food on their plates and jewellery on their bodies; the boys scratched and yawned and used longer words than they seemed comfortable with.
Each kid around me appeared to have at least two conversations going, the first with their immediate neighbours, the second with some absent friend on the receiving end of text messages. The tinny beeping of texting was a constant backdrop to the buzz of conversation. Heads craned constantly to see who might have entered the room.
And this wasn’t even the busiest time. I’d sat in my room earlier, waiting for the queue outside the building to get smaller. I’d used the time to get to know my new laptop. Standard-issue Met laptops are ruggedized, serious pieces of kit that will stand up to a great deal of physical and intellectual punishment. They are as secure as you could hope a piece of IT equipment could be. One of those babies would have been far too conspicuous in the possession of an undergraduate, so I’d been given instead an off-the-shelf model along with clear instructions to keep it with me at all times, make sure the password requirement kicked in after sixty seconds of inactivity and not accept any incoming mail from unknown sources.
There was nothing in my inbox apart from a welcome email from Student Counselling Services with a Freshers’ questionnaire for me to fill in.
I’d glanced up. Still a queue. So I’d opened the Freshers’ questionnaire. Strictly confidential, totally anonymous, purely in the interests of researching general trends, etc., etc. I glanced quickly down the list of questions and decided it was needy, self-indulgent nonsense. Right up Laura Farrow’s street.
I went down the questionnaire ticking boxes and half laughed when I realized I sounded a complete basket- case. I stopped when I realized 99 per cent of what I’d put was absolutely true. I closed the file and sent it back.
When the Buttery started to clear I went too. Around me kids were inviting each other for coffee or making arrangements to meet in various pubs or bars later. I even heard someone talking about the library. It was nearly half past seven and I wanted nothing more than to go back to my room, make my first report to Joesbury and curl up with a book. No such luck. I had work to do.
Back at her desk, Evi accessed her clinic’s files. The detective calling herself Laura Farrow had picked up on the reference in Bryony’s notes to possible rapes. It had been the only time during their conversation that her self- control had seemed to be slipping.
Evi’s clinic had a policy of attaching key words to the summaries of patient consultations. Rape would almost certainly be one of them. Evi keyed rape into the search engine and waited.
Thirty-eight case files were found. The most recent was the case of Bryony Carter. The next on the list was that of a girl who’d been raped by her uncle when she was fourteen. Evi didn’t bother with the details. She closed the file down and moved on. There were several other cases that academic year, a few more in the previous year. None seemed relevant. Evi was starting to lose heart when she got to the case of Freya Robin, a plant sciences student. The computer files contained only summaries – the more detailed notes of meetings weren’t usually typed up – but there were still sufficient similarities to Bryony’s case for Evi to read carefully.
During the Lent term three years earlier, Freya had talked about bad dreams, problems sleeping and an unsubstantiated fear that someone was getting access to her room at night while she slept. One night she’d woken in the small hours, convinced she’d been raped. Her college friends, alarmed at the semi-hysterical state they’d found her in, had persuaded her to go to the police. No physical evidence had been found on her body, other than some scratches and minor bruising, and the rape test the police had carried out had proved inconclusive. With nothing to go on, the police had been unable to pursue the case.
Freya had drowned herself in a university swimming pool six weeks later.
Evi reached across the desk for the list of suicides. Freya Robin was on it.
Cross-checking the two lists, it didn’t take Evi long to find the rest. Donna Leather, a 21-year-old medical student, had never used the word ‘rape’ in her counselling sessions, but like Freya and Bryony had talked about bad dreams, often of a sexual nature; of feeling hungover and sluggish in the morning, although she claimed she hadn’t been drinking; of soreness in the genital region. ‘Violated’ was the word Donna had used to describe how she’d felt on certain mornings, but as though her own mind were doing the abusing. Donna hadn’t gone to the police. She’d hanged herself within two months of first raising her concerns.
The same year, French-language student Jayne Pearson had reported her suspicions of ongoing rape to the police. They’d found substantial levels of ketamine in her blood, although she’d sworn she’d never taken it. Unfortunately for the case, no conclusive physical evidence of rape was found. Jayne had died later that year, after a gunshot wound to the head. The fourth and last similar case Evi found was that of Danielle Brown, a neurology student from Clare College. Danielle’s claims were all too familiar by this stage. Bad dreams, trouble sleeping and vague recollections of sexual abuse whilst she’d been asleep. Danielle had hanged herself three days before the Christmas vacation but had been found before she’d suffocated.
The computer screen went into sleep mode but Evi didn’t notice.
Including Bryony, it made five instances of possible rape in five years. Statistically, that wasn’t remotely remarkable in itself. But when you factored in that all five women had attempted to take their own lives shortly afterwards, the coincidence was starting to feel stretched.
From: DC Lacey Flint
Subject: Field Report 1
Date: Tuesday 15 January, 22.22 GMT
To: DI Mark Joesbury, Scotland Yard
It’s now ten thirty in the evening, Sir. I’ve drunk so much coffee I’m hyper and enough mineral water to keep me on the loo all night. I’ve been chatted up by nineteen-year-old nerds who stand five foot four in heels and drunken jocks who think manly sweat a powerful aphrodisiac. And a lesbian with peroxide blonde hair who was easily the best company of the lot. Many more evenings like this and I might just try batting for the other team.
I stopped typing. I was whingeing on my first night on a case but – good God above – less than an hour after leaving my room I could cheerfully have wrapped a nylon rope round Joesbury’s neck and pulled it tight. The thought that I might have to keep this up for another three months was enough to give me suicidal thoughts. I’d wandered from library to TV room to coffee bar to pub. I’d been anywhere and everywhere I could find where students hung out. I’d made small talk all evening and learned nothing.
I leaned back in the chair, stretched and turned my head first one way then the other. A shiny blue jacket strung across the opposite desk and a faint floral scent reminded me of my room-mate’s existence. OK …
Evi Oliver is very bright and certainly committed to her job but seems nervy and uptight. Has issues of her own, in my opinion, and could well be the type to overreact to a problem. I take it you’ve run a background check, Sir. Any chance of sharing?
What I can’t ignore, though, are her concerns about the statistical anomalies in the suicide stats. Not only are there simply more of them than you would expect, but there is a disproportionate number of women on the list and the methods they’re choosing are untypically violent.
Practically none of what I’d written so far was in language suitable for a senior officer and I should just scrub it and start again, pretend I was writing to Dana Tulloch, or my DI at Southwark nick. Someone who didn’t rub me up the wrong way simply when I allowed myself to think about him.
I was too tired to start over. I went on to describe my visit to Bryony and her GP’s opinion that she was being neglected by her friends and family. It was nearly eleven o’clock by this stage and I had no idea whether Joesbury would be at home, on the top floor of that white-painted house in Pimlico, or out somewhere having fun.
Bryony Carter’s GP is exceptionally good looking and, whilst on the surface very nice, seems more involved with Bryony than I might expect a GP to be. Do you think I should try to get to know him a little better?
I finished by describing my visit to the site of Nicole Holt’s death.
The presence of another car on the road that night needs further investigation, in my view. I’ve compared the tyre print at the site with the prints of several tyres commonly used on Mini Coopers and found no matches at all. Not even close. A different vehicle was on that stretch of road close to the time Nicole died yet no mention of this in
