by Jill McGown
“What time did you arrive there?”
“About half eleven.”
“And how long were you there?”
“A couple of hours. Then I packed it in and went home.”
“And why did you stop in the town?”
“I needed a slash, so I took the bike up an alley.”
Harper turned to the judge. “What Mr. Drummond means is—”
“I know what Mr. Drummond means, thank you, Mr. Harper,” said the judge testily, and turned to Drummond. “Do you always relieve yourself in alleys?” he asked.
“No, sir, but they close the toilets at half seven, and I was desperate. I couldn’t even wait until I got home.”
“Carry on, Mr. Harper,” sighed the judge.
“Can you tell the court in your own words what happened in the alley?”
“I was on my way back to the bike when I saw this girl.”
“You are referring to Miss Benson?”
“Yeah. I’d seen her hanging around the Ferarri. She’s a hooker. She said did I want a …” His voice trailed off, as though he were too gently nurtured to quote her. He looked at the judge, then back at Harper. “To have sex,” he said. “Only that wasn’t how she put it. So I said OK, and paid her, and we … you know. Only the next thing I know she’s telling me to—” He broke off, and looked at the judge again. “To go away,” he said. “I said I wanted my money back, but she starts … you know, effing and blinding, and I put my hand over her mouth to stop her yelling, because these guys were coming. But she wouldn’t stop, so I gave up and went back to the bike. And I’ve got on the bike, and I’ve tried to start it, when someone’s pulled me off, and next thing I know there are cops everywhere, and she’s saying I raped her.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police that you had paid her for sex?”
Drummond looked down at his feet as he spoke in a low voice. “I didn’t want them knowing I had to pay for it,” he said.
“But she was saying you had raped her—surely you didn’t want them to believe that?”
“Well, he didn’t pay for it, did he? He just made them do everything he wanted, everything he told them to do.” He looked up then, directly at Judy, the suspicion of a smile on his lips, and for a moment he was once again the alarming young man that she had interviewed. But the jury couldn’t see the look on his face. He looked back at Harper “They said I was him. They said I’d done all those things.”
“Did you say that you had?”
“No. I never said anything.”
“But you did make a confession in the end. Why?”
He had told Judy why. He had made the statement because he had wanted everyone to know what he had done. He had clearly thought that he would get a couple of years at most—it was only rape, he had said, not murder or anything. He hadn’t even used the knife. And he was only eighteen. He’d be out in twelve months, and then it would be her turn. Judy hadn’t disabused him of his idea of the sentence, but someone else had.
“They said I’d raped that little whore. That she would swear to it in court, and they said they were going to prove I’d done them all. And I thought they would give me another going-over if I didn’t …” He shrugged, shook his head. “I was scared,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper.
The scepticism was audible, almost tangible where Judy was sitting. A relative of one of the victims called something out; the judge warned him as to his future conduct, and the courtroom fell silent.
“You thought you were in physical danger?”
“Yes. I’d complained about their mates, hadn’t I? They were telling me all these things that I was supposed to have done to these women, and they said it would be better if I confessed. And the Chief Inspector, he said he was going to prove I’d done them with this DNA. He said I should make a statement, and I thought I’d get another kicking if I didn’t. So I said OK, and told them all that stuff. But I didn’t do it.”
“What made you retract the statement?”
After he had made his statement to Judy about assaulting Bobbie Chalmers, Drummond had been put in the cell with a regular who would steal the paint off a door, but who had a deep distaste for violence of any kind and against women in particular; he had reported the conversation that had taken place. Drummond had boasted about his exploits, and had been told, quite rightly, that he could get life for what he’d done. Lifers weren’t fussy, Drummond had been assured, and a good-looking lad like him would soon get a taste of his own medicine. That was why Drummond had changed his statement.
“I told the solicitor that I got at the magistrates’ court that I hadn’t really done anything—I wasn’t so scared once I was away from the police station. He said if that was true I should plead not guilty. So I did.”
“Did you rape any of these women, Mr. Drummond?”
“No. I just … I just wanted women to be scared of me. But I was scared they’d have me done over again, so I said I’d done all those things. But I didn’t. Honest, I didn’t.”
Judy half-expected applause for his performance. It deserved applause; she just hoped the jury could see through it.
“Thank you. No further questions.”
Drummond made to leave the witness box, and was called back. At first, Judy thought that he wasn’t going to be afforded the chance to recharge his batteries, but true to forai, the judge’s stomach was telling him it was lunchtime.
When the court reconvened that afternoon, Drummond back in the witness box, Whitehouse standing looking at him, it was, for a few moments, like a tableau. Like one of those old paintings. No one spoke, no one moved, until Drummond began to shift a little uncomfortably.
“What we heard this morning,” Whitehouse said at last, “was a complete fiction, wasn’t it, Mr. Drummond?” He left his place, and walked over to the witness box, sweeping his gown behind him, and clasping his hands behind his back. “And not even very good fiction at that,” he went on. “Because it depends so much on coincidence, doesn’t it?”
