The Whole Truth

I hesitate a moment, wondering if it’s just a coincidence. But you know by now what I think about coincidences. And as our eyes meet across the traffic, I know I’m right.

We have to wait for a bus to pass, but a few moments later we’re standing face to face on the crowded pavement.

‘Hello, Adam,’ she says.

* * *

Alex Fawley has reached the point in her pregnancy where her baby is a good deal more active than she is. She’s always so tired now, and it’s not just the heat. When Adam’s at work she spends most of the day lying on the bed with the blinds down. She can’t even summon the energy to read, just plugs in her headphones or has the TV on in the background, treating it like radio.

She pours herself a glass of iced water and wanders back into the sitting room. There’s no one parked outside. No one unfamiliar, anyway. Just the Hamiltons’ SUV and the grey Fiat Uno owned by that woman a bit further down whose name Alex still doesn’t know. The white van hasn’t been back. Or at least she doesn’t think it has. But would he really be stupid enough to use a vehicle he knew she’d be looking for? If it was her, she’d go to a rental place. Get something bland and forgettable. And a different one each time, just to make sure. This man isn’t stupid; if he’s using a white van it’s intentional. Because he wants her to know he’s there. To scare her – deliberately scare her –

Her heart quickens and the baby turns, uneasy. She sits down slowly, willing her pulse to slow. Adam keeps asking her if everything’s OK – if she’s seen the van again – and she keeps just smiling and saying no. She doesn’t want him worrying – or starting to think she’s losing her mind. Because it makes no sense, she knows that: Gavin Parrie is miles from here, tagged, monitored, curfewed. But her fear just won’t go away.

She cradles her body now, feeling the baby settle.

‘Don’t worry, sweet one,’ she whispers, the tears gathering in her eyes. ‘You’re safe. Daddy would never let anyone hurt us. You and I are his whole world.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

9 July 2018

14.25

Reynolds can’t see me till gone two. The PA tells me he ‘has a lunch’ so would I ‘come to the Lodgings’. No doubt they want to keep the likes of me from contaminating their hallowed turf. Given I have time on my hands, I opt to walk. Up St Aldate’s and through Cornmarket. The sun is bringing them all out – Jehovah’s Witnesses, a choir of Seventh Day Adventists, the local Islamic centre and a kiosk informing me that ‘The Message of the Cross is foolishness to those who are perishing’. Though parching might be a better word, given the temperature. And all of it jumbled up any-old-how with the payday lenders, a stall selling sunglasses and smiley-face cushions, and that carrot-haired regular who plays the bagpipes. (There’s a furious-looking little old lady standing right opposite him with a knotted handkerchief on her head and a placard that says REBUILD HADRIAN’S WALL. That’s Oxford for you – never knowingly under-nuttered.) It’s six-deep in tourist groups most of the way so progress is slow, though at least most of those are managing to keep their clothes on. Unlike the locals, who are going hell for leather into another round of the Great British Kit-Off. If there was a law against raw bloke moobs in a built-up area I’d need to send for reinforcements.

When I get to the lodgings the flunkey at the door shows me through to the garden. Which is, of course, glorious – a green half-acre of lawns and honeysuckle and rose beds tended to within an inch of their lives. There are a couple of blokes there now, weeding and dead-heading. Needless to say, these chaps are keeping their shirts firmly on. As is Reynolds, who’s in a white linen number, sitting under an umbrella with a laptop open in front of him on a mosaic table. He gestures to an adjacent chair.

‘Take a seat, Inspector. I won’t be a moment. Do help yourself to lemonade. My wife makes it – an old family recipe.’

Forcing me to watch him fiddle about with emails is pretty low-grade stuff as power plays go, but the lemonade isn’t bad, so I content myself with the view. Somewhere nearby someone’s playing the piano. Mozart. That’s not bad, either.

‘Right,’ says Reynolds a few moments later, taking off his glasses and pushing the laptop slightly to one side. Though he doesn’t – I note – close it altogether. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘We’re making headway with the inquiry, sir, but I could do with some more background. A clearer picture of both Morgan and Fisher.’

He reaches for his glass. ‘Off the record, you mean.’

‘I’m not a journalist – we don’t work by those rules. I can’t guarantee that anything you tell me won’t end up in the public domain, but it won’t do so gratuitously. Police officers may be a touch bull-headed on occasion, but we do try to keep out of china shops.’

He smiles, a little uneasily, evidently unsure how to reply. Then the smile subsides. ‘So what do you want to know?’

‘Let’s start with Marina Fisher. I find the situation with her ex-husband a little odd.’

He frowns. ‘How so? They got married, they got unmarried, he went back to Boston. It was a lot cleaner than most divorces I’ve been forced to witness.’

‘But that’s my point. Joel Johnson went back to the US. How old was Tobin when they separated? A year? Even younger? And yet Johnson was perfectly happy to leave him behind, knowing he’d scarcely ever see him. You don’t think that’s odd?’

Reynolds gives me a heavy look. ‘Not really. Tobin Fisher isn’t Joel Johnson’s child.’

So that’s it.

‘In fact, he was the reason for the divorce.’

‘Fisher had an affair?’

Reynolds takes a sip of lemonade and puts the glass down. ‘I gather “one-night stand” would be a more accurate description.’

‘But she’s sure the child isn’t Johnson’s?’

‘He was in the US for most of that term. And in any case, Johnson is African American.’

He’s looking at me as if this is a tutorial and he’s just caught me out for not doing enough prep. And he’s right – irritating, but right: I should have known that. I should have looked Johnson up.

‘Fisher was at Edith Launceleve at the time?’

He nods. ‘It was her second or third year. But I’d known her before that. It was largely down to me that she came here. I was the one who persuaded her to leave Imperial. And it took some doing, I can tell you.’

If I’d come right out with it and asked him what size of dog he has in this fight I couldn’t have got a clearer answer. He’s up to his neck in it. Mastiff-level.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he says. ‘And the answer is no.’

‘No, what?’

‘No, I’m not Tobin’s father. I have never had that sort of relationship with Marina.’

I sit back a little. ‘Do you know who the father is?’

He shakes his head. ‘Like I said, she described it as a one-night stand. It’s possible she never even told him Tobin exists.’

‘And she went ahead with the pregnancy, even though she must have known it would torpedo the marriage?’

He shrugs. ‘She wanted children, Joel didn’t. And given her age –’

He spreads his hands as if the rest goes without saying. And it does. Especially to me.

‘Has she had relationships since?’

He considers. ‘One or two. But before you ask, I can assure you they have all been entirely age-appropriate.’

‘So men in their forties.’

‘Or older, yes. I have never, in all the years I have known her, seen Marina take any interest in a student or a significantly younger man. This whole episode – it would be totally out of character.’

I note the conditional tense. And move on.

‘What about Caleb Morgan? Is this “episode” out of character for him too?’

Reynolds folds his hands on his lap. ‘Clearly, I haven’t known him as long, given he’s been here less than a year. But by all accounts he is an honest, hard-working and – if I dare use such an out-of-favour term – honourable young man.’

‘So if I were to tell you, purely theoretically, that he may have had an altercation with his girlfriend on the night of the alleged assault – that he may have pushed her – what would you say?’

His eyes narrow. ‘I’d say I find it hard to believe.’ He hesitates. ‘That wasn’t “theoretical” at all, was it?’

I let the silence lengthen, and I see his unease rise.

He reaches for the jug and refills his glass. ‘I don’t envy you, Inspector, taking this on. We’re the other side of the looking glass here; nothing about it makes any sense.’

But then again, this is Oxford. When it comes to through the looking glass, this place wrote the book.

* * *

Chloe Blanchflower

@Whitepetal1_99_1

18.22

Anyone else heard about this #Oxford thing with a guy getting assaulted by his female tutor?

#HeToo #VictHIM

4 9 9

Carmel Piper

@NosyRosy1998

18.24

Replying to @Whitepetal1_99_1

I’ve been asking around about that since I saw it on here but no one seems to know anything. Copying @JosephAndrews2018

#HeToo #VictHIM

8 21 22

JosephAndrews2018

@JosephAndrews2018

18.39

Replying to @NosyRosy1998 @Whitepetal1_99_1

I have to be careful about what I say but let’s just say no one should behave the way this person has done – there should be no safe harbour for predators whatever their gender, and this particular person has been trawling the student pool for a while

#HeToo #VictHIM

276 551 1.75k

* * *

Alex Fawley checks her phone again. Still nothing from Adam. She knows he leaves his mobile in his locker when he’s at the gym, and he did say he might have to go somewhere afterwards, but he’s still more than an hour later than he said he’d be.

She leans over and picks up her tablet, navigates to the page and presses play. Just as well Adam isn’t here because he’d be furious with her if he knew. When they heard The Whole Truth organization were going to make a podcast about the Parrie case he made her promise she wouldn’t listen. He said they’d just be out for headlines – that whatever angle they took, digging about in the past couldn’t change it, so why torture herself going through it all again. It wouldn’t be good for her, and it wouldn’t be good for the baby. And he was right, of course he was right, but she still can’t stop herself. Because she knows what’s coming: whatever their agenda is, whatever ‘angle’ they come up with, they’ll still have to talk about her – about her and about Adam.

And what if they aren’t just digging about in the past? What if they’ve actually found something?

What if they know what she did?

What then?

* * *

Quinn’s first in the office on Tuesday. It’s almost like old times, back when he was the real DS and not just keeping Gis’s seat warm: getting set up for the morning meeting, picking up CID emails. He does another quick check (find a spare marker pen, turn the fan on – much good it’ll do), then takes a seat at the front and opens up his tablet. Next arrival is Baxter. Sweating already, and grumbling to himself about parking. He looks around and frowns.

‘Ev in yet?’

Quinn shakes his head. ‘Haven’t seen her. I think Asante’s about somewhere. Try the coffee machine.’

‘It’s too bloody hot for coffee,’ mutters Baxter, though that doesn’t stop him heading off in the same direction. By the time he gets back, Ev’s at her desk, pulling out her notebook. Baxter goes straight over to her.

‘Morning,’ she says brightly, then frowns slightly. ‘You OK?’

Baxter moves a bit closer and seems about to reply but then something changes his mind and he turns away.

Quinn turns to look: that ‘something’ was Somer, coming in from the corridor. Quinn’s eyes narrow. He picked up a bit of an undercurrent on that score yesterday, but no one actually said anything. And Somer does look more preoccupied than usual, no question. She’s keeping her head down, staring at her paperwork, avoiding conversation, which isn’t like her. He sees Ev go over and say a word or two in a low voice but she gets nothing but a brief shake of the head by way of reply.

They have to wait another quarter of an hour for Fawley, which isn’t like him either, and by the time he turns up the silence in the room has started to become uncomfortable. But either he doesn’t notice or simply isn’t interested in pleasantries this morning. He just pulls out a chair and nods at Quinn.

‘Right,’ says Quinn, snapping into DS mode. ‘We’ve had Fisher’s blood test and tox screen back, and the bloods confirm she’d been drinking –’

Fawley’s staring at his phone. ‘Which is no great revelation, seeing as she told us that herself.’

Quinn ploughs on. ‘Her blood alcohol was easily over the drink-drive limit, but not high enough to cause a blackout on its own. However, according to the tox screen she’s taking medication for anxiety.’ He looks down at his tablet. ‘Something called Fluoxetine. Basically the same as Prozac. She’s on quite a low dose, but apparently it can cause drowsiness if you drink when you’re on it.’

A glance up now. ‘But not actual blackouts?’

Quinn shakes his head. ‘Not usually, but no doctor’s going to get on the stand and rule it out one hundred per cent. At least according to Challow.’

‘What about the DNA?’

Quinn swipes his screen. ‘Ah, now that’s where it gets interesting. Fisher’s DNA was definitely present on Morgan’s arms and hands. Fisher’s lawyer will obviously claim that could have got there just from casual social contact or being in the house, but she’s going to find it a hell of a lot harder to explain why it was also on Morgan’s face and all over his privates.’ He looks around with a smirk. ‘He didn’t get that from passing her a glass of chardonnay, now did he?’

Baxter grins, but Fawley is frowning. ‘Define “privates”.’

Quinn flushes a little. ‘Sorry – basically down towards his groin. Definitely under where his shorts would have been so there’s no way –’

‘But not on his penis?’

Quinn shakes his head. ‘No. Just in that general area.’

‘And the scratches?’

‘Yup,’ says Quinn. ‘They were down to her too.’

Ev nods. ‘All of which tallies exactly with what he told us.’

Fawley glances at her. ‘I think we all know where you stand.’

Ev’s eyes widen. ‘I didn’t mean –’

Fawley turns to Quinn. ‘And Fisher?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nothing on her body or under her fingernails, but given she’d showered we’d pretty much discounted that already.’ He stops, makes a face. ‘Look, I know the DNA backs up Morgan’s version of events as far as it goes, but it’s also consistent with a bit of consensual fumble that just petered out. He says he told her to stop, but we’re never going to prove that. The only people who’ll ever know the truth are the two of them.’

‘Make that the one of them,’ says Baxter, folding his arms. ‘Fisher doesn’t remember either way. Allegedly.’

Fawley puts down his mobile, takes a breath. ‘OK. Just because we don’t have sufficient evidence to run with this won’t stop people expecting us to. Or assuming that if we don’t, it must be down to either bias, incompetence or undue influence.’ He stands up now, tucks his phone into his jacket. ‘I’ve arranged to see the CPS specialist rape prosecutor this afternoon. If they say it’s worth pursuing, we’ll keep pushing; if they don’t, we can drop it with a clear conscience and reasonable air cover.’

