Trespass (P.I. Johnson Carmichael Series - Book 2)

by Stephen Edger

  Born in Amsterdam but raised in the UK since she was twelve, Cat had had a pleasant-enough upbringing and had spent her formative years at an all-girls school in Hampshire. Her parents had separated when she was thirteen and whilst she had attempted to maintain some kind of relationship with her absent father, he had been less inclined, particularly when he had married another woman and started a family with her. At first, the monthly visits had continued, but these had then become more sporadic, with ‘business’ used as an excuse for cancelling and postponing engagements. She had received a birthday card and cheque until her eighteenth birthday but at that point all contact had pretty much dried up. Now, she didn’t even receive a Christmas card from him. It was probably this abandonment that had made her less-trusting of men.

  She had attended university in Southampton and had blossomed into a fun-loving student always out in bars and clubs in the city. She had secured a good group of friends, predominantly female and had had a couple of relatively-steady boyfriends down the years, but nobody that she thought was the one. Now aged twenty-five and working in a branch of the global bank General Financial, she had plenty of would-be suitors but none had impressed her sufficiently to warrant more than a cursory glance. It had been on a night out with work that she had encountered Nathan Green for the first time.

  It was an unofficial rule in the branch to go out for drinks every month on the first Friday after payday. The large branch was made up of men and women aged between eighteen and thirty, but the majority were in their early twenties and still enjoying the student convention of spending their money on cheap booze.

  The evening had started just after seven o’clock in the local pub and Cat had moved freely from one group to another, catching up with people she hadn’t seen for a while and sharing jokes and comments with her colleagues. As the evening had worn on, some had departed for home until only a core of people remained. The group had decided to move onto a bar in the city centre where the drinks had continued to flow and then onto a club down near the docks just after eleven. Cat had always enjoyed dancing but with alcohol in her system and her inhibitions gone she would move around like a tiger stalking a cage. She would bat off some advances and encourage others, depending on who caught her eye.

  As the clock had approached one a.m. that night, she had decided that she had had enough and was ready to go to bed.

  Alone.

  She could remember saying to one of her friends that she was going to collect her coat from the cloakroom and would then catch a taxi home. Her flat was only a ten minute walk away but she thought it would be safer to be escorted. She had felt the cold air the moment she had left the club and the queue at the taxi rank was at least twelve people deep. Her attire was suitable for clubbing but not for the bitter wind that was blowing about her legs. The thought of standing and waiting in line for a vacant taxi while shivering did not appeal and so she had decided to make the short journey on foot.

  It was the decision she had regretted the most ever since.

  Cat had been wearing a short skirt, top and a thin, silver sequined jacket. She had also been wearing stilettos as was customary for such a night. The pavements between the taxi rank and her flat were fairly flat, but with the amount of alcohol she had consumed, she was a little unsteady on her feet and had had to stop on a couple of occasions to regain her balance. Although the wind continued to blow, the walk was keeping her warmer than had she remained in the queue.

  There were two routes that she could have taken home. The first was along the main road, which was relatively well lit. The alternative, and the route she had opted for, cut across a council estate, but was five minutes quicker than the first route. She had felt so tired, cold and unsteady that the shorter route had seemed the most viable option. She had walked the second route on a number of occasions before so was confident about where she was going and, as she had never heard of any trouble along that pathway, had not thought twice about the possible dangers for a young lady, scantily clad, in the dark.

  As she had tried to hurry along between the two tower blocks, she had thought she had heard a noise behind her. She had turned to look over her shoulder as she picked up the pace and had walked straight into the outstretched arms of a man dressed from head to toe in black, wearing a dark balaclava. The first thing she noticed was his gleaming white teeth, through a gap in the material. Immediately above them were two large white eyes staring at her. Her mind had been flooded by numerous thoughts about who this figure could be: was it one of her friends carrying out a prank to scare her? Had she disturbed a burglar exiting a crime scene?

  She didn’t have to wait long for an answer as a small blade had appeared and been pressed against her throat. She had tried to scream but no sound had emanated from her mouth. The man had seemed so big, his arms easily fit around her and before she knew it he had turned her around and dragged her backwards. She could remember her feet no longer being on concrete and suddenly she could feel the grass under her toes as the shoes fell aside. He had held an arm under her throat which her hands had desperately clawed against but she had been trapped. Overhead she had seen branches blocking out the small image of the moon and she had known that she was being dragged towards a wooded area. She recalled that the council estate backed onto a small park that was surrounded by trees and the adrenaline in her body had started to flow as she had realised that something nasty was about to befall her.

  When she could no longer see the sky, he had released his grip on her and she had fallen to the floor. She had quickly glanced around to try and get her bearings but all she could make out were the shadows of trees. She couldn’t even see the tower blocks or main road. The blade of the knife had once more been pressed to her throat and the figure had whispered into her ear, ‘I will fucking kill you if you don’t do as I say, bitch!’

  She had frozen in fear.

