A Velvet Scream (12 page)

‘We need another talk.'

Kayleigh's mouth instantly twisted so she looked cynical and old. Without a word she stood up and led the way back to her room. Once there she closed the door behind them and sat on the bed facing Joanna, who had settled back in the chair.

‘Kayleigh,' Joanna began by meeting the girl's eyes. ‘You understand that a charge of rape is very serious?'

The girl nodded, chastened.

‘And that while you almost died because you were left in the snow a rape charge will be a difficult charge to make stick as you don't really remember the details of that night and there is no specific evidence.'

A more hesitant nod this time accompanied by a cunning, wary look which disturbed Joanna.

‘You also understand that a great deal of police time will be spent in trying to find this man who you claim,' she said carefully, ‘raped you.'

Kayleigh's face changed. ‘What are you tryin' to say,' she demanded. ‘That I'm lyin'? You don't believe me.' Her face tightened and she tossed her head. ‘Oh, well, I'm no stranger to people not believin' me. I've met it before – prejudice.'

‘Ah, yes – your stepfather, Neil Bretby,' Joanna said. ‘Tell me about him.'

Kayleigh moved her face so she stared straight at the wall. But Joanna could see her expression in the mirror over the sink. What she saw – or thought she saw – puzzled her. Kayleigh's expression was deeply sentimental.

So she spoke very slowly, fumbling her way, trying to tease out the truth. ‘You alleged he made inappropriate sexual advances towards you.'

Kayleigh nodded.

‘Was that true?'

The girl's shoulders stiffened but she neither nodded nor shook her head. Simply sat still; her face sphinx-like.

Joanna repeated the question. ‘Did he?'

Again there was no response.

‘Kayleigh,' Joanna said finally. ‘We don't have enough resources in the police force to go on to spend thousands of pounds investigating a story,' she used the word deliberately, ‘if that's what this is. It's a criminal offence to waste police time.'

The girl's shoulders drooped. She was defeated.

‘I'm sorry,' Joanna said, ‘but we would need a statement from you, detailing exactly what you remember of what happened on Tuesday night. I suspect that the truth is you were drunk and don't remember.'

The girl's shoulders dropped even more and Joanna wondered, was she letting this child down? Was she right? ‘The story about your stepfather was dropped, wasn't it?'

Kayleigh's head hung.

‘This will come out in any trial. It will prejudice the jury against you.'

Tears began to roll down the girl's cheeks. ‘I don't count, do I?'

Irritatingly Joanna felt herself torn. She felt sympathy for the girl but anger too. Her instinct for the truth almost made her want to shake it out of her. ‘You do count, Kayleigh,' she said gently, ‘but I have to make the decision whether or not to proceed with the investigation. And to continue with it I would need to be certain that I am likely to secure a conviction. Do you understand?'

Kayleigh nodded.

Korpanski, meanwhile, had chanced on Detective Inspector Sandra Johnson at Newcastle-under-Lyme police station. And Sandra, newly single after a very messy divorce, liked the look of the burly DS from Leek with his muscular frame, black hair and dark eyes, and made a quick decision. She would prefer to help him with enquiries than pursue her current, unpromising case: an octogenarian's body which had lain undiscovered for a number of weeks. According to the pathologist the octogenarian had died of natural causes and there were no suspicious circumstances – no forced entry into her council bungalow. It was simply a case of isolation and loneliness so time was not exactly of the essence.

She listened to Korpanski's questions before settling down in front of the police computer in the main office. Korpanski was not above using his personal charms to his advantage. ‘Thanks for agreeing to help,' he said. ‘I really appreciate it.'

Sandra's thin face lit up. She wondered if the DS was married. He wore no wedding ring, she noticed.

But she was not generally lucky in love. She gave a sigh and turned to peer into the screen. ‘We did have a case,' she said, ‘back in May. Whether it is connected with your current investigation, Sergeant,' she looked at him slyly, ‘is kind of hard to be sure of but there are distinct similarities. A teenage girl who had recently had sex, we couldn't know whether it had been consensual or rape, was found unconscious outside a nightclub early the following morning, barely conscious. We got her to hospital but she died.'