Drummond’s head went back a little.
“Let us start with the premise for your fiction,” Whitehouse said. “You aren’t the rapist. You just wanted to be like him. You wanted to commit repeated acts of sexual violence, like any normal lad.”
Drummond didn’t speak.
Whitehouse looked at the jury, at the gallery, and spread his arms wide, his suitably frayed gown falling back around his legs. “Which of us here can say that he has not also dressed in black, pulled on a mask, and stared into parked cars to watch courting couples copulate? Which of us has not also followed women in the street until they ran in panic, while we conjured up visions of committing brutal acts of sexual abuse on them?”
“Mr. Whitehouse,” said the judge. “Is there a question for the witness on its way in the near future?”
“I do beg your lordship’s pardon,” said Whitehouse. “I was quite carried away with memories of carefree youth.” He turned sharply to look at Drummond. “Is that a fair description of your hobby, Mr. Drummond?”
“No! It wasn’t like that.”
“You have told us it was like that. You have admitted following women in the street, and watching courting couples in cars, haven’t you?”
“I didn’t watch them. I just … watched the cars. Then followed them.”
“Ah. I see. Followed them until—with luck—the female was dropped off a little way from home. And then you would follow her until she would run in panic—yes?”
Drummond swallowed. “Yes,” he said.
“Well, that’s the scenario,” said Whitehouse. “Young man hero-worships rapist, dresses like him, rides a bike like his, and wants to ‘put the wind up’ women. So to this end, you purchased a mask. So—tell me, where do you buy a face-mask?”
“I got it in a sports-goods place in Malworth. It’s for protecting your skin, really. Mountaineers and skiers and people use them.”
“You’ll have a receipt then, won’t you? A receipt for this item, da
ted after the date of the newspaper report on the first assault.”
“No, sir. I didn’t keep it.”
“I don’t imagine you did. You got this mask long before the first rape, didn’t you?”
“No, sir. I got it because I’d read about the rape in the paper.”
“Very well. That brings us to the first coincidence. And it was a coincidence, was it, that just such a mask, together with a flick-knife, was found on the very road where you had been stopped by the police the evening before?”
“Yes.”
“Did the newspaper report describe the sort of mask the rapist wore?”
“No, sir.”
“No. It could have been a balaclava, or a stocking, or a Halloween mask, couldn’t it? But it wasn’t. It was a ski-mask. And so was the one you purchased. A coincidence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And yet you didn’t have your mask with you when they stopped you, did you? Sounds horribly like another coincidence to me, Mr. Drummond.”
“No,” said Drummond. “I didn’t always have it with me.”
“Only if you were going to ‘put the wind up’ women?”
“Yes.”
“You led these officers to believe that you were the rapist, didn’t you?”
“No, sir. They never said anything about the rapes, and neither did 1.1 was just standing there while they went over the bike, and checked me for drugs and all that. I didn’t say anything. One of them just started hitting me.”
“Very well. Let’s turn to the night of your arrest. You took your bike to the airfield in order to do stunts in the dark, and that was how you grazed your knees. My learned friend said that this was because you were doing this stunt driving ‘without the protection of leathers.’ Do you have leathers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Motorcycle leathers are a sort of all-in-one with reinforcement at the knees for just such a maneuver as high-speed cornering, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why weren’t you wearing them, if that was your sole reason for going out that night?”
Drummond shrugged.
“I’ll tell you, shall I? Because it would be less than easy to rape someone while you were wearing them, wouldn’t it?” Drummond shook his head.
“Oh,” said Whitehouse. “You mean it is easy to rape someone while you’re wearing them?”
“Mr. Whitehouse,” said the judge, sounding like an infant school teacher at the end of a long morning.
“I withdraw the question, my lord,” said Whitehouse, and turned back to Drummond. “Let’s put it another way, Mr. Drummond. I don’t really want to know why you weren’t wearing your leathers so much as why you were wearing your rapist’s outfit, complete with mask. Why was that?”
Drummond shrugged again.
“Because you went out looking for someone to ‘put the wind up’?”
“No, sir.”
“But you’ve just told the court that that was the only reason you would have had the mask with you.”
“Yes, well,” said Drummond. “I did think about that, but there was no one around. It was Sunday evening—the town was dead. I got bored just riding around, so I went up to the airfield.”
“But on your way home you found someone, didn’t you? And you sexually assaulted her, as you had sexually assaulted and raped three others before her.”
“No, sir. I was in the alley, and she came up to me and said did I want to … you know. So I said OK.”
Whitehouse drew in a long, slow breath and released it. “You had just relieved yourself,” he said. “Did you keep your gloves on while you were doing that?”
Drummond frowned a little. “No,” he said suspiciously.
“Where were they?”
“In my helmet, on the bike.”
“Oh—you had removed your helmet, too?”
“Yeah, well … I do that automatically when I get off the bike.”
“And where was the bike?”
“Up at the entrance to the alley.”
“Why were you wearing your mask?”
“I’d just never taken it off.”
