Read Best Served Cold Page 3


  Fifteen minutes in the shower. Washed, washed again and then once more. You popped your head into my lap. You managed to get to the lift okay. Was there no one who saw her off her face? No one to say she’d been taken advantage of? I’m very flattered but please don’t misunderstand. Christ, he’s positioning this as me seducing him.

  She knew from forensic experience that bruises might appear over the next few hours but there was nothing to suggest she’d been raped. Even if her labia were bruised, who’s to say that was anything other than vigorous sex? Everything to show consenting adults as part of a night’s celebrations. Why not?

  Niven was known to be single. Ben wasn’t available for the evening. Christ, he’d even left his DNA all over the place. How cocky was that? The glass she drank from last night would have been through the steriliser by now.

  There was nothing that would cause police to interview Niven for his side of the story. And they’d need something solid to begin to interrogate a High Court judge.

  The sick bastard wouldn’t even feel a moment’s discomfort. He might even boast of a conquest.

  Well, not for long. His time would come.

   

  Chapter 6

  At her choice, Sasha spent the day alone. She’d taxied back to her Holmwood Road house, the journey completed in uncharacteristic silence. She went straight to her living room, still dim before the sun had appeared.

  On the bookcase she grabbed a photo that sat between self-help books and old legal texts and alongside a formal portrait of her father, in his wig and gown. The photo she held showed various QCs at Mac’s ‘retirement’ function. He’d only wound his practice back to twenty hours a week, but any excuse for a celebration would do.

  Marching to the kitchen with the photo wrenched from the frame, she found scissors in the junk drawer and excised the rapist. Appropriately, Mac was in the centre and Niven was out to the right. Diplock QC was collateral damage. Slamming her heavy wooden chopping board onto the bench, Sasha seized a knife and inflicted multiple wounds on her target. She stopped only when she couldn’t see through her tears.

  She changed into her pyjamas and white dressing gown, then filled a hot water bottle and clasped the warmth to her body. For thirty minutes she sobbed, wondering what she’d done, how she’d contributed.

  Through puffy eyes she saw a file tied with pink ribbon. The Queen v. Frederick Fowler. She sighed. I don’t need this. Not attempted rape. I can’t do this.

  What are you saying? You have to do the right thing. It’s unprofessional to pull out at such short notice. It’s not only Fowler who’s depending on you, the court is. Police, witnesses, a whole jury panel – all coming into court.

  But it’s unprofessional to go ahead – it’s a bloody rape case. What sort of defence...’

  Get a grip. Yes, you were raped. But there was no knife, there was no terror. You were asleep. Fowler’s up for attempted rape and he’s got a legitimate defence. You role play, that’s all. Fowler’s not like Niven.

  After another hot shower three slugs of vodka helped her to refocus. She slowly pulled the tape off the brief. The trial was tomorrow. Snivelling won’t do you any good. You get up and go to school, young lady. Your father never missed a day at work.

  The complainant, forty-year-old Christine Thomas, was a food technologist and pharmacy assistant separated from her husband after fifteen years of marriage. She now lived with her parents, Trevor and Michelle Thomas, in their Park Terrace home. Dad was a financier – insurance and investments in the rural sector. He’d been doing it for decades. Her mother lived the life of a lady who lunches, with a passion for shoes, soap operas and being seen in the right places.

  Freddie Fowler’s first appearance in court involved an unprecedented sequence of events. Fowler, about the same age as Christine, had been a recent arrival to Christchurch when the couple met. He’d hooked up with her through Jack Dench, the man he came to work for.

  Sasha’s partner Ben Tyler, a reporter for The People, told her what had happened. Tyler’s stepfather, the superintendent of Christchurch Prison, referred the traumatised Fowler to Sasha.

  In the visiting room, Sasha had asked, ‘But why plead guilty to something you didn’t do?’

