The Whole Truth

* * *

Adam Fawley

11 July 2018

11.35

It’s the Newbury station they opt for. Close enough for convenience; far enough for there to be a reasonable chance no one will recognize me. More than reasonable since, to be honest, I can’t even remember the last time I set foot in here. We usually try to process fellow officers with some degree of discretion, but King must have trumpeted our arrival because I can’t believe it’s usually this crowded on a hot summer afternoon. There’s a ripple of ‘casual’ glances as we parade in, King’s hand gripped around my upper arm just so no one’s in any doubt who’s in charge here, and a low-level buzz starts up as we stand at the desk. But I guess it’s no surprise there are rubberneckers; a DI in detention makes for one hell of a car crash.

The sergeant on duty is playing to the crowd too, labouring over the custody record like it’s the first time he’s ever seen one of the bloody things.

He glances up. ‘I’ll be needing your mobile too.’

‘Not till after I’ve called my wife.’

‘You won’t be doing it from that phone, matey. It’s police property.’

‘I promised I’d tell her where I am. She’s pregnant – this is the last thing she needs –’

He raises an eyebrow. He might as well have said it out loud: Well, whose bloody fault is that?

He holds out his hand. I drag the mobile out of my jacket and slide it across the counter.

It’s starting to hit home, just how much power I’m losing. Over my life, my movements, even my damn phone. Right now, I can’t even take a piss without asking permission. You get used to being in control in this job, and the higher up you go the worse it gets. You lose the knack for subservience too, assuming you ever had it. It strikes me suddenly that I’ve become a walking cliché. Getting a dose of my own medicine, seeing it from the other side of the fence, going a mile in someone else’s shoes. Only trouble is, these shoes are the sort that come with prison fatigues.

When I turn, King is three inches from my face. He’s smiling. I can see his teeth.

* * *

‘Mrs Fawley?’

The man holds out his warrant card. She doesn’t recognize him. Definitely not one of Adam’s. He’s thin, tentative, slightly embarrassed.

‘DC Farrow,’ he says, holding the card out a little further. ‘Can we come in?’

There’s a van parked further down the street.

A white one.

She feels a cold surge of fear. Only this time, it’s different.

This time she knows who’s inside.

* * *

Interview with Adam Fawley, conducted at Thames Valley Police Station, Mill Lane, Newbury

11 July 2018, 12.30 p.m.

In attendance, DI R. Gallagher, DS D. King, Mrs P. McHugh (solicitor)

RG: Interview commenced at 12.30. Those present are DI Ruth Gallagher, DS David King, DI Adam Fawley. DI Fawley has been cautioned and is now accompanied by his solicitor, Mrs Penelope McHugh. Perhaps we could begin by having your account of the events of Monday night, 9th July 2018. You have previously admitted that you went to Emma Smith’s flat – what time was that?

AF: Around 9 p.m.

RG: And I believe that immediately before that you had been at your gym?

AF: At Headington Health and Leisure, yes. I would have left at about 8.45. I’m sure you’ll be able to confirm that.

RG: Did you change at the gym before you left?

AF: No, I was running a bit late so I went straight to Ms Smith’s.

RG: So you were wearing –?

AF: A T-shirt and shorts. Trainers.

RG: What colour T-shirt?

AF: A white one.

RG: I see. And you still maintain that you went to Shrivenham Close at Ms Smith’s request?

AF: I don’t ‘maintain’ it – it’s what happened. I saw her in St Aldate’s earlier that day and she asked me to go round.

PM: Given the location, I imagine there will be CCTV corroborating this.

RG: We will, of course, look into that. And was this meeting in St Aldate’s accidental? She just happened to be there?

AF: No, she’d made a special trip up from the Iffley Road in her lunch hour. She wanted my advice. She said that it wouldn’t take very long, so I offered to drop in on my way back home.

DK: Did she tell you what she wanted to talk about?

AF: No. As I explained before, I only saw Ms Smith for a few moments then. I didn’t find out what the problem was until that night, when I went to the flat.

RG: So you arrived at about 9.00 p.m. How long did you stay?

AF: About half an hour.

DK: And what happened during those thirty minutes?

AF: Again, as I’ve said before, we talked about the stalker –

DK: Nothing else?

AF: No –

DK: No small talk at all? Not even about your wife? They were friends, weren’t they?

AF: Ms Smith asked after my wife, very briefly, when I arrived. But that wasn’t why I was there.

RG: So what course did the conversation take?

AF: She talked me through what had been happening – specific incidents – dates and times –

DK: She’d kept a record?

AF: Informally, yes. But it was more like a diary. It wasn’t something she was happy to hand over.

RG: For the record, no such diary has been retrieved from Ms Smith’s flat.

AF: Well, it was there that night – it was on the coffee table.

DK: When she went through these dates – did you make notes?

AF: No. When I got out my notebook she got nervous and asked me not to write anything down. She wasn’t ready to make an official complaint.

DK: So we only have your word for it.

AF: As I said, she didn’t want to escalate things –

DK: So as I said, we only have your word for it. Because no one else seems to know anything about this ‘alleged’ stalker of yours.

AF: I can’t speak to that. I only know what she said to me. And as we’ve since discovered, a man called Hugh Cleland had recently had an altercation with her, and could well have taken it further.

RG: Again, for the record, Hugh Cleland’s fingerprints have not been found anywhere in Ms Smith’s flat.

PM: What about his DNA?

RG: Samples have been taken from him. We await the results.

PM: Does he have an alibi for the night in question?

RG: Enquiries are ongoing, that’s all I can say at this stage.

DK: [to Fawley]

So, if Smith thought Cleland might be stalking her, why didn’t she tell her boss? Her colleagues?

AF: She told me she’d never seen the man’s face. She may have been wary of accusing Cleland until she had proof it was definitely him.

DK: What about her family and friends? She could have talked to them.

AF: My impression was that she was a very private person –

DK: Private or not, I find it odd. Very odd. Especially since, according to her parents, Ms Smith had already had a similar experience some years before.

AF: She said nothing about that to me.

DK: Someone who’d had an experience like that, surely they’d be very unlikely to keep it to themselves if they thought it was happening again.

AF: As I’ve already explained, I’m not in a position to speculate about Ms Smith’s behaviour. She was my wife’s friend. I barely knew her.

DK: You knew her well enough to have a drink with her.

AF: She offered me a glass of wine. It seemed churlish to refuse.

DK: How much did she drink?

AF: In my presence, just over a glass.

DK: The PM suggested she’d had rather more than that.

PM: There’s no way of ascertaining precisely when Ms Smith consumed the alcohol identified at the autopsy. DI Fawley can only comment on what happened in his presence.

DK: So she’d had a bit to drink, she’s upset, so, what? You put an arm round her?

AF: No.

DK: Give her some comfort?

AF: No.

DK: After all, she’s been through a break-up, she’s vulnerable –

AF: No.

DK: She’s an attractive woman, your wife is pregnant, it’s easy to see how one thing could have led to another –

AF: It didn’t happen. And I deeply resent your reference to my wife –

DK: Perhaps Smith went along with it to start with – perhaps that’s why you thought she was OK with it. Perhaps she was the one who initiated it – maybe she’d fancied you for years, who knows. Only then suddenly she’s changing her mind – trying to push you off –

AF: [shaking his head]

DK: And now she’s struggling, starting to scream the place down –

AF: No. No no no –

DK: You get your hand over her mouth – anything to shut her up –

AF: I did not touch her at any point and she was alive and well when I left.

DK: You didn’t kill her –

AF: No.

DK: You didn’t rape her –

AF: No.

DK: You didn’t even have consensual sex with her –

AF: No. Absolutely not.

RG: [slides across a sheet of paper]

This is a copy of the forensics report which we received earlier this morning. The lab has isolated a quantity of male DNA in relation to the Smith case. And it’s not Hugh Cleland’s.

PM: But I thought you said you were still waiting for his DNA results?

RG: We’re awaiting his results, yes. But this isn’t his. We know that for a fact because it’s a perfect match for someone else. Specifically, to a sample stored for elimination purposes in the police national database.

AF: I was at the flat. Of course my DNA is there.

RG: I’m not talking about what they found at the flat. I’m talking about what they found on the body.

AF: What?

RG: It’s very simple. Your DNA was found on Emma Smith’s body. Perhaps you could explain that for us.

AF: It must be a mistake.

[pause]

The only thing I can think of is that there was some sort of accidental contact – perhaps our hands touched when she gave me the wine.

RG: You’re saying that’s what happened?

AF: No, I’m saying that could have happened. Frankly, I don’t remember either way.

RG: Your DNA wasn’t just identified in one location, DI Fawley, or only on her hands. It was all over her body.

AF: No. Absolutely not. No way –

DK: Including, and most significantly, in her genital area.

RG: In addition, post-mortem examination of that area located a single pubic hair. A hair that did not originate from the victim. It’s a male hair. And it came from you.

* * *

Alex Fawley sits in the garden, pretending to read, hearing the search team moving through her home. The low voices, the footsteps back and forth down the front path. She won’t let herself imagine the ogling neighbours, the old dears ‘just popping out for a pint of milk’ to get a better gawp.

The only CSI person she’s met is Alan Challow, at one of the St Aldate’s Christmas drinks, but there’s no sign of him today. He’s probably too embarrassed. She knows she would be. The person who seems to be in charge is an Asian woman. She’s calm and professional and thorough, but there’s something in the dark eyes behind the mask that Alex doesn’t want to see. Right now, sympathy is more than she can stand.

