Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

‘Waste of time. Half of them are on to the theatres, half are ploughing through rape porn sites on the Net, but so far, nothing. That cunt Juliet Haworth’s still not talking, and we can’t do a fucking thing about that, can we?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, she smashed her husband’s head in with a rock. She’s made it pretty clear our words will never hurt her, the cocky bitch. Time for some sticks and stones.’

‘You want to start beating up women now? Look good on your CV, that will.’

‘If it stops innocent women getting pulled off the street and raped . . .’

‘How can that be down to Juliet Haworth?’

Gibbs shrugged. ‘She knows something. She knew what had happened to Naomi Jenkins, didn’t she? Know what I reckon? Haworth’s our rapist, whatever Jenkins is saying now. And his cunt of a wife helped him.’

So why are you looking at me like it’s my fault? Sellers wondered if he was getting paranoid in his old age.

‘I spoke to the people at SRISA about Tanya from Cardiff,’ said Gibbs. ‘They had her details.’

‘And?’

‘Killed herself. Overdose.’

‘Shit. When?’

‘Last year. Want some more good news? Speak Out and Survive were a wash-out. They had nothing. New computers, very little paperwork. I’ve got someone on it, but I doubt we’ll be talking to survivor thirty-one any time soon.’

‘ Shit. ’

‘Yeah. It is, really. Still, don’t let it get you down.’ Gibbs faked a sickly smile. ‘You’re off away with Suki soon, aren’t you? Sun, fun and sex. You won’t want to come back.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Sellers murmured, ignoring the snide delivery. He was already getting worried about what he’d do when the holiday was over, when he no longer had it to look forward to. He was of the view that it was the anticipation of the sex more than the sex itself that made adultery and infidelity well worth the risk.

‘If Stacey finds out where you are, you won’t have the option of coming back, even if you want to. Maybe I could invite Suki to my wedding. That’d be a nice surprise for Stacey, wouldn’t it?’

It took a lot to make Sellers lose his temper, but Gibbs had been putting in the hours recently. ‘What the fuck’s your problem? Are you jealous, is that it? You’ve got your honeymoon coming up. Where is it you’re going? Seychelles?’

‘Tunisia. My honeymoon. Of course—an age-old tradition. If you get married, you have a honeymoon.’

‘What?’ Sellers couldn’t grasp the implication, if there was one.

‘Traditions are important, aren’t they? Wouldn’t want to miss out,’ said Gibbs. The last two words sounded clipped, exaggerated. Foam from his pint coated his upper lip.

Hearing the song that had begun to blare from the jukebox, Sellers realised that every day he liked Chris Gibbs less and less. ‘Are you having second thoughts?’ he asked.

‘Second thoughts about what?’ contributed a voice from behind them.

‘Waterhouse! What are you . . . Oh, you’ve got one.’ Sellers was pleased to see him. Anything to avoid a heavy conversation with Gibbs about feelings. Was Gibbs even capable of such a feat?

‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Simon. ‘There’ve been some developments. I just got off the phone with forensics.’

‘And?’

‘The stain-remover on the Haworths’ stair carpet. There’s blood underneath it—Robert Haworth’s.’ Sellers opened his mouth, but Simon answered before he had a chance to ask. ‘The stairs are visible from the front door. The master bedroom isn’t. Anyway, there was too much blood in the bedroom. There’d have been no point even trying.’

‘What other developments?’ asked Sellers.

‘Robert Haworth’s lorry. Traces of semen all over the floor. Not his.’

‘I bet loads of lorry drivers have a wank in the back of the van when they stop at services,’ Gibbs mused.

‘ Not his?’ Sellers echoed. ‘Definitely?’

Simon nodded. ‘That’s not all. The keys to the lorry were in the house, and they’ve got Juliet Haworth’s fingerprints on them as well as her husband’s. That in itself might not be significant. All the keys in the Haworths’ house live in a pottery bowl on the table in the kitchen, so Juliet could have touched the ones for the lorry when she was replacing her house keys, but . . .’

‘The long, thin room Kelvey and Freeguard mentioned . . .’ Sellers thought aloud. ‘Haworth’s lorry.’

‘That was my first thought too,’ said Simon. ‘But where’s the mattress? It wasn’t in the lorry, and forensics got nothing from the one Robert Haworth was found lying on in his bedroom, just Haworth’s DNA and Juliet’s.’

‘Naomi Jenkins mentioned a plastic cover on the mattress in her statement,’ Sellers reminded him.

‘Kelvey and Freeguard didn’t,’ said Simon. ‘I rang Sam Kombothekra, asked him to check. There was no plastic cover in either case. Just a bare mattress. Which, let’s face it, was probably taken to some tip and dumped.’ He exhaled slowly. ‘You’re right, though. Kelvey and Freeguard were raped in Haworth’s lorry. One of the long sides isn’t metal—it’s made of a sort of thick canvas. It’s just a huge flap of material, basically, with ties all along the bottom to attach it to the side of the floor. Freeguard said something about a cloth wall. It’s got to be the lorry.’

‘I reckon Juliet Haworth’s the driving force behind the rapes,’ Gibbs tried his theory out on Simon. ‘She’s got a male accomplice, the one who’s been dripping his cum all over the back of Haworth’s lorry, but she’s the brains behind it. She’s been using hubby’s lorry as a venue, selling tickets to live rapes. Nice little earner. So much for her not working.’

‘Naomi Jenkins looks down on her for being a kept woman,’ said Simon thoughtfully. ‘She’s always making jibes about it.’

‘Kept, my arse.’ Gibbs snorted. ‘She probably makes more money from her little business than Haworth does from his driving.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Sellers. ‘We only know of four definites: Jenkins, Kelvey, Freeguard and survivor thirty-one. And only two of those were in the long, thin room. The others were in this theatre place, wherever the fuck.’

‘Why the change from theatre to van?’ said Simon.

‘There might have been a lot more who didn’t report it,’ said Gibbs. ‘Jenkins, Kelvey and Freeguard all said the rapist threatened to kill them. And if that wasn’t enough of an incentive to keep quiet, let’s face it, a lot of women wouldn’t want to go public and be seen as damaged goods, and a lot of men would see them that way. Whatever they say.’

‘All right,’ said Sellers wearily. ‘But assuming you’re right about Juliet and her accomplice, did Robert Haworth know? Was he in on it?’

‘My gut feeling is that he didn’t. Maybe he found out, and that was why Juliet went for him with the doorstop,’ said Simon. ‘Here’s something, though: when Charlie spoke to Yvon Cotchin, Cotchin told her that Naomi Jenkins had said Robert didn’t do overnight jobs any more. Apparently Juliet didn’t like him being away from home—that was the reason he gave Jenkins, anyway . . .’

‘But you’re thinking maybe she didn’t like the lorry being away from home, because she needed it for her own work,’ Sellers completed Simon’s hypothesis for him. ‘If you’re right, it’d explain a few things. Robert Haworth started going out with both Sandy Freeguard and Naomi Jenkins after they were raped—three months after, in Freeguard’s case and two years after in Jenkins’. Maybe Juliet fixed him up with them somehow.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Gibbs sneered. ‘How exactly would she have managed that?’