Cold Is The Grave

11

Annie didn’t stop to consider the folly of her actions – or their possible consequences – until she was following Wayne Dalton up Skelgate Lane, a narrow, walled path to the north just before Reeth School.

An hour or so earlier, after asking Winsome Jackman and Kevin Templeton to cover for her, she had parked across North Market Street from the Fox and Hounds, then followed Dalton down to the market square, where he had parked his car. After that she followed him to Reeth about a half hour drive away, and the rest was easy.

Though it was a perfect day for walking, there were few other cars parked on the cobbles outside the shops and none on the green itself. Annie saw a number of people who looked as if they were dressed for rambling. A few clouds marred the blue winter sky, blocking the sun occasionally as they floated by, but the temperature was about ten degrees and there was very little wind.

Skelgate Lane was overgrown, stony and muddy in places after the recent rains. While Annie had put on suitable walking shoes, there were times, as she squelched through the unavoidable mud, when she thought her red wellies would have been more appropriate.

What the hell did she think she was doing anyway? she asked herself after the first half mile. The investigation into Emily Riddle’s murder, of which she was DIO, was going full steam, still in its crucial early stages, and here she was leaving two DCs in charge while she took time out to settle old scores, or tilt at windmills. Her behavior offended even her own sense of professionalism, but when it came right down to it, her profession was the reason she was doing it. The situation with Dalton was something she had to get resolved quickly, because it had become too much of a distraction.

She had dressed like an anonymous rambler, in a charcoal anorak, black jeans tucked into her gray woollen socks, sturdy walking shoes, hat and an ash stick. She wasn’t carrying a rucksack, nor did a plastic folder of Ordnance Survey maps hang around her neck. Instead, she carried a small book of local walks, and when she stopped for a moment to refer to it, she saw where Dalton was likely to be going. It was five and a half miles of relatively easy walking, taking them along the daleside above the River Swale, then down and back along the river to Grinton, arriving there around lunchtime. She looked for a good vantage point where she might confront him and decided that it would be best to wait until they had doubled back over the swing bridge near Reeth. Then they would be near the old Corpse Way to Grinton.

She had two choices: either walk down to the swing bridge and wait a couple of hours for him to come by, or follow him at a safe distance. She decided on the latter course, partly because there were a number of possible diversions from the route. The Dales were crisscrossed by hundreds of footpaths, signposted or not, going off in every direction, not all of them listed in guidebooks. He could, for example, turn off by Calver Hill into Arkengarthdale for a different walk, or continue along the high dale to Gunnerside, though then it would take him much longer to get back to Grinton – more like for dinnertime rather than lunch.

Besides, even if she were only ten yards from him, he would never recognize her, not with the hat and the anorak, and not when he wasn’t expecting to see her.

Annie had always marveled at how, even in summer, you could walk for miles in the Dales and hardly see another soul. In winter you were far less likely to bump into someone. Along the tops, after emerging from Skelgate Lane into open moorland, she passed a small group of ramblers, probably a club, going the other way. Everyone politely said good morning as they passed by. After that, she couldn’t see a soul except Dalton, a good half mile or more ahead, wearing a distinctive red anorak. It certainly made him easy to keep in her sights.

The guidebook advised her to pause and enjoy views of Fremington Edge back in the east and Harkerside on the opposite side of the valley, but though she glanced occasionally at the cloud shadows drifting over the greenish-brown hillsides, with their distinctive patterns of drystone walls – one field shaped like a milk jug, another like a teacup – Annie was in no mood for sightseeing.

Still, up here on the heights looking down on the valley below reminded her of cliff walks around St. Ives with her father when she was younger. How he used to point out examples of interesting perspectives, shapes, textures and colors in the landscape, how he was always stopping to sketch frantically into the book he carried with him, eyes and brain tuned to his fingers. In moments like that she might as well not have been there; she didn’t exist.

