A Matter for the Jury Read Free Page A

Molly’s boyfriend, Sam, had taken her there several times, she confided. She did not go into great detail, but in hushed tones she confided to Frank that, the last time, something had gone a bit wrong, and she had spent almost two weeks worrying herself to death, and worrying Sam to death until, mercifully, her period arrived exactly on time. Frank was all ears.
    Frank was a handsome young man – almost six feet tall and fairly slim, with light brown hair and eyes. He had been going out with Jennifer Doyce for about two months. Jennifer was a couple of years younger than Frank, a slight girl of medium height, with black hair and blue-grey eyes. She also lived in St Ives, but was training as a librarian in Huntingdon. Their outings were confined to the weekends, and consisted of visits to cafés, pubs, or the cinema. Jennifer was by no means unwilling, but opportunities for physical intimacy were few and far between. Both Frank and Jennifer still lived at home with their parents and, when he walked her home, it was usually too cold for anything more than a brief kiss and a suggestive fondle. At the cinema, with their coats over their laps, she would use her hand to good effect. But then there was the problem of concealing the inevitable stains from his mother. And Jennifer did not feel comfortable enough in the cinema to let him do anything similar for her.
    Frank was ready for more; and he was prepared. On his last visit to the barber, he had summoned up his courage sufficiently to buy a packet of three condoms.
    â€˜Will there be anything else, sir?’ Geoffrey, the barber, inquired as usual, taking his half crown and depositing it in the till.
    Geoffrey had been asking the same question of Frank for at least two years. In theory, he might have been referring to shaving cream or razor blades. But the context always suggested otherwise. The question was asked with a knowing grin, and an upward glance towards the condoms, which were kept on a high shelf, almost invisible unless you knew exactly where to look, to avoid any shock or offence to older customers or mothers bringing in their young sons for their short back and sides. It always made Frank feel horribly awkward. When he replied, ‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ he would try to give the impression of a man who was already provided for, though he felt sure that Geoffrey saw straight through him. But on this occasion Frank was determined to overcome his self-consciousness.
    â€˜Yes, actually, a packet of the…’ He allowed the sentence to die, unfinished, in the air.
    â€˜Of course, sir.’ Geoffrey looked around quickly. There was only one customer waiting, a youngish man immersed in the sports pages of the Daily Mirror . No danger of scandal. He quickly mounted a small stool kept behind the till for the purpose, and swiftly removed one packet, which almost immediately disappeared into an anonymous brown paper bag.
    â€˜There you go, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘That will be another half crown.’
    â€˜Good luck, sir,’ he added in a confidential whisper as Frank left. ‘Pop in any time if you need some more.’
    So Frank was all set. All he needed to do now was to tell Jennifer about the Rosemary D .

4
    25 January
    They decided to go to the Oliver Cromwell for a drink to settle their nerves, and to warm themselves up a bit, before setting out for their big adventure. They arrived at 9.45. The Oliver Cromwell was a basic locals’ pub in Wellington Street, a stone’s throw from the historic Quay and the ancient bridge which spans the Great Ouse at St Ives. It was an overwhelmingly male establishment. Few women drank there – perhaps the occasional widow sitting on her own in a corner of the snug – it was very different from the new, more glitzy town-centre pubs where women, even women on their own, were no longer so unusual. Jennifer turned one or two heads when they entered. But they did not