by Thom Collins
In February the nights cut in early and it was dark by the time he pulled into the small courtyard of the property. There were lights in one his neighbors’ houses but none of the others were home from work. He had met a couple of the neighbors when he’d moved in but they kept to themselves and didn’t bother him, which was just perfect. He spent all day being looked at. Away from the studio, he valued his privacy.
Coming home to an empty house sometimes bothered him. It was crazy. He’d spent more years on his own than he ever had married, but he still yearned for the wonderful evenings he’d spent with Jack when they were a family unit.
Someday, he would get around to buying a place of his own—a proper place, not a temporary rental. He was determined not to live alone. He’d get a cat if he had no other option.
The cottage smelled delicious as he entered. Mrs. Butterman, the local woman he hired to look over the place, came in three mornings a week. Today was one of those days and he discovered the source of the smell in the kitchen. A wonderful beef casserole bubbling away in the slow cooker. Wow. It must have been slowly stewing all day and the smell was quite incredible.
Just as well he went to boot camp with this treat in the pot for dinner.
He emptied his gym bag into the laundry basket and wandered through the cottage, turning on lights and closing curtains. He switched on the kitchen TV to give a little background noise. He couldn’t stand the silence when he was alone.
He poured a neat whiskey, opened his mobile phone and dialed the most frequent number.
Jack answered on the fifth ring. “Hi, Dad. What’s up?”
“Nothing up. I finished work early today and wanted to ring you before dinner.”
“How come?” There was a lot of background noise. There always was when he spoke to Jack. Laura had remarried, had another kid and the house was full with the chaos of a young family. The noise was a painful reminder of what he’d lost.
“Just wrapped my scenes for the day. Fortunately it happens. You’ve done your homework?”
“Nearly. I’ve done the stuff for tomorrow.”
“What about the rest of it?”
“It doesn’t have to be in until Thursday. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Is your mom okay with that?”
“She’s fine.”
“Sure?”
“Dad!”
“Okay.”
He never tired of hearing Jack’s voice. The boy had lost all remaining traces of the American accent he’d had when Laura had relocated back to the UK. Growing up with a British mother, he’d always sounded more English than American. Now the transformation was complete. Still, he took after Dale in other ways.
“Got soccer practice this week?”
“Dad, it’s called football here. Football. Yes, Wednesday night, straight after school.”
“I’ve never understood that crazy game. You’ll have to teach me sometime. I can’t wait to see you play.”
“I hope I’ll get picked for the school team.”
“Why don’t I get us a ball? When you come up this weekend, you can practice your ball skills and show me some of what you’ve achieved.”
“Have you got a yard to play in?”
“The biggest yard you’ve ever seen. There are fields in all directions. Miles and miles of them. I promise you, Jack, you’re gonna love it.”
After another ten minutes Dale reluctantly ended the call. He could talk all night but the boy was almost twelve. He had better things to do than listen to his old man.
He hated not being there with Jack. But at least they were only separated by a few hundred miles. The UK was just an island. Not the whole fucking Atlantic.
Chapter Three
A rotund custody officer led Matt along the narrow corridor of Bishopgate Police Station, a barren and colorless place with solid cell doors on either side. Despite regular visits, the custody cells still made him nervous. It was the confinement. He could only imagine the panic and claustrophobia that would set in if he were locked behind one of those doors.
It was coming up on eight o’clock on Monday night and Matt hadn’t been home yet. The call from the police station had come through as he was finishing up his final appointment of the afternoon. One of their clients was in custody. The sergeant said they would be ready to interview him within the hour. It wasn’t worth going home to come straight back out. On his way to the station, he stopped at a supermarket and bought a bunch of bananas to tide him over.
The client had been accused of rape. There was little chance of getting home before midnight if the charge was as serious as that.
Gary Draper was a regular customer of Benedict and Taylor, though Matt didn’t know him personally. One of the more senior lawyers usually handled his business, but as Matt was on call, it fell to him to deal with any after-hours business. It was the luck of the draw. Some nights on duty resulted in no calls at all, while others were so busy he was lucky to snatch an hour or two of sleep before getting up to face another day.
The custody officer unlocked one of the doors and swung it wide open. “Your lawyer is here,” he barked, allowing Matt into the cell.
The room was sparse and gloomy with just a padded bench to sleep on and a stainless steel toilet without a seat. Gary Draper sat on the bench in shirtsleeves. The jacket of his suit, together with his belt and tie, had been confiscated
“Hi, Gary.” Matt walked forward and shook his hand. His grip was weak and clammy. Matt introduced himself and explained his role as duty officer.
“When will I get out of here? I’ve been in this room since ten o’clock. They lifted me before I even got to work.”
Matt sat beside him. “We’re going to the interview room in a few minutes. Depending on how that goes, they’ll either release you or hold you for further questioning. They can hold you here for up to twenty-four hours and within that period they have to allow you eight hours’ sleep. When that time runs out the police will have to release you, charge you, or apply for an extension on your detention. That’ll give them an additional twelve hours before they either charge or release you.”