All that was missing today was the crashing of the waves and the screeching of gulls. Instead, hares hopped through the spent heather, and grouse broke cover. The weather turned nasty for a few minutes along the daleside, with a brisk west wind whipping up and at one point blowing a brief hailstorm at her. She had had to lean forward into the wind to make progress, looking up occasionally to see the red anorak in the distance.

By the time she came to the steep descent into the village of Healaugh, the wind and hail had all gone, and as she walked through the quiet streets she could almost believe it was summer. A man in a white coat stood selling meat and vegetables to villagers from the back of a small van. Everyone paused and looked at her as she walked past. None of them smiled or said anything; they just stared. It was an odd feeling. They didn’t exactly seem unfriendly, but aloof, a little mournful even, as if they were telling her that their world was not hers and never would be, that she was merely passing through it and she should keep going.

She did.

Shortly beyond the village, which was the turning point in the walk, the path led her through a field down to the riverside. She could see Dalton’s red anorak ahead every now and then appearing and disappearing between the bare alders that lined the Swale. Empty brown seed cones still clung to many of the branches, making the trees look chocolate brown.

The closer she got, the more nervous and confused Annie became. She still wasn’t physically afraid of him, but Dalton’s arrival in Eastvale, and the memories it stirred, had played havoc with her usually calm emotional center. For one thing, she didn’t know what to say to him. What did you say to a man who had been a willing accessory to your rape, a man who would have raped you himself if you hadn’t managed to wriggle free from his grasp and escape? How would he react? Perhaps, she began to think, this wasn’t such a good idea after all. It would be easy enough just to turn left at the swing bridge and walk up to Reeth, where her car was parked on the cobbles by the green, and forget the whole thing, get back to work.

But she kept on going.

It was only a small bridge. At that point, the river meandered through meadowland where cows grazed. It was, however, a genuine swing bridge and Annie experienced a frisson of fear as she walked the wooden planks and felt it sway. While not exactly phobic, she had always been a little nervous of bridges, though she didn’t know why.

Dalton had paused by the riverbank at the other side, about a hundred yards or so ahead, and he appeared to be watching her approach. Feeling a little dizzy, Annie stayed on the bridge and pretended to admire the view, waiting for him to carry on. But he didn’t. He stayed where he was and kept on looking at her. Her heart was in her mouth. Did he recognize her? Had he known she was following him all along?

There was only one thing to do if she wasn’t going to run. She walked through the gate at the far end of the bridge and along the grassy path to where he stood. All the way he kept looking at her, but she still didn’t sense any recognition on his part. Her fear was quickly turning into anger. How dare he not recognize her after what he had done? She tried to take long deep breaths to keep herself calm and centered. They helped a little.

Finally, about five or six yards away from Dalton, she stopped and took off her hat, letting her wavy chestnut hair fall free to her shoulders. She saw the recognition now. He hadn’t known who she was before, she could tell, but he did now. She even heard his sharp intake of his breath.

“You,” he said.

“Hello, Wayne,” she said. “Yes, it’s me. Nice to see you again.”

Banks awoke from a disturbing dream at about eight o’clock on Sunday morning. He had been walking in an unfamiliar landscape, which kept switching between rural and urban settings. There was a river somewhere, or perhaps a canal. Whatever it was, there was a sense in the dream that it was never far away. It was always raining and always twilight, no matter where he was or how long he seemed to walk. Other people drifted by like shadows, but nobody he knew. He had the feeling that he was supposed to be following someone, but he didn’t know whom or why.

Suddenly he found himself on a green iron bridge, and a man was walking just in front of him. At that point, Banks felt panic gather, felt as if he couldn’t breathe and wanted to wake up and break out of it. The man turned. He wasn’t a monster, though, just a perfectly ordinary-looking man.

“I know you’ve been looking for me,” he said to Banks, smiling. “My name’s Graham Marshall. I was in the army. Then I had my hair cut. Now I’m in the rain. Emily’s with me, too, but she can’t appear to you right now.” Then he went on to tell a garbled life story of which Banks could remember nothing when he woke in a cold sweat to church bells ringing in the distance.