‘If you drop this case it’ll be because I say so. And not before.’

They swing round. It’s Superintendent Harrison, in the doorway.

‘And in the meantime, perhaps someone could explain to me how come it’s suddenly all over the bloody internet?’ Fury is pulsating off him like microwaves.

Silence.

You can almost hear people holding their breath, but Fawley stares him out. ‘I wasn’t aware that it was –’

‘Sharpen up, Inspector,’ says Harrison, striding across the room and thrusting a sheet of paper in his face. ‘Look at this stuff – Twitter, Facebook – the press office are imploding – I’ve had Fisher’s lawyer on the phone, the ACC wants someone’s head on a spike –’

And it’s not going to be Harrison’s. That much is clear.

‘I can assure you, sir,’ Fawley begins, ‘that no one on my team has been speaking to the press.’

Because it just isn’t worth it. Because this is exactly the sort of shit that was bound to follow, and they all know it.

But Harrison isn’t listening. ‘Don’t assure me, Fawley. If your lot didn’t do this, find out who did. And fast. Otherwise it’ll be your sorry arse in front of the ACC explaining why not.’ He hurls a glance round the rest of the team. ‘And in the meantime, I suggest the rest of you just do your bloody jobs.’

He casts another furious stare at Fawley then sweeps out of the room, taking all the remaining oxygen with him.

* * *

Sent:

Tues 10/07/2018, 10.35

Importance: High

From:

InspKarlJacobs@BritishTransport.police.uk

To:

CID

@ThamesValley.police.uk

Subject: FATAL INCIDENT ALERT: WALTON WELL BRIDGE

At approx 01.25 hours this morning, 10/07/18, a crew of Network Rail engineers working on the line north of Oxford station saw suspicious activity on the above bridge. A freight locomotive was due to pass along the line, but the crew were able to phone through to the driver and halt the train at the last moment. However, the person discovered below the bridge was found to be already deceased. There were no identifying items or documents on the body. The initial assumption was suicide, but examination at the scene identified some injuries that may not be consistent with a death consequent on a fall from height. That being the case, I have fast-tracked the PM.

C. R. Boddie will officiate, and one of my officers will attend.

I will keep you informed.

Karl Jacobs

Inspector, British Transport Police, Oxfordshire

Oxford Railway Station, Park End St, Oxford OX1 1HN

* * *

Baxter puts his hand up for tracing the Twitter rumour on the grounds that it would have come his way anyway, and he knows from experience that stepping up is a better look than crapped on.

He has a private bet with himself that Fawley will be chivvying within the hour, but it’s barely half that when he looks up from his computer to see the DI standing there. He looks harassed, more harassed than usual, even allowing for the super-charged Super.

‘Any progress?’

Baxter sits back. ‘Well, I think I may have worked out which account it started from. Fisher’s never mentioned by name but if you’re part of that whole Oxford thing I bet it’d be pretty bloody obvious who they’re referring to.’

Fawley comes round and stands behind him, bending over the screen. ‘Show me.’

The phone rings now and Quinn picks up. ‘CID.’ He listens for a moment, then, ‘OK, give me that address again – 62a Shrivenham Close, Headington. Right. We’ll send someone over.’

He puts the phone down and gets to his feet, tugging his jacket off the chair. ‘Ev? Think I’ll need you with me on this one.’

She looks up. ‘Problem?’

‘Woman’s been reported missing. Didn’t turn up for work today and hasn’t been answering her phone. A colleague’s just been over to check and found the front door open but no one inside. That was Uniform on the blower – given no one’s seen or spoken to her for over twelve hours they don’t want to take any chances. They want one of us to take a look.’

* * *

[ARCHIVE OF TONY BLAIR ACCEPTANCE SPEECH, ELECTION NIGHT 1997. FADE TO ‘THINGS CAN ONLY GET BETTER’ – D:REAM]

[FADE OUT]

[JOCELYN]

Things may have been about to get better for the country, but for some people 2nd May 1997 marked the very worst of times.

A young girl called Paula, for one. She spent that night in A&E at Manchester Royal Infirmary, after being attacked and sexually assaulted.

And for Gavin Parrie, that night triggered a chain of events that led eventually to his arrest, conviction and 18 years’ imprisonment for the rape and attempted rape of seven young women in the Oxford area.

So how did an isolated albeit brutal incident in Manchester get linked to a series of assaults that took place almost a year later, and nearly two hundred miles away?

I’m Jocelyn Naismith, and I’m the co-founder of The Whole Truth, a not-for-profit organization that campaigns to overturn miscarriages of justice. This is Righting the Wrongs, series 3: The Roadside Rapist Redeemed? Chapter two: Paula

[THEME SONG – AARON NEVILLE COVER VERSION OF ‘I SHALL BE RELEASED’]

[JOCELYN]

We’re calling this young woman Paula, but that’s not her real name. Her case has never come to trial, and her identity has always been protected, but even if we can’t divulge her name we’ve been able to piece together a broad narrative of her life from people who knew her.

Paula had been in the care system since she was 6 years old. Her mother was a drug addict, and she never knew her father. Like Gavin Parrie, she’d dropped out of school early, and by 16 she was earning her living as a sex worker. None of that, of course, excuses what happened to her, but it does explain what she was doing in a known red-light area, in the early hours of the morning.

But Paula wasn’t raped by a client, nor by one of the regular cruising punters. She’d never seen her assailant before. But she did see him. And in due course she was asked to identify him in a line-up. A line-up that included Gavin Parrie.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. We know why Paula was on Lockhart Avenue that night. But what about Gavin – was he there, and if he was, what was he doing?

The answer, of course, is simple.

Sex.

By early 1997 the relationship between Gavin and his wife, Sandra, was breaking down.

[SANDRA]

‘All we seemed to do was argue. About the kids, the house, money. Especially money. His brothers both had proper trades but he was still stuck doing casual work, and going cap in hand to them for the odd labouring job here and there. I think he just found it humiliating, especially with Bobby, him being younger and all that. In the end he spent most of his time sitting about on the couch all day watching TV and drinking cider. And then he’d be out all hours at night and rolling in pissed just when I was trying to get the kids up for school.’

[JOCELYN]

It was hardly the healthiest of lifestyles, and it must have been about this time that Gavin started to develop Type 1 diabetes, though that wouldn’t be formally diagnosed for some years yet. And just to flag: that’s another one of those apparently insignificant facts that will turn out to be important later.

But back in 1997, it wasn’t just Gavin’s health that was in trouble.

[SANDRA]

‘It got to the point when it was really taking a toll on the kids – they were tiptoeing round him all the time, and Stacey started getting into trouble at school. That’s when I knew I’d have to do something. It just wasn’t fair on them, never mind me. Though I want it on the record that he never ever hit me. Yeah, he was an angry man, bloody angry, but it was all directed at himself. He thought he’d failed. As a husband, as a dad. As a man.’

[JOCELYN]

Sandra doesn’t want to be interviewed about this on air, but it’s clear from talking to her that this wasn’t the only aspect of the marriage that had gone wrong. The physical side of the relationship had all but disintegrated too, especially after the birth of their third child, Ryan, in 1995. It wasn’t long before Gavin was turning to prostitutes for sex.

It was just another example of Gavin’s habitual bad luck that he chose May 2nd to make his first foray into the Manchester red-light district. He was driving a white van at the time – another hand-me-down from his younger brother, Bobby. A number of the girls working that stretch remembered seeing it.

This is ‘Lexi’. That’s not her real name. She’s worked Lockhart Avenue for ten years. She knew Paula back then, and remembers what she was like.

[‘LEXI’]

‘She was a nice kid. Really small and skinny. Some of the older girls used to mother her a bit. I guess they were worried that she was attracting the perverts, looking so young and that. She wasn’t as fragile as she looked, though she was deffo a bit dense sometimes. Naive, you know? Which is the last bloody thing you need in this job. You have to get good at spotting the weirdos. The ones who just want to hurt you. She was crap at that.’

[JOCELYN]

Paula may well have been a little naive, but she didn’t become a victim because of it. She didn’t go with the wrong punter, because it wasn’t a punter who assaulted her. The man who attacked her grabbed her from behind, dragged her into the undergrowth and bound her wrists with cable ties, before attempting to rape her.

And if you think some of that sounds familiar, you’re right: all of these came to be hallmarks of the predator the press would later christen the ‘Roadside Rapist’.

But all that was months in the future. In 1997, all the police knew was that Paula had been viciously assaulted. And they faced an uphill battle finding who did it because there was no DNA, and no forensics. But they did have one thing on their side.

Paula saw who did it. Only for a moment, as he scrambled to his feet and ran off into the night. But she saw his face.

So all they had to do was find him. Because they knew that as soon as they got him into an ID parade, they’d have their man. Simple, right?

Wrong.

[DESMOND WHITE]

‘The first time I saw Gavin was in the custody suite at Northampton Road police station.’

[JOCELYN]

That’s Des White. He was Gavin’s solicitor back then. Or rather he was the Legal Aid lawyer who happened to be next on the roster the night Gavin was arrested.

It was just after eleven on May 5th, three days after Paula had been attacked. But a lot had happened in those three days.

[DESMOND]

‘There was a huge police operation in Lockhart Avenue after the assault. And for the most part the girls were very cooperative. After all, they didn’t want a sexual predator on the loose any more than anyone else.’

[JOCELYN]

As it turned out, none of the girls had seen what happened to Paula, though one of them did see a man in a dark hoodie running away about the time the attack took place. But that wasn’t much use on its own. The police needed more. And after a couple of days, they got it.

The CCTV trawl yielded footage of a white van accelerating away from the area. It was Gavin’s van, still registered at the time to his brother, Bobby. Though it didn’t take the police long to trace who’d really been driving it that night.

Armed with the van’s number plate, they started to piece together Gavin’s movements in the hours leading up to the assault. Soon they could not only place him at the scene, they also had footage of him filling up the van earlier that evening, at a petrol station two miles away.

He was wearing a dark hoodie.

[DESMOND]

‘It was all circumstantial, of course. It didn’t prove anything. But it was enough for an arrest, and it was enough to get Gavin into an ID parade.’

[JOCELYN]

Gavin was taken to the Northampton Road station and questioned there for several hours, throughout which he steadfastly refused to answer any questions. But the police weren’t that concerned. They still thought they had their man. All they needed was Paula to identify him and the case would be closed.

Gavin was Number 3 in the identity parade. He remembers it vividly, because he’d always thought 3 was his lucky number. And perhaps he was right. Because when Paula was asked if she recognized anyone in the line-up, she answered immediately, and without hesitation.

No.

[DESMOND]

‘That should have been the end of it. But things don’t always go the way they should, especially when it comes to the criminal justice system. The police didn’t believe that Paula hadn’t recognized him – some of the officers were openly speculating that she’d been intimidated – that Gavin must have got to her somehow and scared her into keeping quiet.

And then the following day the police came up with yet more CCTV, this time showing Gavin in the vicinity of Paula’s flat on the morning of the day he was arrested. They said he must have found out where she lived and followed her there, but luckily we could account for him being in the area, because it was only half a mile from the Job Centre. And throughout the whole debacle Paula’s story never changed – she hadn’t been threatened by anyone, and she didn’t recognize anyone in the line-up for the simple reason that they had the wrong man. So in the end the police had no choice. They had to let Gavin go.’

[JOCELYN]

And that really was the end of it. Or, at least, so Gavin thought.

Within a few months he and Sandra had split up, and Gavin had moved back to Cowley. Both his brothers had gravitated back to Oxford by then, so the move made sense, even if it meant he wouldn’t see as much of his kids as he’d have liked. He got a flat, started seeing a new girlfriend, tried to make a new start. Life seemed better than it had for a long time.

And then, on January 27th 1998, a 23-year-old woman called Erin Pope was dragged off the street in the outskirts of Oxford, on her way home from work. Her hands were bound with cable ties and a plastic bag pulled over her head. She was found, an hour later, badly beaten, her underwear missing and a clump of her hair ripped out.

The Roadside Rapes had begun.

[UNDER BED OF ‘SEX CRIME 1984’ – EURYTHMICS]

I’m Jocelyn Naismith and this is Righting the Wrongs. You can listen to this and other podcasts from The Whole Truth on Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts.

[FADE OUT]

* * *

The uniformed PC is on the doorstep when they arrive. One of the new intake at Cowley Road; Quinn vaguely remembers seeing him once or twice before.

‘Acting DS Quinn. What have we got here?’

The PC stands up a little taller. ‘I attended the address at 11.06 hours, sir, at the request of Ms Elizabeth Monroe. She was concerned for the occupant’s welfare, having been unable to reach her this morning after she failed to turn up at work. I found the door open, no evidence of forced entry, and the premises empty. Sir.’

Quinn smiles drily. ‘What’s your name?’

He flushes. ‘Webster, sir.’

‘OK, Webster, there’s no need to talk like a Speak Your Weight machine. Ordinary lingo’s fine, even in the presence of CID.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Quinn heads into the flat and Ev grins at Webster as she passes. ‘And no need to call him “sir”, either.’ She drops her voice to a whisper and winks. ‘It just gives him ideas.’