Korpanski felt his pulse quicken – and so did DI Johnson. ‘She actually died of a combination of alcohol poisoning and an overdose of a benzodiazepine.' She drew in a deep breath. ‘We didn't secure a conviction, though we must have interviewed every person who was at the club that night. The man used a condom.'

She looked up at him. ‘Don't they all?' She rubbed the back of her neck as though it was stiff. ‘We made enquiries but finally dropped the investigation after three weeks. We never got to the truth of it but as the girl had died of natural causes and we had no other evidence we were never going to find out exactly what happened.' She met Korpanski's eyes and smiled. ‘I've kept it on file, though. After all – someone out there knew what had happened.' She seemed to feel Korpanski's judgement weigh heavily on her and rubbed her neck again.

‘I know,' she said resignedly. ‘I know. Leaving him to do exactly the same again.' She sketched out a few more details.

‘Can we have all your notes?'

‘Sure.'

She flicked a few keys and finally handed him a memory stick. ‘That's most of it. The rest you'll get by using the link.' She risked a flirtatious smile. ‘Let me know how you get on, Sergeant.'

Friday, 3 December. 3.30 p.m.

Joanna listened to Korpanski's story with interest. ‘Did they have
any
description?'

‘Not really. Unlike Tuesday at Patches in a snowstorm this was Lymeys on a summer Saturday night. The place was packed solid.'

‘
Lymeys?
'

Korpanski grinned. ‘Newcastle-under-Lyme? A bit of a pun.'

Joanna couldn't resist a smile until she focused back on Korpanski's story. ‘And the girl died? What was her name?'

‘Danielle Brixton. She was fifteen.'

She thought for a moment; bent slightly forward in the car seat. ‘You know what bothers me?'

Korpanski nodded. ‘If they are the same man he's either local or he has visited this area more than once.'

‘You know, Mike, it might help if I speak to Neil Bretby. Perhaps I'll understand a bit more then.'

NINE

I
t was almost six when they arrived back at the station. Joanna glanced at the clock as they walked in. If she was to get changed before dinner she didn't have much time but still she clicked on the computer until she found the Newcastle-under-Lyme case. She leaned her chin on her hand and peered at the screen, feeling the familiar tingling in her toes. The facts were startlingly similar. A nightclub, some sort of assault, a teenage girl very drunk, raped and left for dead. Only in this case the victim
had
died. Joanna felt stunned. All police know that a criminal leaves his identity behind in every crime scene. This unique fingerprint tells you when the crimes were committed by the same guy. A guy who was careful enough to use a condom to rape a drunken girl; careless enough to not even care whether she lived or died. It was sickening.

Joanna felt a shiver of apprehension. This was man at his worst. She sat and thought and pondered, oblivious to time passing.

Korpanski broke into the silence, looking over her shoulder. ‘It
is
the same guy, Jo, isn't it?'

She looked up at him and read the revulsion in his eyes which must be mirrored in her own, then focused back at the screen. ‘He's got away with it once, Mike; it was only in the summer and the case was dropped.' She was silent before speaking again because another thought had pushed in, unwelcome but it had to be voiced. ‘What if,' she began, turning around in her chair to meet Korpanski's eyes again. ‘You've read the article,' she said slowly. ‘They're graphic and dramatic, headlines like this  . . .' She indicated the image and writing across the
Evening Sentinel
's front page: GIRL LEFT FOR DEAD AFTER RAPE OUTSIDE A NIGHTCLUB. ‘What if Kayleigh read this article and  . . .' She shook her head. ‘No. Forget it.' But her mind was active, puzzling through things. She didn't know it but she was scowling. ‘Why did she say he had a cockney accent?' She frowned. ‘Where did that come from?' Then: ‘I just don't get it,' she said finally. Tempted and frustrated, she glanced at the memory stick which held more data; maybe the key. ‘Let's have a quick peep at that.'

‘Thought you said you were going out tonight.'

She glanced at her watch again. Six thirty. ‘Ten minutes,' she said. ‘No more.'

