Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

‘No, Robert was in his car, a Volvo. The accident was Freeguard’s fault, she says, and she was upset about it. Robert was very understanding, apparently, and they ended up going for coffee. That was how the relationship started.’

‘But . . . no! It’s too much of a coincidence!’

‘You’re telling me,’ Sergeant Zailer says caustically. ‘I don’t understand it either. You and Sandy Freeguard were attacked in the same way, probably by the same man, and you both went on to have relationships with Robert Haworth. How can that be?’

Her confusion scares me more than my own. ‘When?’ I ask. ‘When did this Sandy woman go out with Robert?’

‘November 2004. She was raped in the August of the same year.’

I have heard the word ‘rape’ so many times in the past week. I no longer dread hearing it. It has lost its power. ‘I met Robert in March 2005. When did they split up?’ I have a horrible premonition of what Sergeant Zailer will say next. ‘Oh, God. They didn’t split up, did they?’

‘Yeah, they did. Just before Christmas 2004. You thought Robert was two-timing you with her?’

‘No. Only because—’

‘Would you care? He was two-timing you with his wife, wasn’t he? It wasn’t as if you thought he was faithful to you.’

‘It’s totally different. I knew about Juliet. Of course I’d care if I found out Robert had been lying to me all the time we were together, hiding a secret girlfriend.’ I take a few deep breaths. ‘Why did they split up, Robert and this Sandy Freeguard? Did she say?’

‘DS Kombothekra asked her about the relationship in detail, including the break-up. Apparently Robert was the model boyfriend—very attentive and keen—until one day he told her it was all over, completely out of the blue. He just switched off, she said. Came over all dutiful and husbandly, said he didn’t feel he was being fair to his wife and that was it. So . . .’ She shrugged.

‘So what?’ I say angrily. ‘So you’re trying to make out he’s unreliable, the sort of person who’d blow hot one minute and cold the next? No way. He’s loved me for a year. There’s no way he’d turn against me.’

‘Sandy Freeguard couldn’t understand it either,’ Sergeant Zailer says patiently. ‘Naomi, loads of men—especially married ones— declare undying love right up until the point when they want nothing more to do with you.’

‘Robert’s not like other men, and his motives are nothing like theirs. You wouldn’t understand unless you knew him.’

Sergeant Zailer starts the car engine. ‘Close your door,’ she says. ‘I’ve got to get back. We’re not going to work this out just sitting here.’ She lights a cigarette as she drives. I wish I smoked. ‘Sandy Freeguard and Robert never had sex. I assume that’s not true of you and Robert.’

‘No. We had sex every Thursday, for three hours. I’m not surprised she didn’t want to, though, if it was only three months after.’

‘She wanted to. It was Robert who insisted on waiting, said she couldn’t possibly be ready. She told him about what had happened to her.’

Wetness clouds my eyes. ‘That sounds like him,’ I say. ‘He’s really thoughtful.’

‘Sandy Freeguard found it irritating. She wanted to be treated normally, and he kept telling her to take it slowly, not to do too much too soon. She said he discouraged her from setting up a support group and training as a counsellor and all the positive things she wanted to do. He said she wasn’t ready and she wouldn’t be able to cope if she took on too much.’

‘He was probably right.’ I defend you even though you’ve just smashed my heart up. One day we’ll resolve the misunderstanding and you’ll take back what you said today. Why were you in Huddersfield, in your car instead of your lorry? Why weren’t you working that day?

Sergeant Zailer is shaking her head. ‘From what Sam Kombothekra says, Freeguard’s a bit of a dynamo. She copes by putting herself and her experiences out there and trying to turn them into something positive, for herself and for others. He says she’s a real inspiration.’

‘Well, bully for her,’ I say pettily. I can’t help it. How does she expect me to react to hearing that I’ve been beaten hands down in the Best Rape Victim Contest?

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ She sighs. ‘Sandy Freeguard told Kombothekra that she didn’t believe Robert’s reason for ending the relationship. Let’s face it, if he cared that much about saving his marriage he wouldn’t have started an affair with you only a few months later, would he? I’m inclined to agree with Freeguard: he couldn’t handle knowing about the rape, so in the end he left her. That’d explain why he didn’t want to have sex, too.’

‘That’s a terrible thing to say! Robert would never be like that.’

‘Are you sure? Maybe you feared he would be, and that’s why you didn’t tell him about what happened to you.’

‘I didn’t tell anyone.’

‘And yet Juliet Haworth knows what happened to you. Who told her, if not Robert?’

‘You’re twisting everything to fit in with—’

‘I’m trying to,’ she agrees. ‘But no matter how hard I try, I can’t get my head round this one. You say Robert didn’t rape you, and, for what it’s worth, I believe you. But I don’t believe in coincidences.’

‘Neither do I,’ I say quietly.

She grimaces. ‘Then, whether you like it or not—whether I like it or not—we have to face facts. Robert Haworth’s connected to these rapes somehow.’

18

4/7/06

‘HE’S UNCONSCIOUS AGAIN?’ Unreasonably, Sellers felt slighted, as if Robert Haworth might have done it to spite them.

‘An epileptic fit, a rebleed, swollen brain tonsils. And he’s been having small but regular epileptic fits ever since. It’s not looking good.’ Gibbs shook his jacket off his shoulders and took a sip of his pint. He and Sellers were in the Brown Cow, not the nearest pub to work, but the only one in Spilling that served seven different kinds of Timothy Taylor beer. The walls and ceiling were covered in dark wood panelling, and there was a no-smoking room to the left of the front door, with a framed portrait of the eponymous brown cow on the wall. No bobby or detective would risk sitting in there, even the ones who didn’t smoke, in case someone saw them. The sarge, who did, thought it wasn’t fair that the non-smokers got the picture of the cow in their room, the pub’s only painting. ‘All we get is the crappy menu boards,’ she often complained. A sign to the right of the bar warned customers that, from Monday 17 April, the entire pub would be a smoke-free zone.

‘ Status epilepticus, ’ said Gibbs, in a hard, bitter voice. ‘Just our fucking luck. What did you order me?’ He took another large gulp of his pint, and belched.

‘Steak pie and chips. I haven’t ordered for Waterhouse.’

‘He’ll have a pint, no food. He’s got some fucking weird hang-up about eating in front of other people. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.’

When all was well, Sellers and Gibbs sometimes discussed Simon Waterhouse’s peculiarities, but Sellers was reluctant to do so with Gibbs in this mood.

‘I bet you’re having chicken with something fancy stuffed up its arse, fruit or some shite like that.’

‘Where’s the sarge?’ Sellers ignored the sneery tone. In fact, he had ordered a perfectly respectable haddock and chips.

‘At the hospital, brushing up on boffin jargon.’ Everything Gibbs said sounded like an excellent way to end a conversation.

Sellers tried again. ‘I see we’ve got some extra bodies drafted in to help with the donkey work. How did Proust wangle that?’