It’s a small flat on the ground floor of a converted 1930s semi. Kitchen, sitting room, bedroom, a shower room with no windows. Everything is tidied neatly away as if the owner was expecting people – guests, parents, potential buyers. If this place has been burgled someone’s gone to enormous lengths to cover it up. Ev pulls her gloves out of her pocket, then reaches for the handbag lying on the coffee table.

‘Purse, wallet and keys,’ she says after a moment. ‘But no phone.’

Quinn’s still working his way round the room. Picking things up, putting them down again.

‘Not very, you know, “girly”, is it?’

Ev gives him the side-eye. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’

But she knows what he means. There are books and the odd magazine, sponsor mailings from Barnardo’s and Save the Children, a charity envelope for UNICEF, but no trinkets, no ornaments; barely anything personal at all. Not even photographs.

Quinn stops and puts his hands on his hips. ‘There’s only one toothbrush so odds on she lives alone, but that’s about the only thing I get from this place. It’s like one of those short-term rentals.’

‘There’s that,’ says Ev, nodding at the copy of Women’s Running on the table. ‘And there are three pairs of trainers in the hall. So we know at least one thing she does in her spare time.’

‘Perhaps that’s it – something happened while she was out running?’

Ev frowns. ‘Having left the front door open when she left?’

‘Could have been mugged and had her keys stolen?’

Ev’s still frowning. ‘And the mugger came back here, decided not to bother nicking anything and put the keys back in her bag? And how did he know where she lived anyway?’

Quinn nods slowly. ‘Right. It doesn’t really add up.’

‘It doesn’t add up at all.’ She puts the handbag down. ‘Something’s wrong here, Quinn. I know it.’

* * *

* * *

‘So you don’t know her very well?’

The man shrugs and shakes his head, though Everett’s not sure whether that’s because he doesn’t actually know her or because he hasn’t really understood the question. The little girl holding on to his leg is chattering away in what sounds like Polish.

‘OK,’ she says, handing him her card. ‘Do give us a call if you think of anything.’

She goes back down the path and along to the next house. She can see Quinn two doors further on, and when he turns she catches his eye and shrugs. He shakes his head: seems he isn’t getting very far either.

This time the door is opened by a woman. Not much more than five feet high, in a bright-yellow sari.

Ev smiles. ‘Sorry to bother you. My name is Detective Constable Everett, Thames Valley Police. We’re making enquiries about the woman who lives in number 62a. Do you know her at all?’

The woman clasps her hands together. ‘Of course. A very nice lady. But I hope she is OK? Nothing bad has happened?’

Ev tries to look reassuring. ‘She hasn’t been seen since last night. We’re just trying to locate her. We’ve no reason to suspect anything untoward at present.’

The woman looks concerned. ‘I see. Oh dear.’

‘Did you happen to see her last night? Mrs –?’

‘Singh. I am Mrs Singh.’

‘So – did you see anything yesterday evening?’

She nods slowly. ‘Yes, I did. There was a man. At her door.’

Ev feels her heartrate quicken. She pulls her notebook out of her pocket. ‘And when was this?’

‘It must have been about nine o’clock. I was cooking and one of those people came to the door. Selling things, you know.’

Nottingham knocker, thinks Ev.

‘Could you describe the man – the one at 62a, I mean.’

She looks contrite. ‘I am sorry, I was not really concentrating. I was trying to make the salesman go away. My husband does not like those people. I wanted him to go before Rajesh came home.’

Ev doesn’t like them much either. It’s one of the unexpected benefits of living in a first-floor flat with an entryphone and no street door.

‘The man at 62a – was he tall? Young? White?’

The woman nods. ‘White, yes. And dark hair. Quite tall, but everyone looks tall to me.’ She smiles, then glances across at Quinn on the next-door step. ‘He looked a bit like your friend, perhaps? But I only saw his back. I do not think I would know him again.’

‘What was he wearing, do you remember?’

‘Oh yes. It was shorts. Shorts and a T-shirt. A white one. And training shoes. Like for running, you know?’

‘Do you remember the colour of the shorts?’

Mrs Singh’s face crumples a little. ‘Oh dear. Not really. Black, perhaps? I am sorry, I am not sure.’

‘And the conversation they were having – did that seem friendly to you?’

‘Oh yes. I’m sure they knew each other. She let him in, after all.’

‘She let him in?’

The woman nods. ‘Yes, yes. I saw him go inside.’

Ev’s making frantic notes now. ‘Did you see him leave?’

‘No. I was cooking, and then Rajesh came home and it was fuss, fuss, fuss. Husbands – you know how it is.’ She gives a conspiratorial smile, which Ev tries to mirror, but never having been married it’s a bit of a fake.

‘You didn’t hear or see anything after that? No arguments, cars leaving suddenly, anything like that?’

Mrs Singh shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘But there was a car outside I hadn’t seen before. When I pulled the front curtains later it had gone.’

‘And that would have been around –?’

‘The time? Ten thirty. I always go to bed at the same time.’

Ev nods. ‘And what sort of car was it? I know this is hard, but if you could remember the make –’

The woman shakes her head with a smile. ‘I do not know anything about cars. It was dark. Blue or grey? Something like that. An ordinary car.’

‘Ordinary?’

‘You know. Not one of these big ones that look like the army.’

‘Ah, I see. A saloon. Not an SUV.’

The woman holds up a finger. ‘Exactly! Exactly that. That is what I meant.’

When Quinn joins her on the pavement a couple of minutes later Ev’s still making notes.

‘Looks like you had more luck than me.’

She glances up. ‘There was a man at number 62a last night. About nine. Dark, tallish and possibly driving a dark-coloured car.’

Quinn exhales. ‘Blimey, that changes things a bit.’

Ev’s face is grim. ‘It wasn’t random, Quinn, and it wasn’t while she was out running. She let this predator in.’

* * *

‘OK, Baxter, can you get started on her social media, Ev, you’re on the parents, and Somer, I want you to go and see her colleagues, especially the one who called it in.’

Back at St Aldate’s and Quinn’s back in his stride. This is more like it. Real policework. He’s not dissing the assault case – well, not as such – but that whole area is a bloody bear trap and whatever you do is wrong. Quinn likes his crime clear-cut. No hidden snares, nothing that’ll come back to bite you on the arse. A chance to actually achieve something. And if he gets this sewn up before Gis gets back –

But an hour later his initial elation has rather cooled.

‘She’s not on Facebook? Come on, Baxter, everyone’s on Facebook.’

‘No,’ says Baxter stubbornly, ‘they’re not. And this woman’s one of them. There is an Instagram account, but it looks to me like she only set it up to post shots from when she was out running, but after half-a-dozen or so she must have lost interest. She’s not on Twitter at all, and the LinkedIn is just professional stuff to do with her work at the council. Whoever that bloke was she let in last night, I don’t rate your chances of finding him on there.’

Quinn frowns. ‘OK, OK, but keep looking, right? She lives alone so it’s a fair bet she’s on Match.com or Tinder or something.’

Baxter heaves a loud sigh, but he doesn’t argue.

‘Right,’ says Quinn. ‘What about the rest – the mobile? Ev?’

She looks up. ‘The last signal was at 9.47 last night at the flat. Nothing since.’

‘Did you track down the parents?’

She nods. ‘Yes, but they couldn’t add much. They weren’t aware there was a boyfriend on the scene at the moment and didn’t come up with much by way of male friends either. I didn’t get the impression they knew much about her personal life.’

‘When did they last speak to her?’

Ev flips back through her notes. ‘Two and a bit weeks ago. It was her father’s birthday. But it was just a call. Not a visit. They live in Bournemouth, so I suppose it would have been a bit of a trek. I for one wouldn’t have relished spending two hours on the road in this weather.’

Quinn frowns. ‘I thought she didn’t have a car?’

‘No,’ she says, a bit flustered. ‘She doesn’t. Sorry – it was just a figure of speech.’

‘What about Somer?’ says Quinn, looking round. ‘Wasn’t she supposed to be talking to the co-workers? Where is she?’

‘Ah,’ says Ev quickly. ‘I think she just nipped out for a coffee. She won’t be long.’

* * *

‘Quinn’s looking for you. He wants to know why you haven’t left yet.’

Somer looks up. She’s standing over the sink, leaning in.

‘Are you OK?’ says Ev, taking a step closer. ‘You look like you’ve been throwing up.’

Somer takes a deep breath. ‘Must be something I ate.’

Which is, of course, possible, but Ev isn’t buying it. And if she’s right, it would explain a lot more than just this. But she’s not going to pry; Somer will tell her when she’s good and ready.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says, touching her friend lightly on the arm. ‘I’ll get Asante to go instead. Take your time.’

Somer nods. She doesn’t trust herself to speak.

She hears Ev go back to the door, and the sound of it opening. And then a pause. ‘Perhaps it might be an idea to go to the doc’s? You know, just to be on the safe side?’

Somer nods again, and after a few moments the door swings shut and she’s alone.

She raises her head slowly and stares into the mirror. Her skin looks greenish in the unforgiving light. Ev’s right. She’s been trying to pretend this isn’t happening, but she knows in her heart she can’t put it off much longer.

She needs to know.

And then, well, then –

* * *

‘Not as bad as it could have been,’ says Boddie, snapping on his gloves. ‘When I see “railway incident” on the docket I usually assume I’ll need a sieve.’

The two CSI technicians exchange a glance. Colin Boddie’s mortuary humour is the stuff of legend; they’ve even set up an ‘Overheard in the Morgue’ Instagram account (though no one’s yet had the courage to tell him that).

‘What’s the background here?’ he says, walking round the head of the table. The woman’s body is naked now, the skin waxy, and deep lividity in the back and buttocks. There are scratches, cuts, surface scrapes, dirt encrusted in the long blonde hair, but the damage – at least to the naked eye – is surprisingly slight.

The British Transport Police constable looks up. ‘Bunch of engineers found her on the line at Walton Well bridge in the early hours. They thought she’d jumped.’

Boddie glances across. ‘They saw her do it?’

The officer nods. ‘They saw someone fall. Just as well they did. There was a thirteen-car Freightliner less than two minutes away that wasn’t planning to stop. If that crew hadn’t been there –’ He shrugs.

Boddie nods. ‘Raspberry ripple.’

He bends a little closer, looking at the bloodied nostrils, the wide eyes now starting to cloud.

‘OK,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Let’s see what she’s prepared to tell us.’

* * *

The council office is in a Victorian building just off the Iffley Road. The words ‘Iffley Parish Institute’ are engraved in the stone above the main entrance, but according to the much more assertive modern sign on the edge of the pavement the building is now shared not only by the council fostering and adoption team but a community centre, the Samaritans, a playgroup, and a Silver Threads lunch fellowship.

Asante had the sense to call ahead and make an appointment, but he still spends ten minutes kicking his heels in the waiting area. There’s a box of toys in the corner and signs pinned up on the wall behind: Evacuation in the Event of Fire, a Public Liability Insurance certificate and a hand-written note from the playgroup organizer: ‘Please stack chairs at the end of your meeting so the cleaners can do their job.’

When someone eventually comes to find him, the room he’s shown into looks like what you’d get if you typed ‘office’ into a Google image search. Cheap furniture, tired pot plant, view over the staff car park. The woman who rises from behind the bland grey desk looks cool in a light-green and purple summer dress. Early thirties, chestnut-brown hair twisted up in a clip and heavy-framed glasses that make her look like a 1950s secretary. It’s a reassuring look, he’ll give her that. The look of someone who knows what they’re doing.

‘I’m Beth Monroe. I know a few people at St Aldate’s but I don’t think we’ve met?’

Asante smiles, but not too much. ‘I haven’t been here long. Transferred up from London a few months ago.’

‘Really?’ she says, gesturing for him to sit down. ‘Where?’

‘Brixton.’

She nods, more animated now. ‘I used to work at the Blue Elephant Theatre. Many moons ago.’

They smile; they have something in common. And then the smile trails away.

‘We’re all just devastated. It’s awful – to think something could have happened to her –’

‘I gather it was you who went round to the house this morning?’

She folds her hands in front of her. ‘It was so unlike her. Not turning up and not calling either. I can’t remember when she was last off sick.’

‘So the last time you’d have seen her would have been yesterday?’

She nods. ‘That’s right. She was still here when I left at six.’

‘How did she seem to you?’

She considers. ‘OK. A bit preoccupied but that was nothing unusual. There are only five of us and we’re always swamped. Finding children new families – it’s such important work and she takes it so seriously –’

She stops, bites her lip. ‘I still can’t quite believe this –’

‘We think Ms Smith let a man into her flat last night – someone she knew –’

Her eyes widen. ‘Oh my God. You think – you think this man may have abducted her?’

‘We’re at a very early stage of the investigation,’ says Asante, switching evenly into police-issue platitudinese. ‘We just need to talk to him. He was tallish, dark hair. Does anyone spring to mind? A colleague, perhaps?’

Monroe frowns. ‘No. The only man on our team is Ed, and he’s five foot six and bald as an egg.’

‘What about friends, boyfriends? Anyone who might fit that description?’

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know much about her private life. She really wasn’t one for swapping gossip at the coffee machine.’

‘You haven’t had any staff events that included partners?’

She smiles ruefully. ‘Er, no, all we do is a Christmas party and that’s strictly employees only. Even then the budget only stretches to warm cava and Aldi sausage rolls.’

Asante makes a note. ‘There’s no one else she works with who might know more?’

Monroe shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. I was probably the closest she had to a friend in the office. Like I said, she was a very private person. But I can give you their contact details if you want to speak to them.’