The back door opens and the scrawny DC comes down the garden towards her. He could do with a haircut. Every time he flicks it out of his eyes she has to bite her tongue.

‘Mrs Fawley?’

She glances up and then back at her book.

‘I’m sorry to bother you but could I just ask you a few questions?’

She looks up at him again, shading her eyes against the sun. ‘What about?’

‘Just some basic factual stuff. What time your husband got back on Monday night – things like that.’

She wants to send him packing, tell him to mind his own bloody business, but she’s not stupid. She knows that will only make it worse. And the one thing she really can’t face is being taken down to St Aldate’s. Sweating in the back of a squad car, stared at, feeling the size of a whale.

‘I think,’ she says heavily, ‘that you should get yourself a chair.’

* * *

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

[JOCELYN]

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 four: Plaster

You might be thinking ‘Plaster’ is an odd title for this episode. But as far as Gavin Parrie is concerned, it’s only too horribly relevant.

Before we go any further I should warn you that this episode includes details some listeners may find distressing.

We heard in the last episode how the Roadside Rapist’s third victim, Alexandra Sheldon, went on to marry one of the lead detectives in the case, DS – now DI – Adam Fawley. In our view, this is perhaps the single most important factor to be considered when assessing Gavin Parrie’s alleged guilt.

But I’m getting ahead of myself again. First of all, we need to retrace our steps a little.

On the evening of 16th October 1998, Louise Gilchrist was on her way home from her job at a doctor’s surgery in Cutteslowe when she was dragged into undergrowth and brutally raped. And barely a month later, the fifth victim, a 19-year-old trainee midwife, was attacked on her way home from the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford, sustaining horrendous injuries.

The time between the attacks was getting smaller, and the violence was getting worse. The Roadside Rapist was escalating.

[ALISON DONNELLY]

‘I mean, I’d heard about the Roadside Rapist – everyone had. But that was in Oxford. Abingdon was miles away. No one thought it could happen to us.’

[JOCELYN]

That’s Alison Donnelly. She’s the only one of the surviving victims who’s been prepared to talk in public about her ordeal. She was only 21 at the time.

[ALISON]

‘I was walking home down Larborough Drive, just a few doors away from my flat. It’d been raining all afternoon so the gutters were overflowing, and when I stopped to cross the road a big truck came past really close and sprayed water all over me. I guess I was distracted for a minute. That’s when it happened.’

[JOCELYN]

Alison never heard the man coming up behind her. The man who thrust a plastic bag over her head and dragged her off the street into the undergrowth.

[ALISON]

‘I was trying to struggle but I couldn’t see – the plastic was sticking to my face. Then I felt him dragging me through the bushes and bundling me into the back of a van. There was plasticky stuff on the floor. I’ve never been so terrified in my whole life. I thought he was going to kill me.’

[JOCELYN]

We know now that the attacker drove Alison more than ten miles to a car park on the Oxford ring road.

[ALISON]

‘He dragged me out of the van and across some asphalt – I could feel it under my feet. Then he threw me down on my back and tore off my underwear and raped me. Then I felt him pull away and stand up and then his footsteps walking away. I just lay there, holding my breath, praying he wouldn’t come back.’

[JOCELYN]

But those prayers were not going to be answered.

[ALISON]

‘A few minutes later I heard footsteps again, coming closer, and then he was grabbing me and throwing me over on to my face. It was so painful – I’d never had sex that way before. He seemed different now – rougher. Crueller. He must have known how much he was hurting me but he didn’t care. I thought he was punishing me for it being over so fast before. He had his hand on the back of my neck, pushing me into the ground, and I couldn’t breathe, but when I tried to struggle he started to beat my head against the concrete. And this time, it wasn’t over quickly.’

[JOCELYN]

Alison suffered a fractured skull and lost the sight in one eye. Her injuries were horrific.

[ALISON]

‘I must have blacked out at some point because when I came to there were flashing lights and police and an ambulance.’

[JOCELYN]

Alison was rushed to the JR hospital, where she underwent emergency surgery. It would be five weeks before she was well enough to go home, and she faced months of rehabilitation. Meanwhile, and for the first time, Thames Valley had a lucky break. There was something embedded in the soles of Alison’s shoes, which could only have come from the back of the van.

It was a substance called calcium sulphate. Plaster dust. It was the police’s first real clue. And it would prove to be critical.

Nor was that the only development in the case. One of Alison’s flatmates remembered seeing a white van parked down their street several times in the days before the attack. It was the first indication that DS Adam Fawley’s theory was right: the rapist really could be stalking his victims.

It was important progress, but it didn’t come in time to save Lucy Henderson, who was to be his seventh and last victim. On 12th December, she was attacked on her way home from work, bundled into a van and driven to an abandoned industrial site where she was savagely raped. Once again, plaster dust was found on her shoes.

[ALISON]

‘After what happened to Lucy the police asked me if I’d do a reconstruction so they could put it on Crimewatch, and I said yes, because I wanted to do everything I could to help. But it was horrible – like reliving the whole thing all over again.’

[JOCELYN]

As the judge in the trial was later to say, Alison showed extraordinary courage and resilience in the face of such a horrendous attack. And now, twenty years later, she’s found a new vocation as a counsellor, helping other victims of sexual assault. So something positive did eventually come out of her terrible ordeal.

But, tragically, the same would not be the case for all the Roadside Rapist’s victims.

On Christmas Eve 1998, Jennifer Goddard, the mother of his fifth victim, got home to find her daughter had taken an overdose. There was a note by the bed saying that she was sorry, but she just couldn’t go on any more. She was only 19.

The Roadside Rapist had claimed his first life.

[UNDER BED OF ‘TEARS IN HEAVEN’ – ERIC CLAPTON]

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]

* * *

RG: Interview resumed at 13.10. Those present as previously stated.

DK: Let’s get back to those forensics, shall we? Because frankly I’m struggling to come up with any explanation. Apart from the blindingly obvious.

AF: There must have been a mistake –

DK: A mistake? Seriously? How many times have I heard suspects come out with that exact same crap over the years? ‘It wasn’t me, I wasn’t there.’ That’s really the best you can come up with?

AF: Look, if I’d had sex with her you’d have found semen, not just a pubic hair.

DK: You could have used a condom.

AF: You may have the sort of marriage where you carry round condoms on the off-chance, King, but I can assure you, I don’t.

DK: [leans forward]

Explain.

The.

Hair.

AF: [pause]

There is no explanation.

DK: [sits back again]

Oh, I think there is. Don’t you?

* * *

‘I still don’t bloody believe it,’ says Gislingham.

It’s gone 2.00 p.m. No one’s done any work for hours. Jackets are off, ties are loosened, and the machine in the corridor has run out of cold cans. Someone suggested decamping to the pub a while back, but no one seems to have the willpower to actually get their stuff and go.

‘What did Gallagher say again?’

‘It wasn’t her I got it from,’ says Quinn. ‘It was that bloke Farrow. According to him, it’s the DNA that’s the clincher, but when I pushed him he went all need-to-know on me. Though he couldn’t resist letting slip that even Fawley won’t be able to talk himself out of this one.’

‘Fuck,’ says Gislingham. He still can’t believe he came back from the Costa Brava straight into this.

‘You want me to talk to Clive Conway?’ asks Baxter. ‘He owes me one. Or three.’

But Gis is shaking his head. ‘Best not. Don’t want you landing yourself in the shit. There’s enough of that coming down already, by the sounds of it.’

‘And in any case,’ says Ev hopelessly, ‘what difference would it make? There’s nothing any of us can do.’

Gis opens his mouth to reply, then closes it again. Because there’s someone at the door, his bulk filling the narrow space.

Harrison.

Gis straightens up. ‘Afternoon, sir.’

‘Ah, DS Gislingham, good to have you back. We could have done with you, the last few days.’

Quinn bristles a little, but takes care it’s not quite enough to catch Harrison’s notice.

The superintendent moves to the centre of the room. He knows how to command a space.

‘I imagine you’ve all heard the unfortunate news about DI Fawley. Well, clearly I’m not going to discuss the case or go into any detail about the evidence against him. That would be both inappropriate and premature. What I will say, is that I am expecting, indeed relying on you, as a team, to demonstrate the highest possible standards of professional integrity. This is not your case, and you must under no circumstances interfere with the investigation or impede DI Gallagher’s personnel in any way.’

He looks around the room, slowly, at each of them in turn.

‘And for the avoidance of doubt, this explicitly includes any sort of contact with the press. No “quiet words”, no “sources close to the inquiry” – do I make myself clear? There will, needless to say, be no official comment of any kind unless and until DI Fawley is charged.’

Gislingham isn’t the only one to wince at that: it’s one of Fawley’s phrases.

Harrison clears his throat. ‘It’s bad enough our murder suspect is a Thames Valley Detective Inspector; it’ll be ten times bloody worse if that fact gets out.’

He glances around again. Murmurs of ‘Yes, sir’, ‘Of course, sir’.

‘There’s plenty else for you to be getting on with. The Fisher case for a start – or had that slipped your minds?’

Quinn looks up. ‘I thought we were waiting on the CPS –’

Harrison stares at him, and then, pointedly, at Gislingham. ‘I’ll leave it with you then, Detective Sergeant.’

* * *

DK: Let’s go back to the stalker.

AF: I’ve already explained about that.

DK: Not to me, you haven’t.

AF: [pause, then slowly]

I asked her for details of the incidents, and then I talked through any likely suspects. Anyone who might have a grudge against her – colleagues or old boyfriends –

DK: And what did she say?

AF: She was at a loss. She had no idea who it could be.