It was still dark outside, so Banks turned on the bedside light. He was in a small hotel near king’s Cross, not the place he had stayed with Annie and Emily. Somehow, going back there hadn’t seemed like a good idea.

When he had taken stock of himself, he realized with relief that he felt only mildly hung over. That was, he remembered, because he had declined the invitation to repair to Burgess’s flat and drink whiskey all night. Surely he wasn’t getting wiser in his old age? Anyway, he was glad that all they’d done was visit a few pubs and down a few pints. It must have been a dull evening for Burgess, though; they hadn’t got into any fights or picked up any women. Mostly, Burgess had talked about Clough, and Banks got the impression that even if he didn’t manage to pin Emily’s murder on Clough himself, the man’s days of freedom were limited.

The only problem with Clough as a suspect, thought Banks, was that he stood to gain nothing by Emily’s death. Still, there was always the chance that she had stolen from him, as Ruth Walker had suggested, or that she knew too much about his business activities, though Banks thought she would have told him if that were the case. It was also possible that Clough only thought she knew something she didn’t This was assuming, of course, that the whole matter was one of logic and profit. What if it wasn’t? Clough was certainly capable of killing, and if Emily had humiliated him in any way, then he was probably capable of killing her out of sheer malice.

Banks got up and poured himself a glass of water. The dream and the drink had left him with a dry mouth. As he showered in the tiny stall, he put the Graham Marshall dream out of his mind and found himself thinking again of what Ruth had said, how her words had cast suspicion even on Riddle himself, someone Banks had completely over-looked as a suspect.

He found it hard to take it seriously that a man like Jimmy Riddle would deliberately give his daughter cocaine laced with strychnine, even if for some obscure reason he did want her dead. And her death had done nothing to free Riddle of the shame of her exploits; in fact, it had quite the opposite effect, and already the tabloids were raking up stories of the chief constable’s daughter and her wild life. That wouldn’t do his budding political career any good at all, or his standing in the force, either.

Then there was Rosalind Riddle. Banks had had a strange feeling about her right from the start, when Riddle first asked him to go to London and find Emily. Rosalind hadn’t appeared to want Emily back home for some reason. More recently, Rosalind had denied ever hearing of Ruth Walker, yet Ruth said she had spoken to her on the telephone on several occasions. That probably meant nothing, Banks realized, merely a lapse of memory, a misheard name over a poor connection, but Rosalind’s role in all this still nagged away at the back of his mind. She was holding something back; of that he was certain. Whether it was important to the investigation or not, he couldn’t say. All families have secrets that can fester away behind their protective walls.

Banks decided for the moment to concentrate on the line of inquiry he was pursuing in London, where Emily had done most of her drug-taking and mixed with a rough crowd: primarily Clough, of course, who lied about everything; then Ruth Walker, who remained a bit of an enigma to him, yet seemed a woman embittered far beyond her years; and finally Craig Newton, hurt ex-boyfriend-turned-stalker, and onetime amateur porn photographer, whom Banks was going to visit again that day.

After a quick breakfast of coffee and toast and a short walk around St. Pancras Gardens to clear his head, Banks felt ready to face the day. He was only about half a mile away from Euston, so he walked through the quiet streets of Somers Town to Eversholt Street. The train service to Milton Keynes was frequent, even on Sunday, and he only had to wait twenty minutes for an InterCity.

Watching the urban sprawl of London give way to prime commuter territory set amid rolling fields and grazing cows, Banks wrote up his notes on the previous evening’s talk with Barry Clough. Sometimes he took notes at the time, especially of important details, but that hadn’t seemed appropriate standing in the white room with Clough and Burgess. Fortunately, though his memory was average in most respects, he had excellent audio recall and could remember a conversation practically verbatim for at least a couple of days.