Asante shifts forward a little in his seat. ‘This is probably an outlier, but is there anyone Ms Smith may have crossed paths with in the course of her job – someone who might have a grudge against her?’

Her eyes widen. ‘A client, you mean?’

He shrugs. ‘It has to be possible, surely? Like you said, it’s life-changing, what you do. And it must be the last chance for some people – the only way they’re ever going to have a child.’

‘All too many of our clients are in that position,’ she says softly. ‘It’s very sad.’

‘Of course. But in situations like that, people can get desperate – they do things they’d never think of doing otherwise.’

‘We guarantee our clients complete confidentiality, Constable.’

‘I know. And I appreciate why.’

‘I want to help – believe me – you’ve put me in a rather difficult position. Not that you meant to, of course. But I need to talk to a couple of my colleagues so we can decide what’s best to do.’

Asante knows a departure signal when he hears one. He gets to his feet and she comes round the desk to shake his hand. Behind the heavy glasses her eyes are a brilliant green, but her face is troubled.

‘So you’ll get back to me?’

She nods. ‘As soon as I can. I appreciate the urgency, I really do.’

Outside, there’s a Mums and Toddlers group going on in the main hall, and judging by the smell, Silver Threads had fish for lunch.

He drops a fiver in the Samaritans donations box on his way out.

* * *

Telephone call with Colin Boddie, pathologist

10 July 2018, 12.50 p.m.

On the call, DC G. Quinn

CB: Ah, Quinn – I gather you’re in the hot seat while Gislingham’s away.

GQ: For my sins. What have you got?

CB: Fatality on the railway line last night. Ring any bells?

GQ: Yeah, think I saw the incident alert. Suicide, right?

CB: Wrong. Her neck was broken, yes, but that didn’t kill her, for the simple reason that she was already dead –

GQ: OK –

CB: – and had been for at least the previous two hours. I would estimate TOD as sometime between nine and eleven. The high overnight temperatures make it harder to be much more specific than that, I’m afraid.

GQ: Hang on, I’m writing this down –

CB: Though whoever did kill her clearly wanted us to think it was suicide. And he’d probably have got away with it too – if those hard hatters hadn’t spotted her, there wouldn’t have been anything left to autopsy. I have to hand it to him, if you want to obliterate the evidence 15,000 tons of freight train are a pretty definitive way of doing it.

GQ: So what was the actual cause of death?

CB: Suffocation. There’s bruising around the nose, but no fibres in the airway so he probably did it with his bare hands. I’ve taken some swabs in case there’s DNA, but don’t hold your breath – it’s a fair bet he was wearing gloves.

GQ: You said ‘he’ –

CB: Almost certainly.

GQ: Just because it usually is –?

CB: No, because there was evidence of sexual assault. No semen present, but extensive bruising in the thigh and genital area, and a pubic hair that I strongly suspect isn’t one of hers.

GQ: Shit.

CB: And for the record, no signs of a ligature, either on the wrists or elsewhere.

[muffled noises in the background]

Right. I think that’s everything. I’ll finish the formalities and email everything over. BTP will be handing this one off to you. It’s a Thames Valley case now.

* * *

When Everett gets back to the office Quinn comes over to her at once. She only has to look at him to know something’s wrong.

‘What?’ she says, her heart stumbling. ‘What is it?’

‘Colin Boddie just sent me this.’

He holds out his phone. She doesn’t want it to be true but there’s no mistaking the picture – the hair, the face –

‘It’s her, isn’t it?’

Everett swallows. ‘Yes,’ she says, her voice catching. ‘It’s her.’

* * *

When Quinn puts his head round Fawley’s door the DI is standing by the window, looking down at the street. Quinn can’t remember the last time he saw him doing that.

He clears his throat. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I’ve just had a call from Colin Boddie. There was a fatality found on the railway line at Walton Well last night. First responders thought it was a suicide but turns out she was suffocated.’

No reply. Fawley’s so still Quinn wonders if he even heard him.

‘Boss?’

The DI starts a little and turns round. ‘Sorry – what did you say?’

‘There was a fatality last night, on the railway line. Looked like suicide, but the PM says otherwise.’

Fawley frowns. ‘They’re sure?’

Quinn nods. ‘And there’s evidence of prior sexual assault.’

Fawley takes a breath. ‘Do we have an ID?’

‘That’s just it. We were already looking for her. That woman who was reported missing this morning? Boddie sent over a picture. We’ll need someone to do a formal identification but it’s definitely her.’

‘Right,’ says Fawley, brisker now. ‘What’s her name?’

* * *

PC Webster’s day is looking up. What started as a routine housesitting job has turned into a full-on crime scene supervision. He’s got CSI on-site already, a couple of squad cars out the front and a Sky News van just pulling up a few yards down the street. At this rate he’ll be getting on the telly. He drags his phone out of his pocket and surreptitiously texts his mum. No harm in being prepared.

Inside the flat, Clive Conway is working his way through the sitting room. He’s bagged up the handbag and taken prints from the door handles and obvious flat surfaces. When Nina Mukerjee appears in the doorway ten minutes later he’s on his hands and knees taking carpet samples.

‘Any luck?’ she says.

‘Nothing obvious. I’ve retrieved a few hairs from the sofa, but they could just as easily be the victim’s. Someone’s worked pretty hard to make it look like there’s nothing to see here.’

‘CID say she definitely let a man in last night.’

Conway glances up. ‘Doesn’t mean this is the crime scene. He could easily have taken her somewhere else. Specially if she knew him.’

‘True, but he was in here, though, wasn’t he? Even if only for a few minutes. There’ll be touch DNA somewhere, however careful he was.’

‘Oh, he was careful, all right,’ says Conway grimly.

Nina looks around. ‘I’ve finished in the bedroom, so if you need a hand –’

‘I’m nearly done here, but you could tackle the hoover bag. Can’t see him going to all this trouble and not bothering to run a vac round.’

* * *

[ARCHIVE OF SPEECH BY CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT MICHAEL OSWALD, THAMES VALLEY POLICE, 7 SEPT 1998]

[JOCELYN]

That’s Chief Superintendent Michael Oswald, addressing a press conference on Monday September 7th 1998. The previous Friday night, the Roadside Rapist had attacked a third young woman.

The rape of Erin Pope in January that year had been followed, almost exactly two months later, by an equally savage assault in Botley, to the west of Oxford.

And now, the same predator had struck again.

I’m Jocelyn Naismith, and I’m the co-founder of The Whole Truth, a not-for-profit organization that campaigns to overturn miscarriages of justice. This is Righting the Wrongs, series 3: The Roadside Rapist Redeemed? Chapter three: Predator

[THEME SONG – AARON NEVILLE COVER VERSION OF ‘I SHALL BE RELEASED’]

[JOCELYN]

The rapist’s second victim, 19-year-old biology student Jodie Hewitt, had been so badly beaten she had to spend ten days in hospital. Jodie was in her second year at Wykeham College at the time, and in the weeks after her rape, rumours had begun to circulate that a serial sex assailant was operating in the city. People started to panic, there were calls for more police on the streets at night.

But then – nothing. The days started to get longer, the students went down for the long summer vacation, and even if the police hadn’t made any obvious progress investigating the first two attacks, at least there hadn’t been any more.

Not, that is, until September 4th. It was a Friday, and after a drink in town that night with friends, a 24-year-old trainee solicitor was on her way home. She was on a quiet Oxford side street, only a few hundred yards from her flat, when her attacker struck. She wasn’t raped, but only because another man saw what was happening and came to her rescue just in time.

[ROSEY MABIN]

‘His name was Gerald Butler, and he was a former soldier, and a bouncer at one of the city’s nightclubs.’

[JOCELYN]

That’s Rosey Mabin. She reported on the Roadside Rapist for the Oxford Mail, and attended Gavin Parrie’s trial at the Old Bailey.

[ROSEY]

‘Butler told the jury that he spotted the young woman face down at the side of the road. She had a plastic carrier bag over her head, and there was a man straddling her, trying to tie her hands with cable ties. The attacker was thin, about five foot eight, and wearing a dark hoodie.’

[JOCELYN]

There was no social media back then, needless to say, so it took days rather than minutes for the news of the third attack to spread, but Thames Valley Police knew their worst fears had come to pass: their bête noire was back. They called that press conference we heard at the start of this episode because they knew they had to do something to allay local fears.

There was another reason too, of course.

Women needed to be warned.

[ROSEY]

‘It was actually me that came up with the Roadside Rapist nickname. A couple of the nationals had been referring to him as the Oxford Ripper, but after that press conference I wrote a front-pager calling him the Roadside Rapist and it just stuck.’

[JOCELYN]

And you can see why. It’s a name that captures all the terror of a predator who targeted his victims out in the open, on streets they walked every day, only yards from other passers-by. Those victims were normal girls, going about their normal business. But it was that very normality that was so terrifying. Because if it happened to them, it could happen to anyone. No wonder people were scared, no wonder young women in Oxford were avoiding going out alone, especially after dark.

As for the investigation, the police were scarcely any further forward. Of course, DNA science wasn’t as sophisticated back then as it is now – so-called ‘touch DNA’ was a long way in the future, for a start. But that didn’t matter anyway, because – as the trial would later confirm – the Roadside Rapist never left any DNA at all. No hair, no skin, no semen – there were basically no forensics (a fact which has also hampered subsequent attempts to have the case re-opened, including our own).

The other challenge for the police was that, unlike Paula in Manchester, none of the Oxford victims ever saw their attacker’s face. The police speculated – with some justification – that the rapist was using plastic bags for precisely that reason: to make doubly sure he couldn’t be identified. There was no CCTV either. In the late 90s, very few buildings had their own cameras, so perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that there was never any footage in the area of the crimes. Of course, this could just have been bad luck, or a coincidence, but some of the officers on the case started to wonder whether there might be rather more to it than that.

[‘MR X’]

‘As time went on you could definitely see a pattern emerging.’

[JOCELYN]

Those are the words of one of the detectives who worked on the case. We’ve disguised his voice, to protect his identity.

[‘MR X’]

‘It wasn’t just the MO that was the same each time. The plastic bag, the cable ties, the hair, the taking of trophies like jewellery or underwear. Over time, we became convinced that this man was also choosing the locations of the attacks very carefully. They all took place on stretches of road that had no speed cameras or CCTV, where there was dense undergrowth adjacent to the pavement, and no overlooking houses or buildings. That suggested to us that this perpetrator was recce-ing the sites in detail beforehand.’

[JOCELYN]

Thames Valley officers did question people who lived or worked nearby, but it never yielded anything useful. They had no evidence, no leads. But in due course they did have a new theory.

[‘MR X’]

‘It was one of the Detective Sergeants on the team who first suggested that the rapist wasn’t just casing out the sites of the crimes in advance: he was stalking his victims too.’

[JOCELYN]

The name of that Detective Sergeant was Adam Fawley. And this wasn’t the only significant contribution he would make to this investigation. In fact, his work on the case would eventually earn him a commendation from the Chief Constable, and accelerate his rise to Detective Inspector. Because it was Adam Fawley who helped secure the evidence that convicted Gavin Parrie.

So you could say, with some justification, that this case changed Adam Fawley’s life. And not just professionally, either.

In September 2000, not quite a year after Gavin Parrie was pronounced guilty and sentenced to life at the Old Bailey, Adam Fawley married a woman called Alexandra Sheldon.

She was a lawyer, and had lived in the Oxford area all her life. She was also the Roadside Rapist’s third victim.

[UNDER BED OF ‘EMOTIONAL RESCUE’ – THE ROLLING STONES]

I’m Jocelyn Naismith and this is Righting the Wrongs. You can listen to this and other podcasts from The Whole Truth on Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts.

[FADE OUT]

* * *

Alex Fawley presses stop and pushes her tablet away. Her hands are trembling.

She knew this would happen – she’d steeled herself against what they’d say, but knowing it and hearing it are not the same thing.

She folds her hands about her belly to still them; the skin that shields her child is warm, but her fingers are freezing.

She needs to talk to Adam.

She’d prayed she wouldn’t have to – she didn’t want him to know she was listening to this thing. But now – now she has no choice.

* * *

Back at St Aldate’s, Somer is feeling the worst kind of sidelined. Because she can’t blame anyone else; she’s managing to do it all by herself. Ever since the news came in from Boddie, the team has been hectic with adrenaline, but she feels muffled, quarantined. Like those adverts where there’s someone sitting in the middle of a busy office, barely moving, while people buzz around them in fast-forward. Those marooned people always have something wrong with them – a cold, a headache, flu – but it’s never anything serious. It’s always easily fixed. She sighs. It’s not that she doesn’t care about what happened to the woman on the railway line; she just can’t find the energy to do anything about it. She’s achieved precisely nothing all morning, and is now rapidly running out of thankless tasks that will stop her thinking and require no thought.

She gets up and wanders over to where Baxter is staring at his screen, the blue light reflected back on his face. There are three empty chocolate wrappers by his mouse pad. As stress indicators go, that’s pretty reliable.

‘Need a hand with anything?’

He glances up briefly and frowns. ‘Fuck me, that’s a first. You feeling OK?’

How long have you got? she thinks. ‘Hey, don’t look a gift horse, and all that.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Well, if you’re sure, you could have a look at that Twitter feed the Super’s getting so uptight about. The one that exposed Marina Fisher. I’ve had a quick look but I haven’t gone through all the replies and that.’

‘Great,’ she says. ‘Just send me the details.’

He gives her a dry look then turns to his screen and taps at the keyboard. ‘Knock yourself out.’