  All thoughts of fighting him and fleeing had deserted her and, as he had pressed her shoulders to the floor and had started to rip the clothes from her trembling body, she had not resisted. He had continued to speak, to tell her what he wanted to do to her; what he expected her to do to him. The whole time she had willingly obeyed his instructions, silently praying that she would survive if she didn’t fight him. Even when he had begun to slash at her skin with the blade, she had remained silent.

  He had even commented that she had looked so sexy when she had been dancing in the club. It had told her that she would have seen his face at some point that evening but she could not place the voice: it sounded deep and angry.

  He had forced himself on her, had made her touch him and lick him. Just thinking about everything he had done to her made her want to retch.

  ‘Miss Jurdentaag?’ called the Court Usher from the door of the courtroom.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, standing as she remembered where she was.

  ‘Can you follow me, please?’

  Cat followed the usher through both sets of doors and into the courtroom. It was deathly silent as she moved past the legal teams, to the witness stand next to Judge Adams. The Clerk made her swear an oath and then she was told to sit. Cat could feel her heart beating strongly in her chest and was convinced that the rest of the courtroom would probably be able to hear it. Staring at her from behind his glass box, Nathan Green smiled when their eyes met. Cat instinctively looked away, suddenly feeling as paralysed as she had done in the wooded area.

  The Clerk asked her to confirm her name and address and then explained that Collinghurst would ask her some questions before Charleston would have an opportunity to ask some of his own questions. Cat confirmed she understood and then proceeded to recount the details of what had happened on that fateful evening. Collinghurst carefully coaxed the information out of her and Cat began to relax as she told the court the story she had told so many times since it had happened.

  Charleston’s cross examination was not to be so easy.

  ‘Can you confirm what you were wearing on the evening of the t
wenty second of November nineteen ninety-one?’

  ‘I was wearing a skirt, top, jacket and heeled shoes,’ she replied calmly.

  ‘No coat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s a bit unusual isn’t it? Evening temperatures don’t climb much over ten degrees in late November, do they? Didn’t you think it a good idea to dress for the temperature?’

  ‘I was dressed up for a night out. I had planned to catch a taxi home.’

  ‘Is this how you usually dressed on a night out?’

  ‘If I was going out to a club or bar, then yes, that is what I would have worn. It is the same thing that most people would wear at a club.’

  Charleston looked puzzled and consulted some notes.

  ‘It’s a bit provocative, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Objection!’ declared Collinghurst, standing.

  ‘Let me re-phrase the question,’ replied Charleston before Judge Adams had the opportunity to accept or deny Collinghurst’s interruption. ‘You went to the pub straight from work, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So was this the outfit you had worn to work that day?’

  ‘No, I had changed in the toilets at work.’

  ‘Really? I see. What had you worn to work?’

  ‘Friday was always a day when we could wear our own clothes so I was probably in jeans and a t-shirt. I’m not too sure to be honest.’

  ‘Jeans and a t-shirt? Why did you feel the need to change?’

  ‘I wanted to look my best when I went out.’

  ‘Did you not want to look your best for work too? Why didn’t you wear the skirt, top, jacket and heels to work?’

  ‘It would have been too…’

  Cat paused as she realised where the questioning was going. She had walked into his trap.

  ‘Would have been too what Miss Jurdentaag?’

  ‘Too revealing,’ Cat said, unable to think of a less-damning description.

  ‘So you admit your clothing on the night of the twenty second of November was provocative?’

  Charleston let the question hang in the air, but before Cat had chance to think of a good answer he continued, ‘Would it be fair to say that your clothing would encourage the advances of men at the club?’

  ‘Look,’ Cat began, struggling to hide the frustration from her voice. ‘I wasn’t dressed like a prostitute soliciting for business, if that’s what you are trying to suggest. I…’

  ‘Just answer the question please,’ he interrupted.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see. So no men made advances towards you at the club that night? Nobody tried to dance with you? I should remind you that you’re under oath, Miss Jurdentaag.’

  ‘A couple of guys did come on to me, yes, but I wasn’t looking for their attention so I did not act on their advances.’

  ‘Had you had much to drink on the night in question?’

  ‘I’d had a couple of drinks, yes.’

  ‘Define a couple of drinks for me, Miss Jurdentaag?’

  ‘I don’t know…I had probably had a couple of glasses of wine, maybe a rum and Coke.’

  Charleston ruffled some papers and then produced a document that he read aloud, ‘Four large glasses of white wine, two Bacardi and mixers and a shot of Sambuca, according to one of your work colleagues. That’s a bit more than a couple of drinks wouldn’t you say?’

  Cat could feel her anger rising.

  Is this arsehole suggesting that I was drunk and encouraged that bastard to rape me?

  ‘I can handle myself,’ she said evenly.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I still have all my wits about me when I’ve had a drink. It’s not a crime for a woman to drink alcohol y’know.’

