I glance at the clock. It’s 8 p.m. Daniel will be home soon. But I look at Rachel’s face, and somehow it seems a bit unfriendly to say so. Especially for someone who, presumably, has no one waiting for her at home.
I shrug, return her smile. ‘Why not?’
GREENWICH PARK
Under the shade of the plane tree, the girl pulls the envelope from her bag, inspects the contents.
He keeps watching, through the glass. He wants to keep watching until he is sure she is gone, until she is nothing more than a speck, a tiny pixel, drowned in the canvas of his view. Only then will his fists unclench, his pulse slow down.
He feels better when he is outside, on the Thames path. There is a breeze from the river. A briny smell, the grey-green swell, the black eyes of seabirds, floating lumps of foam and rubbish. The railings on the Thames wall are hot to the touch.
He turns away from the water, heads towards the park. He hears the gulls scream behind him as they fight over scraps.
That had better be it, he thinks to himself. That had better be the end of it. Somehow, though, he knows it is not. That it is just the beginning.
28 WEEKS
KATIE
The grey floors of the entrance hall at Cambridge Crown Court are streaked with rain. There are three people in front of me in the queue for security checks. As I stand waiting, I feel the water soaking through my cheap flat shoes.
The metal detectors sound when I walk through them.
‘I think that’s my watch, sorry,’ I say. ‘Here, look. Could I just –’
A full-chested woman in a Courts Service jumper ignores me and steps forward. ‘Arms out, please.’
She takes a hand-held black metal detector, waves it over my outstretched arms, my chest, my legs. Then she comes closer. We avert our eyes from one another while she searches my body with her hands, feeling along my collar, my waist, around the pockets of my trousers.
I see reporters I recognise from other papers overtaking me, piling into the lift, the doors behind them closing. I should be in there with them. The press gallery will be full. I shift my weight from one foot to another. Another security guard has unzipped my backpack and plucked out my make-up bag.
‘Can you open this purse for me, please?’
He does not look up as he says it. I smile, unzip the bag, try to look helpful. As he starts rooting around inside it with his two meaty fingers, I glance at my watch. A mascara topples to the floor, followed by a blister pack of headache tablets.
When I finally reach courtroom three, the press benches are packed. I’m lucky to get a seat. The barristers, in their black gowns and white collars, are already in place, and the defendants are in the dock. I examine them carefully. Both are wearing sombre, expensive-looking suits. Dark ties, combed hair and straight spines. They are flanked by bored-looking G4S security guards. One looks like he is about to fall asleep.
In the public gallery, one of the mothers is already clutching a squashed tissue, her eyes bloodshot. The fingers curled around the tissue are trembling. The father next to her is grim-faced, his hand clamped onto her knee. I think he must be the Earl, rather than the former agriculture minister. He stares at the press benches with barely concealed fury.
‘All rise.’
The judge enters in a long red gown, thick white fur at the sleeves, her wig yellowed, her spectacles black-rimmed. The clerk speaks. The walls all around us are panelled with fake wood, the light artificial. There are no windows.
‘The case before Her Ladyship is the Queen against Mr Toby Letwin and Mr Roland Bartholomew.’
Simon, from the Press Association, is in the seat in front of me. I tap him on the shoulder. ‘Have we got opening statements?’ I hiss at him. He rolls his eyes, pulls a folded piece of paper from his notebook and hands it back to me, like a schoolboy passing notes.
‘Toby Letwin, you are charged with rape contrary to section 1 of the Sexual Offences Act 1956, in that you, Toby Letwin, together with Roland Bartholomew, did on the 14th of October 2017 rape Emily Oliver at 22 Green Street in Cambridge. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty.’
As the clerk reads out the charges, I pretend to take notes. But instead, I am searching the public gallery, looking for the detective. I am sure he will be here somewhere.
Eventually I spot him, sitting on the back row, away from the families. He is off duty, no uniform, but he has worn a suit anyway. His face does not change as the clerk speaks. But when the first defendant states his not guilty plea, his expression hardens.
The prosecution barrister stands for his opening statement. The court falls silent. We hear of a drunken night out, of words exchanged over social media about girls, about sex, about bravado. And then we hear the stuff of female nightmares – of DNA scraped from sheets and from the internal reaches of a woman’s body, of bruising, of vomit, of a neighbouring door battered late into the night. Of a barefoot stranger, a tearful appeal for help.