motorbike salesman to confirm that the bike came with a first-aid box which included moist tissues—evidence which hardly cleared his client of involvement, but which at least confirmed that he was telling the truth. Now, his father was about to go into the box.
Harper had had considerable doubt about including the alibi evidence; the Drummonds had insisted that they knew for a fact that Colin had been at home, stripping down his bike or whatever it was he did with the thing, on the occasion of the first and third rapes, and belatedly attending his mother’s birthday party when the second took place. The party was one thing, but there was no way the Drummonds could remember off-hand what Colin was or was not doing eight months ago on two otherwise unremarkable nights; Harper knew that they had devised the alibi evidence between them, and so would everyone else who heard it.
But in the end he had gone with it, since he had nothing much else to offer. Not even a character witness. Drummond’s total lack of friends made Harper feel almost sorry for him. He had never had a relationship, sexual or otherwise, with any female other than his mother and Rosa. And that wasn’t just sad. It was hampering his defense. Harper had had people scouring the county for sight or sound of Rosa once the police had established that she wasn’t after all a figment of Drummond’s imagination, but she had gone to ground and was staying there. Drummond was now very anxious that she should be found, given the supposed sexual dysfunction of the assailant; Rosa, he said, could tell them that he didn’t have any problem at all in that regard. He hadn’t given anyone much of a chance to look for her; he hadn’t even mentioned her until eight weeks ago. He hadn’t, he had explained to Harper, wanted people knowing that he had had to pay for it on a regular basis.
Rosa had turned up at the Ferrari, worked it for a few weeks, then had left, probably to go somewhere that didn’t have a rapist on the loose. She hadn’t had premises, hadn’t even had a surname that anyone knew. Drummond thought she had had a pimp; he’d seen a man approach her once or twice after he had left her, but he only saw him in the dark, couldn’t describe him, and didn’t know his name.
So the other little prostitute remained his only hope; there were facets to the police version of that drama in the alleyway that Harper had so far merely hinted at, and which didn’t entirelyring true. But they would have to wait for his closing address, because he had no evidence to back up his doubts. He could voice them; he could give the jury something to think about.
For now, iffy alibi evidence, the irate resident who had seen Drummond at the airfield, one of the officers involved in the assault on Drummond, and a psychologist who would say that he was a harmless Peeping Tom comprised, God help him, the remainder of Drummond’s defense.
Judy had watched Drummond’s father lying his head off about how Colin was at home with him and his mother on three of the four occasions in question. Whitehouse had made mincemeat of him, and now he was doing the same to Mrs. Drummond, showing how their answers had been rehearsed, right down to their using the same words as one another.
Retired Major Harold Masterman was called next. He had been arriving home from an evening out when he had seen Drummond drive up to the old airfield, on to which the major’s house backed. He had put up with the screaming of the engine and the squealing of the tires for about an hour, but then he had phoned the police. Much good that had done him, he said. The noise went on for almost another hour, with no sign of the police doing anything about it. Almost half past one before he finally drove off, and never a policeman to be seen.
In the afternoon, Barry Turner was first on. Ex-Police Constable Barry Turner. He and PC Matthew Burbidge had stopped Drummond for reckless driving at thirty-two minutes after
Harper had had considerable doubt about including the alibi evidence; the Drummonds had insisted that they knew for a fact that Colin had been at home, stripping down his bike or whatever it was he did with the thing, on the occasion of the first and third rapes, and belatedly attending his mother’s birthday party when the second took place. The party was one thing, but there was no way the Drummonds could remember off-hand what Colin was or was not doing eight months ago on two otherwise unremarkable nights; Harper knew that they had devised the alibi evidence between them, and so would everyone else who heard it.
But in the end he had gone with it, since he had nothing much else to offer. Not even a character witness. Drummond’s total lack of friends made Harper feel almost sorry for him. He had never had a relationship, sexual or otherwise, with any female other than his mother and Rosa. And that wasn’t just sad. It was hampering his defense. Harper had had people scouring the county for sight or sound of Rosa once the police had established that she wasn’t after all a figment of Drummond’s imagination, but she had gone to ground and was staying there. Drummond was now very anxious that she should be found, given the supposed sexual dysfunction of the assailant; Rosa, he said, could tell them that he didn’t have any problem at all in that regard. He hadn’t given anyone much of a chance to look for her; he hadn’t even mentioned her until eight weeks ago. He hadn’t, he had explained to Harper, wanted people knowing that he had had to pay for it on a regular basis.
Rosa had turned up at the Ferrari, worked it for a few weeks, then had left, probably to go somewhere that didn’t have a rapist on the loose. She hadn’t had premises, hadn’t even had a surname that anyone knew. Drummond thought she had had a pimp; he’d seen a man approach her once or twice after he had left her, but he only saw him in the dark, couldn’t describe him, and didn’t know his name.
So the other little prostitute remained his only hope; there were facets to the police version of that drama in the alleyway that Harper had so far merely hinted at, and which didn’t entirelyring true. But they would have to wait for his closing address, because he had no evidence to back up his doubts. He could voice them; he could give the jury something to think about.
For now, iffy alibi evidence, the irate resident who had seen Drummond at the airfield, one of the officers involved in the assault on Drummond, and a psychologist who would say that he was a harmless Peeping Tom comprised, God help him, the remainder of Drummond’s defense.
Judy had watched Drummond’s father lying his head off about how Colin was at home with him and his mother on three of the four occasions in question. Whitehouse had made mincemeat of him, and now he was doing the same to Mrs. Drummond, showing how their answers had been rehearsed, right down to their using the same words as one another.
Retired Major Harold Masterman was called next. He had been arriving home from an evening out when he had seen Drummond drive up to the old airfield, on to which the major’s house backed. He had put up with the screaming of the engine and the squealing of the tires for about an hour, but then he had phoned the police. Much good that had done him, he said. The noise went on for almost another hour, with no sign of the police doing anything about it. Almost half past one before he finally drove off, and never a policeman to be seen.
In the afternoon, Barry Turner was first on. Ex-Police Constable Barry Turner. He and PC Matthew Burbidge had stopped Drummond for reckless driving at thirty-two minutes after
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