Somer opens what he’s sent her, then sits back. ‘This is the one? This is definitely the username?’

Baxter glances up and frowns. ‘Yeah. So? Didn’t mean anything to me.’

‘No,’ she says softly, almost to herself. ‘But it means something, all the same.’

* * *

It’s Ev who picks up the call. ‘Asante?’ she says, looking up. ‘Line three for you.’

He recognizes the voice straight away.

‘Ms Monroe, what can I do for you?’

A slight pause. ‘What you said before, when you were here –’

Asante reaches for his pen. ‘Oh yes?’

‘You were asking about any of our clients who might have had a motive – some sort of grudge? I’ve spoken to my colleagues and even though it goes against all our professional instincts, we’ve agreed that the circumstances justify making an exception.’

She stops, takes a breath. Asante says nothing. He knows the value of silence.

‘There was someone. A couple she was assessing as potential adopters. Unfortunately, they didn’t turn out to be suitable.’

‘I see.’

‘And they were in their forties. It was probably their last chance. The gentleman – he was very angry. Shouting, making threats –’

Asante frowns. ‘Physical threats?’

‘Oh no,’ she says quickly. ‘Nothing like that. He said he had “contacts”, that he’d ruin her career, that sort of thing. It was very unpleasant. We were on the point of calling the police.’

Asante gets out his notebook. ‘And can you tell me why they were rejected?’

‘Not “rejected” – “not considered suitable”,’ she says quickly. ‘And no. I’m pushing it as it is.’

‘But that makes it difficult for us to –’

‘It was only two or three weeks ago,’ she says, cutting across him. ‘Couldn’t you just say you’re speaking to all the clients who’d seen her recently?’

She’s shrewd, this woman.

‘Fair enough. We can probably get away with that. Can you give me the address?’

He starts to write it down, only to find himself stumbling at the postcode and checking his prejudice. Because it’s not Cowley or Blackbird Leys or Littlemore, but sought-after OX2.

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I’ll do my best not to land you in it.’

She sighs. ‘I still feel bad about it. But I’d never be able to forgive myself if it turned out to be him and I hadn’t said anything.’

‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ she says quickly. And then, after a pause, ‘But do pop in if you’re passing the Iffley Road.’

When he puts down the phone a few moments later Asante is smiling.

* * *

‘OK,’ says Baxter, leaning back in his chair and looking up at Quinn. ‘I’ve done a sweep of all the CCTV around Walton Well bridge but I’ve got bugger all to show for it.’

Quinn frowns. ‘I don’t believe it – there must be something –’

Baxter makes a face. ‘Nope. The nearest cameras are on Walton Street. He could easily have got to the bridge and out without passing either of ’em.’

Quinn’s still frowning. ‘You’re absolutely sure there are no cameras on the actual bridge?’

Baxter takes a heavy breath. ‘I do know what I’m doing, you know.’

‘What about Shrivenham Close?’

Baxter shakes his head. ‘Nearest footage is from the ring-road roundabout. I gave up counting the number of dark saloons when I got past sixty. Without a make and model we’re sunk before we start. And that’s assuming he actually went in that direction. There are at least a dozen other ways he could have gone.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ mutters Quinn. ‘No need to rub it in.’

* * *

‘Mr Cleland?’

‘Yes, what do you want?’

The man on the step is wearing a pair of white tailored shorts and a bright-pink striped shirt. The shirt is untucked. Behind him, the building looms, florid, immaculately maintained, and rather larger than strictly necessary. If there was ever a contest for Owner Most Like His House, this bloke would walk it.

Asante holds out his warrant card. ‘DC Anthony Asante,’ he says in his best public-school voice, making sure to pronounce the ‘h’. He finds it helps, in OX2.

The man frowns. ‘Oh yes?’ He glances quickly down the drive and looks relieved to find the Range Rover is still there. ‘What is it?’

‘May I come in? It’s a little complicated.’

The man hesitates, looking Asante up and down, but evidently decides it’s safe to allow him on the premises. It’s probably the Burberry tie. That tends to help too.

The sitting room reminds Asante of his parents’ house in Holland Park. Expensive furniture, framed antique prints, coffee-table books. But there’s an ease about his parents’ place, a naturalness, that he doesn’t sense here. He looks around, trying to figure out why. Perhaps it’s the too-many decanters (Three perhaps, but five? Who needs five?) or the fact that all the prints seem to show people killing things; or perhaps it’s just that everything is a little too tidy, a little too arranged. He can’t picture a kid in here. Out in the garden, there’s a woman sitting under an umbrella on what Cleland no doubt refers to as the ‘terrace’.

‘Is that your wife?’

Cleland frowns again. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘Perhaps she could join us? It would save me saying everything twice.’

Cleland’s frown deepens but he doesn’t say anything, just goes over to the French doors.

‘Marianne – come in here for a minute.’

The woman is wearing a turquoise bikini under a white wrap. She has the same prosperous, well-preserved look as her husband, but she’s insect-thin, and he senses a dry brittleness under the make-up and the expensively cut-and-coloured hair. Cleland is standing in the centre of the room now, hands in pockets, filling the space.

‘So what’s this about?’ he says.

‘I believe you’re a client of the council adoption service?’

The woman’s eyes widen and she slides a look at her husband.

‘That’s confidential,’ he says. ‘And none of your bloody business.’

‘I can assure you I know nothing at all about your application, Mr Cleland, or your circumstances. I just know that you were in their offices recently.’

Marianne Cleland sits forward; everything about her seems tentative. ‘If it’s about –’

‘Let me handle this,’ says Cleland. His chin lifts a little. ‘Yes, we were there a couple of weeks ago. Whole operation is a bloody shitshow. You’d think they’d be crying out for people like us, wouldn’t you?’

Asante keeps his expression neutral. ‘What sort of people would that be, sir?’

Cleland flings an arm round. ‘Well, look at this place. What kid in his right mind wouldn’t want what we’ve got to offer?’

Asante opts to take out his notebook by way of response. ‘I believe you saw Ms Smith, is that right?’

Cleland looks irritated. ‘Why bother asking when you clearly know the answer already?’

‘I just need to get things straight, sir. It was Ms Smith, yes?’

‘She was our case worker,’ says the woman. ‘She’s very nice –’

‘Effing incompetent, just like the rest of them,’ snaps Cleland. ‘Look, has there been some sort of complaint or what?’

Asante shakes his head. ‘No, sir. Ms Smith has made no complaint –’

‘Well then –’

‘Ms Smith has been killed.’

The woman gives a little gasp, but even in that moment, her eyes go first to her husband.

Cleland stares at Asante, his face flushing. ‘If you’re bloody suggesting –’

‘I’m suggesting nothing,’ says Asante. ‘I’m asking questions. It’s what happens in a murder inquiry.’

The word drops like an incendiary.

‘Look,’ says Cleland, ‘I don’t know what the hell happened to that woman but we had nothing to do with it. People like us – we don’t go around killing people. Even when –’ He stops, looks away, purses his mouth.

‘Even when?’ says Asante evenly.

Cleland takes a breath. ‘OK, look, you obviously know we had words. It’s why you’re here, right? Well, yes, we did. I don’t have a problem admitting that. She told us we’d been turned down. That we weren’t –’ he hooks his fingers in the air – ‘suitable. Probably didn’t tick enough bleeding-heart liberal boxes, did we. Too rich, too posh, too bloody white.’ He checks himself, reddens, then runs a hand through his hair. ‘I was upset, OK? Annoyed. Anyone would have been, in my position.’

Quite possibly, thinks Asante, but not everyone would have reacted the way you did.

‘Did you see or contact Ms Smith after that meeting?’ he says.

Cleland’s flush deepens. ‘I may have sent her an email – in the heat of the moment. You know how it is –’

‘So that’s a yes?’

Cleland nods.

‘Did you go to the office? Try to talk to her in any way?’

‘No. Absolutely not.’

‘I spoke to a couple of Ms Smith’s colleagues earlier, and they said you were seen outside the offices a few days after your last meeting.’ He flicks back through his notes. ‘Around five p.m. on June 25th, to be precise.’

Cleland blinks a couple of times. ‘I was shopping. There’s a halfway-decent wine merchant’s a few doors further down.’

Asante nods. ‘So there’ll be a record? At the store?’

‘No. I didn’t actually buy anything. Not on that occasion.’

Asante makes a note, and takes his time doing it.

‘So you weren’t hoping to see Ms Smith? Perhaps try to catch her when she left the office at the end of the day?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Or perhaps you thought it would be more discreet to go round to her house? See if you could persuade her to change her mind?’

‘Of course not,’ he blusters. ‘For a start, I’ve no bloody idea where she lives.’

The woman sits forward. ‘And in any case, Hugh would never –’

‘I told you,’ says Cleland, not looking at her, ‘let me handle this.’

‘Where were you last night, Mr Cleland?’

Cleland opens his mouth, then closes it again. ‘Last night?’

Asante nods, pen poised.

Cleland scratches the back of his neck. The eye contact has gone. ‘I went for a run.’

‘That’s right,’ says his wife. ‘You went out in the car.’

Asante frowns. ‘I thought you said you went for a run.’

‘I did,’ says Cleland. ‘I run at Shotover.’

Asante makes a note, his face thoughtful. Shotover must be five or six miles from here, which makes it an odd choice, given Cleland has the University Parks practically on his doorstep and doesn’t look like he’d manage much more than a sedate circuit even of that. But proximity might have had nothing to do with it: Shotover Country Park is no more than ten minutes from Smith’s address in Shrivenham Close. An address Cleland claims he doesn’t know.

But the man at her door was wearing running gear.

* * *

Fawley’s door is shut and it takes Quinn a minute to remember that he had the CPS coming in this afternoon. The Fisher case. Though that seems like very old news now.

The CPS lawyer is a woman. Fifties, thick-set. Short grey hair, glasses. She looks like she doesn’t take prisoners. Or shit.

‘Sorry to bother you – we’re about to have a quick meeting about the Smith investigation. The parents have formally ID’d her, and it looks like we may have a suspect too – a bloke she had a row with at work. She turned him and his wife down as potential adopters and let’s just say he didn’t take it very well. A bit too “entitled”, if you catch my drift.’

The CPS lawyer looks up and sighs.

Fawley nods. ‘OK, good work.’

Quinn hovers a moment, then gestures back towards the squad room. ‘You sure you don’t want to –?’

Fawley shakes his head. ‘You seem to have it covered. Just keep me posted.’

* * *

* * *

‘So we have a definite sighting of Cleland near her office on June 25th, and a man at her door wearing running gear the night she disappeared.’

Quinn is up at the whiteboard, writing furiously. He turns. ‘What else?’

‘The adoption service don’t give out staff numbers or addresses,’ says Asante, ‘so if Cleland did go round there that night, he must have found out where she lived some other way.’

Quinn considers. ‘Electoral roll?’

Baxter looks up, taps briefly on his keyboard, and then makes a face. ‘Well, yeah, she’s there, but it’s only as “E. Smith”. There are bloody dozens of ’em.’

Quinn considers. ‘He could have followed her home. That sighting – it was near the end of the day, right?’

‘Ye-es,’ says Asante, clearly unconvinced, ‘but Smith’s neighbour said she let the man in. Would she really invite Cleland into her home? She knew what he was like – he’d threatened her, sent that shitty email –’

Baxter shrugs. ‘Maybe he said he’d come to apologize? Blokes like him, they can turn on the charm –’

‘I still don’t think she’d have let him in,’ says Somer firmly. ‘I wouldn’t even have opened the bloody door.’

‘But it’s not impossible, is it?’ persists Baxter. ‘Say he convinced her he came in peace. She offers him a drink, they sit down to talk, but then she says something that pisses him off – tells him she’s not prepared to change her decision. He gets angry – he’s a big bloke and she’s ten stone soaking wet –’

Quinn nods. ‘Yeah, I can see that. I can even see him killing her. But the rape? That’s a stretch.’

Baxter frowns. But Quinn’s right. It doesn’t fit.

‘On the other hand,’ says Quinn, ‘I could definitely see him panicking afterwards and trying to make it look like suicide.’

He goes back to the board, taps on the map. ‘And Walton Well bridge is pretty much in a direct line from Smith’s flat to Cleland’s pile on Lechlade Road.’

‘We can check ANPR,’ says Baxter, reaching for his keyboard again. ‘At least we know what we’re looking for now. That Range Rover is hardly incognito.’

‘Check whether the Clelands have a second car,’ says Asante, looking across. ‘The neighbour said she saw an ordinary dark-coloured saloon, not a big flashy tank.’

Ev gets up and goes over to the board. There’s a picture of Cleland taken from his company’s website. He’s wearing a suit and tie; he looks hefty and confident. She turns. ‘Mrs Singh said the bloke at the door looked a bit like Quinn, remember? Well, Cleland doesn’t look anything like Quinn.’

Quinn gives a wry smile. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

Somer looks to Asante. ‘Cleland’s about the same height, though, right?’

Asante nods. ‘Near enough. But he’s at least a stone heavier.’

Somer frowns. ‘Well, it looks to me like Cleland’s carrying most of that extra weight in his gut. And Mrs Singh only saw him from behind.’

They stare at the picture. The silence lengthens, but it’s Baxter who eventually voices what they’re all thinking.

‘It could have been him.’

‘OK,’ says Quinn, with the beginnings of a smile. ‘Let’s bring him in.’