  ‘Thing is, this Sean O’Leary, my so-called brief, gives me some crap when I’m in the court cells. You know, stuff about an early guilty plea, that being a first offender was worth a hell of a lot more now than it was if we had a trial and I went down. He says Christine and her father would be powerful witnesses against me. That it would be my word against theirs. He said he could keep me outa prison. I thought, what the hell. Cough to it with a large fine, some PD and shit at worst. Or, he says, I could play hard ball and still end up in prison with a broken arsehole.’

  ‘And this was your first time in court on this charge?’ she’d asked dubiously.

  ‘First time in court – ever! Now I’ve got every psycho eyeing me up for breakfast, lunch and dinner. After two days, the score is three all between guys who want a piece of me and guys offering to provide protection for who knows what. Can you get me outa here?’

  The Law Society confirmed Sasha’s suspicions. O’Leary was a lot more conman than he was a lawyer. There were three records of O’Leary admissions to the bar but none had a current practising certificate. Sasha knew the police wouldn’t be involved in such a dodgy practice. That left only the complainant Christine and her family as likely fraud culprits.

  Fowler’s appeal and request for the rehearing was a no-brainer for the High Court. To its credit, the Crown offered little opposition. Fowler was immediately bailed and remanded to allow time for Sasha to take full instructions before the preliminary hearing. She hadn’t warmed to him – too cocky – but his experience had been genuinely frightening and a force much bigger than him had been at work.

  Her thoughts interrupted by an enthusiastic Mac on the phone. ‘There might be something we can do about Michael Fraser-Clark.’ Sasha pictured him at the other end, bright eyes like lights under black hedges.

  ‘We could advertise in England, perhaps have an investigator find out whether the son is alive or whether there are any children of his sister Eileen, or Michael for that matter. Unless he’s had a serious illness or accident, Albert’s son should still be alive. He’d be close to fifty years old. And if he were dead, he may have had children. Who knows what might turn up? But it might be a trifle expensive, my dear.’

  ‘Oh well, such is life.’ She could hear how tired and flat she sounded.

  Mac let her response hang. ‘Are you okay, Sash? You don’t sound yourself. Or is it that I’ve just got you at a bad time?’

  Guilty on both counts. ‘Sorry, Mac. I should be sharing in your enthusiasm. I’m a bit tired for some reason and I’ve got my head in this Fowler brief – the trial starts tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course. Quite understand. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’

  ‘Look, don’t mind me. We need to do what’s right. Can you get started on the search? I’m happy to fund it and work with you on it. It would make me feel a whole lot better. But I need to get this Fowler case off my plate first.’

  ‘Let’s share the cost, Sash. I’ll get things under way.’

  Sasha rallied, did her best to be convincing as again she heard her mother’s voice. It’s how you deal with what happens to you that matters. Yes, it was rape, technically, but she would put it behind her, put it out of her mind until the time was right to tell.

  ‘Cheers, Mac. I’ve been thinking a lot about Dad today. You know, since you told me about that case. I’m just grateful he doesn’t know what’s happened and Mum, well… you know.’

  Christine was an excellent witness at the preliminary hearing -calm, measured, clear, conveying an air of confidence and credibility. After several email exchanges with Fowler, she’d mentioned a forthcoming student union party on the Ilam campus.

  She ‘sort of invited him’. They’d be in a group
of friends. She’d liked his humour and wanted trusted friends to check him out. ‘It’s a bit more difficult after a long relationship. You sort of want the opinions of others again, like you did when you were a teenager.’

  She lived with her parents, for financial reasons – Dad was never going to let her live in some run-down flat – and Mum was also providing emotional support. Although she and Fowler swapped phone numbers after emailing, he turned up at her parents’ house without invitation. And it wasn’t the first time he’d been there. Fowler had once been tossed out after a heated exchange in which he’d accused her father of squandering money belonging to friends or relatives.

  On the day of the incident, Christine said Fowler arrived at the house and wandered around as though he was checking the place out. He said he was hot for her and started to undo his trousers, saying he wanted her on her parents’ bed. She said that wasn’t going to happen, that they needed to take it easy.

