All the Rage

Adam Fawley
2 April 2018
19.10

It's gone 7.00 when Gislingham puts his head round my door.

`˜Just heard back from the team at the allotments, boss. Basically, nada.'

Quinn used to say that a lot when he was DS; I hope Gislingham grows out of it before I have to beat his head against a brick wall.

`˜Only thing they do seem to be managing is pissing off a lot of old chaps who've no longer got a good excuse to get out of the washing-up, by the sound of it.' He grins. `˜I think we should prepare ourselves for some irate compensation claims for parsnips trampled in the line of duty.'

`˜What about the shed Faith was taken to `“ who owns that?'

Gis whips out his notebook. `˜A lady called Cheng Zhen Li.' He stumbles over the pronunciation then spells it out for me. `˜No prizes for guessing she's Chinese. Apparently she's lived in Marston for about thirty years and has had the allotment for at least ten. Quite a fixture, by all accounts. Used to be there regular as clockwork every morning and evening with her little trug for a bit of pricking out and potting on.'

I'm starting to wonder if Gis might be angling to get an allotment of his own; he's certainly up on all the lingo. Though from what I know of his wife, I can't see her having much trug with that idea.

`˜What do you mean, `њused to`ќ?'

He makes a face. `˜That's just it. She's been in hospital. Broken hip. She's back at home now but she hasn't been to the allotment for the last two weeks.'

`˜And the shed `“ was it locked?'

He shakes his head. `˜Seems not. It was just on a latch. She doesn't keep anything of value in it, and in any case, she said the allotment owners share each other's stuff. It's the done thing, apparently. In allotment circles.'

So that's not going to get us anywhere either. Marvellous. Absolutely bloody marvellous.

`˜What about the Incel board?'

`˜Ah, good news and bad news on that one. Turned out the Yeltob bloke was using a public Wi-Fi, just like Asante said. He's logged in at the same place every time he's posted in the last few weeks.'

`˜Is that the good news or the bad news?'

He makes a face. `˜Sorry, boss. It was a Starbucks on the outskirts of Southampton.'

So it's not our man.

I take a deep breath. `˜Have we passed it on to Hants Police?'

Because this piece of shit needs apprehending, even if not by us.

He nods. `˜Somer's going to call that bloke of hers `“ he'll know who to send it to. If that Starbucks has CCTV there's a good chance they can narrow down who it was.'

* * *

Alex Fawley takes another quick look down the road, then pulls the curtain back in place. Still no sign of Adam. She moves over to the sofa and sits down carefully, feeling the baby move, then settle. She's trying not to worry, trying to carry on as normally as possible, but some days the temptation to crawl under the duvet and stay there becomes almost overwhelming. She's negotiated to work from home for the final few months but now even her own house feels like a minefield `“ an assault course of inanimate objects out to cause her harm. Rugs she could slip on, steps she could trip over. She keeps telling Adam that she's fine, joking with him in that easy repartee they've developed over the years. But the minute he leaves the house the fear comes down and she spends most of the day too paralysed to move.

She gets up and goes to the window again. But outside, the road is deserted.

* * *

When Erica Somer gets home she spends a long time under the shower. Something about this case is getting under her skin, and she's not quite sure why. She's met victims who've suffered worse, victims who deserve at least as much pity. But she's never had to deal with a crime against a trans person. She thought she was well-informed, and sensitive, and attuned to the issues `“ of course she thought that. Every intelligent person probably thinks the same. But she knows now that it's far more complicated, far more nuanced, than she ever allowed for. Even Fawley, who she likes and admires and has gone out of his way to promote and encourage her, seems to be struggling with it. And what about Giles? She tells herself he's not a misogynist, not even a mansplainer, but how can she be sure, when she knows him, as yet, so little?

When she goes back into the bedroom there's a message from him on her phone, asking her to call. She knows it's probably about the Starbucks thing but her heart still lifts `“ then lifts again as she realizes how instinctive that swell of happiness was. Maybe her unconscious is trying to tell her something. Maybe it really is as simple as it seems.

* * *