Fry watched him steadily, detecting his unease.
‘You do have DNA?’
‘Well…’
‘You do have DNA evidence, don’t you?’
‘We have a bit of problem,’ he said.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘There seems to have been some procedural issues with the DNA evidence. Contamination.’ Blake raised his hands in an appeal for understanding. ‘We think the CPS are taking an overly cautious attitude, but you know what it’s like…’
‘Tell me the truth,’ said Fry. ‘What’s the strength on Shepherd and Barnes? Have we got a case?’
‘Not one the CPS will run with.’
‘What about my statement?’
‘Its evidential value is limited.’
‘Evidential value?’
‘Well, okay, Diane — the fact is, as evidence it’s practically worthless. But it does give us another lead.’
‘Does it?’
‘We won’t be abandoning the case altogether.’
‘Oh, yes? With a hundred other cold cases waiting their turn?’
Fry knew she must be only one of scores of victims waiting for justice. She practically could see Blake’s fingers twitching to stamp her file NFA — ‘No Further Action’.
‘It’s just going to take more time, that’s all,’ he said.
That’s all? No matter how many platitudes Blake and Murchison and their team spouted about support, and putting the victim first, they always fell back on the jargon. It was as if they were going through a prepared script, hiding behind a barricade of acronyms and euphemisms. It must be useful to be able to protect yourself from the nasty odours of unpleasant reality with a mask of officialdom, to swat away that irritating fly with a closed case file.
‘We can interview pub staff and customers to find out who was at the Connemara that night.’
‘So many years ago? You’re kidding.’
A splash of coffee fell on to the glass-topped table and began to spread. They both watched it widen, then stop as it lost its impetus. It would stain unless someone wiped it off.
Fry could feel the anger growing inside her now, rushing through her veins in an adrenalin surge. Her hand was shaking as she put the cup back in its saucer. Blake stared at it, responding to the rattle of china as if to the sound of gunfire. Damn cappuccino. She’d never really liked it anyway.
‘Paragraph 10.4,’ said Fry.
‘Sorry?’
‘The CPS code for the prosecution of rape cases. The Code sets out the obligations of the CPS towards victims. One of these obligations is to tell a victim if the CPS decides that there is insufficient evidence to bring a prosecution, and explain why they’ve made the decision. Normally they do it by writing a letter to the victim. But if a police officer notifies the victim, it means the decision not to charge has been during a face-to-face consultation with that officer — without a full evidential report. That’s paragraph 10.4. I expect we’ll be moving on to 10.5. A personally delivered explanatory letter.’
‘Under the CPS/ACPO Rape Protocol — ’
‘You can stop now,’ said Fry. ‘Just stop, okay?’
Everything had been done by the book. In this case, the book was the CPS/ACPO Rape Protocol. Snappy title. It could be a best seller.
Fry stood up, pushing her chair back so hard that it scraped on the floor. Blake placed both his hands on the table, as he might do if he was feeling threatened by an aggressive suspect in an interview room. He was still seated and motionless, so as not to provoke more aggression, but poised to respond if necessary.
Fry couldn’t deny that she wanted to hit him, wanted to do it so much that it was eating her up inside, needed it so badly that she could almost feel the impact run up her arm as her fist smashed into his smug face. Let him smile with a broken nose, the bastard.
‘So they’ll escape justice.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it like that.’
‘What way would you put it? What is the politically correct management-speak these days for letting a rapist off the hook?’
‘Diane — ’ he said.
‘Don’t say any more. Just shut up.’
‘But — ’
‘Shut up.’
The urge to commit violence was slowly passing. In its place, Fry felt a cold determination taking over her heart. Enough was enough.
13
Diane Fry remembered the immediate aftermath of the attack in Digbeth that night. In those first few minutes, her thoughts lost in a turmoil of shock and pain and fear, it had been foremost in her mind to say nothing about what had happened to anyone, or not to report it as a rape, at least. She’d felt so ashamed that it had happened, shuddered at the thought of what people would say — and, worse, what they would be thinking. The idea of going back to the car and telling Andy Kewley, then having to explain it again to her colleagues, over and over again, the way she knew that it went…well, she could hardly bear to think about it.
She recalled standing in the darkness, clinging to the wire fence to support herself, then searching on the ground for her radio handset, finding the pieces crushed into the dirt, feeling in the pockets of her jacket for her phone before realizing that it had been taken.
And then she had sobbed for the first time, feeling herself so desperately alone and helpless in the darkness, terrified of what might be lurking in the shadows, frightened of what lay waiting for her back in the glare of the streetlights. She was scared to be alone, yet more afraid of being with other people. Her skin crawled with disgust, her body’s instinct was to shut down, to turn away from the world and curl up in a ball.
She also remembered hearing the sound of water. The dirty brown River Rea sucking against the bricks, thick and sludged with rubbish, carrying away the dirt and detritus of Digbeth. She thought of the river disappearing under the walls of factories, deep in its own tunnel, water swirling in the darkness where no one would ever see it.
Why not another piece of debris, a bit of rubbish used and tossed aside by the world? It would be so much easier than all the endless hassle and humiliation that faced her. So much more final, so quick, so inviting…
‘Do you think it’s because you’re a cop?’
Angie was doing her best. Understanding didn’t come naturally to her, but even she was shocked by the suddenness of the blow that had fallen, and the effect it had on her sister. They were in Diane’s room in the hotel off Broad Street, the only place Diane could tolerate for a meeting. Thank God for the anonymity of a hotel, where no one knew who she was, or cared.
‘Why would you think that?’ she said.
‘I dunno. I’m just turning things over in my head, and that’s what came out of my mouth. It’s just that it all feels, well…’
‘Wrong?’
‘Yeah. Well, damn it — it’s definitely that.’
‘Yes.’
Diane flopped back on her bed. They sat silently together for a few minutes. If she closed her eyes, she could picture herself back in Warley as a twelve-year-old, telling her big sister her troubles, waiting for Angie to come up with a solution and make everything right again.