  Fowler called her a cock teaser. She tried to plead with him, get him to see sense. She didn’t want to jump into a relationship after being married for such a long time. He told her he was having her one way or another. She thought she could put him off and said her parents were due back any minute. ‘But he was already hard, putting a condom on. He said he wouldn’t need long. That he wouldn’t mind if Mr Thomas caught him with his sword buried to the hilt.’

  He lunged at her, knocking her onto the sofa in the living room, reaching under her skirt, yanking down her knickers and attempting to enter her. She told him to piss off, pushed at him, wriggled around to make it difficult. He lost his erection and demanded she suck him off.

  The horrific incident came to an end when the home phone rang. He was in the background, muttering a string of abusive expletives. She didn’t see him leave.

   

  Chapter 7

  Crown Prosecutor Marshall Hall concluded Christine’s evidence-in-chief by producing her bagged up skirt and ripped underwear attached to a cardboard frame. The skirt, at least, was in complete contrast to the black tailored suit she wore to court. She made it obvious she didn’t want to look, but yes, she was wearing them on the day in question. The prosecutor sat down, asking her to remain and answer any questions from his learned friend.

  Sasha stood up. You got through yesterday. Just get into role and stay there. Focus. She looked at the pale face glaring at her, the Roman nose and sharply angled jaw framed by fiery red hair. ‘How clearly do you recall these events, Christine?’

  ‘Very. Being sexually assaulted tends to be a memorable event, wouldn’t you say?’

  Marshall Hall smiled but Sasha forced herself to look phlegmatic.

  Christine’s bravado was short-lived as Sasha relentlessly exposed the inconsistencies between her police statement, closer to the time of the incident, and her evidence in court. In the end, Christine was forced to concede that her most recent memory wasn’t quite what she thought it was. Sasha got her to admit that Fowler had arrived just after her parents had gone out to the movies.

  ‘And that was just a coincidence, was it – that he should turn up right after your parents left?

  ‘Of course.’ Christine’s tone was defiant.

  ‘I want you to think carefully about this, Ms Thomas. Isn’t it true that Freddie came to your house because you asked him to?’ Marshall Hall had referred to Fowler as the accused, depersonalising him for the jury, but Sasha presented him as Freddie.

  ‘That’s not true. I told him the day before, it was all off, and I didn’t want to see him again.’

  ‘And this was because Trevor, your father, disapproved of Freddie, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I think it was more that we didn’t really click together.’

  ‘Anyway, he came round and you didn’t want him there at all. Is that right?’

  ‘Of course not – we were over, finito.’

  Sasha smiled. ‘Your front door has a peep hole in it so you can see the person outside. Is that correct?

  ‘Yes, but I don’t always use it.’ Christine sounded apprehensive.

  ‘So, despite not wanting him at your house, you still let him in the door, didn’t you?’ Sasha smiled again.

  Christine’s eyes were darting about. ‘I…well, I…he looked distressed, he looked like he needed to talk, I felt I had to try and let him down gently.’

  Sasha glanced at the jury, hoping they’d seen more than a woman with stylish red hair in a smart suit. She hoped they’d seen what she’d seen: a witness who was lying and prepared to gabble excuses made up in the moment. ‘So you did look through the hole?’

  Sasha leant forward, drawing the jury’s attention as she emphasised the point.

  Christine frowned. ‘I guess I must have.’

  ‘Just something else you can’t quite remember, isn’t it, Ms Thomas?’

  Christine tightened her mouth but said nothing.

  ‘Ms Thomas, you never ended your relationship with Freddie at all, did you?’

  ‘You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I suggest not only was your relationship a sexual one, but you continued to have consensual sex with Freddie long after you made your complaint to the police. That’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘He may have told you that, but it’s a lie.’

  Sasha extracted a concession that Christine had told no one about the incident, but remembering her failure to tell Mac last night, she couldn’t look at the witness. Keep going.