“Shit. This is stupid. I haven’t done anything.”
“Have you had any experience of police custody?”
“God, no. I’ve never had so much as a speeding ticket.” A note of panic crept in with the anger in his voice.
Gary Draper was not typical of the clients he usually represented at the station. Most of their criminal cases were seasoned regulars. By eighteen years old they knew the procedure inside and out. The prospect of custody held no fear for them. Not like Gary, a corporate client, used to conveyance and property deals. For Gary, looking at the inside of a police cell for the first time at thirty-seven was a big deal. A very big deal.
“You’ve been accused of rape,” Matt said.
“I didn’t do it. Rape. God, no, never.”
“During interview the officers are going to put the allegations to you and any evidence they’ve gathered. Do you have any idea what these allegations are about or who has made them? It relates to an incident on December nineteenth last year.”
Gary nodded. “I know what it’s about. But there was no rape.”
“Tell me your side.”
“Victoria Smith. She’s the one who’s saying all this about me. I’ve known her for years. I’m always seeing her out and about. She likes to flirt when she’s had a drink but she’s not my type. She’s married for a start. Though I don’t think that’s ever held her back, not when she’s on one of her girls’ nights out.”
“What happened on the nineteenth?”
Gary rubbed his palms against his thighs. “I went out after work. Christmas drinks and all that. A few of us stayed later than planned. We went to Love Shack. That’s where we ran into Victoria and her mates. They were merry, flirting and all the usual
antics. I think she got her eye on me that night and decided I was the one.”
“You had sex?”
He nodded sheepishly. “I should have said no, but it was Christmas. I was drunk. So was she. We all were. I took her to the Travelodge in town and we stayed the night.”
“And the sex?” Matt asked. “Was it consensual?
“Yes. As consensual as sex between two drunk people can be. We were smashed. Falling all over each other. It couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes.”
“Did she ever ask you to stop? Say no? Did she seem uncomfortable with what you were doing?”
“No. To be honest she made all the moves once we were on the bed. I sort of lay back and let it happen.” He looked Matt straight in the eyes. “I didn’t rape her.”
“What happened afterward?”
“Nothing. We fell asleep. We were there all night. She even woke me up to have sex again but I just wasn’t up to it.”
Matt made rapid notes throughout Gary’s version. “Why do you think Victoria is making this allegation now?”
“To cover herself. The police—they’ve taken my phone. But if you look on Facebook—there are photos. I only saw them myself last week, but someone’s put photos up of that night in the club. Victoria and me in a booth, kissing. There’s one of her on my knee with her hands down my pants. It’s not pretty. But I think she’s saying all this because of those pictures. To cover her ass, ’cause her old man has seen them.”
Matt asked Gary to retell the story a second, then a third time, looking for inconsistencies, for something he might be holding back. Matt had developed a skill for spotting liars and smelling their bullshit. It was an essential part of the job. This didn’t smell like shit. Gary was telling the truth. He would bet on it.
“When we go through to the interview, you have the right to say nothing. You don’t have to answer any of the questions. But my advice to you is to tell the officers exactly what you’ve told me. Keep calm. Don’t lose your temper. Just tell your side of the story.”
Gary nodded. His face was several shades whiter than when Matt arrived. “I can’t believe this is happening. All because of a drunken mistake. I wish I’d never gone out that night.”
“Sadly, it’s more common than you think.”
“I could go to the prison because of a drunken shag.”
“Let’s worry about the interview first. One thing at a time.”
The custody officer came back and escorted them to an interview room. It was a standard box room with a desk, four chairs and a clunky voice recorder. Matt and Gary took their places on the far side of the table. Matt laid out his notebook and pen while waiting for the interviewing officer to arrive. Gary exhaled anxiously and glanced around the narrow room. The criminal justice system is a frightening beast to those unfamiliar with it.
“Just relax,” Matt said. “Tell your story exactly as you told it to me.”
“It’s not a story,” Gary snapped. “It’s what happened, for fuck’s sake.”
“Calm down,” he said firmly. “If the police see you’re rattled, they’ll use it against you. Tie you in knots. Keep your head and stick to the facts, just the facts. You’ll be fine.”
He nodded. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. It’s been a stressful day.” The door opened again and two plain-clothes police officers entered, taking their seats across the table. Matt’s heart sank when he saw who the second officer was… Jamie Dench.
Shit! Why did it have to be Jamie?
Detective Constable Jamie Dench.
Matt’s ex-boyfriend. Barely an ex at that. They had been together for two years and had been separated for less than three months. This was only the second time he’d seen Jamie since their split.
Jamie gave him the barest flicker of a smile as he pulled in his chair.
Thirty-three years old, with short dark hair and even darker eyes, Jamie had always had a serious look about him. This wasn’t his game face. It was how he always looked.
