Bribery and corruption [14]

In this episode, I get a terrifying phone call about Bea.  At the same time, Mr Y and Ms X make their pleas to the charge against them of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. We get some more information from the police about what these two criminals wanted to achieve when they came looking for Beatrice and found Iris - but are no nearer to credible answer about how they got hold of our address.

Trigger warnings: this podcast deals with rape, sexual assault, anxiety, depression and eating disorders.
 
 Most mothers will never have to find out what happens when their child becomes the victim of a horrendous crime. I, Lisa Lennox, never imagined that it would happen to my family, to my 17-year-old daughter. But one benign, ordinary summer's day, it did. And so began my family's immersion in the horror unleashed by such a crime, the trauma, the fear, the on-going nightmare of dealing with a police and criminal justice system which, if not completely broken, is certainly fatally fractured and struggling to cope. 
 
 Everyone is Talking About This is the true story of an ordinary family forced to face an extraordinary circumstance. I’ve tried to be honest and forthright about my desperate struggle to help my child get justice - and, on many occasions, to see the reason to go on living.

Please do tell your friends about this audiobook podcast and encourage them to listen so that as many people as possible are aware of the reality victims of rape are up against on a daily basis here in the UK and across the world.

Please be aware that this podcast mentions sexual assault, rape, eating disorders and mental health issues. There is occasional strong language and some graphic detail. 

If you have been affected by any of the issues in this podcast, here are some organisations you can contact in the UK:
Rape Crisis
0808 500 2222 - calls are free.
Or you can visit their website - https://247sexualabusesupport.org.uk/

Beat, the UK's eating disorder charity
08088010677 - calls are free.
Or visit their website - https://www.beateatingdisorders.org.uk/

You can also speak to your GP or, if you are still at school, someone from your safeguarding team. 


To my listeners - please do tell your friends about this audiobook podcast and encourage them to listen so that as many people as possible are aware of the reality victims of rape are up against on a daily basis here in the UK and across the world. 

Help me to spread the word!

And contact me on: everyoneistalkingaboutthis@gmail.com 
or via Twitter: @63136_survivors to tell me what you like about the podcast and what I could improve. 