He also thought about the coming interview with Craig Newton and tried to come up with a strategy. It was official business this time, not private-eye work for Jimmy Riddle. Approaching Craig Newton and getting any sort of trust out of him would be a delicate and difficult matter after all the lies he had told on his last visit. It had been the same with Ruth Walker, and Craig Newton struck him as a far more sensitive person than Ruth. On the other hand, Craig had lied to Banks, too.

Though it was his first visit in daylight, he still saw nothing of Milton Keynes on the taxi ride to Craig’s house, except a few glimpses of concrete and glass. Perhaps that was all there was to see.

Craig Newton was home, and though he seemed puzzled to see Banks again, he invited him into the house. It hadn’t changed much since the last visit, still very much the bachelor’s house, with little piles of newspapers and magazines here and there and coffee rings on the low table.

“I’m sorry,” said Craig. “You know… about your daughter. I read about it in the newspaper.”

Banks felt like an utter shit. Craig seemed the trusting sort, and here he was, letting him down. Still, a hard lesson in the reality of deception probably wouldn’t do the kid any harm in the long run. Having been a policeman for years, Banks had long since stopped trying to make everybody like him. He still felt like an utter shit as he pulled out his warrant card, though.

Craig gaped at him. “But… you said…? I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple, Craig,” said Banks, sitting down. “I lied. Emily’s father wanted me to find her, and it seemed a good idea to pretend that I was him instead of trying to explain myself. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“I suppose so, but…”

“It was a simple strategy. Anyone would have more sympathy for the girl’s father than for a policeman.”

“So you lied?”

“Yes.”

He seemed to draw in on himself. “What do you want this time?”

“More information. I’m not the only one who lied, am I, Craig?”

“You talked to Louisa?”

“You must have known I would.”

“What did she say about me?”

“That you were bothering her, following her, stalking her.”

“I’d never have done her any harm. I was just… I…”

“What, Craig?”

“I loved her. Can’t you understand that?”

“It didn’t give you the right to follow her around and scare her when she didn’t want to see you.”

“Scare her? That’s laugh. She hardly noticed me.”

“Clough did, though, didn’t he?”

“Who?”

“Oh, come on, Craig. You knew his name, didn’t you? You just didn’t want me to talk to him about your stalking Emily.”

Craig rubbed his nose. “The bastard.”

“Never a truer word. Anyway, let’s leave that behind us for the moment, shall we?”

“Fine with me. Her real name is Emily. Is that right?”

Banks nodded.

“And Gamine?”

“A joke. It’s an anagram of enigma, which is a sort of riddle. Emily Louise Riddle was her real name, and her father’s my boss.”

“I see. You probably didn’t have much choice, then. I suppose I shouldn’t have believed you in the first place, should I? I feel like a real idiot now.”

“No need to. What reason could you possibly have had to think I was lying?”

“None. But still… I had my suspicions. I told you. I thought there was something funny about you, the way you kept asking questions.”

Banks smiled. “Yes, I remember. So credit yourself with that and let’s move on.”

“I can’t see there’s anything I could possibly tell you that’s of any use. The papers said she took some poisoned cocaine in a club, is that right?”

“That’s right. Did you ever supply Emily with cocaine, Craig?”

“No. I’m not a dealer. I never have been.”

“A user?”

“I’ve snorted it on occasion. Not for a long time, though.”

“She must have got it from somewhere.”

“Ask her new boyfriend.”

“I doubt that was the first time she took it.”

“Well, ask Ruth’s friends, then. It certainly wasn’t me.”

“What do you mean, ‘Ruth’s friends’?”

“Just that they’re more into drugs than I am, that’s all.”

“Selling?”

“No. Just recreational. The music scene. Clubbing. That sort of thing.”

“What about strychnine?”

“What about it?”

“Ever have cause to use it in your line of work?”

“I’m not a bloody rat-catcher, you know.”

