Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

‘Chronologically, she was the first one,’ said Sellers. ‘Do you think she was the trial run, and then the rapist thought, That was great, but I’d prefer it with a posh bird and an audience?’

‘Possibly,’ said Charlie. ‘Maybe—’ She broke off, thinking.

Proust emitted a leaden sigh. ‘Are we about to embark upon a flight of fancy?’

‘The two men Tanya described were in the restaurant where she worked, having a curry. She was the only member of staff there, the men were both drunk, it was late. Maybe that was the first attack, a spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment one. One of the men forgot all about it, or saw it as a one-off, but the other found he’d acquired a taste—’

‘Enough, Sergeant. You’re not—what do they call it?— pitching to Steven Spielberg. Now, if there’s nothing else . . .’ He rubbed his hands together.

‘Tanya from Cardiff’s an odd one out, for whatever reason,’ said Charlie. Let’s pursue the professional-women angle. Gibbs, look into businesswomen’s associations, anything like that.’

‘There was something on Radio Four yesterday,’ said Simon. ‘Some organisation that brought self-employed people together. Jenkins and Freeguard are both self-employed. Maybe the rapist is too.’

‘Kelvey isn’t. Wasn’t,’ said Gibbs.

‘Any progress on Yvon Cotchin?’ Charlie asked him.

‘I’ll get on to it,’ he said, looking bored. ‘But we’ll get nothing from her. She’ll tell us exactly what Jenkins has told her to tell us.’

Charlie stared at him sharply. ‘You should have spoken to her already. I told you to, and I’m now telling you again. Sellers, look for anything that might be someone trying to sell tickets to live rapes over the Internet, live sex shows, that sort of thing. And get on to SRISA and Speak Out and Survive, see if they’ve got contact details for Cardiff Tanya and survivor thirty-one. Name and address withheld is different from name and address not supplied.’ Sellers stood up, already on his way.

‘Simon, you explore the small theatre angle. Have I missed anything?’

‘You have, I think.’ Sam Kombothekra looked embarrassed. ‘The eye masks. Each of the three women was taken back, after the rape, to the spot where the attacker first approached her. Each was still wearing her eye mask when he drove away. Might he work for an airline? A pilot or steward would have easy access to as many masks as he needed, presumably.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Charlie diplomatically. ‘Although . . . well, it’s easy enough to buy eye masks at any branch of Boots.’

‘Oh.’ Kombothekra blushed. ‘I never go to Boots,’ he mumbled, and Charlie wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Proust edging towards his office. ‘Sir, I need a word,’ she said, holding her breath. The inspector hated it when one thing followed on immediately from another without a proper interval in between.

‘A word? Would that it were only one. I’m going to make myself a cup of green tea, if I’m permitted,’ the Snowman growled. He’d recently given up all things dairy without offering an explanation to any of his colleagues. ‘All right, Sergeant, all right. I’ll be in my office. Inflict yourself upon me without delay or hesitation.’

‘Crikey! Is he always like that?’ Sam Kombothekra asked after Proust had slammed the door to his glass Tardis. The room shook.

‘He is.’ Charlie grinned. Kombothekra would never guess she was taking the piss.

‘Absolutely not. If it was your own terrible idea, I might try to make you feel better about it—though I dare say I wouldn’t—but this is someone else ’s terrible idea. You’re usually good at demolishing those.’ Proust stopped to slurp his drink. He’d always been a loud sipper, even when his drink of choice was PG Tips with lots of milk and three sugars. Charlie thought he had to be the least spiritually enlightened of all green-tea-drinkers.

‘I agree with you, sir,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to check I wasn’t being too rigid. Juliet Haworth told me unambiguously that if she was allowed to talk to Naomi Jenkins alone, she might reveal the truth. I didn’t want to rule out that avenue and that chance without consulting you.’

Proust waved his hand dismissively. ‘She wouldn’t tell us anything, even if we agreed to her request. She just wants to torture Jenkins. One of them’d end up dead, or in hospital, alongside Robert Haworth. This is enough of a mess as it is.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Charlie. ‘Then what about an interview between Juliet Haworth and Jenkins with me sitting in? I could interrupt if I thought things were turning nasty. If Juliet Haworth’d agree to that—’

‘Why would she? She’s already specified: alone with Jenkins. And why would Jenkins agree?’

‘She already has. On one condition.’

Proust stood up, shaking his head in agitation. ‘Everybody has a condition! Juliet Haworth has one, Naomi Jenkins has one. If Robert Haworth survives, no doubt he’ll have one too. What are you doing wrong, Sergeant, that makes them think they can all put in these special applications?’

Why do I always have to be wrong? Charlie wanted to scream. In Proust’s eyes, in Olivia’s . . . Not being on good terms with her sister made Charlie feel insubstantial. She had to sort it out, soon. Why had she been so stupid? She’d heard the name Graham and that was it: the coincidence had made her lose all sense of proportion. Her fictional boyfriend made real. She’d allowed herself to get caught up in it. She would explain all this to Olivia. She’d ring her tonight—no more putting it off.

Tyrannosaurus Sex. Charlie pushed Olivia’s insult out of her mind and, wearily, began to defend herself to Proust. ‘Sir, I’ve approached this matter in exactly the same way that—’

‘Do you know what Amanda told me the other day?’

Charlie sighed. Amanda was the Snowman’s daughter. She was studying sociology at Essex University. Her birthday wasn’t too far off either; Charlie made a mental note to circle it on Proust’s desk calendar later.

‘Twelve students in her year, doing the same subject— twelve!— are having some sort of special circumstances taken into account when it comes to the exam. They’re all claiming to be dyslexic or . . . what’s that other thing?’

‘Naomi Jenkins will talk to Juliet Haworth if, in return, we take her to the hospital to see Robert Haworth.’ Seeing the inspector’s furious expression, Charlie added, ‘And she hasn’t asked to see him alone. I’d be there the whole time, supervising her.’

‘Don’t be a spastic, Sergeant!’ Proust bellowed. ‘She’s a suspect in his attempted murder. How would that look, if the press got hold of it? We’d all be stacking shelves in Waitrose by the end of the week!’

‘I’d agree with you if Haworth were conscious, sir, but for as long as he isn’t, for as long as we’re not sure if he’ll even live—’

‘No, Sergeant! No!’

‘Sir, you’ve got to be more flexible!’

Proust’s eyebrows slid closer together. There was a long silence. ‘Have I?’ he said eventually.

‘I think so, yes. There’s something really disturbing going on here, and the crucial thing, the key to it all, is in the relationships. Between Haworth and Jenkins, Haworth and his wife, Juliet and Jenkins. If they’re keen to see one another, in any combination, we should seize the chance. As long as we’re with them at all times, the pros outweigh the cons, sir. We could pick up crucial information from seeing how Jenkins behaves at Haworth’s bedside . . .’

‘You mean if you see her pull a large rock out of her cardy pocket?’