the law: this is a drag hunt.’
The MOF shrugged. ‘They don’t believe that - don’t want to believe it. The police are here. I’m not quite sure in what numbers.’
Lord Elton looked round at the expectant people on horseback around him, who were conversing with their neighbours and finishing the last of the stirrup cup. ‘We’ll go ahead as planned. We can’t allow our conduct to be dictated by a gang of deluded ruffians.’
The MOF blew the preparatory blast on his bugle to announce that the hunt was about to begin.
It was a signal to others as well as to the riders. Thirty-eight protesters emerged from the woods on this signal from the enemy. They were mostly in jeans, anoraks, and baseball caps or bobble hats, a shabby contrast to the traditional costume of the hunt. They advanced in a ragged line towards the horses, which were preparing to gallop.
Scott Kennedy felt the surge of adrenalin released by action after the long minutes of waiting. ‘Bloody redcoats,’ he murmured automatically to the woman at his side.
‘They call it hunting pink,’ said the woman.
She spoke precisely, almost primly, in an accent which might have come more appropriately from a rider on one of the expectant horses.
Kennedy glanced sideways at the white, taut face beside him. You got all sorts, nowadays: this one looked like a hunter turned sab. ‘Those coats are bright bloody red as far as I’m concerned. Come on, you guys!’
A voice through a police megaphone said, ‘Peaceful demonstration, that’s what’s allowed. No violence on either side, please.’ A horse reared in fright at the strange, distorted noise but was instantly, expertly, controlled by its rider, a woman who looked to be at least sixty.
Kennedy and his followers formed a line in front of the horses, denying them access to the scent trail which had already been laid. The MOF said, ‘We’re conforming to the law. You lot must do the same.’
A voice behind Scott shouted, ‘We all know you’re planning an old-fashioned hunt. You’ll be after the foxes as soon as you get out into the country. Tearing them apart. Blooding the faces of children. You’re the barbarians you’ve always been, or you wouldn’t be out here meeting like this! ‘
There was a ragged cheer, a chorus of similar insulting phrases. Lord Elton, recognizing a face he had seen several times before, rode forward a pace or two until his mount towered over Kennedy. ‘You heard what the Master said. We’re a drag hunt. The dogs will follow the scent that’s been laid, you fool! Now get out of our way and take the rest of your scum with you!’
Scott reached out and took the horse’s bridle.
They were big animals, when they were almost on top of you. He kept a wary eye on the horse’s mouth and determined not to flinch as a gobbet of its spittle brushed the arm of his anorak. He mustn’t show apprehension, with a crowd of expectant followers behind him.
Things happened very quickly then, faster than any of the principals could cope with. The invisible police megaphone voice called from somewhere behind the riders, ‘Take your hand off the horse’s bridle, please.’
The horse shied at the alien sound, its front feet narrowly missing Scott K
ennedy’s trainers as it descended. Lord Elton raised his riding crop above the head of his opponent, a gesture of menace which he probably intended only as a warning.
Scott Kennedy, terrified of injury by horse or rider but determined not to retreat, struck upwards at Elton with the stout stick he had brought from the woods. The ranks behind him moved forward in support of their leader, raising sticks, chanting ritual phrases of protest, alarming riders and mounts alike.
There was a skirmish, no more than that, with riding crops and weapons raised but scarcely a blow struck in anger on either side. Then the hunt was through a gap in the ranks of the protesters, riding quickly away after the hounds, the Master’s bugle blowing in what sounded like triumph.
And Scott Kennedy was lying with his face in the dust, with a police knee in his back and a young constable’s hurried, breathy words in his ears. ‘I am arresting you for causing a breach of the peace. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be recorded and may be given in evidence.’
As Kennedy and three of his friends were shepherded into the big police van, they could still hear the increasingly distant, triumphant shouts of the hunters through the still September air.
Priscilla Godwin was absent from the factory for only one day. She insisted on resuming her research and testing work in the laboratories at Gloucester Chemicals. She told herself that work was the constant in her life, the factor most likely to restore its normal rhythms. More importantly, she was determined to show Richard Cullis that she was whole and functioning, a dangerous opponent for him rather than a helpless victim.
