Greenwich Park by Katherine Faulkner (read book txt) 📗

are panelled with fake wood, the light artificial. There are no windows.

‘The case before Her Ladyship is the Queen against Mr Toby Letwin and Mr Roland Bartholomew.’

Simon, from the Press Association, is in the seat in front of me. I tap him on the shoulder. ‘Have we got opening statements?’ I hiss at him. He rolls his eyes, pulls a folded piece of paper from his notebook and hands it back to me, like a schoolboy passing notes.

‘Toby Letwin, you are charged with rape contrary to section 1 of the Sexual Offences Act 1956, in that you, Toby Letwin, together with Roland Bartholomew, did on the 14th of October 2017 rape Emily Oliver at 22 Green Street in Cambridge. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’

‘Not guilty.’

As the clerk reads out the charges, I pretend to take notes. But instead, I am searching the public gallery, looking for the detective. I am sure he will be here somewhere.

Eventually I spot him, sitting on the back row, away from the families. He is off duty, no uniform, but he has worn a suit anyway. His face does not change as the clerk speaks. But when the first defendant states his not guilty plea, his expression hardens.

The prosecution barrister stands for his opening statement. The court falls silent. We hear of a drunken night out, of words exchanged over social media about girls, about sex, about bravado. And then we hear the stuff of female nightmares – of DNA scraped from sheets and from the internal reaches of a woman’s body, of bruising, of vomit, of a neighbouring door battered late into the night. Of a barefoot stranger, a tearful appeal for help.

When the court rises, I watch the detective carefully. I slip out as quickly as I can, and try to head in his direction. For a moment, I can’t find him, and I worry he has left already. But then I see him retreating down the corridor, his footfalls echoing against the high ceilings.

‘DCI Carter?’

He stops, turns round slowly, looks me up and down.

‘Katie Wheeler, I presume,’ he says.

‘That’s me.’ I smile, pleased.

‘I had a feeling it was you, eyeballing me from the press bench.’ His tone is stern, but he looks as if he might be suppressing a smile. ‘You do realise stalking is actually a crime, don’t you?’

‘Sorry. Like I said in my message –’

‘Messages.’

‘Oh, right. Yes. Messages … um, I was hoping we could have a chat. About the background.’

He opens his mouth to speak, but stops when another reporter brushes past, shooting me a suspicious glance.

‘Look,’ he says, lowering his voice, ‘you have to go through the press office like everyone else, Katie. You know that.’

I do know that. In theory. But I have done my homework – well, I’ve asked Chris, the crime correspondent – and so I know that DCI Mark Carter is a bit old school, and therefore not averse to chatting to reporters, sometimes. And that he’s done his thirty years with the Cambridgeshire Constabulary, and is expected to retire not long after this case.

‘Please?’ I say, in a way I desperately hope is charming. ‘Just a couple of tiny questions? All embargoed until the end of the trial, obviously. And definitely, definitely off the record.’

He says nothing, but he doesn’t say no. He glances over my shoulder, at the door that says REST AREA.

‘The coffee in there is horrible,’ I add.

He laughs, rolls his eyes. ‘Fine, you win,’ he mutters. ‘Costa, round the back. Downstairs table. Fifteen minutes. Max.’

In the end, he doesn’t give away much, but it is enough to fill in some gaps. As I suspected, the police and prosecutors are incredibly nervous about this trial. The victim has already been vilified on social media, something DCI Carter believes has been led by friends of the defendants. He also thinks the boys and their wealthy families have been tacitly supporting this vile campaign against her – though it sounds like he doesn’t have proof. There are even rumours of the boys’ fathers offering substantial sums in return for any evidence against the victim.

Meanwhile, the girl has already had to have two new identities as a result of being named on the internet. She has been moved away, for her own protection, to an area where she has no family support. Something he says makes me wonder if she has made an attempt on her own life.

‘I’m trusting you to tread carefully here,’ he says firmly, jabbing a stirring stick into the remains of his coffee and swirling it around. ‘This is all for the end, and nothing came from me.’ He glances down at my notebook. ‘No quotes.’

‘I could just put “a source close to the –”’

‘No.’

He is staring down into his coffee cup. I pause, wondering if I should push my luck. After a few moments, I slide him a sealed envelope, a letter I wrote last night.

‘Is there any chance you could pass this to the victim?’

DCI Carter looks up, sees the envelope. He almost laughs.

‘Katie, I really wouldn’t hold your breath.’

‘I know. But if there is any possibility. We would love to talk to her. You know, so she can tell us her side.’

He sighs. I can tell he’s heard it all before. All the same, he takes my letter, puts it in his jacket pocket. Then he wipes his mouth.

‘Anyway. I need to get off.’

I stand up. ‘Thanks so much. Can I have your card? Your … mobile number maybe? Just in case there’s, um, anything else?’

He rolls his eyes, reaches inside his jacket, flicks out a card between two fingers. ‘Just for you.’ He fixes two pale blue eyes on me, taps the card against the table. ‘Not everyone in the bloody office. Got that?’

‘Absolutely.’ I grin. ‘Thanks.’

‘And don’t talk to me at court. I don’t want the whole world on my case.’

‘Got it.’

I feel the thickness of his card in my hands. He pulls his coat off the back of his chair, swings