Page 39

THIRTY-EIGHT

They had been stuck behind the white van for ten minutes and the abuse scrawled in the grime on its back doors was certainly not interesting enough to merit a repeat reading. DC Charita Desai muttered, ‘Sod this,’ and moved out to overtake.

‘So, how was your Sunday?’

Tanner had been very glad of the day off and, having spent the morning in bed, had done nothing more onerous for the rest of the day than cook lunch, watch the football on catch-up and worm the cat.

The fact that she had shared these activities with someone she was growing increasingly fond of had made them all perfectly enjoyable.

‘Not much,’ she said. ‘Just mooching around with my partner.’

‘Sounds good.’ Desai glanced at her. ‘That’s . . . ?’

‘Her name’s Fiona.’

‘Right, yeah. Right . . . ’

Tanner wasn’t sure if Desai knew that she was gay or not and wasn’t much bothered either way.

She made no secret of the fact, but neither did she go out of her way to make it public knowledge.

She wasn’t like Phil Hendricks who – much as she loved him – seemed determined to let as many people know, in as much detail as possible, exactly what he’d been up to, where, with whom and for how long.

The man did not so much trumpet his sexual proclivities as employ the services of a large orchestra.

And a choir.

‘What does Fiona do?’

Tanner’s girlfriend did all sorts of interesting things, many of which she’d roped Tanner into – quite literally – the previous day, but before Tanner had a chance to answer Desai’s question and explain that Fiona worked as a nurse, the satnav announced that their destination was ahead.

‘Doesn’t sound like the nicest pub in the world,’ Desai said.

‘No?’

‘I googled it.’ Desai slowed when Tanner pointed out the sign and turned into a small car park. ‘I was thinking we could maybe grab a sandwich or something afterwards.’

‘Good idea,’ Tanner said. ‘We’ll talk to the woman for half an hour about getting raped and then maybe she can rustle us up a couple of cheese toasties . . . ’

Siobhan Brady had finally returned Tanner’s message the evening before and said she’d be willing to talk. As long as Tanner was happy to come to her and they could get it done during her lunch break.

Brady worked at a pub called the Cromer Arms in Essex.

It was tucked away behind Romford Greyhound Stadium and, true to the description Desai had found online, looked like the ideal place for someone who’d just pissed away a week’s wages on the dogs and wouldn’t be overly bothered about the décor or the clientele.

‘I think I might skip that sandwich,’ Desai said.

Having obviously been watching out for their arrival, Brady waved from behind the bar as soon as Tanner and Desai stepped inside. She moved quickly to collect her overcoat and led them back outside and around the side of the building, to the desultory garden.

They sat down on a damp bench and Brady immediately lit a cigarette.

There was still frost on the grass and scattered scraps of ice glittering on the patches of mud.

‘Thanks for agreeing to talk to us,’ Tanner said.

‘No bother,’ Brady said.

Charita Desai leaned forward from the end of the bench, so she could see Brady’s face. ‘Would you be happy to talk us through what happened three years ago?’

‘Well, I don’t know about happy .’

‘Sorry,’ Desai said. ‘That was a bad choice of word.’

Brady shrugged and blew out a thin stream of smoke. ‘No, I don’t love talking about it, but I suppose you’ve got a good reason to ask. Talking about it’s a piece of piss . . . you know, in comparison.’

The woman had long dark hair with more than a hint of grey, and a face that was heavily lined thanks to years of a serious smoking habit.

Her voice was low, with a trace of an Estuary accent, and even bundled up in a thick overcoat it was clear that she was somewhat thinner than she should have been.

Without the benefit of pictures, it was impossible for Tanner and Desai to know if she’d been quite as skinny or grey-haired three years before.

‘It was late,’ she said, ‘and I was coming home from the pub. Not this one . . . a place in Wood Green. I’d had a few drinks, more than a few to be honest, which obviously his defence team tried to make a big deal about at the trial, but that doesn’t matter, does it?