The other officer, Detective Sergeant Sophie Talalay, was a by-the-book police officer. A career woman who got results with hard work and effort. Matt had a lot of respect for her. She was a tough nut at times—a pain in the ass when you were on opposite sides—but she was one hundred percent fair.
Without any preamble, Jamie activated the voice recorder and DS Talalay gave the formal introductions for the tape. She took the lead on the interview, questioning Gary about December the nineteenth and his night with Victoria Smith. He gave a strong account. Hearing it for the fourth time, Matt couldn’t detect a single inconsistency in the story. No outlandish embellishments or minute attentions to detail that gave away the lies.
When it came to what happened in the hotel bedroom, Gary was resolute in his account—Victoria Smith had participated willingly.
“The hotel was her idea,” he insisted. “We could’ve gone back to my place, but she said we were less likely to be recognized somewhere neutral. Get on to the hotel. They must have CCTV in the lobby and the corridors. They’ll show how it was.”
“Did you buy Victoria any drinks that night?”
“Yes. But it was Christmas. I bought everyone a drink. It’s what you do.”
“Did you slip anything extra into her glass?”
“No.”
“Not even an extra shot or two?”
“No.”
The detectives were clutching at straws. It was obvious. They had nothing to go on except Victoria Smith’s version of events, which was riddled with inconsistencies. At one point, after a particularly desperate question, he made eye contact with Jamie, who looked away embarrassed. This interview was nothing but a fishing expedition.
They had nothing.
An hour later, they’d got no more from Gary than what he’d told Matt when he’d first arrived. Gary was taken back to the cell while the officers consulted on the interview.
“Is it worthwhile hanging around?” Matt asked. Their clock was ticking. They would have to talk to Gary again very soon, otherwise he was entitled to eight hours’ sleep. If they weren’t going to speak to him until the morning, he might as well go home.
“Hang on ten minutes,” Jamie said. “Then we’ll let you know either way.”
Matt wrote up his notes as he waited. In a strange way he was glad to see Jamie again in circumstances such as this. Where they could maintain a degree of professionalism, detached from their messy history.
They had met for the first time in a similar situation to this. Matt had been a fresh faced, recently qualified solicitor when he’d got a call to represent a woman accused of stealing vodka from an out-of-town supermarket. Jamie had still been a uniformed PC, and the arresting officer. Some men look good in uniform. Jamie wasn’t one of them. Pale and lanky, the standard kit had seemed to swallow him. He had reminded Matt of a little boy playing at being a cop. It had been quite endearing, with his pretty, but miserable face, swamped in the clothes of authority. It had been obvious that Jamie took his role very seriously because of the way he looked.
He later explained that he had to take himself seriously if anyone else was going to.
They had seen each other a lot like that in the beginning. As a rookie solicitor, Matt regularly had been sent to the police station to deal with the minor criminal jobs. His more experienced colleagues didn’t want the hassle of dealing with shoplifters, drunks, vandals or anti-social behavior. Jamie always seemed to be around when he’d attended. As they had got to know each other, Matt had realized that Jamie’s po-faced, often dour demeanor concealed a dry, very funny sense of humor.
The rapport they had shared led to the offer of a drink and their first proper date.
They couldn’t have been more different. Matt came from a middle-class family with happily married parents. He had been privately educated and excelled both in the classr
oom and on the playing field. He’d always known he wanted to be a lawyer, just like his father, and had studied hard to make that dream come true.
Jamie came from a broken home. His warring parents had separated for good when he was thirteen. His teenage years had been a nightmare. He’d hated school, his parents and his mother’s new boyfriend. He’d alienated the few friends he had, preferring the company of a video game to real people. He had drifted aimlessly after school, one job after another—laboring, bar work, shelf stacking, cleaning—until he had eventually joined the police force in his mid-twenties.
Police work had been the breakthrough he’d needed. All of the hatred and anger he’d battled since childhood could be focused on to single outlet—catching criminals.
Getting his own place, gaining independence, building a career, Jamie had been happy for the first time in his life. Almost. Building relationships was a skill he hadn’t mastered. One-night stands never had been his scene. Right from the start, from the first date, Jamie had been looking for a boyfriend, not a casual lover. He’d come on strong. Too strong for most guys to handle. His relationships had tended to fizzle out after a few weeks. Six months had been the record before he’d met Matt.
Jamie had come along at just the right time for Matt. Throughout college, he‘d been out there having fun. He’d played the field with one-night stands and casual lovers. He never had been a complete slut—not like some of the guys he’d run into. Hell, some of those guys had put themselves out two or three times every day—never satisfied. But Matt had enjoyed it. Why not? He had been a young guy, curious and hungry to experience new things. All part of growing up, right?
With Jamie, he’d finally been ready to experience something more serious. Nothing heavy, but he had been looking for a boyfriend. Jamie was cute and funny and very different from the scene-orientated, app-savvy boys he had been used to at college. Most of the time they had got along well. Jamie had been moody and difficult, especially when their work had brought them into competition. He hadn’t thought it was right for Matt to defend the shit-bags he worked so hard to lock up.