Thank you! 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:03

Omicron continues in its inexorable quest to be the dominant COVID strain and is apparently virulently infectious, but nobody in the family has caught it from Iris. Christmas is up in the air because of the virus. We're in the government's hands as to what level of mingling will be allowed. On the twentieth of December, David sends a text message saying the plea hearing for Miss X and Mr Y for the conspiracy to pervert the course of justice charge is scheduled for two PM that afternoon. I already know this as I've looked it up on the Court Serve website. There's nothing to do but wait. I'm getting on with the housework when the phone rings. It's a no caller ID. As always, when I see this on my screen my heart sinks. Such calls are usually to do with B, and they usually mean trouble. Bee is still away at the moment, visiting her friend Tabby at Liverpool University. Filled with trepidation, I answer. It's Jenny, B's eating disorders counsellor. She tells me that she's had an email from B saying that B has done something with her meds over the weekend. Shock renders me speechless, my stomach curls in fear. Done something with her meds? Done what? An overdose? Surely not. But what else could it be? Her friend has called the beacon to tell them there's been an issue with B's meds, Jenny is saying. Where is she now? My voice cuts across Jenny's. Internally I'm thinking, why hasn't B called me? Why hasn't she told me? Why do I always hear this shit from other people? Are they at Tabby's student house? Jenny can't answer this question. She's told me everything she knows. I'm panicking, I don't know what to do. Head straight for the station, jump on a train to Liverpool. As my mind is wildly whirling, I try calling B. The phone rings out. I don't know Tabby's number or address. How could I have been so monumentally stupid? This is basic information that I have neglected to acquire, even though I know B's propensity for getting into trouble. I phone again. B answers. I nearly faint with relief. I'm upstairs now, hauling a travel bag out of the wardrobe, casting around for what I might need to take with me. When I hear my daughter's voice I sink down onto my bed. What happened? I demand. I passed out, just in Tabby's flat. I dunno, fainted, had a fit or something. Her voice is dull, emotionless. Oh my god, I breathe. The paramedics thought I was on drugs, but I swear I wasn't, continues B, in the same monotone. Paramedics What the fuck? B, it's the alcohol with the quitiopine, you know that. It's the same as in Miyorca. You know you can't drink with those drugs. I can't help myself from sounding angry. The relief that she's alive, the fear, the stress, all threatening to overwhelm me. Immediately B's back is up. I didn't have much, just a couple of drinks. But you can't have anything, I snap. You know that. That's why I don't tell you things, because this is how you react. How should I react? I retaliate. I need to stop, to be calm, to be the soothing, capable adult in the room, but I'm no more in control of any of this than beers. I just pretend to be, and right now the pretense is slipping. I didn't drink much. Anything is too much, I repeat. I pause, try to compose myself. Where's Tabby? Is she okay? She's still asleep. We didn't get home from A and E until six thirty AM I try to suppress a sigh. So what is this thing about the meds? Jenny said you contacted her. B sniffs. I can hear that she's crying. It's nothing. I realize I should have worded the email to Jenny better, but it's just that the hospital gave me a prescription for a lower dose of quatyapine. That's all. That's what I meant when I said I've done something with my meds. A huge weight lifts from my shoulders. So no overdose. No suicide attempt. What about the beacon? Jenny says that Tabby called them. I can hear B shaking her head. The nurse texted me about my bloods early this morning, so I answered and said that there was an issue with my meds. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. It's all been blown up out of proportion, but of course it has. If a young person contacts a health professional, telling them they've meddled with their prescription drugs, everyone is going to be on high alert. What is the plan for today? I ask. How are you feeling? I'm fine, replies B. Tabby's got to do her packing, we'll have some food, and we'll be on the train at six forty five. The tickets are booked, and you can't change them. I'm not sure what to say, let alone do. Should I go to Liverpool and fetch her? It'll take three to four hours to get there. And she sounds all right now. I end the call and phone Phil. He's angry, exactly as I knew he would be. Don't shout at her, I beg. We know that doesn't help. He tells me not to go to Liverpool, but I say I'll go to Euston and meet her when the train is due in at nine PM. In the hours before then I finish sewing Iris' dungarees. I'm numb, exhausted. Don't think about this hell, I tell myself. Focus on the task in hand, one instruction at a time, one seam at a time, one stitch at a time. I can sew and mend and make. It's just being a mother I'm terrible at, for having a child who's so unhappy she drinks and smokes weed and self harms to dull the pain. I wish I had a way to make her understand that, however bad what she's going through is, it won't be forever. It will get better. She just needs to be able to see that. The fact that she can't haunts my dreams at night and stalks me throughout the day. It's always there, breathing down my neck, looming over my shoulder. I recall B's former self, her babyhood, crawling at three months, always full of energy, always on the move. Where did it all go so wrong? In the midst of all this, I've almost forgotten about the court hearing. By five PM there's still no news from the police. I thought courts closed at four to allow the judges to get to their private members' clubs and start on the port. I text David. He says he's just heard and is writing an email. Dread subsumes me. Why does it need a whole email? Half an hour later, the message drops into my inbox. Both Mr Y and Miss X have pleaded guilty to conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. She's been let out on bail under strict conditions, a curfew, and an electronic tag. She's forbidden to enter the London borough where we live, something I remember David saying would also have been imposed upon Mr Y had he been given bail at any stage. Sentencing will take place in March, and they'll be interviewing Miss X to see how she can help with the prosecution's case. Call me paranoid, call me suspicious, call me sceptical, but I'm