Lost Innocence (42 page)

Annabelle’s head came up. There was no hesitation at all, though her words were quiet and slightly shaky, as she said, ‘Yes, he did. He definitely raped me.’

Detective Inspector Caroline Ash wasn’t particularly fond of the Crown Prosecution Service lawyer who was assessing the Carlyle case, and she was going to like the weasel-featured excuse of a man a whole lot less if he decided there was not enough evidence to go forward with. Damn the Preston girl. If she hadn’t lied during her initial statement, this could be sailing straight through to Crown Court. As it was, the weasel was not sending out many vibes of encouragement.

Contrary to what Clive Bevan thought, sitting there with his immaculate hair and soap-star looks, this wasn’t a grudge prosecution as far as she was concerned. It was a straightforward determination to seek justice for a girl whose behaviour might be questionable, and whose veracity was as dodgy as a three-legged donkey, but SAIT officer Lisa Murray was convinced she was being truthful about the rape, and given Lisa Murray’s track record that was good enough for Caroline Ash.

‘But you don’t have any actual evidence,’ the weasel pointed out, for the umpteenth time. ‘This is a classic “he said, she said” and if that’s all you’ve got it’ll be thrown out before you…’

‘How many more times,’ Bevan interrupted, launching into his own repeat, ‘there’s the bruising, the semen, Carlyle’s admission he hated her… The boy’s lying, I’m telling you. There was nothing consensual about that shag, and once we get him up on the stand, believe me, the jury’s going to see straight through him.’

In the end, after hours of arguing, bullying, cajoling and even, occasionally, reasoning, the weasel finally signed off on the prosecution, leaving Detective Inspector Ash with a smug hope that Craig Carlyle was looking down from his cloud, and DS Bevan with a phone call to make.

* * *

It wasn’t often one of the country’s leading barristers turned up to make an application for bail, so when Oliver Mendenhall QC strode into the custody area with Jolyon Crane and Nathan Carlyle there was a moment’s stunned silence. At six foot three Mendenhall cut an intimidating figure, with owlish brown eyes, a magnificent Roman nose and a thin, uncompromising mouth, much improved by a smile. However, there was no sign of one now as he spoke quietly to his client before presenting him to the custody sergeant for charging.

Murmuring to Croft, Bevan said, ‘They must be worried if they’re wheeling in the big guns already.’

As Nat stepped forward, his face was so drawn it was almost possible to see the bones through the pallor of his skin. His eyes were luminous with dread, and spiked with panic. This was a formal charging. He really was going to stand trial for rape.

Bevan began by cautioning him. At first the words seemed to glance off the shock that encased him, then, like a radio tuning in and out, they started to penetrate…

‘… may harm your defence if you do not mention now something which you later rely on in court …’ They disappeared again, and the next thing he heard was, ‘Do you understand, son?’

Nat looked at him.

‘He understands,’ Mendenhall spoke up. Nat felt the lawyer’s hand on his shoulder, then he was numb again.

The custody area felt crowded and alien, part of a world that he’d stumbled into by mistake and strangely couldn’t escape. It was as though he’d become caught up in a net and every attempt to break free was binding him tighter and tighter. His father was there, but he couldn’t get to him. The struggle was turning into a panic as his father turned his back…

Oliver’s hand pressed his shoulder again and he became aware of the custody sergeant watching him, and Croft. There was a woman he’d never seen before. Somewhere in the background officers were coming and going. A drunk in a cell was shouting for God.

‘Nathan Douglas Carlyle,’ Bevan said gravely, ‘you are
charged that on the night of the twenty-ninth of July in the village of Holly Wood, Somerset, being a person under the age of eighteen, namely seventeen, you intentionally penetrated the vagina of Annabelle Preston, aged fifteen, with your penis when she did not consent, and not reasonably believing she was aged sixteen or over.’ He stopped and stared hard at Nat. ‘Is there anything you want to say?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Mendenhall answered.

The reply was entered into the computer and the custody sergeant then pressed a button under the desk with his foot. ‘If you could sign please,’ he said, as a small electronic pad lit up on the counter in front of Nat.

Taking the stylus Mendenhall put into his hand, Nat looked at it blankly. Mendenhall murmured in his ear and he moved forward to inscribe a shaky imitation of his name on the pad.

