Greenwich Park(32)

I guessed the conclusion, even before I came to the end of the cuttings. There was a picture of the two smirking defendants on the Cambridge courtroom steps. Quotes from their lawyers complaining that they should have had anonymity too, that their young lives had been shattered. And at the very bottom, a few words from the senior investigating officer, about the bravery of the victim in coming forward, his hope that the verdict would not deter others from doing so. His name was DCI Mark Carter.

I saved the cuttings in a folder on my laptop, clicking and dragging each article one by one. As I did so, I noticed the date of the offence. It had all happened in the summer of 2008. I counted on my fingers. Hadn’t Helen still been at Cambridge University that summer?



The next time I spoke to Helen on the phone, I asked her if she remembered it.

‘There was loads in the national papers,’ I told her. ‘The Boathouse Rape, they called it. A young girl who turned up at one of those May week parties at Cambridge, the summer you left. She said two male students had got her drunk and raped her.’

Helen didn’t respond straight away.

‘Helen, are you still there?’

‘Yes. Sorry. Can’t remember it,’ she said vaguely. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘No reason really. Just researching the detective on this current case. Thought you might remember it, what it was like being at the university when something like that was happening.’

‘Oh, right, I see.’ Her voice was odd. She sounded relieved. ‘Well, I think we’d left by the time all that was really in the news.’ I frowned. I thought she’d said she didn’t remember it being in the news?

‘All rise.’

The case is breaking for a bit. Everyone stands. When I look up, DCI Carter is gone. He must have slipped out the back. I had been hoping to lure him to the pub at lunchtime, try and get a bit more out of him. Ask if he ever passed the victim my letter.

I head to the toilets. It occurs to me how tired I am. I think about seeing Charlie tonight. He has promised to cook me pasta, and I can stop thinking about the case for a while. Maybe after dinner we can watch The Apprentice and laugh at the contestants. If I can get back in time – the last time I drove from Cambridge to Charlie’s flat in east London, it had taken me two hours. My heart had sunk when I’d seen the long snake of red brake lights cramped together on the motorway. It occurred to me how much I wanted to get back to Charlie, how homesick I felt for him, how much I longed to see the light on at the window of his little top-floor flat.

I step out of the cubicle to wash my hands. I close my eyes as the warm water washes over my hands, inhale the lemon smell of the soap. I haven’t had a day off for weeks now. I long to lie in a bath, soak the exhaustion from my body. Curl up under a duvet without first setting an alarm for 6 a.m.

When I open my eyes, she is standing straight in front of me, on the cheap lino of the courtroom toilets, next to the hand dryers. Her cuffs are pulled over her fingers, her fists balled up inside the sleeves of her cardigan as if for protection. Her hair looks unwashed, her eyes puffy. It’s Emily Oliver. The victim.

Our eyes meet. I take a deep breath. The situation feels surreal. Surely a victim in a criminal case has access to their own toilet? It seems hideous that she is here, that she should have to bump into me like this.

‘I got your letter,’ she says flatly. She rubs one eye with a balled-up hand. ‘But they told me not to talk to you.’ I notice the skin around her thumbnail is bitten to bleeding.

‘I’m sure they did,’ I say. I shake my hands dry gently, wipe them on my trousers. I don’t want to come closer, to risk setting off the hand dryers, breaking the spell. I don’t want any noise.

‘I can’t talk to anyone. Even my therapist,’ she says. She looks up at me, angry now. ‘Did you know that? Even what I say to my therapist could be used against me. That’s what they said.’ Her voice is brittle, catching in her throat. ‘I can’t talk to anyone.’

I pause, weigh my words carefully. ‘The police are right,’ I tell her, my voice so soft it is almost a murmur. ‘They’re trying to protect you. They’re right that you shouldn’t talk to anyone – not at the moment. Not before the end of the trial. So if anyone asks you to – any of the other journalists – I would say no.’

‘What about after?’

I take a deep breath. She is a bird, inching towards my outstretched hand. One false move and she will fly away.

‘That’s up to you,’ I say, slowly. ‘But, if you would like to tell your story, I could help you, if that was what you wanted.’

In the mirror I can see the door, its tarnished handle, the sign that says PLEASE WASH YOUR HANDS. I stare at the door and will it not to open. If anyone else comes in, this conversation will be over.

‘Do you believe me?’

I take a tiny step forward. Look her in the eye.

‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘I do.’

‘Does the jury?’ Her voice is slow, controlled, but her teeth are gritted. ‘Or do they believe them?’ This last word is pronounced with quiet venom.

I hesitate. I think about saying yes. But I need to tell the truth. And the truth is that it is complicated. She is not the perfect victim. She drank. She flirted. She prevaricated over the decision to report.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, eventually. ‘But you have done everything you possibly could.’