  ‘Was going out to drink a regular occurrence for you then, Miss Jurdentaag?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I have it on good authority that you and your colleagues went out drinking every month,’ he said consulting the same bit of paper, which was a witness statement from a girl who had been out on the same night. ‘The first Friday after payday one of your colleagues has claimed. Is this not true?’

  ‘Once a month is not regular.’

  ‘Is it not? I see my dentist for a regular check-up every six months. I would suggest that twelve times a year is more than regular, Miss Jurdentaag.’

  The inquisition continued until Judge Adams called it a day at five p.m. He advised the court that they would reconvene at half past nine the following morning. The questions Charleston had thrown at Cat were there to suggest to the jury that her claims of being raped were not made on sound judgement. Cat hated the fact that she was being painted to be the villain of the piece. Charleston was suggesting that she was drunk and encouraged Green to have sex with her. It riled her.

  ‘You need to keep your cool, y’know,’ Sharon said as they left the court through a private exit at the rear of the building. ‘Don’t let the barrister get to you. Remember, he’s only doing his job: he is there to try and help his client avoid a conviction. Of course he is going to try and make it look like your fault.’

  ‘It’s not right!’

  ‘Cat, I know it’s not right, but unfortunately it’s the world we live in. We might have the vote, but in the eyes of the law, we are still not seen in the same light as men. Maybe one day that will all change.’

  ‘Here’s hoping.’

  ‘You need to put today behind you and try not to think about it. The jury will see through Charleston’s bluster.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  Sharon nodded, not quite sure she could lie out loud.

  9

  WEDNESDAY

  Cat’s cross examination lasted until late afternoon on day two of the trial. Sharon had told her she would be allowed to sit in on the rest of the trial if she wanted to, but strongly encouraged Cat to stay at home.

  ‘I want to see that bastard get what he deserves,’ Cat had said.

  As they arrived at the court, there was still a strong media presence outside the front doors of the building, although it was smaller than the first day. Cat and Sharon pushed their way through without uttering a word. Cat knew that today was the biggest day of the trial: Collinghurst was going to attempt to prove that Nathan Green was guilty of murdering Patricia Tropaz.

  Judge Adams settled everyone down by half past nine and invited Collinghurst to call her first witness. The key to proving that Green had murdered Patricia Tropaz was to present the evidence in such a way that any attempt to challenge it by the defence team would be minimal. Elizabeth Collinghurst QC was an experienced criminal prosecutor and when she had been made aware of the crimes Green was accused of, she had pushed to be made lead on the case.

  She was a stout feminist, and had been since she was fifteen and a boy in her class had attempted to take advantage of her naivety. She had been fortunate, in that her parents had returned home early from the theatre, and walked in on him trying to pin her down. Elizabeth’s father had kicked him out of the house and threatened to do far worse if he ever came sniffing around the doorstep again. The boy had learned his lesson and never troubled Elizabeth again. Her father had been a greengrocer but he had had such high hopes for his daughter. He had told her the same night that it was important for her to be strong-minded if she wanted to be successful in a man’s world. A teacher at school had slipped her a copy of Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique and Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch, and it had opened her eyes to the way women were generally viewed in society. It had given her all the motivation she needed to succeed at school and earn her place at Cambridge University. From there she had secured a place at one of London’s top firms, even though it had taken her two years longer than some of her male colleagues to obtain her Queen’s Counsel membership.

  Collinghurst had worked hard to be where she was and as her fortieth birthday rapidly approached, she hoped that people would remember her for the crusading way she sought to deal with sex offe
nders such as Nathan Green. Inside, she wanted to see Green punished just as much as Cat Jurdentaag did, but she had to hide this deep-rooted desire from the court.

  Collinghurst called the young police officer who had been first to arrive at the scene of Patricia Tropaz’s murder. The police had been called in because Patricia Tropaz had missed work, and this had been unlike her. Friends had knocked on her door and tried to phone but there had been no response. Eventually a neighbour had used a spare key to enter the property and had found her dead body in a pool of blood on the living room carpet. Police Constable Barnes had quickly sealed off the scene when he had arrived and the forensics team had then processed the scene. Barnes explained to the court that bruising around the victim’s neck suggested that she had been strangled. He added that the nature of the cuts and scratches on her body suggested that she had sustained defensive wounds as she had fought with her attacker.

  Charleston asked what other evidence of a fight there had been. Barnes confirmed that the victim’s hands had been cleaned, presumably by the killer, as there was no skin or blood found under the victim’s fingernails. Collinghurst was pleased that this question had been raised by the defence team as she hoped to prove later that Green was very experienced with taking care of his own hands and, as such, would have had the necessary experience to clean the victim’s hands so well. Barnes also advised that Miss Tropaz’s hands had been bound above her head by gaffer tape.

  Collinghurst continued to question the young officer about his movements on the day, whether all visitors to the scene had been carefully logged in and out and whether anybody had appeared on scene who’d had no reason to be there. Barnes answered each of the questions with ease and Charleston was then invited to cross examine him.