immediately on the alert. All my faculties primed to look for the problem, the catch, the part of this that may damage B's case? I send David a list of questions. He must be used to this by now. How does this affect the other case? Can the conspiracy to pervert the course of justice be used in the rape trial, as they are intrinsically linked? Or have they pleaded guilty purely to make sure it doesn't form part of the other case? How do we know they won't send someone else to our house if neither of them can come themselves? The point is that I'm concerned that the two of them have played the system here in order to try to keep the conspiracy out of the rape trial, and to allow Miss X to get the bail she's requested before. David does not reply. Later, I go to Euston to collect B. She and Tabby are tired but seem okay. On the bus on the way home I sit with my arm around B's shoulders, which, surprisingly, she allows. We talk about what happened in Liverpool, and B, in more conciliatory mood, admits that the alcohol was a bad idea, but continues to insist that she honestly didn't have that much. We have an online meeting scheduled for the next morning with Jenny and the psychiatrist who treated B during her time in the eating disorder's intensive service. We talk about taking her off quitiopine, finding an antidepressant that hopefully won't give her the terrible night sweats that Sertraline did. Once the meeting is over, I go to get a COVID test. If it's allowed, we'll be with family at Christmas, and I want to check that I'm clear, especially as everyone at work has been coming down with it. I've got an appointment at a pop-up centre in a park about half an hour's walk away. When I get there, a small cue snakes out from the marquee. As I approach to join it, a jaunty young couple on matching Bromptons with matching high vest jackets clock me and speed up so that they can get ahead of me. I filter in behind the couple, standing next to the back wheel of the woman's bike. Could you give me some space please, Miss Jaunty demands? You're too close. Irritation floods through me. I look at her. No, I say. I'm over a meter away. We're outside, and we're both wearing masks. I think it's fine. I refrain from adding sanctimonious cow. No need to be rude. When I get home, David has replied to my questions. He says that the evidence was so overwhelming against Mr Y and Miss X in the conspiracy case that they were probably advised the only possible course was to plead guilty. By doing so at this stage, they will hope and expect to benefit from some leniency in sentencing. Anything Miss X does now would negatively impact her sentence, he maintains, so it's unlikely she would attempt to make contact again. If we are the least bit suspicious, we should use the panic alarm or call nine nine. He concludes by saying that until she's been questioned, we don't know what help her testimony might provide, but David is hopeful it will be positive. This is further evidence that David is one of those people within whom hope seems to spring eternal. I am not. I email back, questioning whether we can trust or rely on anything Miss X says, given the web of lies she told the police before. I also asked to know the truth about the conspiracy. What, exactly, were they planning to do if they found B? I would be amazed that I have to ask for this, rather than an explanation being offered to me, if it weren't for the fact that nothing surprises me any more. Time and again we've discovered that if we don't ask the exact right questions at the exact right time, we won't get the answers that surely any family in this situation would want. As well as requesting more details, I also ask David if any further information has come to light about how they found our address. When he replies, I start reading the email as if on autopilot. In relation to your first point, as Miss X has now pleaded guilty to this offence and is awaiting sentencing, she will have been informed that the sentence she received will certainly be impacted by her conduct henceforth. By this I mean if Miss X is untruthful again when police engage with her, this will all be documented, and when it comes to her sentencing for the matter this will be considered when the judge makes this decision. Ultimately it is in her own personal interest if she wishes to avoid a harsher sentence, to be truthful, and to engage fully. Further to this, it will be difficult for her to lie at this stage, as we have been privy to her phone messages, stroke calls. The information she gives to us will be taken and provided in the form of a statement, and she will be used as a prosecution witness, providing evidence for the prosecution against Mr Y at the trial if necessary. In relation to your second point, the circumstances in which the offence was committed are as follows Mr Y wanted to bribe B to drop the case by offering her money. Wait, stop. What the fuck? Suddenly the words I'm reading stopped going in one ear and out the next and shock me into alertness. But this is exactly what I thought to be the case, what I said from the beginning, what the CCTV footage seemed to verify. What the police refused to look into and insisted was not a crime. Seething with anger, I read on. Mr Y seems to have convinced Miss X that Beatrice has reported this matter for financial gain, and therefore Miss X had reluctantly agreed to attend your address to offer a bribe. There is zero mention of use of or even implied violence during any of their interactions. In terms of how the address has been established, we haven't been able to clarify this as Mr Y hasn't spoken in his police interviews, only giving a prepared statement and answering no comment to further questions. Miss X had also previously refused to engage with police and didn't answer in her interview, until now it seems. When we engage with Miss X, if we find out and confirm this information through any certainty, you will be made aware. I think you are right in that it is likely it will have been obtained from a website such as one nine two dot com, like you have mentioned. If we find out more that we don't already know that we feel would be important for your safety when speaking to Miss X, you will of course be informed. As Miss X will be providing a statement to assist the prosecution, though, we will not be able to share this with you, as is the same with any other prosecution witness. I put my head in my hands. So the visit was all about money, exactly as I very first predicted. Presumably many little difficulties are resolved this way in Afghanistan. I was right, though there's scant satisfaction in being so a pyrrhic victory if ever there was one. It