Feeling as though he was about to throw up, he stood back again and tried to listen as the custody sergeant and Mendenhall spoke to one another, but the words were like arrows failing to pierce the surface. There was something about no previous record followed by a setting of bail with conditions, and then a date: the 6th of August.

As Jolyon and Mendenhall guided him towards the back door of the station he heard DS Bevan saying to someone, ‘It’s an indictable offence, so it’ll be a committal straight to Crown Court.’

Mendenhall turned round, treated Bevan to a withering look, then nodding to the officer who was waiting to release the door, he stepped outside and glanced at his watch.

‘I have to get back to London,’ he told Nat, ‘but I don’t want you to worry about anything. We’re going to get this sorted out.’

Nat regarded him with traumatised eyes.

Mendenhall gave him a rare smile. ‘You understand what’s happening now, do you?’ he said. ‘I came to make the application so you can be released into Jolyon’s custody until Wednesday, which is when you’re due to appear before the Youth Court. Jolyon will be with you for that, because it’s just a formality. He’ll let me know the dates
for the serving of papers, which we’ll do together, unless I can get the CPS to see sense and throw the case out before it gets that far.’

Taking heart from the confidence of his tone, Nathan’s voice was less shaky as he said, ‘Thank you.’

Mendenhall nodded, and after a quick word with Jolyon he pumped both their hands and got into his car.

As he drove out of the station car park Mendenhall pressed to connect to Alicia. ‘He’s with Jolyon,’ he told her when she answered. ‘They’ve set the Youth Court hearing for next Wednesday in Wells. It won’t be a big deal, just a setting of dates, and there’s a good chance I’ll be able to make it go away soon after.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘he’s in safe hands,’ and clicking off he connected to his clerk, ready to give him instructions on whom to call and where to go for the backup he might need in the coming weeks.

Chapter Eighteen

Alicia woke with a start. Her heart was thudding like a drum, her skin was drenched in sweat. In her dream Nat had been raping Annabelle, his face contorted with fury, his rage hammering into her as Annabelle choked and screamed and begged him to stop. Then it was no longer Nat, it was a stranger, a monster, and the girl being attacked was Darcie and Sabrina was watching, trying to pull Craig away as he attempted to save his daughter.

Taking several deep breaths, Alicia dashed a hand through her hair, waiting for the lingering images to fade. Then, still trembling and disoriented, she swung her legs off the bed and padded downstairs to make some tea. It was five o’clock in the morning, and the sun was coming up, so she wouldn’t go back to bed again now. God forbid she should make a return to that terrible nightmare. She had a lot to do today, so in an effort to clear her mind, and assure herself that she really didn’t believe Nat had done it, she kept reminding herself of Oliver Mendenhall’s matter-of-fact calmness when he’d rung last night. After speaking to him she’d no longer felt as though she and Nat were trapped in front of a speeding train – though God knew her terror had hit new heights when Jolyon had rung to tell her Nat was to be formally charged.

Now she must prepare herself to face the next hurdle, that of picking up Darcie from the train and deciding what to tell her when she asked where Nat was. Knowing how badly Darcie was likely to take it, she’d need to put as light a spin on it as she could, or maybe she’d simply tell her that Nat had gone to work with Jolyon earlier than expected. She might get away with that, because no matter what evidence
the police thought they had, Oliver and Jolyon would be sure to tear so many holes in it that the courts would wonder how the case had ever reached them, if indeed it did. The spectre of unlawful sex would continue to loom, she knew that, but when she’d spoken to Jolyon before going to bed last night he’d been almost dismissive about it, telling her to put it out of her mind, because they’d find a way of making sure that didn’t stick either.

Deciding not to torment herself with what Sabrina might have to say about that, she went upstairs to shower and dress. It was as she was reaching into her wardrobe for a clean blouse to put on over her jeans that she thought she caught the faintest whiff of Craig’s cologne. Though she knew it was probably lingering on one of her dresses, she found herself thinking of him so intensely then, and feeling his presence so strongly, that she turned around, almost expecting to see him. The room was empty, but when she closed her eyes to push back the tears she was overcome by the memory of how he used to hold her, his thighs pressed to hers, his hips, his chest, his entire body wrapped so lovingly and protectively around hers that she almost lifted her arms to embrace him.

