‘Are you saying that I should take her on?’
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying but, at first glance, Copeland has a head start on the applicants. She was the SIO on the Ashcroft case before it came to you. Did the secondment idea come from you or her?’
‘It was all her,’ Pellacia confirmed.
‘The problem is that the SCU is no different to any other unit that’s under my command. Some cases can be solved in a matter of days and others remain unsolved for years,’ Barker said, disappointment coating her words. ‘You can’t attach a time limit to these things.’
Pellacia merely nodded.
‘I feel that you would all benefit from the addition of someone clean – and by clean, I mean no associations with Rhimes.’
Pellacia sat straighter in his chair, the muscles in his jaw tensing as he gritted his teeth. He focused on adjusting the cuffs of his suit, to stop himself from saying the wrong thing in defence of himself. ‘It feels as though you’re suggesting that I can’t control my unit,’ he finally said.
‘You know full well that you wouldn’t be sitting here in my office discussing the future of the SCU if I thought that. Your success is my success.’ Barker stood up, signalling that their meeting was drawing to a close. ‘The SCU is a close-knit team. That obviously has its benefits, but it can also create its own set of complex issues. Hierarchical lines become blurred, and you can become your own fiefdom with your own set of rules like sending civilians out on operations, for example.’
‘Ma’am, again, I apologise for that.’
‘Apology accepted. Look, you’ve gone to hell and back with the SCU, both professionally and personally and that hasn’t gone unnoticed by me, so I’m going to make sure that I have an answer for you about this secondment before the start of the night shift.’ Pellacia felt as though he could finally breathe as he walked out of Lewisham police station. It wasn’t until Barker had mentioned blurred lines that he’d realised how much the melding of his professional and personal lives was impacting him. Pellacia took out his phone and sent a message to Laura Halifax, his on and off again girlfriend. If he could finally define his relationship with Laura, then maybe he could finally close the door on his relationship with Henley and give 100 per cent to the SCU.
26
The body heat of fifty-two people had made the air in Courtroom Six leaden and stale. The judge and the barristers in counsel’s row, weighted by their woollen robes and horsehair wigs, were uncomfortable and sweating but Nathan Hall, premier league footballer with sixteen caps for England, was not sweating. He’d thought very carefully about what he should wear for the last day of trial. No obvious designer labels. Nothing that would make him seem arrogant. In the end he’d settled on a soft navy Ralph Lauren suit and a crisp white shirt. No tie. He’d explained to the jury on Thursday that it had been a running joke in his family that he couldn’t tie a tie. He’d then gone on to say that it would have been impossible for him to tie the men who’d accused him of rape to his bed because he didn’t own any ties. He’d gratefully accepted the tissues from the court usher when he’d told the jury that he wasn’t ashamed of being gay, but the world of football wasn’t ready to have an openly gay footballer. He’d sat in the witness box and denied it all. No, he hadn’t threatened the men. No, he hadn’t held a knife to their throats and forced them into the bedroom. No, he didn’t give them money to keep quiet. These men were his lovers and everything they’d done was consensual.
He’d thought that his lawyer’s fees were daylight robbery,but he had to admit that every penny had been worth it when he’d listened to his barrister’s closing speech:
‘The complainants – not victims but three complainants – orchestrated a plan to destroy Nathan Hall. They were complainants, complaining because Nathan Hall was not yet ready to make his private life public. Angry that Nathan Hall had decided not to give in to their demands for money to pay for their silence. Nathan Hall, a footballer who famously never received a yellow card in his professional career, a man who was hailed as a hero after he stopped a woman from being sexually assaulted in the street. Nathan Hall, a man held in high regard by his team, his family, the local school where he acted as a mentor to the students, is being targeted by the complainants because he was the one who had said no. Nathan Hall withdrew his consent to sex, to a relationship and to making his private life public.’
Fucking hell, Nathan thought to himself when his barrister sat down forty minutes later.He’s convinced me that I didn’t do it.He’d managed to cry when the judge had finished summing up the case to the jury. He’d even caught the eyes of the woman on the jury who he knew wanted him, and thought that she could change him, and the man on the front row who wanted to be him.Look remorseful. Show pain. Show innocence. Show regret and remorse for putting your family, friends and the jury through this campaign to destroy an innocent man.
Nathan took a deep breath and smiled apologetically at his mum in the public gallery as the judge handed a note to his clerk and then nodded at the usher, who quickly left the court through a side door. Nathan watched his mum gather herself as she mouthed ‘I love you’.The papers will love that, he thought. His mum was a newspaper’s dream, always available to deliver a soundbite about the persecution of her son. She’d ignored the truth when the men had given evidence. They’d all told the same story, about meeting Nathan on a dating app and being invited to his house for a goodtime. Yes, there had been drugs, and they’d agreed to have sex, but they’d all told Nathan to stop when he started to get rough, to strangle them, to tie them up. Nathan had heard the word ‘no’ loud and clear, but he didn’t like it when people told him no.
The courtroom hummed as the door leading to the jury room opened and the usher stepped out. Seven women and five men followed and made their way to the seats they’d been occupying for six weeks, but something was different; Nathan could see it. The body language was off with three members of the jury. Juror number three, a black man, looked at Nathan as though he was a piece of shit floating in the toilet, juror number four, the white man next to him, kept his eyes to the floor as though he’d done something he was ashamed of and juror number eight, the white woman with the pixie cut who’d folded her arms and sighed impatiently every time his barrister had opened his mouth was scowling at the foreperson.
Nathan lowered his head as the clerk’s voice crackled loudly through the speakers in the dock.
‘Could the defendant please stand.’
Nathan did so as an icy hush descended. He raised his head. He wanted the court sketch artist to see him. To capture the anguish on his face.
The clerk turned towards the jury. ‘Could the foreperson of the jury please stand.’
A light-skinned black man, who looked as though he’d just finished school, stood in the middle of the front row and unfolded a single sheet of paper.
‘Count One. Have you reached a verdict on which you all agree?’ asked the clerk.
‘No.’
Nathan felt hope.
‘Has the jury reached a verdict on which a majority of ten to two have agreed?’
‘Yes.’
Nathan felt sick.
‘Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of the rape of Michael Cannon?’
‘Not Guilty.’