“I mean photography.”

“No.”

“Where were you last Thursday?”

Craig frowned. “Thursday? I don’t remember. I could check… just a minute. That might have been the day…” He got up and pulled a pocket diary from his jacket out in the hall. When he opened it to the right date, he looked relieved. “Yes, that was the day. I was in Buckingham doing some publicity shots for the university.”

“Anyone see you?”

“The person who was putting the promotional brochure together. A lecturer from the law department. Canadian bloke. I can give you his name.”

“Please.”

Craig gave it.

“How long were you with him?”

“For an hour or so in the morning.”

“And then?”

“Then I walked around and took the photos.”

“So you were pretty much on your own the rest of the day?”

“Yes, but people must have seen me. Am I a suspect?”

“What do you think? Emily finished with you, and you stalked her. It wouldn’t be the first time that sort of thing’s led to murder. Obviously, if you’ve got an alibi I can cross you straight off my list. Makes life easier, that’s all.”

But Craig Newton didn’t have an alibi. He could easily have driven from Buckingham to Eastvale in about three hours. Banks had thought about the timing and decided that, while there was no telling exactly when Emily had been given the poison that killed her, the odds were that she wouldn’t have left a stash of coke sitting around for too long without snorting any. There was also the fact that she was back living at home, and she wouldn’t dare do it around her parents. It wouldn’t be much fun at home alone, anyway, even if they were out. Coke was a social drug, and most likely she would have saved it for a party, or a night out clubbing. It made most sense, then, that whoever had given her the stuff had given it to her on Thursday afternoon, after first giving her a sample of perfectly good, uncontaminated cocaine. That would explain why she turned up a bit high at the Cross Keys.

“I didn’t kill her. I told you: I loved her.”

“Craig, if you’d been in this business as long as I have, you’d realize that love is one of the strongest motives.”

“It might be in the twisted world you live in, but pardon me if I haven’t had the chance to become that cynical. I loved her. I wouldn’t have harmed her.”

“Probably not,” said Banks. “What kind of car do you drive?”

“Nissan.”

“Color?”

“White. I suppose you want the number too?”

“Please.”

Craig told him. It meant nothing yet, but if they came across someone who had seen Emily getting into a car, then it could be of value. “You should be going after that boyfriend of hers, you know,” he went on. “Instead of harassing innocent people like me.”

“So you keep saying. Believe me, Craig, he’s never far from my thoughts. And I’m not harassing you. You’d know it if I was.”

“Why don’t you arrest him?”

“No evidence. You overestimate our powers. We can’t just go around arresting people without any evidence.” Actually, he could, but Craig wasn’t to know that, and he couldn’t be bothered to explain the difference between “arrest” and “charge.” “Look, Craig, I realize you’re not enjoying this, but I didn’t enjoy seeing Emily’s body, either.”

“Was it…? I mean… I’ve heard about what strychnine does.”

“Did you ever contact Emily after she’d gone home?”

“I didn’t even know she’d gone home. You never told me whether you’d found her or not, or whether she’d agreed to go back. To be honest, if I didn’t read the papers pretty thoroughly I wouldn’t even have known she was dead. I recognized the photo, but not her name.”

“I understand you were in London yesterday?”

“That’s right.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I don’t see what it’s got to do with you, but I had two business appointments – and they are listed here in my appointment book, so you can check them if you want – and I also wanted to have a look at some new photographic equipment. The High Street here may be quaint, but you must have noticed that it’s hardly chocka-block with camera shops.”

“And you had lunch with Ruth Walker?”

“Again, that’s right.”

“She had a cold, didn’t she?”

“She was sniffling a bit, yeah. So what?”

“What did you talk about?”

“We were both stunned to hear of Louisa’s death. I suppose we wanted to mourn her together for a while, toast our memories of her. She’d been important to both of us, after all.”

“Could Ruth have been jealous of you and Emily?”

