Chapter 9: What the Envelope Proved
Ros knew a detective constable named Farida who worked in a unit that handled exactly this kind of case — patterns of harassment and coercive behavior that slipped through the gaps of individual complaints because no single incident looked like enough.
"The challenge with men like this," Farida told us, when we sat in her office a week later — me, Claire, and Ros — "is that each piece looks thin on its own.
What you're bringing me is different.
You're bringing me a pattern across multiple women with corroborating documentation."
She had Diane's journal in front of her.
She had the envelope.
She had printed records of the complaint filed at the university and its withdrawal.
She had screenshots Hannah had saved — not of anything Greg had sent her directly, but of a message he'd sent to a mutual contact, describing Hannah in terms that were designed to reach her and were designed to be deniable.
"The postmark," Farida said, holding the envelope carefully.
"He told Diane he was in Edinburgh.
You have the texts?"
"She forwarded them," Ros said.
"Timestamped."
"And the postmark is London."
"Central London.
Posted on a Wednesday afternoon."
Farida set the envelope down.
"That's a provable lie.
It doesn't prove he sent the letter, but it proves he lied about where he was.
Combined with the content of the letter and the timing of the complaint withdrawal—" She paused.
"It builds."
"Is it enough?" Claire asked.
"It's enough to open a formal investigation.
Whether it becomes enough for charges depends on what that investigation finds." Farida looked at Claire directly.
"I want to be honest with you.
This process is not fast.
And it may be uncomfortable.
He will likely be interviewed and he will likely deny everything.
His solicitor will try to characterize the women involved as—"
"I know what they'll say," Claire said.
"I've already heard the version he prepared."
Farida nodded.
"Then you understand what you're choosing."
"Yes," Claire said.
"I understand."
On the way out, Claire and I stood on the pavement for a moment in the grey afternoon light.
She had her coat pulled around her and she was looking at nothing in particular.
"Four months," she said.
"I was with him for four months and I thought I knew him."
"He's had a lot of practice," I said.
"That's the part that frightens me.
Not that I was fooled.
That he's that good at it."
I didn't have an answer for that.
I put my arm through hers and we walked to the car.
Three weeks later, Farida called.
Greg had been formally interviewed.
During the interview, he had produced what he claimed were messages from Hannah that demonstrated she had pursued him.
Farida's team had them examined.
The metadata was wrong.
The messages had been created, not sent.
The timestamps didn't match the server records.
"He fabricated evidence during a police interview," Ros said, when I told her.
She was quiet for a moment.
"That is a different category of problem for him."
"What happens now?"
"Now," Ros said, "it stops being a pattern-of-behavior case and starts being something with teeth."
I called Claire.
She answered on the first ring.
"I heard," she said.
She'd already spoken to Farida.
"He fabricated messages.
During the interview."
"Yes."
A long pause.
"Mom," she said.
"If you hadn't stopped on that street—"
"But I did," I said.
"I know.
I just—" Her voice caught.
"I keep thinking about what the wedding would have looked like.
What the years after it would have looked like."
I thought about Hannah's shaking hands.
About Diane's careful eyes on a screen.
About Priya, who had moved away.
"Don't think about that," I said.
"Think about what it looks like now."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then: "It looks better."
May you like
"Yes," I said.
"It does."
