Free Without Consent by Frances Fyfield Page B

tremulous. ‘Do you know what he did for a living? He was doing sex cases. That’s why I had to go so far, all that way, to that other police station; I couldn’t go where anyone knew him. Why didn’t they take
him
somewhere else? ’Cos I couldn’t be on his territory. I don’t want to give evidence. What’s the point?’
    â€˜You can’t let him get away with it, Shell. And you mustn’t worry. I’ll be with you all the way. Now and for ever.’
    Such a good man, the best she would ever find. The girls told her so, warned her not to lose him. Shake him off a little from time to time, sure, but never risk losing such a man in a million who worked hard and didn’t mind if she went out alone, didn’t even mind if she came home late; loved her enough to give her freedom. Look, Shell, he would say, I don’t like clubs and discos, and I got all these late shifts, so you go on and have fun, girl. I like you having a good time. The unspoken context was his own plan to have her knee-deep in babies and living a million miles from town within a couple of years, but perhaps that was an unfair interpretation. He wanted any wild oats sown so he could reap the crop; he would turn one blind eye, admire with the other, as long as he kept her.
    She looked at the world outside, listened to the traffic, felt her heart contract with fear.
    â€˜I’d better iron some gear for the morning,’ she said, uncurling from the chair.
    â€˜I’ll do it for you,’ he said. ‘You just sit still now. Want a hot drink, love?’
    â€˜T ell me again,’ Helen asked Bailey. ‘Just so I get it straight in my mind.’
    The meal was finished, to mutual satisfaction. Steak for him, fish for her, because fish was something she reserved for the occasions when she did not have to cook it. She was superstitious about fish and always imagined it would leap out of the bag on the way back from the shops, find a drain and try and swim back home. There were lights in the roof of Casale’s, suspended from branches, giving the effect of Christmas decorations in a barn. The floor was uneven, the chairs rocky and the proprietor rude to a fault. It was a small price to pay for the food.
    â€˜Not that much to tell. I’m told Shelley Pelmore seems nervous, truthful and she’s very pretty. I’m never quite sure whether it favours a prosecution case to have an attractive victim, or a plain one. Depends on the argument. If the issue’s consent, it’s better to have them pretty, because juries will believe she had every right to refuse …’
    â€˜Well, well… I take it you aren’t actually saying that a plain woman hasn’t any right to say “No”?’
    â€˜Helen … I’m simply saying that a jury is more likely to assume that a pretty lass can pick and choose. She’ll have more men after her. She’s likely to have more confidence, reject what she doesn’t want, demand more. A pretty girl has more power, that’s all. On balance, unless she’s provocatively sexy, when her looks go against her, she’s more likely to be believed.’
    It was not a conclusion Helen wanted to accept, but she remained silent.
    â€˜Anyway, this pretty woman, girl, is out in a pub, West End, after work, a regular hang-out for the girls. She’s met Ryan before, I told you about that. He knows where she lives, because he’s been there to take a statement…’
    â€˜About the other rape case? The non-starter case he was telling you about, where the girl won’t say …’
    â€˜Yes. Ryan happens to be in the West End, meets her this time by accident. They get chatting in the pub. She liked him in the first place, she said; he made her laugh. He says he’ll give her a lift home, but they stop in another pub, near her flat, for another drink, ostensibly to talk about her friend. As far as Ryan will