Without Consent by Frances Fyfield

two, three, as long as it took to piece together a statement which said it all with minimal need for revision. The Rape House was redundant for a few blessed hours and, even in the heat, felt chilly.
    â€˜What was it you wanted to know, sir?’
    â€˜How many of these cases get as far as the Crown Prosecution Service?’ he asked mildly. The easy questions came first.
    â€˜About half. There’s no point them seeing the completenon-starters, is there? A DCI has to mark them off, though. No point sending them the false allegations either.’
    â€˜Many of those?’
    She fiddled with her hands in her lap, feeling faintly treacherous.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Any particular reason why, do you think?’
    Sally Smythe warmed to a theme. Perhaps this austere man, whom Ryan had mentioned so often, really wanted to know.
    â€˜There’s always been a lot, but it’s hardly political correctness to say so. Sexual attack and women’s rights get a high profile. Probably more complaints now because it’s common knowledge we take them seriously, so the rotten complaints increase in proportion. Girls know they risk nothing in coming to us. They get kid-glove treatment, no recriminations, no lectures. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not over-cynical, nor was Ryan, but a lot of the time we’re a free counselling service. Victims they may be, but not always victims of rape.’
    Bailey frowned. Sally did not scent disapproval; she didn’t scent anything; his lack of reaction disorientated her.
    â€˜Was Ryan tolerant about that?’
    â€˜Very. Although he did less of the interviewing than we did. Obviously, some of them don’t want a man in the room. There’s always two of us. When he was here, there was always a woman officer as well.’
    He stirred his tea and smiled at her. The effect on his gaunt face was almost shocking, making her respond with a grin before she knew it had happened.
    â€˜Give me a typical outline for a false claim. If there is such a thing as typical.’
    She thought quickly and shrugged.
    â€˜A woman or a girl says she’s been raped, attacked, say, three days earlier. She’s thought about it, wants to complain, but she’ll give three different versions of how it happened. The description of the attacker will vary too, but she won’t know his name, even if she says she’s seen him around. We don’t try and trip her up; she does it herself, trying to tell us things which can’t be proved or disproved, not clever enough to get it right. Sometimes it’s sheer fantasy, sometimes a real event from some time past, or a real event distorted, sometimes it’s straight off the telly. Troubled ladies. Then there’s the semi-false, like, oh, I dunno, someone having it off with a family friend, relative, something; wanting to tell themselves it was rape when what worries them is the fact they consented, or were outmanoeuvred. Then there’s those getting revenge on boyfriends. Or hiding an illicit encounter.’
    â€˜Do you always know the liars?’
    She hesitated, outraged. Liars was a harsh description for the desperate.
    â€˜Yes, I think so. After several dozen, yes. I didn’t to start with, nor did Ryan. You learn from the ones who tell the truth. There’s a difference; it hits you in the eyes.’
    She was becoming a touch impatient, slightly self-conscious, felt as if she was giving evidence which could be used against her. She was not fond of the sound of her own voice. Bailey had uncurled himself, begun pacing. You would never hold down my kind of job, sir, she wanted to yell at him: the person asking questions is supposed to askin a manner which will put the person answering at ease, and then keep them there; it says so in the training manual. Her mind ran on to other things to fill the silence. Pathos and bathos, such as how to get back from the lab the patchwork quilt on which a brave and