DK: So she specifically didn’t mention this man Cleland?

AF: [pause]

No.

DK: What about the most recent boyfriend – what did she say about him?

AF: That she hadn’t been seeing him long. That it hadn’t been that serious, and in any case he was the one who ended it. He had no reason to stalk her.

DK: She actually said that – that this man had dumped her?

AF: Not ‘dumped’, no –

DK: But it was his decision to finish it.

AF: Yes. Absolutely.

DK: You see, that’s what I’m having trouble with. This ex-boyfriend.

AF: Why? It’s perfectly straightforward.

DK: [shaking his head]

I’m afraid it isn’t. Not by a long way. Because there was no ex-boyfriend.

AF: I’m not with you.

DK: Emma Smith didn’t have a boyfriend. Not then, not ever. Because Emma Smith was gay.

AF: [silence]

No – you must have got that wrong –

DK: Nope. She wasn’t exactly out and proud, I’ll give you that. But she was gay. She’d been seeing a woman called Amanda Haskell – she just came forward after seeing the news reports. We’ve seen emails between them. There’s no mistake.

[sitting back]

So everything you just said – it was all a lie. All that crap about old boyfriends –

AF: No – absolutely not – that’s what she said –

RG: I’m afraid I’m also struggling with this.

AF: Perhaps she meant – look, the only thing I can think of is that she referred to a partner and I just assumed –

DK: You didn’t say that. In fact, you’ve never used the word ‘partner’. Not once, at any point when you’ve relayed that conversation. I’ve been keeping a note.

AF: Like I said, I must have just assumed – I mean, my wife has never suggested Emma was gay – I’d have remembered that –

DK: Speaking of your wife, let’s go over again exactly what you did after you left Emma Smith’s flat.

AF: I went straight home. I got back about 9.45. My wife was on her way to bed. I made her a cup of tea.

DK: And what did you do then?

AF: I had a glass of wine –

DK: Another glass of wine –

AF: I watched something on TV.

RG: What?

AF: I don’t know. Some American thing.

DK: And you went to bed when?

AF: Probably about 11.00. I don’t remember precisely.

DK: And can your wife confirm that?

AF: [silence]

RG: It’s a simple enough question, DI Fawley.

AF: [silence]

No, she can’t.

DK: You didn’t wake her up when you got into bed? I always do – my wife’s always on my case about it.

AF: [silence]

DK: Ah, sorry, mate – I forgot. You’re in the spare room, aren’t you?

AF: How on earth –

DK: What a bummer, all on your lonesome. How long is it now? Three months? Four? Must be bloody frustrating.

If you know what I mean.

AF: The only way you could know about that is if you’d spoken to my wife –

DK: Yeah, well, you know what it’s like. No secrets in a murder inquiry, mate.

AF: I’m not your ‘mate’ –

PM: That was completely uncalled for, Detective Sergeant. DI Fawley is entitled to as much courtesy as any other suspect. Arguably, more.

RG: I apologize for any disrespect that DS King may have –

[looking at him]

– inadvertently displayed.

PM: Thank you –

RG: But the fact remains that there are numerous anomalies in your client’s version of events. Anomalies and inconsistencies. As he well knows, faced with such anomalies and inconsistencies, the police have no choice but to investigate vigorously. However uncomfortable that may be, on occasion. All the same, I think, perhaps, that this might be a good time to take a break. Interview suspended at 14.15.

* * *

Nina Mukerjee looks up. There’s a man following Alan Challow’s PA through the office; a man she hasn’t seen before.

‘Who’s that?’ she says to Conway.

He glances across and makes a face. ‘Dave King. DS in Major Crimes.’

She frowns; she’s been at Thames Valley eighteen months now and this is definitely the first time she’s come across him. ‘Is he new?’

Conway shakes his head. ‘Nah – he’s been here years. Just doesn’t bother with the likes of us. Usually sends one of the serfs.’

Nina looks back at King. He’s counter cast for ‘bruiser cop’, that’s for sure. In fact, he’d give Gareth Quinn a run for his money on the sartorial front. Pink shirt, slim suit, obligatory beard. He looks like someone in a Saturday-night psychological thriller – the smiley bloke who looks OK on the surface but almost certainly isn’t.

Conway makes a face. ‘No prizes for guessing he’s after the Fawley stuff.’

That figures. Forensics may not normally be worth King’s valuable time, but nailing a DI is evidently a very different matter.

Challow’s PA is coming towards them now.

‘Oh shit,’ mutters Conway. ‘Down periscope.’

Nina grins despite herself, but the smile fades somewhat when the PA comes to a halt at her desk.

‘Alan’s asked if you could sit in on this one, if that’s OK.’

She doesn’t have much choice. Conway grins at her as she collects her papers and follows the PA back to Challow’s office. King is already installed: coffee, water bottle, tablet. He and Quinn really were separated at birth. He sits back now, crossing one ankle on the other knee. He’s not wearing any socks. Nina’s only been in the same room with him for thirty seconds and he’s already pissing her off.

‘This is DS King,’ says Challow. ‘He’d like a “heads-up” on anything useful from the Fawley house.’

‘The search team has only just got back –’

‘Yeah, well,’ says King, eyeing her, ‘that never stopped any competent CSI I’ve ever worked with. You must have something.’

Nina gives him an eloquent look, then opens her file. ‘The clothes DI Fawley was wearing on the night of the murder had already been washed, so we won’t be able to retrieve anything useful there. The team did retrieve the training shoes but given the MO involved in the killing, I think it’s unlikely they will yield either blood or bodily fluids. Though we will, of course, check.’ She sits back. ‘And there was nothing of any value in the rest of the house. Sorry.’

‘No condoms?’

‘No.’

‘I assume they did check the gym bag?’

A withering look this time. ‘Er, yes, funnily enough that did occur to them.’

He frowns. ‘What about the Mondeo?’

She takes a breath, counts to ten. ‘No, nothing.’

‘Did they check the boot?’

Oh for fuck’s sake, she thinks. ‘Yes. And no – there was nothing visible there either. No fluids, no obvious hair. We’ve submitted samples for DNA just in case but I very much doubt we’ll find anything. And before you ask, the car hasn’t been recently cleaned. In short, there’s nothing to suggest DI Fawley used that vehicle to transport a body.’

King gives her a sardonic smile. ‘Well, I guess if anyone would know to put down sheeting, it’d be a serving police officer.’

‘That’s assuming,’ says Challow quietly, ‘there was ever a body in there at all.’

The smile twists into a sour laugh. ‘Yeah, right.’

* * *

When Freya unlocks her door, Caleb hasn’t moved. He’s still sitting on the window seat, staring blankly down at the garden, exactly as he was when she left half an hour ago.

‘I got tuna and sweetcorn,’ she says. ‘Your favourite.’

It sounds artificial, and she knows it. She just needs to fill the silence.

She goes over to the window but he doesn’t turn, doesn’t even seem to realize she’s there.

‘Caleb?’ she says, louder now.

He turns at last and looks up at her.

‘Sorry, babe. I was miles away.’

She sits down next to him and puts her arm about his shoulders. ‘It’ll be OK, babe. Really.’

He nods, but he’s not looking at her. His body is rigid against hers.

* * *

Gislingham puts the phone down. ‘OK, so that was the CPS lawyer. Apparently she told Fawley there are still some issues she’d like to see bottomed out on the Fisher case before she makes a final decision on whether to pursue it.’

‘Fucking waste of fucking time,’ mutters Quinn, but the mood in the rest of the team isn’t much brighter.

‘Come on, guys,’ says Gis, trying to inject some energy into his voice. ‘Quicker we do it, quicker we get it over with, one way or the other. So – where are we?’

Baxter glances at Quinn, but he’s clearly too pissed off to reply.

Baxter takes a deep breath. ‘Well, there were deffo some inconsistencies in the statements. Fisher’s especially. She claimed not to know how her dress got ripped but Bryan Gow reckons she’s lying, though when she says she can’t remember any sort of contact with Morgan, she’s telling the truth.’ He shrugs. ‘Whichever way you look at it, that’s odd. What’s so special about the dress that it’s worth lying about?’

‘Good question,’ says Gis. ‘Let’s get her in and ask her, eh?’

* * *

The mood in the Major Crimes office is a good deal more animated than it is next door. Rape and murder, with a DI in the frame; whole careers have been built on less. But Simon Farrow’s under no illusions about his own place in the food chain. He hasn’t been a DC long – not even a year yet – so he tends to have ‘OK to dump on’ tattooed on his forehead. Not that he’s complaining. He’s always wanted to be a detective, ever since he was a little boy and got a Sherlock Holmes set for Christmas. His mother likes to attribute it to growing up with wall-to-wall Inspector Morse – ‘and we were living in Oxford too’ – but at least he’s managed to persuade her not to trot that one out in front of his girlfriends. Though it’s hard to see John Thaw putting up with the sort of crap Simon’s getting lumbered with at the moment. What with the online appeals and the sign posted at Walton Well bridge, they’ve been inundated with calls, but dealing with them is the arse-end of the task list. They share it round because it purées your brain after a while, and right now it’s his turn on the shit shift. Still, as his gran always used to say, they also serve who only stand and wait. Or, in this case, sit and sieve.

He’s about to get up for more coffee when one of the other DCs calls across at him.

‘Hey, Farrow – must be your lucky day. King just called. He wants you down at Newbury. Pronto.’