* * *

Caleb Morgan’s bedsit is on the lower ground floor of one of the few North Oxford houses still divided into student lets. A nicer address than Ev was expecting, until she remembers who his mother is. The reception she gets, on the other hand, is pretty much exactly what she expected.

‘Oh, just piss off, will you?’ he says, making to close the door. ‘Freya told me all about you harassing her, making me out to be some sort of bloody domestic abuser. I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

Everett takes a step forward. ‘You’re not doing yourself any favours, Caleb. We know it was you.’

‘What? What are you accusing me of now?’ he says acidly. ‘The Rwandan genocide? 9/11? No wait – the grassy knoll – it has to be the grassy knoll.’

She doesn’t rise to it. ‘It’s about that story on Twitter.’

He frowns. ‘What story?’

‘You know exactly which one. The one about Marina.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘You’re not the only one round here who knows a bit about IT, Caleb. We traced that story all the way back to the original tweet. The account that posted had only been set up earlier that same day. It was in the name “JosephAndrews2018”.’

He gives her a studiously blank look. ‘Means absolutely bloody nothing to me.’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, well, that little twist didn’t come from you, did it? It came from Freya.’

His eyes flicker and he looks away.

‘She does English, right? Joseph Andrews – it’s an eighteenth-century novel about a sexual predator. Only this time it’s the other way round. A woman in a position of authority who preys on a much younger man. Just like you and Marina.’ She gives him a disdainful look. ‘I bet you thought we’d be way too thick to work that one out, didn’t you? Just your bad luck one of my colleagues did English too.’

He returns her look, contempt for contempt. ‘Talk about tenuous. If that’s what passes for detection at Thames Valley Police –’

‘It’s not just the name. Whoever set up that account knew what they were doing – they knew how to stay under the radar.’ She shrugs. ‘Child’s play, right? For someone like you?’

He snorts. ‘You people – do you seriously think I want people knowing what she did to me?’

‘No, I don’t think you do. But as you well know, there was no mention of your name – not on that post, not on the subsequent tweets – not anywhere. Just all those coded references to a female member of university staff that anyone with half a brain can work out in five minutes.’

‘So what are you doing about it? Because if you’re looking for a leak, someone in CID is a fuck sight more likely, if you ask me –’

Behind him, somewhere in the flat, there’s a muffled sound. Not much more than a creak, but enough to suggest he’s not alone. Freya, thinks Ev. Freya’s with him.

He starts to close the door. ‘If you’ve got anything else you want to say to me, talk to my lawyers. And for the avoidance of doubt, if my name does get out, now or at any time in the future, you’ll be hearing from them.’

* * *

‘Get your sodding hands off me – how dare you – you’ll be hearing from my bloody lawyer –’

Bringing Cleland in was never going to be pretty, but things take an ugly turn when he flatly refuses to come voluntarily and they have to arrest him. There’s an unseemly scuffle on his doorstep, witnessed with gleeful disbelief by a cluster of students from the college further along the road, and Asante ends up with an elbow in the face.

‘Just as well we came mob-handed,’ says Quinn, as Baxter manhandles Cleland down the drive. A couple of the students are taking pictures now and Cleland shouts abuse at them before being shunted indecorously into the car. ‘Still, look on the bright side. No probs getting his prints and DNA now.’ He holds up a pair of shorts and a grubby white T-shirt, both sealed in evidence bags. ‘Or his dirty washing.’

‘True,’ says Asante, rubbing his jaw. ‘On the other hand, I bet that lawyer of his is seriously arsey.’

* * *

Oxford Mail online

Tuesday 10 July 2018 Last updated at 15:45

BREAKING: Fears grow for safety of Headington woman

By Richard Yates

With no reported sightings of her since she left work on Monday, friends and neighbours of a Headington woman are becoming increasingly concerned that something may have happened to her. Residents of Shrivenham Close have reported intensive house-to-house questioning by officers of Thames Valley Police CID, and the arrival of a forensics team, leading to fears that the woman, who has not yet been named, may have come to harm.

This breaking news story is being updated and more details will be published shortly.

Do you live in Shrivenham Close or have information about this story? Email me at richard.yates@ox-mailnews.co.uk

* * *

‘Easy does it, sir.’

The petty humiliations of fingerprinting and DNA samples have done little to improve Hugh Cleland’s mood. But Sergeant Woods can match him, pound for pound, and he’s handled far too many obstreperous drunks to be fazed by a man in magenta trousers. Cleland is still shouting and shoving when Woods clangs the cell door shut and turns to Quinn.

‘He’ll get bored soon enough,’ he says. ‘Give me a call when you want him brought up.’

Quinn smiles. ‘Oh, I’m in no rush. And his brief is at the sodding opera so he’s not going to be popping over any time soon, either.’

More carpet f-bombing from inside the cell.

Quinn’s smile broadens. ‘And in any case, I reckon our friend could do with cooling down a bit, don’t you?’

‘I don’t know about “cooling down”,’ says Woods heavily. ‘Not in those cells.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

10 July 2018

17.09

I’m just about to have an update with Quinn when the call comes through. Harrison. On my back about the Morgan case again, no doubt. I collect the papers and make my way down to his office. There’s been no let-up in the heat all day. The air in this bloody building is solidifying and the carpet smells like it’s been scorched.

‘Ah, Adam,’ he says as I open the door. ‘I’m glad I caught you. Take a seat.’

He doesn’t look happy. But he never looks happy.

I open the file in front of me and pull out my notes. ‘I met the CPS Rape and Serious Sexual Offences specialist this afternoon. We’ve been through the case and in her view –’

He frowns. ‘What?’

‘The Caleb Morgan assault, sir. You made it very clear that you wanted it treated as a priority –’

He stares at me. ‘We have a dead woman on our hands. I think that’s rather more pressing, don’t you?’

‘Enquiries are well underway, sir. DC Quinn has identified a possible suspect, and I’ll be getting a briefing from him as soon as this meeting is over –’

He frowns. ‘What I want to know, DI Fawley, is why you have thus far failed to inform anyone, least of all me, that you had a pre-existing relationship with the victim.’

I stare at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Don’t piss me about, Adam. I’m not in the mood.’

‘Honestly, sir. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

His eyes narrow. ‘According to DC Quinn, the victim was identified at approximately 1.00 p.m. this afternoon, and he passed on that information to you, in person, at 1.15.’

I don’t know where this is going, but I don’t like it.

‘Yes, sir, but I still –’

Harrison leans back in his chair.

‘What’s the victim’s name?’

My turn to frown. ‘Emma Smith.’

‘And you’re still claiming you don’t know her?’ He looks palpably, mouth-openly incredulous.

‘Because I don’t. I don’t know her –’

‘In that case, perhaps you could explain to me what you were doing in her flat.’

I stare at him. What the –?

‘There are prints,’ says Harrison. ‘At Smith’s flat. Your prints.’

And then it hits me. Hard, and too late.

I swallow. ‘Unless –’

He raises an eyebrow, sardonic. ‘Unless?’

‘Unless it’s my wife’s friend –’ I falter, stop.

Christ.

‘Seriously, sir. I just didn’t make the connection. And I haven’t been into the incident room – I haven’t seen her picture so I –’

‘She’s your wife’s friend, and you didn’t recognize her name?’

His scepticism is brutal.

I can feel myself flushing. ‘Well, obviously I knew my wife’s friend was called Emma, but I’m not sure I ever did know her surname.’ I sit forward. ‘Sir, I know how it looks, but she was Alex’s friend, not mine. They were at university together – they see each other a few times a year. I see her even less than that.’

But he’s still not buying it. ‘Wasn’t it Emma Smith who sorted out that short-term foster placement for you last year – the one I signed off on?’

I swallow. ‘Yes, sir, but it was Alex who handled all that – I wasn’t really involved. Like I said, sir, Emma Smith and I weren’t friends – we were barely even acquaintances.’

‘So you keep saying,’ he says, ‘but you were in her flat all the same.’

I can feel my face reddening. ‘Ah, OK. I can explain that.’

‘I bloody well hope you can, because right now –’

‘I was there – at the flat. But it was at her request. She came to see me at the station. There was something she wanted to talk to me about.’

He frowns again. ‘So why not do it here? Surely that would have been more appropriate –’

‘Which is exactly what I said,’ I reply quickly. ‘And I tried to persuade her to do just that, but she didn’t want to make it official.’

‘And when was this?’

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

‘Yesterday, sir.’

‘Yesterday? You went to her flat yesterday?’

I try to meet his eye but don’t quite manage it. ‘Yes, sir.’

He takes a breath. Another. ‘So you went round to her flat. What time was this?’

‘Around nine. She asked me to pop in after work.’

Harrison opens his mouth to say something but I get there first.

‘She thought she was being stalked. There’d been someone opposite the house on a couple of occasions, hanging about in the dark for no apparent reason. At least one sighting in a vehicle –’

Harrison sits back, looks at me.

‘I went through the usual line of questioning, sir. I asked her about old boyfriends, colleagues, anyone who might have wanted to threaten or scare her. She couldn’t think of anyone. I knew – from my wife – that there’d been a recent relationship but she said it was over and she wasn’t the one who ended it. So in the end I told her that as things stood there wasn’t enough to open an official investigation but she should carry on keeping a diary – if she saw the stalker again she should try to take pictures, and call 999 if she ever felt remotely threatened physically. And then I left.’

I sit forward a little. ‘Obviously, with hindsight, I should have done something – and I deeply regret that I didn’t, and I know that’s going to look bad for the force, but there really wasn’t any suggestion that she was in imminent danger –’ I’m frantically recalibrating now, trying to think. ‘But from what DC Quinn said about this man Cleland, surely he’s the most obvious candidate –’

But for whatever reason, Harrison isn’t with me. I can feel the swell of his irritation and the effort he’s making to control it.

‘So, the victim found on the railway line is the same age as your wife’s friend, she has the same colouring, she has the same first name, and yet for the whole of the last – what is it, four hours? – it’s never once occurred to you that it might be the same person?’

I swallow. ‘Like I said, sir –’

But he’s not listening. ‘Your own team have spent the best part of the day looking for a man Emma Smith let into her flat last night – a man who fits your description – and you still never thought this might be more than just a coincidence?’

And I’m the one who doesn’t believe in coincidences, as I’m expecting him to remind me right about –

‘And how many times have I heard you say –’

I cut across him. ‘I’m sorry, sir. DC Quinn has been handling the initial enquiries and, as I said, I spent most of the afternoon with the CPS – I haven’t had time to look at the detail. But I can see now that –’

But I don’t get to suck up any more shit. Behind me, the door opens. I hadn’t been expecting anyone, but Harrison clearly has. He looks up and gives a quick affirmation. I turn round.

Detective Inspector Ruth Gallagher. Of Major Crimes.

She gives me a brief nod, her face impassive. ‘DI Fawley.’

DI Fawley. Not ‘Adam’, even though we worked the Faith Appleford abduction case together barely three months ago. Even though I thought we’d become the nearest thing this job ever gets to friends.

‘Ruth.’ I can hear the falter in my voice.

Gallagher takes the empty chair. Harrison gestures to her – the floor is evidently hers. My heart is skittering like a nervous horse.

‘I just spoke to Ms Smith’s parents, sir. They know nothing about any supposed stalker.’

‘Supposed’. Fuck.

I try to get her to look at me. ‘They must be in their seventies at least – she probably just didn’t want to worry them –’

She’s staring steadfastly ahead. ‘Ms Smith doesn’t seem to have had many friends outside work, but I’m in the process of drawing up a list.’

What does she mean, drawing up a list? This isn’t her case –

‘The first name on that list is Mrs Alexandra Fawley. I’m aiming to talk to her first thing.’

Wait a minute – she’s going to talk to my wife –?

‘Perhaps DI Fawley could help you with that, Ruth,’ says Harrison, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘After all, I’m sure Mrs Fawley must already be fully aware of the situation, given that Ms Smith approached her husband for advice.’

So that’s where we are, is it.

I take a deep breath. ‘I haven’t discussed any of this with my wife.’

He frowns, is about to speak, but I plough on.

‘She’s only a few weeks away from her due date, and has already been hospitalized once for stress. I wasn’t about to risk that happening again by telling her there could be some sort of stalker in the area.’

She’s terrified enough already without that. But this I don’t say.

‘Emma – Ms Smith – didn’t want Alex worrying either. That’s why she came to the station rather than calling me at home. She said as much – in fact, she used that exact phrase.’

Harrison gives me a look; a look that says, We only have your word for that. I should know – I give it to suspects myself often enough.

Gallagher shifts a little in her seat. Embarrassed? Uncomfortable? Who knows. I’d like to think she, at least, would understand about Alex – she has kids herself. But I’m basing that on my experience of her before, when we were on the same side. Right now, it feels like that bet is off.

Harrison is still watching me.

‘Where did you go?’

His tone is calm now, almost sympathetic. But I am not deceived.

‘Where did I go when?’

‘In Smith’s flat. Where did you go? The kitchen, the living room, the bedroom?’

I stare him out. ‘The living room, sir. That’s all.’

‘And you were there, what, an hour? More?’ Gallagher now.

‘Less. At most, thirty minutes.’

‘But you had a drink, didn’t you, in that time.’

It’s not a question. Of course – the glasses.

‘I had half a glass of wine. I was driving. I didn’t even want that, frankly, but I didn’t want to upset her. She was in a bit of a state.’

Gallagher and Harrison exchange a glance.

