“The courts aren’t so easy on rapists these days, Michelle,” said Susan. “It wouldn’t have been like that.”
“But how was I to know?”
“Was that the only reason you didn’t report the incident?” Banks asked. “Fear of the police and the courts?”
“Well, mostly. But there was Owen, too, wasn’t there? I mean, after someone’s done something like that to you, something violent, you have to wonder, don’t you, whether they’re capable of anything. You hear about men stalking women and all the things they do to them. I was ashamed, but I was scared as well. Scared of what he might do.” She looked at her watch. “My God, it’s after two,” she said. “Look, I really must go now. Mr. Littlewood is only liberal to a degree.”
“In the light of what you’ve just told us,” Banks said, “we’d like to get a full statement from you. We can do it after you’ve finished work this evening, if you’ve got no objection.”
Michelle bit her lip and thought for moment.
“No,” she said. “I’ve got no objection. Yes. Let’s do it. Let’s get it over with. I finish at five-thirty.”
“We’ll be waiting.”
They watched her go, then Banks lit another cigarette and they each ordered a cappuccino. “Well,” said Banks, “it looks like we’re stuck in the big city for the afternoon. Want to see the crown jewels? Maybe tour the Black Museum? Or we could always do some early Christmas shopping.”
Susan laughed. “No thanks, sir. Perhaps we could give Phil Richmond a call at the Yard? He might be able to sneak away for an hour or so.”
“All right,” said Banks. “Why don’t you phone him?”
“Yes, sir. Got a ten-pee piece?”
IV
Armley Jail loomed ahead like a medieval fortress. Owen could only see part of it through the mesh window between himself and the van’s driver, but he knew the building well enough; he’d seen it many times when he was at Leeds University.
Standing on a hill to the west of the city center, it was an enormous, sprawling Victorian edifice of black granite, complete with battlements and towers and newer sections that seemed constantly under construction. The place was practically a tourist attraction. They had kept Peter Sutcliffe, the “Yorkshire Ripper” on remand there for a while in 1981.
At least the van driver had a sense of humor. Elvis Presley belted out “Jailhouse Rock” as the van passed through the huge gates with its load of prisoners shackled in heavy cuffs. Owen wondered if he did that every trip, the way tour guides always made the same jokes.
In a low-ceilinged reception room, the cuffs were removed, and Owen found himself signed over from the police to the jailers. He might easily have been a cow or pig sold at market. Next he was given a number he made no attempt to memorize, then, after his belongings had been catalogued and placed in a box, much as in the charge room at the police station, he was taken to a cubicle and strip-searched.
After that, the governor explained that as Owen was regarded as a Category A inmate, he would spend twenty-three and a half out of twenty-four hours alone in his cell, the other half-hour being set aside for supervised exercise. He would be allowed to purchase as many cigarettes as he wanted-not that this appealed to Owen at all-and given access to writing paper and books.
The whole thing reminded Owen of the scene from Kubrick’s film, A Clockwork Orange, where Alex is inducted into jail. This room had the same gray inhuman feel, a perfect setting for humiliation. He was now a number, no longer a man.
After a cursory medical (“Ever suffered from palpitations, shortness of breath?”) no doubt required to protect the authorities should he drop dead tonight in his cell, he was ordered to take a bath in about six inches of lukewarm water. The tub was an old, Victorian model, with stained sides and claw feet. When he had dried off, he was given his prison uniform: brown trousers and a blue striped shirt that felt coarse and scratchy next to his skin.
After this, he was handed his equally rough bedding and escorted to his cell. It was in a special wing of the prison with black metal stairs and catwalks like something out of an M.C. Escher print. The walls were covered in flecked institutional-green paint, and high ceilings echoed every footstep.
His cell was slightly larger than the one in Eastvale police station, but a lot more gloomy. The whitewashed walls had turned gray with age and dirt; the floor was cold stone. The only window stood high in the wall. About as big as a handkerchief, it seemed to be made of reinforced glass. Light shone from a low wattage bulb hanging from a ceiling outlet; the shade was covered by wire mesh. Though a washstand, soap and a towel stood in the corner behind the door, there was no toilet. Looking around, Owen located a bucket and some toilet paper beside his bed.
One added feature was the table and chair. They were so small that he could hardly get his knees underneath comfortably. The scored table was a bit rickety, but a couple of sheets of toilet paper, folded and wadded beneath one of the legs, soon fixed that.
He had asked for paper and books from the prison library-science fiction if possible, to let him escape, at least in mind from his dreary surroundings. Sci-fi had been a passion during his adolescence, though he hadn’t read any since. Now, curiously, he felt an urge to start reading it again. Wharton would also be bringing him his Walkman and a few cassettes as soon as possible.
He paced for a while, then tried to take approximate measure of his cell. He concluded that it was about eight feet by ten. Next he slouched on his hard, narrow mattress and stared at the cracks on the ceiling. He had expected to find days crossed off all over the walls, just like he had seen in films, but there were none. There wasn’t even a trace of graffiti, a name scratched by fingernail, to show who had been here last.
Perhaps it had been the Ripper himself. Owen shivered. That was a foolish thought, he told himself. It was years ago that Sutcliffe had been held here. Dozens of people must have been in and out since then. Still…a haunted cell, that would just about make his day.
It was time to keep his imagination in check and take stock of his situation. Certainly he was aware of what could happen to him, the “worst case scenario” as Wharton had put it earlier that morning, and that didn’t bear thinking about.
Wharton had already been right about the Magistrates’ Court; the whole thing had been over in a couple of minutes and Owen found himself on remand awaiting trial for the crime of murder. So much for truth and justice.
What worried him most now were the practical things: his job, the house, the fish, his car. Wharton had taken his keys and said he would take care of things, but still…Had anyone let the department at college know? If so, what had the chairman done? It wouldn’t be too difficult to share out his classes among his colleagues until a temporary lecturer could be brought in, but what if this thing dragged on for months? He didn’t have tenure, so the college could let him go whenever they felt like it. If he lost his job because of this farce, this absurd mistake, he wondered if he could seek any kind of compensation.
The house would remain his as long as his bank account could stand the strain of the standing payment order for his mortgage, and that should be long enough. After all, he had been making fairly decent money for some time and had very little in the way of expenses. He hoped that his neighbor Ivor, who also had a key, would take good care of the fish.