“I can’t see why. It’s not as if Ruth and me were ever lovers or anything.”

“But she might have wanted it that way.”

“She never said anything. Like I told you before, Ruth and me were just good friends. There was nothing… you know… like that between us.”

“At least not in your mind.”

“It’s the only one I can speak for.”

“Perhaps she wanted there to be something?”

Craig shrugged. “I didn’t fancy her in that way, and I’m pretty sure she knew it. Besides, what you’re suggesting is absurd. If Ruth had to be jealous of anyone, it should have been the new boyfriend. He took Emily completely away from both of us.”

“Jealousy’s rarely rational, Craig. Emily breezed in and out of your lives and tossed you both aside. At least that’s how Ruth put it. How did you feel about that?”

“Ruth can be a bit melodramatic when the mood takes her. How did I feel? You know damn well how I felt. I told you last time you were here, when you were pretending to be her father. I was devastated. Hurt. Heartbroken. But I got over it.”

“Only after you’d followed her around for a while.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not proud of that. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Maybe you weren’t thinking clearly when you killed her?”

“That’s absurd. No matter how cynical you are, I loved her and I would never have hurt her.”

“So you said. Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Look, are you suggesting I killed her over three months after she dumped me?”

“People have been known to brood for longer. Especially stalkers.”

“Well, I didn’t. And I’m getting sick of this. I don’t want to answer any more questions.” He stood up. “And if you want anything more out of me, you’ll have to arrest me.”

Banks sighed. “I don’t want to do that, Craig. Really, I don’t. Too much paperwork.”

“Then you’d better leave. I’ve had enough.”

“I suppose I had,” said Banks, who had asked almost all the questions he wanted. “But there is one small thing you might be able to help me with.”

Craig looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Go on.”

“Last time I came to see you, you told me that when you saw Emily with her boyfriend in London, you were taking candid pictures in the street, right?”

“Yes.”

“Were you really taking pictures or just pretending for the sake of cover?”

“I took some candids. Yes.”

“Do you still have the photos from that day?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have one of Clough?”

“I think so, yes. Why?”

“I know you’re pissed off at me, Craig, but would you do me a favor and make me a copy?”

“I could do that. Again, though, why? Oh, I see. You want to show it around up north, don’t you? Find out if anyone saw him up there. I suppose he’s got a watertight alibi, doesn’t he?”

“Something like that,” said Banks. “Believe me, it would be a great help.”

“At least you’re thinking in the right direction again,” said Craig. “I can probably get some prints to you by tomorrow.”

“What about now?”

“Now?”

“Sooner the better.”

“But I’d have to get set up. I mean… it’d take a bit of time.”

“I can come back.” Banks looked at his watch. Lunchtime. “How about I pop down to the nearest pub and have some lunch while you do the prints, then I’ll come back and pick them up.”

Craig sighed. “Anything to get you off my back. Try The Plough, down by the roundabout, end of the High Street. And you don’t need to come back. I’ll drop them off there. Half an hour to an hour, say?”

“I’ll be there,” said Banks.

“Will you do me a favor in exchange?”

“Depends.”

“When’s the funeral going to be?”

“That depends on when the coroner releases the body.”

“Will you let me know? Her parents don’t know me, so they won’t invite me, but I’d like… you know… at least to be there.”

“Don’t worry, Craig. I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks. Now, I suppose I’d better get up to the darkroom.”

Of all the different ways that Annie had tried to imagine this moment turning out – confronting her rapist – the one thing that had never occurred to her was that it would end with a sense of anticlimax, of disappointment.

But disappointment was exactly what she felt as she stood in front of Wayne Dalton on the banks of the River Swale, with a pile of steaming cow-clap between them. Indifference, even.

Her heart was still pounding, but more from the anticipation and the long walk than from the actual encounter, and he looked like a guilty schoolboy caught masturbating in the toilets. But instead of the monster she had created in her mind, what stood before her was all too human. Dalton wasn’t frightening; he was pathetic.