“And yet you say Miss Benson approached you? Didn’t it ‘put the wind up’ her?”
“No. She knew it was me.”
“Not much of a disguise, then, was it?”
“She’d seen the bike!” said Drummond, his voice rising, his patience wearing thin. “She came along the alley, asked if I wanted a fuck, I gave her a tenner, and we did it. It was as simple as that.”
“Simple? But it brings us to another coincidence, doesn’t it? That you have the same dubious—and dangerous—taste in sexual positions as the rapist?”
“It was her idea to do it that way, not mine.”
The silver eyebrows shot up, disappearing right under his wig. “Her idea?” Whitehouse paused for a moment. “Did that surprise you?”
Drummond frowned. “No,” he said. “She’s a whore. She asks more money for doing it that way.”
“But it was a foggy, damp night, and as she memorably told the court, the ground was wet and muddy, wasn’t it?”
Drummond shrugged. “She didn’t seem to mind that,” he said. “She wanted the tenner.”
“Do go on,” said Whitehouse.
“She heard these men coming, and told me to eff off. I wanted my money back, and she starts screaming at me, effing and blinding. So I put my hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.”
“My learned friend has said that that was how her saliva came to be on your glove,” said Whitehouse. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” said Drummond.
“But you weren’t wearing your gloves, were you?”
Drummond’s eyes widened a little at his elementary mistake. “I’d put them back on by then,” he said.
“But they were in your helmet, on your bike, at the end of the alleyway, weren’t they?”
“Yeah—but I’d been back at the bike. I was going, like she’d said. But then I thought how I hadn’t had my money’s worth, and I wanted my tenner back. So I went back and asked her for it.”
“And she was still there? Still hanging about in the middle of the alleyway?”
“Yes,” said Drummond.
“Still on all fours?” asked Whitehouse.
“No,” said Drummond, through his teeth. “She got up when she told me to fuck off, all right?”
“But the gentlemen who apprehended you saw her face down on the ground, her leopard-skin leggings around her knees, with you kneeling over her, and then you ran away. How come?”
“That was after.”
“After what?”
“After I asked for my money back. She tried to run, but she fell over, and I tried to get my money from her when she was on the floor—that’s what they saw.”
“I’m not surprised she fell over,” said Whitehouse. “Women,” he said, smiling indulgently, shaking his head. “You would think with all that standing around while you walked fifty yards to your bike and put your gloves on, then walked fifty yards back again, she would have thought to pull up her leggings, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know or care what she did with her leggings,” said Drummond, stepping dangerously out of character.
“No—quite. Why should you?” said Whitehouse, still smiling. “And all this toing-and-froing and putting on of gloves and falling over happened between her hearing footsteps approaching and these two gentlemen arriving at the scene?”
“She must have heard them when they were a long way away,” said Drummond. “Sounds travel in the fog.”
“But not the sound of her ‘effing and blinding,’ which you were so anxious to quieten? No one but you heard that, Mr. Drummond. The two witnesses said nothing about anyone shouting, swearing—don’t you think that that would have been what caught their attention rather than the silent tableau they described?”
Drummond shrugged.
“Ah, well,” said Whitehouse. “Fiction is quite
difficult—I know. I’ve tried my hand at it. So many things to think about at once, aren’t there? Do go on.”
“I left her to go back to the bike, and next thing I know I’m being dragged off it and she’s yelling that I raped her.”
“So it was yet another coincidence that you, who so admired this rapist, should go with a prostitute who takes your money and then just happens to accuse you of sexually assaulting her for some inscrutable reason of her own?”
“The cops put her up to it,” said Drummond.
“And it was merely a combination of circumstances that caused two independent witnesses to see her sprawled face down on the ground, her clothing pulled down, with you kneeling over her? Sheer coincidence that it should look exactly like someone sexually assaulting his victim in the grim silence which had been enforced by the threat of mutilation with a knife?”
“I never had a knife.”
“No. It was just another coincidence that a knife was found exactly where you would have thrown it on returning to your bike, wasn’t it?”
“You’d have to ask the cops about that, too.”
“Ah, yes. And this statement that you gave the police after you had been arrested—did they manufacture that? We can have it played to the court, if you wish, Mr. Drummond, if you are saying it’s a fake. Are you saying that?”
“No. But they told me all those things I was supposed to have done.”
“And you pieced them all together and came up with a blow-by-blow account of what was done to these young women, and in what order, and with what degree of violence?”
“I must have.”
“Another coincidence, no doubt. But—perhaps you can explain one thing about your statement, if you would?” Whitehouse picked up some papers, and put on his glasses. “It’s concerning the assault on Mrs. Carole Jarvis,” he said. “You began your statement thus: ‘I saw that one getting into her car in Malworth, and I followed her.’” He looked up, removing his glasses again. “Who told you that?” he asked.
Drummond frowned. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“Who told you that she had been in Malworth? The police didn’t know that that was where she had been until some considerable time after you made this statement. Only she knew that. She, her gentleman friend, and the person who followed her, of course.”
