Dead Like You

swept back from her face and cinched with a band. A simple silver choker was the only jewellery she was wearing.
    The second principle was to put the victim or witness in the dominant position, to relax them, which was why the interviewee – Nicola Taylor – was on the sofa, while the DC was on the single chair.
    Mirroring was a classic interview technique. If you mirrored everything that the subject did, sometimes it would put them at ease to such an extent that they began to mirror the interviewer. When that happened, the interviewer then had control and the victim would acquiesce, relating to the interviewer – and, in interview parlance, start to cough .
    Grace jotted down occasional notes as Westmore, in her gentle Scouse accent, slowly and skilfully attempted to coax a response from the traumatized, silent woman. A high percentage of rape victims suffer immediate post-traumatic stress disorder, their agitated state limiting the time they are able to concentrate and focus. Westmore was intelligently making the best of this by following the guidelines to go to the most recent event first and then work backwards.
    Over his years as a detective Grace had learned, from numerous interviewing courses he had attended, something that he was fond of telling team members: there is no such thing as a bad witness – only a bad interviewer.
    But this DC seemed to know exactly what she was doing.
    ‘I know this must be very difficult for you to talk about, Nicola,’ she said. ‘But it would help me to understand what’s happened and really help in trying to find out who has done this to you. You don’t have to tell me today if you don’t want to.’
    The woman stared ahead in silence, wringing her hands together, shaking.
    Grace felt desperately sorry for her.
    The SOLO began wringing her hands too. After some moments, she asked, ‘You were at a New Year’s Eve dinner at the Metropole with some friends, I understand?’
    Silence.
    Tears were rolling down the woman’s cheeks.
    ‘Is there anything at all you can tell me today?’
    She shook her head suddenly.
    ‘OK. That’s not a problem,’ Claire Westmore said. She sat in silence for a short while, then she asked, ‘At this dinner, did you have very much to drink?’
    The woman shook her head.
    ‘So you weren’t drunk?’
    ‘Why do you think I was drunk?’ she snapped back suddenly.
    The SOLO smiled. ‘It’s one of those evenings when we all let our guard down a little. I don’t drink very much. But New Year’s Eve I tend to get wrecked! It’s the one time of year!’
    Nicola Taylor looked down at her hands. ‘Is that what you think?’ she said quietly. ‘That I was wrecked?’
    ‘I’m here to help you. I’m not making any assumptions, Nicola.’
    ‘I was stone cold sober,’ she said bitterly.
    ‘OK.’
    Grace was pleased to see the woman reacting. That was a positive sign.
    ‘I’m not judging you, Nicola. I’d just like to know what happened. I honestly do understand how difficult it is to speak about what you have been through and I want to help you in any way I can. I can only do that if I understand exactly what’s happened to you.’
    A long silence.
    Branson drank some of his Coke. Grace sipped his coffee.
    ‘We can end this chat whenever you want, Nicola. If you would rather we leave it until tomorrow, that’s fine. Or the next day. Whatever you feel is best. I just want to help you. That’s all I care about.’
    Another long silence.
    Then Nicola Taylor suddenly blurted out the word, ‘Shoes!’
    ‘Shoes?’
    She fell silent again.
    ‘Do you like shoes, Nicola?’ the SOLO probed. When there was no response she said chattily, ‘Shoes are my big weakness. I was in New York before Christmas with my husband. I nearly bought some Fendi boots – they cost eight hundred and fifty dollars!’
    ‘Mine were Marc Jacobs,’ Nicola Taylor said, almost whispering.
    ‘Marc Jacobs? I love his shoes!’ she replied. ‘Were they taken with your clothes?’
    Another long silence.
    Then the woman said, ‘He made me do things with them.’
    ‘What kind of things? Try – try to tell me.’
    Nicola Taylor started to cry again. Then, in between her sobs, she began talking in graphic detail, but slowly, with long periods of silence in between, as she tried to compose herself, and sometimes just plain let go, waves of nausea making her retch.
    As they listened in the observation room, Glenn Branson turned to his colleague and