won't be until many, many months later that we find out that David's assertion that we will be told, if Messex reveals anything that might affect our safety, is not true. I try to put thoughts of the case to one side for the afternoon and focus on making a nice Christmas for the girls. Iris and I go to meet my sister and the cousins and have a wander around the South Bank, Borough Market and Covent Garden, to see the lights and browse the shops. It's cold and festive. Around Seven Dials and Monmouth Street, I marvel about how the area has changed, since back in the day when this was my hangout, being thrown out of Brahms and Lis Nightclub at closing time on a Friday night. Those days seem so innocent now. Iris humours my recollections, my frequent I remember when's. We don't buy anything. Iris is eagerly awaiting Santa's visit, and being Santa has drained my bank balance. Plus I've got to a stage in life beyond even William Morris's wisdom. He said you shouldn't own anything you don't know to be useful or believe to be beautiful. I would amend that to you shouldn't own anything. I'm fed up with possessions, done with the ephemeral pleasure of purchasing, no longer want to play any part in keeping the wheels of capitalism turning. What I would really like is an empty house, spotlessly clean, requiring absolutely no input from me, not the actual house I have which drains me with its dust and grime and cat hair and stains. I'm lucky to have a comfortable home, I know that. But sometimes I yearn for a hammock on a desert island, coconut water to drink, and nothing more to worry about than going out to catch the next fish for supper. At home I pour myself a large glass of wine, not a good example to be, I know, but I need it. It is the winter solstice, the shortest, darkest day of the year. Does this mark the lowest point? Or is there yet further to fall. That night I do not sleep. My mind swirls with what I need to do, what questions I need to ask, what further dubious statements made to us by the police need challenging and clarifying? I drop into a fitful slumber at around eight AM, waking at ten. I need to get up, make B eat something, care for poor neglected iris. I can't move. I can't summon the energy even to go to the toilet, though my bladder is bursting. I lie, immobile, stricken by such a deep and profound sadness I can't imagine ever getting up again. It's two days before Christmas. Still in bed I check my emails on my phone. David has sent a reply to my continuing request for information on how, exactly, Mr Y got our address. I've suggested that Miss X could just be asked. Have they done that? He tells me that, having interviewed Miss X, he can now shed some light on the matter. Miss X maintains that Mr Y gave her the address. David writes While he was in prison, Mr Y was provided statements of the witnesses in this case in the presence of his solicitor to read, as the defendant is entitled to see the evidence against them in the case. Remember, dear listener, that the victim herself and the victim's family get to see absolutely none of the evidence in the case. Nothing zilch nada. The victim cannot know anything that anybody involved has said until they hear it in court. I continue reading. When providing statements, all identifying information like addresses and contact numbers are redacted, and only a name of the witness is given when provided to the defence. However, in this case it appears that there was a clerical error on one of the statements missed seemingly by a CPS clerk when reviewing and forwarding, and your address hadn't been redacted. I understand there was a short window before this was rectified by the defence solicitor, and so it seems Mr Y must have noted your address in this short period. I appreciate that this must be very frustrating to hear, but I hope it provides some closure or clarity on how this information was gained. My head is spinning as I read this. Mr Y was given our address by the CPS. David assesses this as frustrating. Frustrating That is the word David thinks is appropriate for the negligent passing on of information that enabled my daughter to be hounded in the street. That means my home will never be a place of safety for my family ever again. I look back at the phone, refraining from immediately sending the rudest message I can think of. As I scroll, I realise that David has sent another mail shortly after the first one. It reads Further to my last, and after speaking to a colleague, I just want to confirm that it wasn't actually your address that wasn't redacted, but the pub around the corner from your address, the Duke's head, which had been mentioned in the body of one of the statements. It appears your address was established through this, and Miss X waiting around for a prolonged period of time. Apologies for the confusion, I should have made sure before responding to your email just wanted to clarify that. I'm enraged, furious, incandescent for the umpteenth time since this whole process began. What is this shit show of a policing effort? Who do I complain to? How? With what level of ferocity do I unleash my fury? I tell Phil, and he, too, is incensed, but less about the police, and more about Mr Y. If that man ever comes near my house or my children again, I'll murder him, he rages, I'll tear him limb from limb. I don't care if I go down for it for the rest of my life. It will be worth it. I don't condone violence. I don't wish Mr Y dead for all the damage he's caused. But I understand Phil's anger, the way he feels, and I don't try to temper it. Don't try to reason with him. It's the twenty third of December, and I would like to be doing anything but emailing the DCI, but I have no choice. I have to make clear my feelings. Whether it is incompetence, negligence, complacency, laziness, stupidity, or all of the above, I don't know, but what I do know is that this is unacceptable. No victim, no family should have to deal with this. Wearily I write the email. In the afternoon we pile into our rusting old jalopy of a car and head to the south coast, to my older sister's house where we are spending the Christmas that Boris Johnson has, beneficently, allowed to the country. We drive through pitch darkness and unrelenting rain. The whole world seems to be awash. Tears frequently blind my eyes as the windscreen wipers swipe left and right. I recall driving through the downpour of Mallorca to find B. I had to be strong then, and I must be strong now. I wipe the tears away and concede to Iris' request to put Christmas music on the radio. Even listening to the twenty millionth rendition of Here It Is Merry Christmas can't make me feel any worse than I already do.