* * *

DK: Interview resumed at 16.10. DC Simon Farrow is now present in place of DI Gallagher. So, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I’ve listened to everything you’ve said, Fawley, and some of it makes sense, and no doubt some of it can even be corroborated. But there’s no getting round the fact that, right now, everything’s pointing to the same conclusion: some sort of sexual act took place between you and Emma Smith and she ended up dead –

AF: No – that’s not what happened –

DK: You panicked – your career, your marriage, your whole bloody life would be wrecked if this came out. So you wrapped the body in something – plastic or sheeting –

AF: [shaking his head]

DK: And shoved it in the back of your car. Your dark-blue Ford Mondeo.

AF: [emphatically]

No.

DK: The car was seen. You were seen. The neighbours identified a vehicle matching yours, and a man wearing exactly what you say you were wearing, outside Emma Smith’s flat on the evening of the 9th July.

AF: How many more times – I told you – I was there. Of course they saw me –

DK: And then you went home to your wife as if nothing had happened. She remembers you chatting for a couple of minutes in the kitchen, making her that cup of tea. What she didn’t know was that that whole time the dead body of one of her oldest friends was in the boot of your car –

AF: This is insane –

DK: You had a glass of wine, watched the telly, and later, when you could be sure there was no one about, you slipped out in the dark and drove to Walton Well bridge. You knew you had to get rid of that body, and you had to do it fast. And where better than on the railway line – a freight train would pretty much do for the evidence, even assuming anyone bothered to investigate. If you were lucky, it would just be filed under suicide and that would be that. But you couldn’t risk hanging around, could you, in case you were seen, so you just tipped the body over the parapet and legged it. It wasn’t until the following day that you realized what a catastrophic balls-up that was.

PM: For the record, my client categorically denies every single one of these ludicrous allegations.

DK: You dumped the sheeting in a bin somewhere on your way home, and probably did the same with Smith’s phone. Though let’s not forget, the canal’s only a few yards from that bridge –

PM: It’s an ingenious story, Detective Sergeant, but speaking purely practically I find it very hard to believe that my client could have driven from Risinghurst to Walton Well bridge – a distance of, what, five or six miles? – without passing a single ANPR device or CCTV camera.

DK: [passing over a sheet of paper]

In fact, as you can see, there is a perfectly feasible route. Anyone with Google Maps could do it, never mind a police officer of DI Fawley’s rank and experience.

AF: [swallows]

What about CCTV at the bridge?

DK: I’m the one asking the questions here. Not you.

* * *

It’s the first time Gislingham has encountered Marina Fisher in the flesh, though he’s seen the pictures, and had a characteristically measured and objective assessment from Gareth Quinn (‘getting on a bit but definitely shaggable’). Though the minute she comes through the door Gis can see what Quinn was getting at. Fisher definitely has something about her, even in these less than ideal circumstances. He’s heard all about her extravagant dress sense too, but it comes as no surprise to see she’s gone for knee-length and navy today. In fact, if he didn’t know any better, he’d be hard-pressed to decide which was the client and which the lawyer.

Quinn closes the door behind them, and they take their seats, women one side, men the other.

‘We haven’t met, Professor Fisher,’ says Gis. ‘I’m DS Chris Gislingham, and I’ll be running the inquiry for the time being.’

‘What about DI Fawley?’ says the lawyer quickly. ‘I thought this was his case?’

‘DI Fawley has been called away to deal with another matter. But rest assured I’m completely up to speed.’

He looks to Quinn, who starts up the recording.

‘So,’ says Gislingham. ‘Before we start, I need to check you’ve been reminded that you are still under caution. Now, we’ve asked you back this afternoon to talk to you about the incident with your dress.’

Fisher glances briefly at her lawyer. ‘But I’ve already told you – I don’t remember how the gown got ripped.’

‘I should tell you we’ve had a profiler look over our interview with you. An expert in body language. And he’s quite sure that you do, in fact, know exactly how the dress got ripped. There’s only one explanation we can think of as to why you’d lie about that: because it happened during a sexual assault on Caleb Morgan. An assault you’re still saying never took place.’

There’s a silence. Fisher shifts in her seat.

‘OK,’ she says at last. ‘You’re right. I think I do know how the gown got damaged.’

She takes a breath, reaches for her water.

‘I didn’t notice the rip when I first got up the following morning – I just wanted a cup of tea and some aspirin. But when I went back up to Tobin’s bedroom he was on the floor playing with some sequins – red sequins. He said he wanted them to stick on his drawing.’

‘You’re saying your son tore your dress – to get the sequins?’

She flushes a little. ‘While I was downstairs, yes, I think so.’

‘Has he done that sort of thing before?’

Her flush deepens. ‘He likes shiny things. And he probably didn’t realize how hard it would be to get them off.’ She shrugs. ‘Like I said before, children don’t always know their own strength.’

‘Did you ask him about it?’

She looks away, nods.

‘And what did he say?’

Her gaze drops. ‘He denied it. Said he never touched the gown. That he found the sequins on the kitchen floor.’

‘But you didn’t believe him.’

She still isn’t looking at them. ‘There weren’t any sequins on the kitchen floor.’

‘Have you asked him again – since then?’

She shrugs. ‘He’s still denying it.’ She looks from one officer to the other. ‘Oh, come on – he’s not the first child to tell a fib because they’ve done something naughty.’

Gis nods slowly – he’s the father of a two-year-old. He knows.

But Quinn’s still pushing. ‘So why didn’t you tell us all this right from the start?’

She glances at him, then looks away. ‘It was a family matter.’

Her face is closed; an ice sheet has come down.

* * *

‘Thanks for helping with this, Bryan,’ says Gallagher. ‘I just wanted another pair of eyes. Unofficially.’

Gow looks up at her from the video screen. ‘No problem. I was in Kidlington today anyway.’

He looks back at the screen again, then presses pause, a small frown creasing his brow.

‘Well?’ says Gallagher. Her arms are folded. She looks restless, edgy.

He pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘It’s a first, certainly. Watching one of these things to decide whether it’s a police officer who’s lying.’

‘He’s a suspect. Just like any other.’

Gow gives her a pointed look, then makes a note on his pad.

‘Well, is he?’ she says, a little impatiently now. ‘Lying?’

He glances up at her. ‘I could see no sign of it. I’ll take the footage back with me and review it again, but there’s nothing jumping out right now. He’s under acute strain, which is hardly a surprise, but when he denies having committed the crime his words and body language show no divergence. None at all.’

‘Dave King would no doubt say that if anyone knew how to do that, it’d be Adam Fawley.’

Gow raises an eyebrow. ‘No doubt.’

Gallagher gets the message. ‘Look, I know King can be a bit – unsubtle – but he’s a good copper. He has good instincts.’

Gow is writing again. ‘If you say so.’

* * *

‘So, Professor Fisher, just to be clear, and for the purposes of the recording, you’re now modifying your statement to the effect that you do, in fact, know how your dress was damaged.’

Fisher heaves a loud sigh. ‘Yes.’

Quinn nods. ‘So what about the previous night, with Morgan? Is there anything about that you haven’t told us?’

‘We could do without the sarcasm, Sergeant,’ says the lawyer.

‘The answer to your question,’ says Fisher, ‘is no. I remember no more about that than I told you before.’

‘Really?’ says Quinn, openly sardonic.

She flashes him a look. ‘Really.’

She takes a breath and looks away, and Gis is suddenly aware that she’s blinking back tears.

The lawyer looks at her with concern and passes her a glass of water. Then she turns to Gislingham. ‘Look, Sergeant, this whole thing is taking the most enormous toll on Marina – she’s not sleeping – her son is having nightmares –’

‘I’m not sure what you’re expecting me to do about that –’

‘What I’m asking you to do is drop this preposterous case. The whole thing is absurd – it’s political correctness gone psychotic.’

Gis opens his mouth to reply, but she’s not finished. ‘I mean, look at her, for God’s sake. Do you seriously think she could possibly have perpetrated a sexual assault on a six-foot rugby player against his will?’

She stares at Gis and then at Quinn. ‘Well, do you?’

* * *

You don’t often see small children in a police station, so when Somer slips out to buy something for dinner that night it’s hard to miss Tobin Fisher, sitting quietly alone on a chair by the main door. She looks around, worried that no one’s with him, then notices one of the female PCs is at the drinks machine, collecting a can of Fanta.

Somer hesitates, then makes her way towards him. He has a colour-by-numbers book on his lap, and even though she’s now standing in his light, even though there are people passing and noise and phones going, he doesn’t look up. She moves round and takes a seat next to him.

‘What are you drawing, Tobin?’

* * *

Quinn and Gislingham watch as a uniformed PC shows Fisher and Kennedy out. The lawyer puts an arm around Fisher’s shoulders as they reach the lift, and she leans in, almost staggering.

‘Was Caleb Morgan that convincing?’ asks Gis.

Quinn turns to him. ‘Sorry?’

‘Just saying. Fisher looked pretty genuine to me. When she picked up that water her hands were shaking.’

‘It’s in her interests to be convincing. And don’t forget all that TV stuff she does. That woman is a performer. She knows exactly how to play a crowd.’

* * *

The female PC comes back from the drinks machine and hands the can of Fanta to Tobin. He takes it, but he doesn’t look at her or say thank you. Somer’s eyes meet the officer’s over the boy’s head and the woman shrugs, evidently unsurprised. Somer isn’t surprised either; in fact, she’s beginning to wonder whether Tobin might be on the spectrum somewhere. There’s no doubting his intelligence, but he barely functions socially at all. Can someone as well informed as Marina Fisher really not have noticed what’s going on with her own child?