‘If you’re there, if you can hear me,’ she whispered in her mind, ‘please tell me what to do. We have to help him.’

There was no answer, nor had she really expected one, but the silence seemed to feel denser, strangely closer and as full as her heart.

After putting on her blouse, she brushed out her hair and went across the landing to Darcie’s room. For a long time she simply gazed around at Darcie’s things, wanting to think only about her daughter for a while. She’d been away for so long, and so much had happened during this last week, that she felt guilty now for a neglect that, luckily, Darcie knew nothing about.

‘Mum, Dad, I have to write a riddle for English, so here it is,’ Darcie announced, coming into the den where Alicia and Craig were sprawled together on the sofa watching TV.

Hitting the mute button, Craig said, ‘OK, squirrel, shoot.’

Darcie stood in the centre of the room holding her notebook
and twisting her spindly little body from side to side as she read aloud. ‘What has no concept of time or place, can make you cry and laugh, and are always with you, even though you can’t see or touch them? Oh yes, and you can share them, but I might not add that bit.’

Puzzled, Craig glanced at Alicia.

Alicia was thinking hard, but ended up shaking her head.

‘Shall I give you a clue?’ Darcie offered.

‘Yes please,’ Craig replied.

‘Lane, card and stick.’

‘Mm, lane, card and stick,’ Craig repeated.

Alicia smiled, suspecting he’d guessed the answer by now, but she knew he wouldn’t dream of stealing Darcie’s thunder.

Darcie’s pretty face was shining with excitement as her eyes stayed glued to her father. As always, he was the one she really wanted to impress.

‘OK, give up,’ he said in the end.

‘Memories,’
she cried, jumping up and down in triumph.

Craig looked totally blown away. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Memories. Did you make that up yourself?’

Darcie nodded with pride.

‘And you’re only nine?’

She nodded again.

‘Then I think that deserves a very special Dad hug,’ he declared, and leaping to his feet he swept her into his arms and swung her round and round as she squealed with delight.

Alicia was smiling now, as she tucked in the corners of Darcie’s bed. How appropriate that she should be recalling that clever little riddle, considering how drawn into her memories she’d found herself earlier. Darcie was right, they didn’t have much concept of time or place, because they could turn up at the mention of a single word, or the mere drift of a scent.

Hearing the phone ringing in her own room she left Darcie’s bed half made to go and answer, hoping it might be Nat, or Darcie, or maybe Robert.

‘Hi, Mrs Carlyle, Alicia, it’s Summer. How are you?’

‘Oh, Summer,’ Alicia said, somehow managing to keep
her tone light. ‘I’m fine. How are you? How’s Italy?’
Italy, where Craig and Sabrina had started their affair
.

‘Very hot and very boring most of the time. I’ve been trying to get hold of Nat for ages, but he’s not answering his phone. Is he there?’

Already reasonably prepared for this, since lots of Nat’s London friends had called over the last few days, trying to track him down, Alicia said, ‘He’s managed to lose his mobile, I’m afraid, and he’s staying in Bristol with Jolyon Crane for the next few days helping him with a case. Some early work experience. I’ll be speaking to him later though, so I’ll ask him to call.’

‘Is there any chance I could have the number?’ Summer asked. ‘It’s been almost a week since we spoke. I was starting to get worried he might have found someone else.’

Not wanting to think about how she’d react if she knew the truth, nor feeling it her place to tell it, Alicia said, ‘Of course you can have the number, but I’m afraid I’ve left my address book up at the shop, and I have to leave soon to collect Darcie, so I’ll text you later, if that’s OK.’

‘Sure, that’s fine. Say hi to Darcie for me, won’t you? I expect you’ll be really pleased to see her after all this time.’

Alicia smiled as her heart softened. ‘You’re right, I will,’ she said truthfully, though she knew the reunion probably wasn’t going to be easy. Darcie was too attuned to her mother’s moods for Alicia to be able to hide much from her, and there was still her reluctance to moving here to get past.

After promising again to send a text, Alicia rang off and returned to Darcie’s room. She hated lying, about the text and about what was happening, but what choice did she have? She couldn’t tell Summer or any of Nat’s friends the truth, it would be the last thing he wanted, nor could she face trying to find the right words to say it. All she could hope for was to get these next few days over with and then try, if they could, to return to normal.