Doesn’t matter if I was thoroughly rat-arsed. ’

‘It absolutely doesn’t,’ Tanner said. ‘Drunk or stone-cold sober, your condition when you were attacked is completely immaterial. Wouldn’t have mattered if you’d drunk yourself unconscious.’

‘Which I was for a lot of it.’ Brady flicked away what was left of her cigarette and reached for a fresh one. ‘By the time he’d smacked me in the face a few times.’

‘This happened on a patch of waste ground, yes?’ Desai asked.

Brady shook her head, lighting up again.

‘Well, it’s nothing really, just a grotty cut-through behind a block of flats.

There’s sometimes cars parked there, kids messing about on bikes.

It’s dark, that’s the main thing. Which is why it was properly stupid of me to try and take a shortcut home up there. Why it was ideal for him.’

Tanner shook her head. ‘Where the offence took place doesn’t matter any more than how much you’d had to drink, or what you might or might not have been wearing.’

Brady took a drag. ‘I was wearing dirty jeans and a knackered old anorak, so his defence couldn’t pull that one.’

‘Clothing is not consent,’ Desai said.

‘Thankfully, there aren’t too many barristers who’d dare to try the “she was provocatively dressed” routine these days,’ Tanner said. ‘And, even if they did, it’s meaningless . . . a myth. A man doesn’t rape a woman because she’s wearing a short skirt. It’s not about that.’

‘He came up from behind me,’ Brady said. ‘Like I was walking along and he was suddenly just . . . there. I didn’t hear him coming because I had my headphones on. Again, stupid.’

‘And irrelevant,’ Tanner said.

‘Still stupid, though.’ Her head had dropped along with her voice, the memories clearly still raw and painful as they resurfaced.

‘I must have sensed something, I suppose, because I turned round, and that’s when he punched me.

Then he bent down to punch me again when I was on the ground and after that there was nothing until I started to come out of it, and he was on me.

’ She drew hard on her cigarette. ‘Fucker was in me.’

They sat in silence for a minute or so after that; Brady bent forward with her elbows on her knees, her cigarette smoke taken quickly away by the wind, while Tanner and Desai stared across the garden at the collection of upturned plastic chairs and a single, rusting swing.

‘This might sound like a strange question,’ Tanner said.

‘A bit random,’ Desai added.

‘But while it was happening, did you hear anybody else? Any kind of voice that wasn’t your attacker’s?’

Brady sat up straight and looked at Tanner. ‘How did you know about that?’

Tanner looked at Desai. ‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’

‘I’m not even sure I heard it.’ Brady closed her eyes for a few seconds.

‘I was a bit all the over the place, when I started to come round. It was more a feeling that there was someone else there . . . someone watching, so at first it was like, thank God, because I thought they’d stop him or call the police or whatever, but they didn’t. ’

‘You didn’t tell anybody when you went to the police?’

‘Because I thought maybe I’d imagined it.’

Tanner nodded. She’d read both the initial statement Brady had given and a fuller one taken later. Neither had made reference to any other individual being present while she was being raped by Peter Brightwell.

‘I did mention it, when I was talking to my solicitor, but he advised me to keep it to myself. I think he was worried that I’d come across as being confused about what had happened. Unconvincing, he said. I think that was one of the reasons they suggested I didn’t give evidence in court.’

‘I wondered about that,’ Tanner said.

‘Trust me, I was happy enough not having to go through it,’ Brady said.

‘I knew who he was by then and I never wanted to clap eyes on Peter Brightwell again if I didn’t have to.

They said it wouldn’t make any difference at the end of the day anyway – that me not going in the witness box wouldn’t matter because the DNA evidence was so solid. ’

‘I understand,’ Tanner said.

Brady dropped her cigarette and ground it out. ‘And they were right, because it didn’t matter, did it?’

‘No,’ Tanner said.

Brady turned to look back at the pub, said, ‘Are we about done?’

Tanner thanked the woman once again for her co-operation, especially as it must have been so difficult.

Walking back to the car with Desai, she was thinking that no, the victim not giving evidence herself had not made any material difference, because her rapist had been rightfully convicted.

But she was also thinking that what Siobhan Brady had left out of her statements could end up mattering a great deal.