The little boy is still colouring in, carefully and deliberately, utterly absorbed in what he’s doing. He’s filling in one colour range at a time, a rainbow of pencils laid out on the chair next to him, their ends and points neatly aligned.

‘Can I see?’

The scratching at the paper stops. He doesn’t look up but after a moment he puts the pencil down in the correct place in the line and hands her the book.

Somer looks at the drawing, then takes a breath – realizing suddenly what this is.

* * *

‘Something up?’ asks Ev.

Somer’s a few yards away, by the whiteboard, staring at the pictures from the Morgan case. Marina Fisher’s kitchen, the ripped evening gown, the empty bottle of champagne, the photos of Caleb taken at the Sexual Assault Referral Centre.

Ev gets up and goes over, and Somer registers her presence at last.

‘Sorry,’ she says, glancing across. ‘I didn’t realize you were there.’

‘Penny for them?’ says Ev.

Somer turns back to the board. ‘I saw Tobin Fisher just now. He was waiting downstairs while his mother was being interviewed. He had a colouring book with him – one of those “educational” things mothers like Fisher get for their kids. Illustrations from Shakespeare, the Greek myths, that sort of thing.’

‘O-kay,’ says Ev slowly, wondering where this is going. ‘And your point is?’

‘My point is that up till now he’s just been working his way through the drawings one at a time. But the one he’s doing now – it’s right near the end. There are loads of blank pages in between. He must have deliberately chosen to do it.’

‘So –?’

‘That’s just it. What he’s doing now is George and the Dragon. The colour-by-numbers thing says to do the dragon in different shades of green, but Tobin’s completely ignored it. He’s never done that with any of the pictures before. I checked.’

Ev frowns. ‘So what colour is he doing the dragon?’

‘Red,’ says Somer. ‘All the same shade of red.’ She makes a face. ‘And that was when I remembered this.’

She points at one of the photos on the board. A shot of Morgan taken from behind. His head and his back and his neck, and the tattoo on his left shoulder.

It’s a red dragon.

* * *

The custody sergeant pushes the door open with a clang, then he stands back to let the lawyer through.

‘Let me know when you’ve finished.’

Penelope McHugh nods. ‘Thank you.’ Then she waits until the sergeant has lumbered back down the corridor and out of sight before stepping forward into the cell.

Her client is sitting on the narrow bed, his head in his hands, the toast and cereal untouched on a tray. There are huge dank stains under his armpits. It shouldn’t surprise her; she’s been doing this job a long time and she’s had suspected murderers for clients before. But never, thus far at least, a serving Detective Inspector.

She’s breathing as shallowly as she can. The hot stagnant air is riddled with sweat and piss and despair.

‘We could have done this in a consultation room, you know.’

He looks up. ‘I could do without another perp walk of shame upstairs.’

It’s horrifying, how quickly a human being can fall apart. She knows this man – she’s known him for years – but seeing him now, he’s a wraith of his former self. All that quiet authority, that sense of latent power held in check – it’s all gone. He looks hollowed out, scourged, paranoia ground like dirt into the lines around his eyes –

‘I need to talk to you.’

Even his voice has diminished.

McHugh takes a step closer. ‘OK. Shoot.’

‘I’ve been thinking – this whole thing – the DNA, the car, the lack of semen – it makes no bloody sense.’

She gives an acid smile. ‘You’re telling me.’

‘So much so that there’s only one explanation. Only one way I can even begin to make it all add up.’

She frowns. He’s talking too fast, his eyes are too wide. If she didn’t know any better she’d think he was deranged. Or high.

‘The evidence – it was planted. I’m being framed.’

It drops like lead. The guilty ones – they all say that. And she really didn’t want this man to be one of them.

He must have seen something in her face because he gets up and comes closer. She has to force herself to stand her ground.

‘Look, I know how this must sound – I’ve heard cons come out with shit like that for twenty years. You think I’m either guilty or crazy, right? Or most likely both. I’m supposed to be a fucking police officer and here I am, babbling like a bloody maniac.’

She starts to demur but he ploughs on.

‘Just hear me out – please? – I’ve gone over it again and again and it’s just too coherent – too, I don’t know, pat –’ He looks at her, as anxious as a small child. ‘Do you see what I’m getting at?’

She frowns. ‘I think so. You’re saying that it all hangs together too well to be just a coincidence?’

His eyes light up. ‘Exactly. Because it all fits, it all works. The evidence is so perfectly put together, all it needs is gift wrap. But crime just isn’t like that – not real crime, unpremeditated crime. It’s messy and random and the perpetrator always fucks at least one thing up. For it to be this perfect someone had to make it so.’ He stops, takes a breath. ‘This whole thing was planned. That’s the only theory that makes sense.’

Penelope McHugh isn’t so sure about that. There’s at least one other possible explanation. He just said as much himself. This man has two decades of experience in the art and science of killing. If anyone could get away with murder, it’s him.

‘And the person who did it,’ he says, the words coming in a rush now as if he doesn’t have much time, ‘they’re clever. Very clever. They know about police procedures and they have such a fucking enormous grudge against me they’re prepared to kill to get revenge.’

He stares at her as though it’s so obvious now that she must have got there already.

‘I know who did this. And so do you.’

* * *

Ten miles away, in Abingdon, Alex Fawley is propped up against the pillows in her sister’s spare bedroom. It’s hard to be invisible if you’re eight months pregnant, but she’s doing her best. Not to take up too much space in the already-too-crowded sitting room. Not to make every meal about her and how worried she is about Adam. Not to hog the bathroom when Gerry’s trying to get ready for work. So even though Nell’s in the garden now, with the kids, both off school for yet another Inset day, Alex said she was tired and was going to have a nap. It’s cooler upstairs, with the curtains drawn, but still too hot to get comfortable in her state. She can hear their voices drifting up to her from the patio below. Not too loud, because they think she’s sleeping. Just the usual minor skirmishes between the boys, the dog barking, Nell trying to keep the peace. Ordinary, happy family noise. Right now – knowing where Adam is and why – it’s enough to break her heart.

She checks her watch and it is – finally – nearly time. Her pulse quickens a little as she pulls her tablet towards her and hooks in her earphones.

* * *

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

[JOCELYN]

As we heard in the last episode, on 12th December 1998 Lucy Henderson was attacked on her way home from work. She was thrown into a van, driven to an abandoned industrial site and brutally raped. Once again, plaster dust was found on her shoes, and once again her attacker left no DNA. Lucy was 23, and a graduate student at Marchmain College. She was also the Roadside Rapist’s last known victim.

Not that anyone knew that at the time. After the best part of a year and no apparent progress in tracking this assailant down, public panic was at fever pitch. Questions were being asked in Parliament, and the Thames Valley Chief Constable was under pressure to resign.

And then, at last, the breakthrough everyone had been waiting for. On January 3rd 1999 the police made an arrest.

They had their man.

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 five: Pursuit

[‘VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCE’ – JOAN JETT]

[JOCELYN]

The story of how Gavin Parrie came to be arrested is perhaps the strangest and most worrying aspect of this whole case. That morning, Alexandra Sheldon, the Roadside Rapist’s third victim, filled up her car with petrol at a garage on the Oxford ring road. She was queuing up to pay when she noticed something – something that gave her a violent and terrifying reaction. It wasn’t something she saw or heard, it was something she smelt.

It was a distinctive, unmistakable odour – an odour she later described in court as ‘sweet, like overripe fruit’. She’d only ever encountered it once before. On September 4th 1998. The night she was attacked.

Dr Anisur Malik is an acknowledged expert in this field, and assessed the evidence in the Parrie investigation as part of The Whole Truth case review.

[DR ANISUR MALIK]

‘Olfactory stimuli are particularly powerful because they bypass the thalamus and connect directly to the forebrain. Hence their increased capacity to trigger recall.’

[JOCELYN]

In other words, smells don’t get processed by the thinking part of your mind – that’s why their impact is so strong and immediate. But that’s also why we need to be very careful indeed when considering whether this sort of memory is reliable ‘evidence’.

So where had this distinctive smell come from? Do you remember back in Episode 2 we talked about how Gavin Parrie had developed Type 1 diabetes? Not many people know this, but if this kind of diabetes isn’t managed properly it can lead to a noticeable smell on the breath. A smell like overripe fruit …

By the time of that encounter in the petrol station, Gavin’s promising new start back in Cowley was crashing and burning. His new girlfriend had left him and he was struggling to get work. He was behind on his rent and hardly ever seeing his kids, who were still with their mother in Manchester. With all that going on, it comes as no surprise to find he was neglecting his health.

So no one’s disputing that Gavin was in that petrol station that morning, queuing up to pay behind Alexandra Sheldon. And no one’s disputing that she did indeed smell what she says she did. What we are disputing is whether the man in the queue was the same man as the one who’d attacked her.

[DR ANISUR MALIK]

‘What concerns me in this case was the severity of the reaction. It was only four months after Ms Sheldon had been assaulted, and she may well have been suffering from PTSD. Twenty years ago, the medical profession wasn’t as well informed on this issue as it is now.

Smelling such an evocative odour for the first time since the incident could easily have triggered a terrifying flashback. The body would go into fight-or-flight mode – the heart would be racing and the brain would no longer be functioning normally.

As a consequence, law enforcement professionals need to exercise particular caution when dealing with the testimony provided by victims in circumstances like these.’

[JOCELYN]

And all the more so because the next thing Alexandra Sheldon saw was Gavin Parrie coming back out to the forecourt and getting into a white van. Even though the police never spoke publicly about the plaster dust found on the last two victims, the fact that the Roadside Rapist had started to use a van had been reported, and extensively.