‘Well, I think that’s all for now,’ says Harrison. ‘Major Crimes will handle the case from now on. Better late than never.’

That was aimed at me: if he’d known I knew Emma he’d never have given it to me in the first place.

He shifts again and his pompous leather chair squeals under his weight.

‘For internal purposes, the line will be that the reallocation of the case is a purely procedural matter, not a reflection on DI Fawley’s conduct in the last twelve hours.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He frowns. ‘You don’t get off that easily. Not by a long way. But right now, we have a murder case to solve, and public trust to maintain.’

He sits back and turns, as pointedly as he can, to Gallagher. ‘Over to you, Ruth.’

* * *

Interview with Hugh Cleland, conducted at St

Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford

10 July 2018, 6.15 p.m.

In attendance, DC G. Quinn, DC A. Asante, P. Brunswick (solicitor)

GQ: I would remind you, Mr Cleland, that you are under arrest. Do you need me to remind you of the wording of the caution?

HC: I do watch TV. And I’m not a complete fucking imbecile.

GQ: I’ll take that as a ‘No’. So, last night. Talk us through that again.

HC: [gesturing at Asante]

I already told him. I have nothing to add.

GQ: For the benefit of the recording. If it’s not too much trouble.

HC: I went for a run, at Shotover.

GQ: You drove six miles, when you could have just nipped down the road to the Parks?

HC: There’s no law against driving to take exercise. Not that I’m aware of.

GQ: What did you drive? The Range Rover?

HC: [pause]

No.

GQ: Oh? Why was that?

HC: Last time I took it up there some little tyke keyed it.

GQ: Oh dear, how very annoying.

PB: There’s no call for sarcasm, Constable.

GQ: So if not the Range Rover, then what?

HC: My wife’s car.

AA: And that is?

HC: A Honda Civic.

AA: Colour?

HC: Black.

AA: Registration?

HC: [pause]

I don’t know. Not offhand. I rarely drive it.

PB: I’m sure we can supply details of the car, if required.

GQ: But you drove it last night?

HC: Like I said –

GQ: Yes, I know what you said.

AA: One of Emma Smith’s neighbours saw a dark-coloured saloon parked outside her door at about nine o’clock last night. She doesn’t recall seeing the car before.

HC: Well, it certainly wasn’t mine.

GQ: You didn’t go and see Ms Smith? Perhaps you thought you could get her to change her mind? Let you have a kid after all?

HC: a) I wouldn’t have demeaned myself by going cap-in-hand to some council nobody who was only going to say no anyway, and b) even if I had wanted to, I didn’t know her bloody address. Capeesh?

AA: You could easily have followed her home from work. You were seen on the Iffley Road –

HC: Buying wine –

GQ: I thought you said you didn’t buy any?

HC: You know what I mean –

GQ: So what time did you leave the house for this run of yours?

HC: About 8.30. There or thereabouts.

AA: And what were you wearing?

HC: What do you think I was wearing? T-shirt, shorts, trainers.

AA: The ones we retrieved from the house? The white T-shirt and black shorts, and the Nike trainers?

HC: I already told you that.

GQ: How long did you run for?

HC: I don’t know, 20 minutes?

GQ: That’s a long round trip for such a short run – half an hour there, half an hour back –

HC: Are you checking my petrol consumption now?

GQ: So by my calculations you’d have got home about ten.

HC: Something like that.

GQ: Your wife will confirm that, will she?

HC: She’d bloody well better.

AA: Did you see anyone while you were running, speak to anyone?

HC: I was running. It’s not a bloody social club.

Interview interrupted by DS David King and DC Simon Farrow.

DK: Stop the recording, this interview is now suspended.

GQ: What’s going on?

DK: Mr Cleland will be returned to the custody suite, pending further investigations, and forensic test results.

HC: What, overnight? In the fucking cells? You can’t do that –

DK: Oh, I think you’ll find we can.

GQ: Is someone going to tell me what the fuck’s going on?

DK: [smiling]

Afraid that’s above your pay grade, DC Quinn.

* * *

Sent:Tues 10/07/2018, 19.05Importance: High From:DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk To:CID@ThamesValley.police.uk, AlanChallowCSI@ThamesValley.police.uk, Colin.Boddie@ouh.nhs.uk cc:DIRuthGallagher@ThamesValley.police.uk

Subject: Case no 75983/02 Smith, E

This is to inform you that DI Gallagher’s team will be taking on this case with immediate effect.

It has been brought to my attention that Ms Smith was a friend of my wife, so it is not appropriate for me to continue to direct the investigation.

For the record, I knew Ms Smith only as ‘Emma’. I met her very infrequently, usually at my own house but also once at her flat. DI Gallagher is fully aware of the circumstances.

I know you will give DI Gallagher’s team your full cooperation.

AJF

Adam Fawley

Detective Inspector, CID, Thames Valley Police

St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford OX1 1SZ

* * *

Adam Fawley

10 July 2018

20.49

It’s nearly nine by the time I get home. I feel like shit, and it’s going to get worse before it gets better. Alex is at the door to meet me before I’ve had time to turn off the engine. Even in the warm light from above the door her face looks wan.

‘Thank God you’re home,’ she breathes as I slide my arm around her shoulders.

‘Are you OK? Has something happened? Have you seen that van again?’

‘No. Not today.’

She knows it’s what I want to hear; that doesn’t mean it’s true.

She tries to laugh it off. ‘And like you said, he’s wearing a tag. I’m just imagining things. Overreacting. Blame the hormones.’

‘You’d tell me though, wouldn’t you? If you’d seen anything? Anyone odd hanging around?’

She frowns, wondering where this is coming from.

‘Of course.’

I follow her into the kitchen and sit down heavily at the table. She’s fussing about now; it’s not like her.

‘Actually,’ she says, reaching into the fridge, ‘there was something I wanted to talk to you about –’

She straightens up, turns, sees my face. ‘What’s wrong?’

She knows – of course she knows. We’ve been married a long time.

I take a deep breath. ‘Have you seen the local news today?’

She shakes her head with a sad little laugh. ‘I never watch that stuff. Every time I see something dreadful I assume you’re right in the middle of it.’

I draw her towards me. ‘This time I’m afraid it’s true.’

I feel her stiffen. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A body was found on the railway line last night. By Walton Well bridge. I’ve only just found out who it was.’

‘What do you mean, a body – what are you talking about?’

‘I’m so sorry, Alex. It was Emma.’

She stares, then sways, and I reach out to steady her.

‘Sit down, please. You’re as white as a sheet.’

She gropes for a chair, lowers herself into it as if she’s in pain.

‘Emma?’ she says, her voice half breath. ‘No, no, that can’t be right – I only just spoke to her –’

I’ve seen this so many times. ‘But I saw them last week.’ Or last month, or last night. They say the cycle of grief starts with denial, but in my experience it’s less that than sheer bewildered disbelief.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say softly. ‘Her parents came. It’s definitely her.’

She frowns. ‘Didn’t you just say the railway line? What the hell was she doing there –?’

‘Alex –’

‘Was it an accident?’

I let the silence lengthen, speak for me. ‘No. It wasn’t an accident.’

‘Oh my God, are you saying she killed herself?’ There’s a gasp but it isn’t just the shock. She has her hand to her side.

‘Alex – what is it?’

I’m on my feet now but she’s pushing me away, rejecting my hand.

‘It’s just Braxton Hicks – I’ve been having them all day.’

‘Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’

She shakes her head, trying to smile it off, but her breath is shallow and there’s sweat along her upper lip.

‘Alex – you’re thirty-five weeks, for God’s sake –’

And now she’s clutching her side again and I’m reaching for my car keys. ‘That’s it – I’m taking you to the JR.’

‘No, no.’ She grips my arm. ‘Please, Adam – you know how much I hate that place. And it’s going off now, seriously.’

She breathes, slowly. In, then out; in, then out. A minute passes, and gradually her grasp on my arm softens and she gives me a wobbly smile. ‘See? I told you.’

I put the keys down. ‘OK, but you need to go to bed right now –’

‘In a minute – what about Emma –’

I shake my head. She’ll have to know the truth – Ruth Gallagher will be calling, for a start, and I want Alex prepared. But not now. Not tonight.

‘We’ll talk about it in the morning. Right now what you need is rest. That’s the only way I agree not to take you straight to the JR.’

Her head drops and I reach for her hand. Her lips are trembling.

‘Oh Lord,’ she whispers. ‘Poor Em – poor, poor Em.’ She raises her eyes to mine, and the tears are brimming. ‘1992. That’s when we first met. 1992. Twenty-six bloody years. How did that happen?’ She puts a hand to her mouth. ‘I mean, I knew she’d been unhappy lately, but –’

I could say something. Tell her I know exactly why Emma was unhappy. Tell her I went to see her, to try to help –

But I don’t. Perhaps I should. Perhaps you would, if you were me. But you’re not, and I don’t. I should have told her I went to that flat long before this. Yesterday, as soon as I got back, even though she was exhausted and on her way to bed; or this morning, before I went to work. All I was doing was trying to protect her, cocoon her, keep her and our baby safe, but it’s too late now. If I tell her now she’ll think I have something to hide. And you wouldn’t blame her, would you? Because you’re thinking exactly the same. You’re wondering why this is the first you’ve heard of all this – why I never said a thing about it before.

So let me be absolutely clear – just because you didn’t see, just because I didn’t tell you – at the flat, last night, with Emma? Nothing happened.

Do you hear me?

Nothing. Bloody. Happened.

* * *

This time, Quinn isn’t the only one in early. When he pushes open the office door at 7.55 the place is already humming.

‘Got the email, I see,’ says Everett drily.

Quinn gives a non-committal grunt and goes across to his desk. But Ev’s not giving up. She comes over.

‘That came out of a blue sky, didn’t it – Gallagher taking over? Did Fawley say anything to you – you know, before?’

Quinn shakes his head. He was already smarting at King for showing him up in front of Cleland. And now he’s pissed off with Fawley for being the reason.

‘It’s turning into a bit of a habit,’ says Baxter from the other side of the room. He’s leaning back in his chair, cradling a Frappuccino.

Ev frowns. ‘What is?’

‘Gallagher having to tidy up Fawley’s mess.’

Somer looks across. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Baxter shrugs. ‘Well, it happened with the Appleford case, didn’t it –’

Ev is shaking her head. ‘Come on, that was completely different,’ she begins.

‘No.’ Somer, sharper now. ‘If he’s got a point, let’s hear it.’

Baxter holds up his hands. ‘Nothing. I was just saying.’

Somer’s about to reply but Ev intercepts her with a look. A look that says, Let it lie.

Quinn starts unloading his messenger bag. He got it from Jekyll and Hide. It’s as close as he could find to the one Asante carries without looking like he’s actually copying. Which, of course, he is.

‘If you ask me,’ he says, ‘all that stuff about Fawley not knowing who Smith was is a load of bullshit.’

Ev turns to look at him. ‘What makes you say that?’

He tugs his tablet out of the bag and puts it down on the desk. ‘Well, the thing about not knowing her surname is crap, for a start.’

Somer frowns. ‘Why? I bet you don’t know the surnames of any of your girlfriend’s mates.’

‘That’s different and you know it,’ he snaps. ‘I’ve only been seeing her a few weeks – Fawley knew this woman for years.’

Somer turns away, her face dark. ‘You’re just hacked off because it’s a big case and they’ve taken it off you.’

Quinn stands his ground. ‘I’m not, actually,’ he says coolly. ‘Because it wasn’t just that. Not by a long way. This whole thing – it stinks.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Ev now. ‘Care to elaborate on that?’

Quinn squares up to her. ‘It was me who took the call when Smith was reported missing.’

‘So?’

‘So I remember repeating back the address.’

But Somer isn’t backing down. ‘And your point is?’

‘My point is that Fawley heard that. He was right here, at that very moment, in this room.’

He looks to Baxter, who nods. ‘He’s right. He was.’

Quinn lifts his chin, vindicated. ‘So even if you accept the name thing, how do you explain that?’

‘I was here too, actually,’ says Somer. ‘And as far as I remember Fawley was looking at that Joseph Andrews Twitter account when that call came through.’ She glances across at Baxter. ‘Right?’

Baxter hesitates then nods. This is getting distinctly uncomfortable.

‘So it’s quite possible,’ continues Somer, ‘that Fawley didn’t even hear what Quinn said. I mean, do you remember hearing that address?’

Baxter’s eyes widen. ‘Me?’

‘Yeah, you. Do you remember Quinn saying that address?’

‘I’m not sure –’

She flips her hand at him. ‘There you are, then.’

‘To be fair,’ says Asante quietly, ‘you’d be far more likely to notice an address if it was one you already knew. It’s like someone saying your name. You’re more attuned to it.’

‘Right,’ says Quinn, piling in. ‘And he definitely did know that address because he’d been there – he said so –’

‘But the email doesn’t say when, does it?’ says Somer. ‘It could have been weeks before – months –’

Quinn throws up his hands and turns away. ‘Whatever. Fuck it. If you’re that determined to take his side, go right ahead. But you mark my words – there’s something fishy about all this.’ He starts fiddling with the papers on his desk, muttering ‘time of the month’. Somer’s too far away to hear but when he looks up again Ev is glaring at him.

Baxter raises his eyebrows and goes back to the safety of his screen; Asante’s clearly regretting ever getting involved.