  ‘Wouldn’t telling someone of your alleged ordeal be part of, to use your own words, a memorable event?’

  ‘No. By the time you tell someone you’re out of the situation.’

  ‘It was ten days after the incident before you told the police, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Might have been. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted to make a complaint – not because he didn’t do it, but because I didn’t want to go through what I’m going through now with you, reliving the hell of it all.’

  Marshall Hall folded his arms and slowly and deliberately turned to look at the jury.

  ‘Freddie says that the two of you frequently had sex but he instructs me that was at your instigation.’

  ‘That’s rubbish!’

  ‘When he arrived, did he not say to you, “I see you’ve put your pussy pelmet on for me? You know that makes me horny.”’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ Anger clear, ‘This is all bullshit and you know it.’

  Justice Ravi Singh said, ‘Ms Stace, I’m not sure what you’re referring to by the term “pussy pelmet”.’

  Several of the jurors glanced sideways at one another, trying not to smile.

  ‘Your Honour, I will attempt to do so in a dignified way. Would the court attendant pass the witness her black skirt from the exhibit bag?’

  The jury noticed Christine’s reluctance to take the garment.

  Sasha continued, ‘Ms Thomas, would you please hold your skirt up so His Honour and the jury can see it.’

  Christine did so. ‘Surely this isn’t about what I wear. I find short skirts like this very comfortable.’

  ‘No one is challenging your right to wear what you want for whatever purpose you deem appropriate.’ Sasha looked at the jury and raised her eyebrows. ‘But would you agree that this particular skirt leaves little to the imagination?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s relevant.’

  Marshall Hall, about to object, resumed his seat saying, ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, Your Honour.’

  Ignoring Marshall, Sasha continued, ‘In fact, when you let Freddie into the house you weren’t wearing any underwear at all, were you?’

  ‘That’s a dirty lie.’

  ‘I suggest that your entire complaint is a lie. You initiated sex with Freddie, just as you had before the day in question and just as you have done since.’

  Christine scowled at Sasha. ‘How can you do this?’

  Ignoring the contempt, looking down at her notes, Sasha said, ‘Isn’t it t
rue that it’s your father who has driven this shameful allegation into this courtroom?’

  ‘Of course not. He’s supported me as you’d expect any father to. But it was my decision.’

  ‘The day before yesterday, Tuesday. Your rubbish collection day, isn’t it?’

  Christine looked discomforted by the sudden change in tack. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Yesterday – you had KFC for lunch at your house with Freddie, didn’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And after KFC, you had sex with Freddie again. Isn’t that true?’

  Christine looked at the Judge as if he might intercede. Singh was writing in a heavy bound notebook, his head down. ‘More lies, she answered,’ disgust palpable.

  ‘And the wrapping of that meal is still in your attic along with several of Freddie’s personal effects. That’s right, isn’t it?’ Sasha noted several of the jury craning forward.

  For the first time, Christine looked more worried than annoyed. ‘I had KFC, but not with Freddie.’

  Marshall Hall was on his feet. ‘Your Honour, this witness has already made it clear there is no on-going relationship with the accused and I fail to see the relevance of my learned friend’s fishing expedition in the complainant’s rubbish bin.’

  ‘Ms Stace?’ asked Singh.

  ‘Your Honour, my instructions are that the accused, contrary to the complainant’s evidence, had sex with her yesterday. I’m obliged to put this to her.’

  Singh nodded his approval to proceed.

  Sasha’s cross-examination ended with Christine’s refusals to answer further questions or permit the jury to visit the house, ‘without time to tidy it up’.

  When Trevor Thomas was called as a witness he agreed he found evidence that his daughter had been ‘fornicating’ with Fowler and that he’d earlier kicked him out of his house, ‘after the insolent fool insulted me’. They were his only concessions.

  Despite it being clear to the whole court that he was lying, he denied his daughter’s relationship was played out behind his back, denied requiring the relationship to end, denied laying the charge, denied driving the investigation and denied setting up Fowler with a false lawyer.