Alexandra Sheldon reacted immediately – she didn’t think once, never mind twice. She got straight into her own car and followed that van. Ten minutes later the driver pulled up in front of a set of lock-up garages off the Botley Road, parked and got out.

[‘MR X’]

‘She watched him reach up above the garage door and retrieve a key, go inside for a few minutes, and then come back out and walk round the corner out of sight.’

[JOCELYN]

That’s the former police officer we heard from in Episode 3, who worked on the Parrie case.

[‘MR X’]

‘Ms Sheldon called DS Fawley at once and he advised her to proceed as quickly as possible to a public place and wait there for the police to arrive. She said she would go to the nearby Co-op store, which was only a few minutes away. A police response team was immediately dispatched, and shortly after 12 noon Mr Parrie was arrested in the Fox & Geese pub.’

[JOCELYN]

Adam Fawley arrived at the scene at approximately 12.25, by which time a full CSI search was underway in the lock-up, and Gavin was on his way to St Aldate’s police station in the back of a squad car. Alexandra Sheldon had been at the Co-op all that time.

Or had she? The Co-op didn’t have CCTV, and no one there could remember the exact time she arrived.

As for Gavin, he’s always contended that – far from going straight to that Co-op, as instructed – Alexandra Sheldon broke into his lock-up, using the key she’d just seen him put back above the garage door. And once she got in, she planted some strands of her own hair on the floor, knowing the police would find them.

You’re probably shaking your head right now, aren’t you? You’re saying to yourself, ‘She was an intelligent woman, a lawyer, an ethical person – would she really go so far as to manufacture evidence?’

But think about it for a moment. Alexandra Sheldon was absolutely convinced Gavin Parrie was the man who’d attempted to rape her. She was also desperate to ensure this man was caught – only a few days earlier, the fifth victim had committed suicide at the tragically young age of 19. Alexandra knew that. She also knew the police had no leads, and even if the man she’d followed to Botley really was the rapist, there was no guarantee there’d be any evidence in the lock-up that would prove it. He could walk away scot-free, and be able to assault even more women, ruin even more lives.

So who can blame her if she concluded – in the heightened state of anxiety and fear brought on by the flashback she was experiencing – that she simply had to do something? She had to make sure this man was stopped, once and for all.

And it was in her power to do it.

[‘MR X’]

‘Whatever Gavin Parrie may believe, there was never any evidence whatsoever that Ms Sheldon planted evidence to incriminate him. Neither her fingerprints nor DNA were discovered, either on the garage key or inside the lock-up. It’s also important to note that the strands of hair recovered were over 10 inches long. Ms Sheldon had had long hair at the time she was attacked but she’d had it cut very short immediately thereafter. In effect, even if she’d wanted to frame Gavin Parrie, she no longer had the “evidence” she’d have needed to do that.’

[JOCELYN]

No one’s disputing the length of Alexandra Sheldon’s hair that day, or when she’d had it cut. But as every woman knows, we sometimes have items in our handbags, like combs and brushes, that have hair caught in them – hair that could have been there for weeks or even months.

And one thing we do definitely know: it was the hair found in that search that clinched Gavin’s conviction. That and that alone.

Because everything else was circumstantial. It could all be explained as mere coincidence. The diabetes, the fact that Gavin’s brother Bobby was a plasterer and Gavin had been known to borrow Bobby’s van when his own was off the road (it’s worth stressing at this point that Bobby always flatly denied having lent Gavin his van on the dates of the attacks, though it was impossible to prove that one way or the other).

There was one further piece of evidence the police had, which they believed was compelling, but the law as it stood at the time prevented them using it in court. This was the fact that Gavin had been questioned about the attack on Paula, the 16-year-old girl we talked about in Episode 2, who’d been assaulted in Manchester before the Roadside Rapes began.

But even if that fact couldn’t be brought up in court, it was still hugely significant in Gavin’s case. Why? Because as soon as Thames Valley found out about Paula, they basically stopped looking for anyone else. As far as they were concerned, Gavin committed eight attacks: one in Manchester and seven in Oxford.

In their minds, it all fitted: the identical MOs, the fact that Gavin had been living in both cities at the relevant times, even the Oxford rapist’s use of a plastic bag – the police theory was that having narrowly escaped being identified by Paula, Gavin started putting plastic bags over his victims’ faces, to make sure it didn’t happen again.

But we at The Whole Truth believe they were wrong. More than that, we believe they failed. They failed Gavin Parrie and his family, especially his children, who’ve grown up without their dad. They failed the public; and most importantly they failed the victims. Like all the country’s police forces, Thames Valley CID have a duty to investigate serious and violent crimes ‘effectively, independently and promptly’, as confirmed by the UK Supreme Court earlier this year, in relation to the infamous John Worboys ‘black cab rapist’ case. And, in our opinion, Thames Valley simply did not do that in Gavin’s case.

Back in 1999, Gavin Parrie was convinced that the crucial evidence against him had been planted, and he’d been framed. He told anyone who would listen that he was telling the truth, but no one believed him.

They do now.

And in the next episode we’ll tell you why.

[UNDER BED OF ‘TIME FOR TRUTH’ – THE JAM]

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’s heart is pounding, drumming so hard against her ribcage she feels bruised from the inside. Even in her overactive middle-of-the-night paranoia, she’d never thought it could be as bad as this. She gets up and starts pacing the small room, feeling a surge of hatred for Jocelyn Naismith – this woman who thinks she has the answer, who wants the truth, who just tramples about in other people’s lives, other people’s pain, not knowing or caring what wreckage she might leave behind. The baby bumps and shifts fretfully against her; she feels like she’s pumping poisonous adrenaline into her own child.

She sits back heavily on the bed, and reaches for her tablet to check when the next episode is due. Three days – three days? – she can’t wait that long, can’t not know that long. And why did it have to be now, of all times? When she can’t talk to Adam, can’t ask him what to do –

She puts a hand to her mouth, pushing down a sudden panic. How often has she heard her husband say there’s no such thing as coincidence – not in policework. What if the timing isn’t random at all?

* * *

‘Say that again?’

The team are gathered round the whiteboard. Not just Ev now, but Gis, Quinn, Baxter, Asante.

‘I was looking through Tobin Fisher’s colouring book,’ says Somer. ‘He’s doing a picture of St George and the Dragon. And he’s not doing the dragon in green, like he’s supposed to. He’s doing it in red.’ She points at the photo on the board. ‘Exactly like that.’

‘Coincidence?’ offers Asante.

‘No such thing,’ says Ev. ‘That’s what the boss always says.’

There’s the smallest of pauses, an ebb of time in which they all think the same thing, see the same face, then deal with it and move on.

‘So the question,’ says Gis thoughtfully, ‘is how Tobin could have known about Caleb Morgan’s tattoo.’

Baxter shrugs. ‘Perhaps Morgan took him swimming? I mean, he babysat him a lot, didn’t he. It’s not impossible.’

‘Or perhaps he mowed the lawn,’ says Quinn. ‘Easy to see him getting his top off in this weather –’

‘Marina Fisher doesn’t have a lawn,’ says Asante quietly. ‘The garden is paved.’

Quinn folds his arms and frowns. He hates being corrected, especially by Asante.

‘We can check the swimming thing easily enough,’ says Everett.

‘But what if it’s not that?’ asks Somer, looking round at the others. ‘What if Morgan never went near a swimming pool with Tobin? Because if that’s the case –’

There’s a silence; it doesn’t need spelling out.

‘But it doesn’t tally, does it?’ says Baxter eventually. ‘Morgan never said anything about them getting their kit off that night – in fact, he said quite explicitly that they didn’t.’

‘So,’ begins Gis, ‘either the boy saw the tattoo some other time –’

‘And recently,’ says Somer quickly. ‘He’s only halfway through that picture – it has to be within the last week.’

‘– or Caleb Morgan is lying about what happened during the alleged assault. After also conveniently failing to tell us about the incident with Freya on the doorstep –’

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

Ev turns to him. ‘But that was a lie by omission not commission. It’s not the same. He’d have every reason not to mention he’d pushed Freya, but why lie about the sexual assault? What’s in it for him?’

Gis looks blank. ‘Search me.’

‘It’s on the Welsh flag, though, isn’t it? The red dragon?’ says Asante. ‘Presumably that’s why Morgan got the tattoo in the first place. Maybe Tobin picked it up from that. Maybe it’s nothing to do with the tattoo.’

Quinn considers. ‘Well, I guess it’s possible, but the only time I ever see Welsh flags is rugby or football, and this kid doesn’t seem to be interested in sport at all.’

‘And Wales weren’t in the World Cup either,’ adds Baxter, team footie wonk.

‘So he wouldn’t even have seen the flag on TV,’ finishes Quinn. ‘Not lately, anyway.’

Baxter clears his throat. ‘Maybe we’re all overthinking this – what’s wrong with the bleeding obvious? Fisher and Morgan were having an affair – they were going at it in the kitchen that night and the kid caught them doing it.’

Gis looks round at him. ‘But if that’s the case, why didn’t Fisher just come out and tell us that right from the start? Why let things get so out of hand?’

‘Perhaps she was scared of losing her job,’ says Ev. ‘If she admitted having an affair with a student she’d probably be sacked.’

‘She’ll be sacked pretty damn fast if she’s convicted of assault,’ says Quinn darkly. ‘Those stilettos of hers won’t touch the bloody ground.’

‘Yeah,’ says Ev quickly, ‘but that’s just it. If she’s convicted – not if she’s just accused. Perhaps she decided her best bet was to keep on saying she can’t remember and banking on there not being enough evidence for the CPS to pursue the case.’

