Кара Хантер - All the Rage

I take her hand. `˜It's about the trial, isn't it,' I say softly. `˜The evidence you gave at the trial.'

She looks at me. `˜But how `“'

`˜I know. Alex, my darling, I've always known.'

* * *THE CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURTThe Old BaileyLondon EC4M 7EHBEFORE:THE HONOURABLE MR. JUSTICE HEALEYR E G I N Av.GAVIN FRANCIS PARRIE

MR. R. BARNES Q.C. and MISS S. GREYappeared on behalf of the prosecution.MRS. B. JENKINS Q.C. and MR. T. CUTHBERTappeared on behalf of the defendant.Tuesday, 16th November, 1999[Day 23]ALEXANDRA SHELDON, recalledExamined by MRS. JENKINSQ. Ms. Sheldon, I'd like to ask you some further questions, if I may, about the events of January 3rd this year. I apologise for having to put you through this again, but this is, as you must be aware, a crucial element of the prosecution's case. Indeed, quite possibly the single most crucial element of all. You, as a trainee solicitor yourself, must appreciate that.MR. BARNES: My Lord, if I may interject, the witness cannot be expected to comment on such matters.MR. JUSTICE HEALEY: Mrs. Jenkins, perhaps you might move on.MRS. JENKINS: My Lord. So, Ms. Sheldon, it is still your contention, is it, that you did not enter Mr. Parrie's garage premises at any time that day?A. That's correct.Q. You didn't try the door before the police came, just to see if it was unlocked?A. No.Q. In fact, as we have heard, the door was indeed locked, but Mr. Parrie kept a spare key above the lintel `“ a key which anyone who might have been watching him that day could have seen him take down and use to open the door.A. I told you, I didn't go in. They'd have found my fingerprints on the handle if I had. And on the key.Q. Not necessarily, Ms. Sheldon. Not if you were wearing gloves. And according to Met Office records it was a bright but very cold day on January 3rd `“ the temperature barely exceeded six degrees.A. I wasn't wearing gloves.Q. So you didn't go in, and you didn't leave anything inside?A. I told you.Q. Like strands of your hair, for example? Such as were subsequently discovered by the police?A. No, like I said. And I'd had my hair cut short weeks before. Where would I have got strands that long?Q. You might have had some in your handbag? On your hairbrush?A. How often do you clean your brush?Q. That's hardly the point `“A. I clean mine every few days. Like most women. The assault had happened four months before.MR. BARNES: My Lord, if I may, we have already heard evidence from the police forensic scientist that hair recovered from a brush would have been knotted in a clump, not in the long `˜free' strands retrieved from the garage.MRS. JENKINS: One final question, Ms. Sheldon. The court has heard that you had never met Detective Sergeant Fawley prior to the night you were assaulted, on September 4th 1998. Is that true?A. Yes, it is.MRS. JENKINS: No further questions, my Lord.* * *It's a man who opens the door. His hair is wet and he has a towel wrapped round his waist and another in his hand.

`˜Who the hell are you?'

`˜DC Erica Somer, Thames Valley Police, and DC Andrew Baxter. This is DI Giles Saumarez. Is Mrs Webb in?'

He stares at them all one by one. `˜Nah. She's gone shopping for Patsie. Something to `њcheer her up`ќ, the spoilt little bitch.'

His contempt is palpable. The last time she was here Somer came away wondering whether this man could have been abusing Denise Webb's daughter `“ so much so that she checked his whereabouts for the night Sasha died. But he was nowhere near the place.

`˜Can we come in?'

`˜What's this about? The Blake kid again?'

`˜Did you know Sasha, Mr Riley?'

If he's surprised she knows his name, he doesn't show it. `˜Yeah, I met her once or twice. Nice kid. Quiet. Polite. Never could see what she saw in bloody Patsie.'

He steps back and the three of them troop past him into the hall. There's a bag of tools on the floor by the stairs and a high-viz jacket hooked over the bannisters.

`˜You're a builder, aren't you, Mr Riley?'

He grins at her. `˜Fuck me, you really are a detective.'

`˜Do you know someone called Ashley Brotherton?'

He starts a little, and a wariness creeps into his face. `˜Yeah. Worked with him a few times on jobs. Why?'

`˜Did you know Patsie was seeing him?'

`˜Seeing him as in shagging him? Yeah, I thought she might be. I saw them in town once.'

Jesus, thinks Somer `“ if only they'd thought to talk to this tosser before `“

`˜You didn't tell her mother? She's fifteen `“'

A smile curls nastily about his mouth. `˜So fucking what? And in any case, Den's made it balls-achingly clear that Patsie is her business not mine. So as far as I'm concerned, what that little cow does or doesn't do is absolutely nothing to do with me.'

He's towelling his hair now. He has tattoos all up one arm and a snake twisting across his shoulders `“ the same one, Somer suddenly realizes, that Denise Webb has.

`˜Didn't you search Patsie's stuff already?' he says. `˜Den said some of your blokes came and took her laptop.'

Saumarez takes a step forward. `˜Does Patsie have a TV in her room, Mr Riley?'

`˜No,' he says, frowning. `˜Just the one down here.'

`˜And you have, what, Sky? Virgin?'

`˜Sky,' he says. `˜For the sport.' He looks at Somer and then at the two men. `˜That's what you want to see? The telly ?'

`˜If you don't mind,' says Somer.

He smiles again. `˜Go ahead `“ knock yourself out. If you can find anything to incriminate that little bitch you'll be doing me a favour big-time. In the meantime, I'm going upstairs.'

* * *

28 August 1998, 10.45 p.m.Kubla Nightclub, High Street, Oxford It's crowded in the bar. Friday night and everyone's a bit wired. Apart, that is, from the young man with dark hair sitting at the bar, who's had the same pint slowly warming up in front of him for over an hour. He hasn't been alone all that time `“ he had a mate with him until a few minutes ago `“ but whatever they were talking about, it must have been something serious because he hasn't been doing much smiling. But now his friend has gone and the young man has twisted round on his stool he can observe what's going on in the rest of the bar. He's good at that `“ watching people, working them out. There's a scattering of couples `“ some at tables, a few dancing. One pair who've been needling each other all night are now on the brink of a row, another pair are definitely in the jittery stages of a first date. Groups of lads gripping fancy beer bottles by the neck and laughing just a bit too hard. And a group of women on a hen night in the far corner. Not teenagers `“ they must all be in their mid-twenties. No embarrassing inflatable body parts either, just satin sashes and tiaras and a balloon tied to the back of the bride-to-be's chair. He'd have known which one she was anyway, even without that: she's wearing a pink diamantГ© hairslide saying TAKEN in large glittery letters, which she's tried to take off several times, only to have it firmly reinstated by her friends.

Just along the bar, the hen-in-chief is now ordering a round of cosmos and something in a tulip-shaped glass that involves a cocktail shaker, a cherry on a stick and a sparkler. It's evidently destined for the bride-to-be, who catches sight of what's going on and gets to her feet. The young man at the bar isn't the only one to notice her: it's hard to ignore that long dark hair, the red heels she's probably now regretting, those violet-blue eyes.

She doesn't appear drunk `“ unlike some of her companions `“ but the young man has a hunch the wine has had its effect, all the same. She eventually makes it to the bar, after evading several attempts to get her to dance, and slides on to a stool next to her friend. She's six feet away from him now.

She gestures at the cocktail glass. `˜If you think I'm drinking that, you've got another think coming.'