The room is silent now, but it’s the silence of dissent, and the atmosphere isn’t much better when the door opens fifteen minutes later and Ruth Gallagher appears. She knows this team – she worked with them only a few months ago – and she can tell at once there’s a problem. There are two spots of colour in Somer’s cheeks, and Quinn has that defensive-offensive don’t-blame-me look she’s seen before. Though it’s usually on her fifteen-year-old son.

‘Morning, everyone,’ she says, looking around. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen the email from DI Fawley by now, so you’ll be aware that Major Crimes is taking on the Smith murder case.’

No response. They’re just staring at her.

She tries again. ‘My team are setting up an incident room in the office next door. Assuming we can get the IT to work, of course.’

A flimsy joke, but it’s usually a banker ice-breaker. Not this time, though. Half of them have already gone back to their computers.

The door opens again and Gallagher glances towards it, visibly relieved. ‘Ah, there you are. This is DC Farrow, everyone, so if you can hand him what you’ve got on Hugh Cleland so far that would be great.’

Quinn shuffles his papers into a pile and holds them up, forcing Farrow to walk over and collect them. As one-upmanship manoeuvres go it’s pretty unsubtle, but Gallagher isn’t about to make a thing of it.

Asante looks up. ‘I’ve already sent you everything from my side.’

‘Thank you, DC Asante. Anything else?’

Baxter sits back. ‘I was just about to start checking ANPR for Cleland’s wife’s Honda. I’ll email you the reg number.’

Farrow waits in the middle of the room, but it seems that’s all he’s going to get. Ev sees him hesitate a moment by Somer’s desk, but when she doesn’t even register his presence he’s forced to move on.

* * *

When Nina Mukerjee gets back from the water cooler there’s an email waiting for her from the lab. The forensics on the Smith case. That was quick, she thinks, sliding the cup on to her desk and sitting down. She prints out the attachment – when it comes to technical stuff she always prefers paper to pixels – and starts to read.

Ten minutes later she’s still sitting there. There’s a frown line across her brow. And her water is untouched.

She gets slowly to her feet and makes her way round to Alan Challow’s office. He’s had the same one for ten years but it still looks like he’s hot-desking. No pictures, no desk junk, not even a weary cheese plant. He’s tapping at his keyboard, his eyes fixed on his machine.

He glances up at her, but only for a moment, then gestures to the empty chair.

‘I got the forensics back on Smith’s flat,’ she says.

‘Oh yes?’ He’s still absorbed in his screen.

She pushes the sheet of paper across the desk at him. He reads it, looks at her, then reads it again. Then he sits back.

‘Shit.’

‘So what do we do now?’

He tosses the paper on to the desk.

‘There’s only one thing we can do.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

11 July 2018

9.42

I should have left for work over an hour ago. But I let Alex sleep in, and then the health visitor was running late, and when she did finally arrive it took far longer than I anticipated. Sitting there, hearing the standard advice, collecting the standard leaflets, answering the standard questions; it took all the self-control I could muster not to keep checking my watch. It would have been so easy to tell her that we know all this – that we’ve done it all before – but it’s nowhere near that simple. Not for us. Yes, we had a child, but we don’t have one any more. Because our child took his own life, and this woman knows that. So I sit, and I listen, and I find the right words, because I can’t risk her thinking I have better, more pressing, more urgent things to do.

But then, finally, she collects up her notes and her handouts and her Etsy bag, and I show her to the door. Where she turns and faces me, square-on.

‘Is there something your wife wasn’t telling me, Mr Fawley?’

I wasn’t expecting her to be so direct. Or, perhaps, so shrewd.

Her eyes narrow a little. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

I hesitate then nod. ‘Yes, you are. But it’s nothing to do with the baby.’

She gives me a look. ‘Right now, Mr Fawley – with your wife’s medical history – everything is to do with the baby.’

‘OK, yes, I get that. It’s just that Alex has just had some bad news. A friend of hers has been killed. She’s very upset.’

‘Oh Lord, how awful. Was it some sort of accident?’

I shake my head. ‘No. We thought at first it was a suicide, but I’m afraid we’ve had to launch a murder inquiry.’

She registers that ‘we’. ‘Ah yes, I remember now. You’re a police officer, aren’t you.’

‘My colleagues are going to have to speak to Alex today. Which, I know, is very far from ideal, but there’s no way round it. Alex was one of the last people to talk to her.’

She nods slowly. ‘I see.’

‘That’s why Alex seemed upset just now – we were talking about it before you arrived. It was after I told her the news last night that she had that scare –’

Another nod. ‘I understand. It must be very distressing for her. But thank you – it does help me to have a fuller picture.’ She puts her hand briefly on my arm – ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, just give me a call’ – then heads off down the path.

I watch her for a moment, then scan the street, almost automatically. The cars, the people; the men in vehicles, the men on their own. Then I go back into the house to collect my car keys.

It was true, what I said to that woman. Alex knows now how Emma died.

But I still haven’t told her I was at her flat.

* * *

Simon Farrow hesitates before knocking at Dave King’s door. In fact, he pretty much always hesitates before knocking at King’s door. He’s a good DS, no question – tough, uncompromising. And he gets results, even if he has to be a bit of a shit to do it. One thing’s for sure, though – no one could accuse him of being a people person. He can’t be arsed to manage down, so his team are forced to manage up, which makes life occasionally explosive and a lot more tiring. Farrow can hear him now, on the other side of the door, talking on the phone. He can’t hear what he’s saying but King sounds wired, whatever it is.

Farrow takes a breath, knocks, then pushes open the door.

King is on his feet, shunting his mobile into his pocket.

‘Sorry to bother you, boss, just checking you wanted me to pick up on the ANPR on the Clelands’ car? It matches the description given by Smith’s neighbour so it could be the car she saw –’

But King is waving it away. ‘Never mind about that crap. I just heard back from forensics. I’m going to see Gallagher. This is fucking dynamite.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

11 July 2018

9.59

When the doorbell goes a second time, I assume it’s the postman. But it isn’t.

‘I thought you said you were going to call first?’

Ruth Gallagher hesitates a moment. ‘I was –’

I move on to the step and pull the door closer behind me.

‘Look, can it wait? I’ve not had a chance to talk to Alex yet. Not properly. We had a bit of a scare last night –’

‘I’m sorry. Is she OK?’

‘Yes, but you’ll appreciate why I didn’t want to stress her out any more. So can you talk to her later? It’s only for background, after all.’

She hesitates. ‘Actually –’

I realize now she’s not alone. A man with dark sandy hair and a beard has just locked his car and is coming up the path towards us. Even if I didn’t already know him, he has to be CID; we’re the only idiots wearing jackets in this heat.

I frown. ‘You brought King? You really need two of you for this?’

Gallagher flushes, just a little. ‘I’m sorry. I think we’re at cross purposes. I do need to talk to your wife, but that’s not why I’m here.’

King joins us at the step and gives me a supercilious nod; I’ve never liked him, and the feeling is spectacularly mutual. He was one of my DCs once, years ago. But only once. Let’s just say I wasn’t too fond of his methods. And when the DS job came up in my team I gave it to Jill Murphy. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me.

I turn to Gallagher, cutting King out. ‘I don’t understand –’

‘We’re not here for Alex, Adam. We’re here for you.’

She’s irritating me now. I shunt the door open again and take a step back. ‘You want to go through all that crap again? OK then. Come on in. Let’s get it over with.’

She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry. We can’t do it here.’

‘You’re taking me in? Seriously? Jesus, Ruth –’

I can hear Alex now, calling me from upstairs, asking who it is.

I go to the foot of the stairs. ‘It’s just the postman – no need to come down.’

I return to Gallagher, drop my voice. ‘Look, like I said, we had a scare last night – I thought I was going to have to take her to the JR. Just let me settle her down and I’ll come in. Half an hour tops, what difference can that possibly make –’

I see King start to object but Gallagher forestalls him.

‘Adam Fawley, I am arresting you on suspicion of the rape and murder of Emma Smith –’

I gape at her. ‘No – that’s crazy – you don’t seriously think –’

Gallagher fixes me with her cool grey stare. ‘What I think isn’t the issue. All I know is that faced with the evidence we’ve now obtained I have no alternative. I have to arrest you.’

I can feel the sweat running down my back. I’m trying to make any sort of sense of this – get even the slightest purchase on it – but my brain is in freefall. And on and on in the background, the drone of Gallagher’s voice.

‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

The words buckle in my throat. ‘I need to talk to my wife.’

* * *

Oxford Mail online

Wednesday 11 July 2018 Last updated at 9:11

BREAKING: Headington woman feared dead

By Richard Yates

A woman reported missing yesterday is feared to have lost her life in an incident on the railway line just outside Oxford station, in the early hours of Tuesday morning. Police were contacted early yesterday after the Headington resident, named locally as Emma Smith, 44, failed to turn up at her place of work. Shortly thereafter the connection was made with a fatality near Walton Well bridge, which is believed to have occurred at around 1.25 a.m.

Ms Smith was a long-serving employee of the Oxford City Council Adoption and Fostering Service, and had worked at their Iffley Road offices for nearly ten years. Colleagues are said to be ‘heartbroken’. ‘She was such a lovely person,’ said one. ‘She was dedicated to her job, and worked tirelessly to find loving new homes and families for children in need. She will be desperately missed.’

No official comment has been made about the circumstances surrounding the incident at Walton Well bridge, but Thames Valley Police have confirmed that a statement will be issued in due course.

24 comments

Bradybunch1818

How terribly sad – sounds like she gave so much to other people, and yet didn’t get the help she needed herself. Happens so often. Please don’t forget there are people to help – your GP or organisations like the Samaritans

45641JaneyFitch

Friends of mine used that adoption service and they said all the staff were amazing. Overworked and under-resourced like all these things are these days. Perhaps we should put some of that £350m of EU money into places like that.

Gail_Mallory_Marston

What a dreadful thing to happen – sending #thoughtsandprayers to her family and friends

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* * *

Adam Fawley

11 July 2018

10.04

‘Alex.’

She’s lying on our bed, the windows open, the curtains barely moving.

There must be something in my voice because she opens her eyes and starts to sit up. ‘What is it? Are you OK?’

I take a step forward. ‘Look, this is going to sound insane – it is insane – but Ruth Gallagher is downstairs.’

She frowns. ‘Ruth? But why –’

‘They’ve arrested me.’

‘What do you mean, arrested? Arrested for what?’

‘For murder.’

Her eyes widen. ‘They think you killed someone? But –’

‘Not “someone”. Emma. They think I killed Emma.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

Her voice is very small and very far away.

There’s a noise outside and the door opens. King, in that trendy bloody suit of his, looking as chipper as I’ve ever seen him. And when he stares at my wife, pregnant, vulnerable, beautiful, there’s no mistaking the sneer on his face and I have to work very, very hard not to land my fist right in the middle of it.

I move forward quickly and crouch down beside her. ‘You have to believe me – I did not do this.’

I can hear King making impatient noises behind me, but I cling on to her hands, force her to look at me. Because this is the moment. The moment she decides. She’s a lawyer; she’s married to a detective. She knows people don’t get arrested on a whim, especially not police officers.

‘Look,’ I say quickly, dropping my voice. ‘I went to see Emma –’

She frowns. ‘What? When?’

I swallow. ‘That night.’ She opens her mouth to say something but I don’t let her. There isn’t time. ‘She wanted some advice, that’s all. She thought she was being stalked. That must be why they think – there must be DNA at the flat –’

King’s hand is on my shoulder now. ‘That’s enough. Time to go.’

I shake him off. ‘There’ll be a search team here soon. Don’t panic – it’s just routine – just let them do what they need to do. But when they’ve finished, I want you to go to your sister’s –’

‘No,’ she says quickly, ‘I want to be here – for you –’

I’m shaking my head. ‘It’ll make no difference – they won’t let you see me. This is going to be shitty enough – I don’t want to be worrying about you. I want to know you’re safe, OK? With them. So will you do that – for me?’

She bites her lip, then nods.

‘I’ll call as soon as I can and let you know where they’ve taken me.’

Because it won’t be St Aldate’s, that I do know.

She nods again. Her eyes are filling with tears. I put my hand gently to her cheek, and then quickly, out of that bastard’s line of sight, to her belly. And then I stand up.

‘OK, King,’ I say.

* * *

The atmosphere in CID had been pretty glacial first thing, and when Ev goes out for a coffee, it takes a certain amount of determination to force herself out of the sunshine and back into an overheated and airless St Aldate’s. But it only takes a glance round the office to see that something’s changed. When she left, people were staring resolutely at their screens, pretending to be busy, avoiding each other’s eyes. But not now. The room is silent, but it’s the silence after a meteor hit. The silence of shared catastrophe.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’

Somer looks up and sees her. Her face is pale.

‘Fawley’s been arrested.’

‘What?’

Ev holds her breath, waiting for someone to start laughing, tell her it’s just a joke – ‘Ha, got you, sucker’ – but all she sees is Asante’s bleak stare, Baxter’s scowl.

‘Arrested – for what, for Christ’s sake?’

‘For murder,’ says Somer quietly. ‘For murdering Emma Smith.’

Ev looks across at Quinn. Quinn, who said there was something off about the whole case, who said Fawley had something to hide. He meets her eye, shrugs, but says nothing. Seems this time even he doesn’t think he needs to rub it in.

‘Christ,’ breathes Ev. ‘But then surely –’

She never gets the chance to finish. Behind her, the door opens and a moment later she finds herself face to face with Gislingham. He has a tan and a big wide holiday smile.

Then he stops in his tracks and stares around.

‘Jesus – did somebody die?’