They stepped into the hallway, which looked like an institutionalised terraced house, with bright strip lights and a scuffed wooden floor. There was a long corridor, and by the main door was a noticeboard and rows of pigeonholes with names on them. At the end of the corridor they could see a young woman in dance gear standing at a stable door, split in two. The top half was open. The young woman had red frizzy hair hanging down her back and heavy black eyeliner.
‘I emailed my essay on time,’ she was saying. ‘Look.’ She rummaged in a pink knitted backpack and took out a piece of paper. ‘This is the time stamp when I emailed it, five minutes before the deadline.’
When they drew close, they could see inside the door to an open-plan office. A small, thin, suspicious-looking woman, with close-cropped grey hair and wearing a rather grubby blue rollneck jumper and small half-moon glasses was regarding the young woman coldly with her arms folded. Three women were working at desks behind her, glancing up and pretending not to listen in.
‘How do I know you haven’t forged this?’ said the woman, taking the piece of paper
‘I’ve never missed an essay deadline, and the computer system is saying that I missed it by one second!’
‘It is students’ responsibility to email essays over leaving enough time,’ the woman said, handing it back. They went back and forth for another minute, and the older woman refused to budge.
‘I’m going to talk to my tutor,’ said the young woman.
‘You do that.’
The young woman stalked past them in tears.
‘Hello. We’re looking to speak to the Student Welfare Officer?’ said Erika, moving to the door.
‘That’s me,’ the woman said, with the same hostility she had for the young girl.
‘And what’s your name?’
‘Mrs Sheila Wright.’
She didn’t open the door for them.
‘We’re investigating historical assaults on female students that happened in GDA’s student accommodations. We’d like to talk to you about it, somewhere a little more private,’ said Erika. She held out her warrant card again, and introduced herself and Peterson. Sheila leant over and looked at their cards, and then unbolted the door for them to come inside. The three other women looked up at them with interest.
‘Please. Follow me,’ she said. They moved through to another corridor with doors leading off it. Her office was at the end of the corridor and looked out over a small garden with a central courtyard, trees and empty flowerbeds.
‘I hadn’t been told you were coming today,’ she said.
‘We need to know if you have records of an intruder who broke into your Jubilee Road and Hartwood Road student accommodation and threatened and assaulted young women.’ Sheila’s eyes grew wide at this information. ‘The names are: Kathleen Barber, the incident happened in January 2012 in Jubilee Road, Grace Leith and the incident happened in February 2012 at Hartwood Road, and Becky Wayland, who was assaulted at Jubilee Road in February 2014.’
Sheila looked between Erika and Peterson for a moment, then sat down and swivelled her computer screen around to face her. ‘Wouldn’t you already have this information, being the police?’
‘Not all incidents are reported to us,’ said Erika.
‘And these young women were students here?’
‘They auditioned for places here on the Drama course.’
‘If they weren’t accepted, then they never became full-time students. We don’t keep records for temporary stays, or non-students,’ said Sheila.
‘But if a prospective student staying just for one night was assaulted, or their room was broken into, wouldn’t you have some record of this? As a landlord the school must have an insurance policy,’ said Peterson. Sheila’s fingers moved in a blur as she touch typed.
‘I have no record of these women in our alumni database. We only keep records of students.’
‘What if a window is broken? Or an accommodation is broken into more than once? Do you have a record for the Jubilee Road building?’ asked Erika.
‘Yes. We keep some records on the student accommodations. If there are repairs or incidents…’ Erika noted Sheila’s touch was heavy-handed on the keyboard, as if she was taking out her annoyance on the keys. ‘But I can’t see anything here. Do you know if there was any serious damage when the person gained access? Was a window broken, or a door kicked in?’
Gained access, thought Erika. It was an odd way to describe a break-in.