nine P.M . on Friday, October twenty-fifth last year. Drummond had been riding his bike at almost eighty miles an hour in thick fog with no lights; they had stopped him, and questioned him about his movements on the nights the rapes had taken place. He had laughed at them, said they would never catch the rapist. PC Burbidge had lost his temper. Turner had at first turned a blind eye, but then had stopped it before it got out of hand.
“Why didn’t you take him in for questioning if he had admitted assaulting these women?” asked Harper.
“Well … that was just it, really. He didn’t say he had. I mean—he wasn’t saying anything, not really. Just hints, and remarks. I thought Matt was just going to … you know, rough him up a bit. But he … well, I stopped it before he did too much damage.”
“Mr. Drummond had previously eluded you in a chase, hadn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And you had been frustrated in your attempts to find evidence of drink or drugs with which you could charge him?”
“Yes.”
“Could that perhaps have been why your colleague assaulted him?”
“It might have been partly why.”
“Not because he believed Mr. Drummond to be the rapist?”
Whitehouse was on his feet, objecting on the grounds that the witness could not know what Mr. Burbidge had or had not believed.
“Did
you
believe him to be the rapist?” asked Harper.
“No.”
The psychologist was wheeled on next, and was asked for his personal assessment of Drummond.
“Colin Drummond is a young man of surprisingly high IQ,” he started off, “given that the persona he projects most of the time is one of mumbling, inarticulate immaturity.”
Judy’s eyebrows rose in surprise. She couldn’t have given a fairer assessment herself.
“He reads little; he learned little at school. He is not particularly interested in anything except motorcycles, but he has a quick, receptive mind, and a capacity for learning about those things which do interest him.”
Like rape and its detection. Judy sneaked a look at Drummond, who looked appalled. Good. Sometimes even
your
mummy and daddy can’t buy you out of trouble, you little sod, she thought.
“Colin knows that he is capable of much more than serving in his father’s shop, and he knows that his hang-ups—to use acolloquial term—about relationships with other people resulted in his being turned down by the RAF.”
Better and better. Drummond was a frustrated bomber pilot.
“To avoid the contact with other people which he finds so difficult, he retreats into a world where Colin Drummond barely exists; he pulls on the figurative mask of inarticulate stupidity that he almost invariably shows to the rest of the world, and becomes in his mind almost anyone
but
Colin Drummond. A mask to disguise his very real feelings of resentment toward his father, whom he regards as weak and submissive, and toward his mother, whom he sees as domineering and superior. A mask to hide his own feelings of inadequacy, his own submissiveness to his mother’s rule, his own fear of all women. And he harbored these feelings, these thoughts, under his mask. He dressed in black so that not even his choice of colors and patterns could give him away.”
Judy didn’t usually have much time for psychologists. She could make an exception in this one’s case. Harper didn’t seem worried; he was listening gravely, his face betraying nothing. Perhaps he had just given up. If your own witnesses turn against you, what else could you do?
“Then he read of a man who really did wear a mask, whose dark and undetected presence was inspiring fear in an entire community. In women. Women, whom Colin finds unfathomable, frightening creatures, were being subdued and controlled by this man. A man who dressed as he did, in black. A man who rode a motorbike. And that appealed to him. If he, too, wore a mask—a real mask—he would truly cease to be Colin Drummond; he would become this man, and he could experience by
“Why didn’t you take him in for questioning if he had admitted assaulting these women?” asked Harper.
“Well … that was just it, really. He didn’t say he had. I mean—he wasn’t saying anything, not really. Just hints, and remarks. I thought Matt was just going to … you know, rough him up a bit. But he … well, I stopped it before he did too much damage.”
“Mr. Drummond had previously eluded you in a chase, hadn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And you had been frustrated in your attempts to find evidence of drink or drugs with which you could charge him?”
“Yes.”
“Could that perhaps have been why your colleague assaulted him?”
“It might have been partly why.”
“Not because he believed Mr. Drummond to be the rapist?”
Whitehouse was on his feet, objecting on the grounds that the witness could not know what Mr. Burbidge had or had not believed.
“Did
you
believe him to be the rapist?” asked Harper.
“No.”
The psychologist was wheeled on next, and was asked for his personal assessment of Drummond.
“Colin Drummond is a young man of surprisingly high IQ,” he started off, “given that the persona he projects most of the time is one of mumbling, inarticulate immaturity.”
Judy’s eyebrows rose in surprise. She couldn’t have given a fairer assessment herself.
“He reads little; he learned little at school. He is not particularly interested in anything except motorcycles, but he has a quick, receptive mind, and a capacity for learning about those things which do interest him.”
Like rape and its detection. Judy sneaked a look at Drummond, who looked appalled. Good. Sometimes even
your
mummy and daddy can’t buy you out of trouble, you little sod, she thought.
“Colin knows that he is capable of much more than serving in his father’s shop, and he knows that his hang-ups—to use acolloquial term—about relationships with other people resulted in his being turned down by the RAF.”
Better and better. Drummond was a frustrated bomber pilot.
“To avoid the contact with other people which he finds so difficult, he retreats into a world where Colin Drummond barely exists; he pulls on the figurative mask of inarticulate stupidity that he almost invariably shows to the rest of the world, and becomes in his mind almost anyone
but
Colin Drummond. A mask to disguise his very real feelings of resentment toward his father, whom he regards as weak and submissive, and toward his mother, whom he sees as domineering and superior. A mask to hide his own feelings of inadequacy, his own submissiveness to his mother’s rule, his own fear of all women. And he harbored these feelings, these thoughts, under his mask. He dressed in black so that not even his choice of colors and patterns could give him away.”
Judy didn’t usually have much time for psychologists. She could make an exception in this one’s case. Harper didn’t seem worried; he was listening gravely, his face betraying nothing. Perhaps he had just given up. If your own witnesses turn against you, what else could you do?
“Then he read of a man who really did wear a mask, whose dark and undetected presence was inspiring fear in an entire community. In women. Women, whom Colin finds unfathomable, frightening creatures, were being subdued and controlled by this man. A man who dressed as he did, in black. A man who rode a motorbike. And that appealed to him. If he, too, wore a mask—a real mask—he would truly cease to be Colin Drummond; he would become this man, and he could experience by
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