… I do that automatically when I get off the bike.”
“And where was the bike?”
“Up at the entrance to the alley.”
“Why were you wearing your mask?”
“I’d just never taken it off.”
“And yet you say Miss Benson approached you? Didn’t it ‘put the wind up’ her?”
“No. She knew it was me.”
“Not much of a disguise, then, was it?”
“She’d seen the bike!” said Drummond, his voice rising, his patience wearing thin. “She came along the alley, asked if I wanted a fuck, I gave her a tenner, and we did it. It was as simple as that.”
“Simple? But it brings us to another coincidence, doesn’t it?That you have the same dubious—and dangerous—taste in sexual positions as the rapist?”
“It was her idea to do it that way, not mine.”
The silver eyebrows shot up, disappearing right under his wig.
“Her
idea?” Whitehouse paused for a moment. “Did that surprise you?”
Drummond frowned. “No,” he said. “She’s a whore. She asks more money for doing it that way.”
“But it was a foggy, damp night, and as she memorably told the court, the ground was wet and muddy, wasn’t it?”
Drummond shrugged. “She didn’t seem to mind that,” he said. “She wanted the tenner.”
“Do go on,” said Whitehouse.
“She heard these men coming, and told me to eff off. I wanted my money back, and she starts screaming at me, effing and blinding. So I put my hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.”
“My learned friend has said that that was how her saliva came to be on your glove,” said Whitehouse. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” said Drummond.
“But you weren’t wearing your gloves, were you?”
Drummond’s eyes widened a little at his elementary mistake. “I’d put them back on by then,” he said.
“But they were in your helmet, on your bike, at the end of the alleyway, weren’t they?”
“Yeah—but I’d been back at the bike. I was going, like she’d said. But then I thought how I hadn’t had my money’s worth, and I wanted my tenner back. So I went back and asked her for it.”
“And she was still there? Still hanging about in the middle of the alleyway?”
“Yes,” said Drummond.
“Still on all fours?” asked Whitehouse.
“No,” said Drummond, through his teeth. “She got up when she told me to fuck off, all right?”
“But the gentlemen who apprehended you saw her face down on the ground, her leopard-skin leggings around herknees, with you kneeling over her, and then you ran away. How come?”
“That was after.”
“After what?”
“After I asked for my money back. She tried to run, but she fell over, and I tried to get my money from her when she was on the floor—that’s what they saw.”
“I’m not surprised she fell over,” said Whitehouse. “Women,” he said, smiling indulgently, shaking his head. “You would think with all that standing around while you walked fifty yards to your bike and put your gloves on, then walked fifty yards back again, she would have thought to pull up her leggings, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know or care what she did with her leggings,” said Drummond, stepping dangerously out of character.
“No—quite. Why should you?” said Whitehouse, still smiling. “And all this toing-and-froing and putting on of gloves and falling over happened
between
her hearing footsteps approaching and these two gentlemen arriving at the scene?”
“She must have heard them when they were a long way away,” said Drummond. “Sounds travel in the fog.”
“But not the sound of her ‘effing and blinding,’ which you were so anxious to quieten? No one but you heard that, Mr. Drummond. The two witnesses said nothing about anyone shouting, swearing—don’t you think that that would have been what caught their attention rather than the silent tableau they described?”
Drummond shrugged.
“Ah, well,” said Whitehouse. “Fiction is quite difficult—I know. I’ve tried my hand at it. So many
“And where was the bike?”
“Up at the entrance to the alley.”
“Why were you wearing your mask?”
“I’d just never taken it off.”
“And yet you say Miss Benson approached you? Didn’t it ‘put the wind up’ her?”
“No. She knew it was me.”
“Not much of a disguise, then, was it?”
“She’d seen the bike!” said Drummond, his voice rising, his patience wearing thin. “She came along the alley, asked if I wanted a fuck, I gave her a tenner, and we did it. It was as simple as that.”
“Simple? But it brings us to another coincidence, doesn’t it?That you have the same dubious—and dangerous—taste in sexual positions as the rapist?”
“It was her idea to do it that way, not mine.”
The silver eyebrows shot up, disappearing right under his wig.
“Her
idea?” Whitehouse paused for a moment. “Did that surprise you?”
Drummond frowned. “No,” he said. “She’s a whore. She asks more money for doing it that way.”
“But it was a foggy, damp night, and as she memorably told the court, the ground was wet and muddy, wasn’t it?”
Drummond shrugged. “She didn’t seem to mind that,” he said. “She wanted the tenner.”
“Do go on,” said Whitehouse.
“She heard these men coming, and told me to eff off. I wanted my money back, and she starts screaming at me, effing and blinding. So I put my hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.”
“My learned friend has said that that was how her saliva came to be on your glove,” said Whitehouse. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” said Drummond.
“But you weren’t wearing your gloves, were you?”
Drummond’s eyes widened a little at his elementary mistake. “I’d put them back on by then,” he said.
“But they were in your helmet, on your bike, at the end of the alleyway, weren’t they?”
“Yeah—but I’d been back at the bike. I was going, like she’d said. But then I thought how I hadn’t had my money’s worth, and I wanted my tenner back. So I went back and asked her for it.”
“And she was still there? Still hanging about in the middle of the alleyway?”
“Yes,” said Drummond.
“Still on all fours?” asked Whitehouse.
“No,” said Drummond, through his teeth. “She got up when she told me to fuck off, all right?”
“But the gentlemen who apprehended you saw her face down on the ground, her leopard-skin leggings around herknees, with you kneeling over her, and then you ran away. How come?”
“That was after.”
“After what?”
“After I asked for my money back. She tried to run, but she fell over, and I tried to get my money from her when she was on the floor—that’s what they saw.”
“I’m not surprised she fell over,” said Whitehouse. “Women,” he said, smiling indulgently, shaking his head. “You would think with all that standing around while you walked fifty yards to your bike and put your gloves on, then walked fifty yards back again, she would have thought to pull up her leggings, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know or care what she did with her leggings,” said Drummond, stepping dangerously out of character.
“No—quite. Why should you?” said Whitehouse, still smiling. “And all this toing-and-froing and putting on of gloves and falling over happened
between
her hearing footsteps approaching and these two gentlemen arriving at the scene?”
“She must have heard them when they were a long way away,” said Drummond. “Sounds travel in the fog.”
“But not the sound of her ‘effing and blinding,’ which you were so anxious to quieten? No one but you heard that, Mr. Drummond. The two witnesses said nothing about anyone shouting, swearing—don’t you think that that would have been what caught their attention rather than the silent tableau they described?”
Drummond shrugged.
“Ah, well,” said Whitehouse. “Fiction is quite difficult—I know. I’ve tried my hand at it. So many
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