It was almost exactly ten minutes later that Sergeant Alderley stuck his head round the door. ‘I've got something for you,' he said, handing her a large brown envelope. ‘I was going to leave it on your desk. I thought you'd be gone.' Joanna looked enquiringly at him.

‘Chap called Ollerenshaw dropped it off.'

For a minute Joanna couldn't think who on earth Ollerenshaw was. Then she remembered. Peter Harrison's fishing mate. So presumably this was a photograph of Peter Harrison, Kayleigh's father. She drew it out. And stared. ‘Just look at this,' she said, handing it to Mike.

The photograph had been taken on the bank of a canal, probably the Caldon. Harrison was dressed in an olive-green mac and wellies. He was grinning into the camera lens. Tall, slim, brown hair, large teeth. Joanna and Mike stared at it and wondered.

It was Korpanski who spoke first. ‘Gives me the creeps,' he said. ‘She could have been describing her own father.'

‘But according to her mother they never met. She didn't even have a picture of him.'

‘Mike,' Joanna said slowly, ‘if you had never met your father do you think you'd be curious?'

Korpanski nodded.

‘I think it might be worth talking to Peter Harrison,' Joanna murmured.

It was twenty to eight when she finally reached Waterfall Cottage. Matthew was peering out of the window. He hardly needed to say it but he did anyway, grumpily scolding as she walked in: ‘You're late.'

‘I know.' She could have pointed out that her job was hardly a nine-to-five career but she didn't. He knew that already. Instead she smiled and apologized. ‘I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Matt. I'll have a quick shower.' She tried a smile. ‘I'll be down and spruced up before you can say  . . .' She shrugged and tried again, harder. ‘Here comes the bride?'

She didn't wait to see the grimace.

It was actually five past eight when they emerged from the cottage. Matthew had called the restaurant to warn them they would be late. He was silent all the way there. Not a good start.

However, as they sat down over a glass of wine, he smiled at her. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I get really twitchy about timing.'

He was hard to resist: flashing an apologetic grin, his eyes warm, his hand reaching across the table for hers. ‘I know. I'm sorry too but you know, Matt, I can't just down tools.'

‘It isn't that,' he said. He angled his face up towards the light. It caught the colour of his hair and gave it a rich golden look, rumpled and thick.

She waited as he touched his lips with his fingers – the well-known gesture of editing your speech. ‘I think it's a sort of jealousy, Jo. You're so absorbed in your work that when you're there I don't exist. Sometimes when I ring you I think for a second you almost wonder who I am.'

It was true but she felt she must defend herself. ‘But you are absorbed in your work too, Matthew,' she pointed out.

‘I am,' he said. ‘But not to the same extent. I don't shut you out.'

She couldn't argue against this. So instead she diverted the conversation, knowing that if she confronted Matthew with a puzzle he wouldn't be able to resist trying to help. It was inherent in his nature that he would always search for answers. Maybe it was these two characteristics that had led him first to study medicine and then to specialize in pathology. ‘The trouble is, Matt,' she said, ‘this case is one of the worst I've had to deal with.'

He accepted the change of subject with a rueful grin and rose to the bait. ‘How so?'

‘I simply don't know whether to proceed or not. Whether there is a case to investigate. Should I throw everything at it and try and make some sense of the girl's story, even though I'm convinced she is a very mixed up young lady and I'm not at all sure we shall ever find out the truth? Certainly not through her. Plus I know I'll never get a conviction. And now this turn of events.' She told him about the Newcastle-under-Lyme case.

‘I did the post mortem on that girl,' he said. ‘Months ago.'

‘May.'

‘I remember quite well. Apart from a dose of a benzodiazepine – possibly Rohypnol, the so-called date rape drug, she was so way over the limit. Absolutely pickled in alcohol. The stomach contents were pure rum. The stink filled the mortuary for days.' He grinned and couldn't resist a black joke. ‘Everything was cleaned and sterilized in the alcohol. No need to clean up the morgue.'

‘Matthew,' she remonstrated and his face sobered.

She sipped her wine, glanced around the restaurant to make sure no one was near enough to eavesdrop. ‘What did she actually die of?'

‘The cause of death was inhalation of her own vomit. The milkman found her around six a.m. They got her to hospital but couldn't save her.'