For a few moments they just stared at each other. Neither spoke. Annie felt herself calming down, becoming centered. Her heart returned to its normal rhythm; she was in control.

Finally, Dalton broke the silence. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here. Eastvale. I followed you.”

“My God. I never knew… What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” Annie replied honestly. “I thought I wanted revenge, but now I’m here it doesn’t seem important anymore.”

“If it’s any consolation,” said Dalton, avoiding her eyes, “there’s not a day gone by when I haven’t regretted that night.”

“Regretted that you didn’t get to finish what you started?”

“That’s not what I mean. We were insane, Annie. I don’t know what happened. The drink. The herd mentality.” He shook his head.

“I know. I was there.” Calm as she was inside, Annie felt tears prickling her eyes and she hated the idea of crying in front of Dalton. “You know, I’ve dreamed of this moment, of meeting one of you alone like this, of crushing you. Now we’re here, though, it really doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter, Annie. It matters to me.”

“What do you mean? And don’t you dare call me Annie.”

“Sorry. The guilt. That’s what I’m talking about. What I have to live with, day in, day out.”

Annie couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “Oh, Wayne,” she said, “that’s a good one. That’s really good one. Are you asking me for forgiveness?”

“I don’t know what I’m asking for. Just for some… some sort of end, some resolution.”

“I see. You want closure, is that it? Popular term, these days, especially with victims. Everyone wants the bad guys put away. Gives them a sense of closure. Are you a victim here, Wayne, is that it?” Annie felt herself getting angry as she spoke, the indifference resolving itself into something else, into something harder. Two ramblers approached slowly from the woods beyond the river meadows.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Dalton.

“Then tell me exactly what you did mean, Wayne, because from where I’m standing you’re the bad guy.”

“Look, I know what we did was wrong, and I know that being drunk, being part of a group is no excuse. But I’m not that kind of person. It’s the first, the only time I’ve ever done anything like that.”

“So you’re telling me that because you’re not a serial rapist you’re really an okay guy when it comes right down to it? Is that it? You just made one silly little mistake one night when you and your pals had had a bit too much to drink and there was this young bird just asking for it.” She could tell her voice was rising as she spoke but she couldn’t help herself. She was losing it. She struggled for control again.

“Christ, that’s not what I’m saying. You’re twisting my words.”

“Oh, pardon me,” said Annie, shaking her head. “I don’t know what’s worse, a contrite rapist or an unrepentant one.”

“Don’t get it all out of proportion. I didn’t rape you.”

“No. You didn’t get your chance, did you? But you held me, you helped rip off my panties, and you stood there and enjoyed it while your friend raped me. I saw your face, Wayne. Remember? I know how you felt. You were just waiting for your turn, weren’t you, like a little kid waiting for his go on the swings. And you would have done it, if you’d got the chance. In my mind that doesn’t make you any different from the others. You’re just as bad as the others.”

Dalton sighed and looked at the ground. Annie glared at him as the ramblers passed by. They said hello, but neither Annie nor Dalton answered.

“So what do you want from me?” he asked.

“What do I want? I’d like to see you off the job, for a start. In jail would be even better. But I don’t suppose that’s going to happen, is it? Would I settle for an apology instead? I don’t think so.”

“What more can I do?”

“You can admit what happened. You can go back down there, go see the chief super again and tell him you lied, tell him the three of you got carried away and you raped me. That I did nothing to lead you on or encourage you or make you think I was going to let the three of you fuck me senseless. That’s what you can do.”

Dalton shook his head. All the color had drained from his face. “I can’t do that. You know I can’t.”

Annie looked at him. She felt her eyes burning again. “Then the only thing you can do is fuck off, fuck off right out of my life and don’t ever come near me again.”

Then she turned and crossed the swaying bridge back to Reeth, the tears like fire as they coursed down her cheeks, not turning to see Dalton staring pathetically after her.