All the Rage

Adam Fawley
1 April 2018
10.25

`˜So how's this going to work then?'

Alex settles herself slowly into the sofa and swings her feet up. I hand her the mug and she curls her hands around it. `˜How's what going to work?' she says, though she's already looking mischievous.

`˜You know exactly what I mean `“ the small fact that I don't know the sex, but you do.'

She blows on the tea and then looks up at me, all innocence. `˜Why should it be a problem?'

I shunt a cushion aside and sit down. `˜How are you going to keep a secret like that? You're bound to let it slip eventually.'

She grins. `˜Well, as long as you don't employ that infamous interviewing technique of yours, I think I'll just about manage to keep it to myself.' She laughs now, seeing my face. `˜Look, I promise to keep thinking of two lists of names `“'

`˜OK, but `“'

`˜And not buy everything in blue.'

Before I can even open my mouth she grins again and prods me with her foot. `˜Or pink.'

I shake my head, all faux-disapproval. `˜I give up.'

`˜No, you don't,' she says, serious now. `˜You never give up. Not on anything.'

And we both know she's not just talking about my job.

I get to my feet. `˜Take it easy the rest of the day, all right? No heavy lifting or anything insane like that.'

She raises an eyebrow. `˜So that afternoon of lumberjacking I had planned is off, is it? Darn it.'

`˜And email me if you need anything from the shops.'

She gives a joke salute then prods me again. `˜Go. You're late already. And I have done all this before, remember. I wallpapered Jake's nursery when I was twice the size I am now.'

As she smiles up at me, I realize I can't even remember the last time she talked like this. All those months after Jake died, she saw motherhood only in terms of loss. Absence. Not just the want of him but the despair of having any other child. All this time, she could only speak of our son in pain. But now, perhaps, she can reclaim the joy of him too. This baby could never be a replacement, even if we wanted it to be, but perhaps he `“ or she `“ can still be a redemption.

It's only when I get to the door that I turn round. `˜What infamous interviewing technique?'

Her laughter follows me all the way down the drive.

* * *

At 10.45 Somer is still stuck in a queue on the A33. She'd meant to come back from Hampshire last night but somehow the walk along the coast had turned into dinner, and dinner had turned into just one glass too many, and at half ten they'd agreed it definitely wasn't a good idea for her to drive. So the new plan was to get up at 5.00 to beat the Monday-morning rush, only somehow that didn't happen either and it was gone 9.00 by the time she left. Not that she's complaining. She smiles to herself; her skin is still tingling despite the hot shower and the cold car. Even though it means she has no change of clothes for the office and no time to go home and get any. Her phone pings and she glances down. It's a text from Giles. She smiles again as she reads it, itching to reply with some arch remark about what his superintendent would say if he got sent that by mistake, but the car ahead of her is finally moving; Giles `“ for once `“ is going to have to wait.

* * *

When the minicab driver first spotted the girl, he thought she was drunk. Yet another bloody student, he thought, getting pissed on cheap cider and staggering home at all hours. She was a good hundred yards ahead of him, but he could see she was lurching unsteadily from side to side. It wasn't till the car got closer that he realized she was actually limping. One strappy shoe was still on but the other had lost its heel. That's what made him slow down. That and where she was. Out on the Marston Ferry Road, miles from anywhere. Or as close to it as Oxford ever gets. Though as he signalled and pulled over alongside her, he still thought she must just be drunk.

But that was before he saw her face.

* * *

The office is all but empty when the call comes through. Quinn's AWOL somewhere, Fawley's not due in till lunchtime and Gislingham's off on a training course. Something to do with people management, Baxter tells Ev. Before smiling wryly and observing that he can't see why the Sarge is bothering: there's nothing about that particular subject Gis couldn't learn from his own wife.

Somer has just got back with a salad and a round of coffees when the phone rings. She watches Everett pick it up and wedge the handset against her shoulder while she answers an email.

`˜Sorry?' she says suddenly, gripping the phone now, the email forgotten. `˜Can you say that again? You're sure? And when did this happen?' She grabs a pen and scribbles something down. `˜Tell them we'll be there in twenty minutes.'

Somer looks up; something tells her the salad is going to have to wait. Again. She doesn't even bother buying hot lunches any more.

Everett puts the phone down. `˜A girl's been found on the Marston Ferry Road.'

`˜Found? What do you mean `њfound`ќ?'

`˜In a state of extreme distress, and with marks on her wrists where her hands were tied.'

`˜Tied? She'd been tied up?'

Everett's face is grim. `˜I'm afraid it sounds a lot worse than that.'

* * *