Hughes turns away. ‘I was just annoyed, that’s all. We were supposed to go out that night but then Caleb cancelled at the last minute so he could do her bloody babysitting.’
‘You were jealous.’
‘Yeah, I was jealous,’ she says acidly. ‘Happy now?’
‘So you turned up with a bottle of wine, thinking you could still spend some time together? But I’m guessing he wasn’t expecting you.’
She looks sulky. ‘It was supposed to be a surprise, wasn’t it.’
‘But he wouldn’t let you in.’
Her expression hardens. ‘He said he was working. That he didn’t want to be disturbed. Even by me.’
‘Especially as you were rather drunk already.’
There’s a silence. Then Hughes sits down heavily on the window seat.
‘OK,’ she says, ‘I’d had a few with my mates before I got there. But I wasn’t drunk.’
‘But he still didn’t want you in the house.’
She looks away. ‘He said I might wake up Tobin. That Marina wouldn’t like it.’ Her sarcasm is venomous.
‘And he pushed you away. Quite hard, from what the 101 caller said.’
Her eyes narrow and she’s suddenly wary. ‘Well, they’re wrong. He never touched me.’
‘The caller was pretty sure. And she had no reason to lie.’
Even if you do. The unspoken words echo in the room.
‘Like I said,’ she says. ‘It never happened.’
Ev breathes an inward sigh. How many times has she heard women say this? Women who’ve ‘fallen down the stairs’, ‘walked into a door’.
‘You do know that would be common assault, don’t you? Pushing someone like that?’
‘Oh, please.’
‘I’m serious. Just because you’re clever and educated and well off, doesn’t mean you can’t be a victim. Domestic violence can happen to anyone. And it often starts just like this – with things that seem trivial, only then there’s a next time, and a next –’
‘Are you thick or something? There won’t be a next time, because there wasn’t a first time.’
Ev makes a note, and takes her time doing it.
‘So you smashed the bottle you’d brought and stormed off.’
Hughes’ gaze flickers away, but she says nothing. This, at least, she can’t deny.
‘And then later that same night, he’s on your doorstep, telling you he’s been assaulted. By the same woman you’d been jealous of for months and whose house you weren’t even allowed into only a few hours before. How did that feel?’
Hughes flushes. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘What was it like then?’
‘He needed someone to talk to – he wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘And you advised him to report her?’
‘Of course I did. She tried to assault him. He had those scratches – he looked absolutely terrible. Aren’t the police always telling people to come forward – that too many abusers get away with it because crimes like this don’t get reported? Why should it be different just because it’s a bloke?’
Ev nods. ‘Yes, you’re right, we do say that. But false allegations are just as damaging as failing to make an allegation at all – arguably, more so. So I’m going to ask you straight – did you encourage him to exaggerate what happened or falsify it in any way?’
‘No.’
‘Even though this woman had been monopolizing your boyfriend? Even though you admit how angry you were?’
‘No. I didn’t. I told him to go to the college and tell them the truth.’ She holds Ev’s gaze. ‘Just like I’m doing now.’ She slides off the window seat and stands up. ‘And I’d like you to leave now, please. I have nothing else to say.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
9 July 2018
8.45
When I get to the office the following morning Quinn’s already got a whiteboard going. Blown-up pictures of Caleb Morgan and Freya Hughes that look like they come from their student ID cards, four or five snaps from the Balliol dinner, a couple of them a bit unfocused. Not unlike most of the attendees, I imagine, by the end. Quinn’s stuck a Post-it with an arrow on it next to one of them. It’s pointing at Marina Fisher’s wrist.
He comes up behind me as I’m standing there.
‘I take it you heard the 101 call?’
I nod; he emailed the recording over yesterday afternoon.
‘So, do we talk to Morgan?’
I shake my head. ‘I can’t see much point – Hughes is refusing to corroborate what the caller said and she’s bound to have told him Ev went to see her by now. He’s just going to come out with exactly the same story.’
‘Makes a difference, though, doesn’t it? To the allegation? Assuming we all agree Hughes is talking bullshit and he did actually push her, are we really supposed to believe he did exactly the same thing twice in the same night?’
I shrug. ‘We can’t prove he didn’t. Perhaps he does that sort of thing to women all the time. And even if he did push Hughes, it doesn’t mean he wasn’t assaulted by Fisher. But you’re right about one thing – we can’t afford to base this whole case solely on Morgan’s word. We couldn’t before and we certainly can’t now. So – what have we got?’
He makes a resigned face. ‘Not much. I managed to speak to a few of Fisher’s old colleagues at Imperial last night. The blokes were generally positive – thought she was great at her job, breath of fresh air, just what the department needed, blah blah blah. None of them bought the assault thing – the basic line was Fisher could fuck any bloke she liked so why bother trying to break into Morgan’s jockeys. I’m paraphrasing, of course.’
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard that from sexual predators over the years: ‘I can have any woman I want – I don’t need to rape anybody.’ It never got any of them off the hook and it shouldn’t be a get-out-of-jail card for Fisher either. Or am I just being naive? The law is blind, or ought to be, but sexual politics aren’t symmetrical. Perhaps that simply isn’t possible, however hard we try to rebalance the scales. Remember that old Joe Jackson song? Right or