‘OK,’ says Gis, ‘so being devil’s advocate – why did Morgan make the allegation in the first place if they’ve been banging on the quiet this whole time?’

Ev shrugs. ‘Who knows why people do anything? Could be a power play, revenge –’

‘Or to get him off the hook with Freya,’ says Asante. ‘We know how jealous she was – I can see her losing it big time if she discovered Morgan really was having an affair.’

‘So – what?’ says Somer. ‘Freya finds out something happened between Morgan and Fisher that night, and Morgan tries to dodge the bullet by claiming she assaulted him?’

‘Lipstick on his collar,’ says Baxter, ‘told a tale to Hughes?’

‘It was the scratches,’ says Ev quietly. ‘She told me as much.’

Quinn gives her a dry look. ‘Yeah, well, you don’t get those playing bloody Scrabble, now do you?’

Baxter nods. ‘And Morgan wouldn’t be the first person to allege sexual assault to get themselves off the hook with their partner.’

The implication hangs in the air: it might well be one of the oldest tricks in the book, but the people who play it are almost always women. Not tough, athletic young men.

‘There was one thing,’ says Asante slowly. ‘At the end of the interview, Fisher’s lawyer said the kid’s been having nightmares. Perhaps the dragon thing is connected with that?’

He looks round but they’re not joining the dots – not yet.

‘What I mean,’ he continues, ‘is that if Fisher really did have sex with Morgan that night and the kid saw them, maybe that explains why he’s so disturbed? Sex probably looks pretty scary if you don’t know what’s going on and you’re only eight.’

Ev is nodding again. ‘I buy that. Especially a kid like him. From what I’ve heard he sounds pretty fragile.’

Gis takes a deep breath. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t look like we have much choice. We need to ask Marina Fisher if she’ll let us question her son.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

12 July 2018

15.55

The lunch they brought me is congealing on its plastic tray. Hardly surprising, given it’s been there over an hour. The lad who brought it didn’t have the courage to look me in the eye, just dumped it and did one. I might as well have ‘pariah’ chalked on the door. So when the keys clatter in the lock again I wasn’t exactly expecting a social call. I hadn’t even remembered Gis was back in the office. It’s a measure of how fast I’ve fallen that I don’t find the contrast between me and his post-holiday self humiliating. Though he clearly does. He hesitates in the doorway, then comes in and pulls the door to behind him.

‘All right?’

Hard to see how I could be any less ‘all right’, but what else is the poor bastard going to say?

He shrugs. ‘Just wanted to see how you’re doing.’ He looks round. ‘I don’t think I’ve even been to this station before.’

‘I’m surprised they let you in.’

He gives a dry smile. ‘Turns out the custody sergeant is an old mate from Training College.’

I shake my head. ‘All the same. You shouldn’t be here. It really isn’t a good idea.’

He glances at me and then away again, takes a deep breath. ‘Just in case you’re wondering – me and the team – none of us think that you – well, you know –’

They don’t think I raped and killed an innocent woman and threw her body in front of a train. Well, I guess it’s something.

I lean back against the clammy wall. ‘Thanks, Gis.’

‘So what have they got?’

I shake my head. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know.’

‘If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t ask.’

I look at him. Is it fair to drag him into this? He has a family, a career. Just because I seem to be throwing mine away, can I really ask him to risk doing the same? But there’s another voice in my head – a louder voice – which is telling me he could be my only chance of getting out of this. I need help. Not from Penny McHugh, however sharp she is, but from someone who knows how police investigations work. Someone on the inside.

‘Look,’ he says now, sensing I’m misgiving. ‘I wouldn’t be a DS at all if it wasn’t for you. I owe you. So if I can help, just let me do it, OK?’

‘I don’t want to land you in the shit.’

‘That’s down to me. If there’s shit, I’ll deal with it. And if I find something, well –’

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if you were drowning, it’s Gis you’d want on the end of the rope. And right now, the water is over my head.

I take a deep breath. ‘I think I’m being framed. No, I know I’m being framed.’

He frowns. He won’t want to hear that, any more than Penny did.

‘How’s that then?’

‘The DNA evidence – it must have been faked. Yes, I was in the flat – I’ve said that right from the start – but I never had sex with her. I never even touched her.’

Gis’s frown deepens. It’s not just that forensics don’t lie; he thinks I’m asking him to believe the entire CSI team are lying too.

‘But you and Challow are old mates, aren’t you? Why on earth –?’

‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘I don’t think he has anything to do with it – I don’t think any of them do. They just processed the evidence they were given. But that’s the point – they were given it. Someone staged that scene.’

Someone put my hair there. I don’t know how, but I know why.

The hair – it’s a message.

Because when Alex testified in court that she never planted those strands of hair in Gavin Parrie’s lock-up, I knew it was a lie. I’d known for months. Not right at the start – not until it was far too late. But I knew. And I said nothing. I didn’t stop her, because it was the only way to stop him. He was guilty and we had nothing else. But it was still a lie. And now Gavin Parrie is making me pay.

Gis is staring at me and I drag myself back. ‘They’re saying I tried to make it look like suicide so the police wouldn’t go looking for DNA.’

Gis makes a face; he knows that makes sense. As far as it goes.

‘But then I fucked up by not hanging around long enough to realize the engineering team were there and would stop the train.’

‘OK, so –’

‘But he’d have wanted someone to stop the train, wouldn’t he? He put that DNA on her body and he needed them to find it, so they’d make the connection – so they’d come after me.’

He frowns again; he’s not following me. ‘Hang on a mo. He? Who are we talking about here?’

‘Gavin Parrie.’

His eyes widen. ‘Parrie? You think Parrie’s behind this?’

I hold his gaze. ‘Who else could it be?’

‘But he must be tagged –’

I nod. ‘He is. But all the same.’

He hesitates, then nods.

‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘Find that engineer – the one who called it in. I need to know if he saw anyone else on the bridge just before it happened. Because if it was Parrie, he couldn’t just throw her over the side and flee the scene. He had to wait – wait until those engineers were close enough that they would definitely see the body fall and have enough time to stop the train.’

Gis jots down a few lines, then he closes his notebook and looks up.

‘OK, boss. I’ll see what I can do.’

* * *

Marina Fisher pauses at the French doors. Her son is on his hands and knees looking at a stag beetle edging carefully across the flagstones.

‘Tobin, darling, I need to talk to you.’

But he doesn’t seem to have heard her; he’s completely absorbed, completely focused.

The beetle lifts first one leg, then another; its mandibles prod the air as if feeling the way.

‘Tobin?’

She steps closer. ‘Tobin, I’m talking to you.’

Still nothing.

‘Leave that alone, sweetheart,’ she says, in the sort of patient tone that has a very limited shelf life. ‘I need to talk to you for a minute.’

Again, nothing. She steps out into the blinding sunlight, reaches down for her son’s hand and pulls him to his feet. The beetle must sense a change in the air current, because it scuttles away now and disappears behind one of the tall terracotta urns.

‘I was looking at him!’ wails Tobin. ‘And now you’ve made him run away!’

‘I’m sorry, darling, but this is important. Mummy needs to talk to you.’

He pouts and refuses to look at her as she leads him back inside and lifts him on to a kitchen chair. He starts swinging his feet, banging his shoes against the chair legs.

‘Tobin, darling, Mummy just had a phone call from her friend Niamh. You remember Niamh, don’t you?’

He doesn’t answer.

‘Well, she’s had a phone call from the policemen who came to the house, and they’d like to ask you some questions.’

He looks up, suspicious but intrigued. ‘What ’bout?’

She flushes slightly. ‘About the last time Caleb was here. Do you remember that night?’

He looks down, starts kicking the chair again. It’s getting on her nerves.

‘Well, Niamh says it might help Mummy if you could talk to them. It won’t be scary or anything. No one will hurt you, they’ll just ask you questions. And Mummy will be in the next room.’

Bang bang bang

She reaches out and grasps one of his legs, holding it firmly. ‘Don’t do that, darling.’

He’s still kicking the other leg. And he’s still not looking at her. She reaches to his forehead and pushes back the curls. His skin is hot to her touch; he’s been out in the sun too long.

‘So can you help Mummy, Tobin? Can you be my special, helpful, clever boy?’

The kicking stops. He looks up, almost shyly. ‘Is it a game, Mummy, like last time? I liked that game.’

* * *

It’s gone six when Erica Somer gets home. She pushes open the main door and climbs listlessly up to her own flat; she can’t remember the last time she felt so damn tired. As she rounds the corner from the stairs she can see a bouquet propped against her front door. White roses, a dozen or more, dotted with stems of blue agapanthus. She feels tears coming into her eyes. Giles knows how much she loves those.

She unlocks the door and shoulders it open, drops her bags in the hall and takes the flowers through to the kitchen.

But she doesn’t run the tap or look for a vase. What she reaches for is the laptop on the counter.

* * *

Ev doesn’t get home to flowers. The only thing waiting at her flat is a vocal and rather disgruntled cat with some issues about the quality of service in this establishment. Ev feeds him, then sticks the kettle on. She’s trying to ignore the light winking at her from the landline: there’s only one person who’d phone her on that.

‘Miss Everett? It’s Elaine Baylis at Meadowhall. Nothing for you to worry about – your father’s perfectly fine. But I do need to talk to you. Perhaps you could call me first thing in the morning?’

Gislingham is still in the office – in fact, the only one still in the office. His wife has already phoned twice. Once, to remind him that he promised to be home in time to read Billy a story. And the second time, an hour later and a little more waspish, to say she’s put his salad in the fridge. She didn’t need to call to say that – she’ll be in, and still up, when he gets home. It’s just her way of putting a marker down. She’ll cut him some slack for a while, especially after the holiday, but there are limits and they are not elastic.

What he can’t tell her, even if he wanted to, is that he isn’t even working. He’s been faking it pretty well, for a man famously dreadful at lying, but what he’s really been doing all this time is waiting for the last member of Gallagher’s team to piss off home.

Simon Farrow clearly doesn’t have a wife – or a life – since it’s gone eight when he finally gets up and pulls his jacket off the back of his chair. Gis leaves it another twenty minutes, the ‘Oh shit, I forgot something’ moment being the most dangerous part of this whole enterprise. He’s made his decision: it’s the right thing and he’s doing it, but he can’t afford to get fired in the process; he only has to imagine Janet’s face to start coming out in hives. The twenty minutes crawl by, then he gets up and wanders, with deliberate nonchalance, into the Major Crimes office.

They operate a clear-desk policy in this place. At least, in theory. But people get lazy, they make assumptions. What’s there to worry about, after all, when you can’t even get on to this floor without a Thames Valley key card?

Farrow’s turned his computer off, but Gis doesn’t care – that’s not what he’s after. He takes one more quick look round, then reaches for what he came for.

* * *

They interview Tobin the following morning at the Vulnerable Witness Suite in Kidlington. The room they use for the victims of child abuse. Pale-blue walls, dark-blue carpet; toys, cushions, a playpen; the box of special dolls they use to get kids to talk about body parts and what people in their own family have been doing to them. It makes Ev shudder just looking at it. She’s in the adjoining room with the rest of the team, watching the video screen.

Tobin Fisher is huddled on the sofa as far from the door as he can get. His knees are drawn up to his chest and he’s looking out at the specially trained female officer from under his fringe. The officer has been chatting away for about fifteen minutes now. Ev has come across her before, and always been impressed. She looks caring and comfortable, but she’s not so gushing that the kids get wary and clam up. Though Tobin Fisher may well be her toughest challenge yet. She’s talked Toy Story and Fortnite and what subjects he likes best at school, but most of the time she’s been talking at him, not with. Even when he does answer, he thinks so hard first that you wonder if he’s just going to stay silent. As if he’s looking for the trap in even the most innocuous question – as if he’s been warned (and Ev, for one, wouldn’t put it past his mother) that everywhere here there be dragons. Speaking of which –

‘Your drawings are really good, Tobin,’ says the officer, opening the colouring book on her lap and turning the pages. ‘I specially like the dragon.’

He blinks, shifts a little.

‘You must have seen pictures of dragons before, to be able to colour them so well.’

He shrugs and says something half mumbled about The Hobbit.

She turns the book round and shows him the page.

‘The other lady you spoke to – Erica – she said you’ve been doing this in the last few days, is that right?’

A slow nod.

‘The red is fantastic. Really scary. Why did you choose that colour?’

No response.

‘Have you seen one like it before somewhere?’

Another nod this time. But he’s still not looking at her.

‘When was that, Tobin?’ she asks softly.

‘Caleb has one. On his back.’

‘I see. Do you remember when you saw it?’

The boy puts his forehead against his knees. His hair falls forward and she has to edge closer to hear.

‘It was in the kitchen.’

‘The other night? When he was babysitting?’

He nods. ‘I came down to get a drink.’

‘I see. And what did you see – in the kitchen?’

There’s no answer. She reaches a tentative hand but he shakes her away.

In the room next door, they’re holding their breath. It’s 50/50 whether she decides she can’t push him any further, even though he’s on the brink –

When he does speak it’s barely more than a whisper, and they can see, even on the video screen, that he’s started to cry.

‘I don’t like Caleb any more. He hurt my mummy. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him with a big sword like George and the dragon.’

* * *

‘So what’ve you got?’

Dave King is hovering behind Farrow, staring over his shoulder at the screen. He’s shifting from one foot to the other, fizzy with nervous energy.

Farrow glances back. ‘We’ve verified what time DI Fawley left the Headington gym from the cameras in their car park. It was 8.43. And he was definitely wearing a white T-shirt and dark shorts, just like the witness in Shrivenham Close saw.’

‘Yeah,’ says King, ‘but he’s admitting he went over there, so that’s no sodding use. His brief’ll crap all over that. What else?’

‘We’ve also checked out the route from the gym to Smith’s house, but it’s all residential – no ANPR, no CCTV, nothing.’

‘For fuck’s sake –’ begins King.

‘DC Jenkins also went up and drove it, and it took twelve minutes, which means the timings Fawley gave us tally. So that’s something.’

‘No it fucking isn’t,’ says King. ‘All that is is three steps forward, two steps back.’

‘I’m also checking on ANPR for the Clelands’ Honda –’

King straightens up. ‘I thought I told you to drop that shit.’

Farrow flushes. ‘But surely we still need to eliminate him –’

‘No,’ says King, his own colour rising now, ‘we don’t. There is no forensic evidence whatsoever linking that tosser to this crime, and there’s a whole truckload putting Fawley right in the middle of it.’ He stares at Farrow. ‘If you’re having problems coming to terms with that, I’d be happy to look into a transfer –’

‘No,’ says Farrow quickly. ‘No. No need for that, boss. I’m onside. Totally onside.’

* * *

‘And where were they – your mummy and Caleb – when he was hurting her?’

The little boy sits up. He sniffs and wipes his hand across his eyes. It’s hard to know what’s suddenly changed, but something has.

‘By the sink. Mummy was at the sink and Caleb was behind her, pushing her. She looked funny.’

‘Really? What sort of funny?’

He shrugs. ‘I dunno. Floppy. Like she was sleepy.’

‘And Caleb had his shirt completely off?’

He stares at her, then shakes his head.

‘So it had just slipped down? That’s how you saw the tattoo?’

He nods.

‘What about your mummy? Did she have her clothes on?’

He looks away. ‘Her dress was pulled up. Like when she goes to the toilet.’

‘Did your mummy see you, Tobin?’ asks the officer gently. ‘Did either she or Caleb know you were there?’

* * *

‘Jesus,’ says Quinn, staring at the screen. ‘As if this wasn’t complicated enough already.’

Ev looks dismayed. ‘I can’t see how an eight-year-old could come up with a story like that unless he’d really seen it.’

‘Yeah, OK,’ says Baxter, ‘so they had sex. But how do we know it wasn’t just consensual –’

‘Seriously?’ says Somer. ‘How clear does it have to be?’ She looks pale – so pale Ev is surprised she bothered coming in today at all.

Gis looks round at the rest of the team. ‘Somer’s right. Looks like a crime was committed that night. But the victim wasn’t Morgan. It was Fisher.’

* * *

‘They didn’t see me,’ says the little boy sulkily. ‘I ran away.’

‘Back up to your room?’

He nods.

‘And that’s on the top floor, isn’t it?’

Another nod.

The officer checks something in her file. ‘But Mummy’s room is somewhere else, I think. On the floor below?’

No response this time.

‘So you probably didn’t hear her go to bed, then?’

He looks away and mumbles something. She asks him gently to say it again and eventually he does.

‘I was under my bed.’

‘What were you doing there, Tobin?’

He looks down; his lip is trembling. ‘I was hiding.’

* * *

‘But if Morgan raped her, why isn’t she saying so?’ says Quinn. ‘Why doesn’t she accuse him? In fact, why didn’t she do that right from the start?’

‘Because she can’t remember,’ says Ev quietly. ‘Because Morgan slipped her something.’

Asante nods. ‘Classic date-rape MO: she’s a bit tipsy already, he makes sure he pours the drinks. And sparkling wine is the predator’s best friend. The bubbles disguise the drug.’

‘The lab didn’t find anything –’ begins Baxter.

‘They wouldn’t,’ says Asante. ‘If it was GHB, it would have metabolized too quickly to register, even in a full tox screen. That’s why those bastards choose it in the first place.’

There’s a silence.

‘Might be worth noting,’ says Quinn eventually, ‘that Morgan made sure to rinse those champagne glasses afterwards. Either he had something to hide or he’s going to make someone a lovely wife one of these days.’

Somer shoots him a fierce look, but he just ignores her.

Baxter turns towards Everett. ‘You’ve done the sexual offences training, Ev. Wouldn’t Fisher have realized the following morning if she’d been raped?’

Ev takes a deep breath. ‘Not necessarily – a lot of victims don’t. Not if the rapist uses a condom and is careful not to leave any marks. And if nothing looks wrong the following morning.’

‘Like Fisher’s dress being hung up and her shoes tidied away,’ says Asante grimly.

‘Right. Exactly.’

‘Tobin was frightened, though,’ says Somer quietly. ‘Frightened enough to hide.’

Baxter folds his arms. ‘But even if you’re right, where does that leave us? Are we seriously planning to rock up to the CPS and say, “Actually, guys, we’ve changed our minds. We now think he might have raped her but all we have to go on is the word of a slightly weird eight-year-old kid backed up by absolutely no hard evidence at all”? Hands up anyone who thinks they’re going to buy that.’

No one moves.

He shrugs. ‘There you are then. They’d laugh us out of the bloody building.’

Asante frowns. ‘It’s worse than that. Not only do we have no evidence that he raped her, what we do have points in exactly the opposite direction: her assaulting him.’

‘Fisher had already showered,’ begins Ev, ‘so that was always going to cause a problem with the forensics –’

‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about Morgan. He had her DNA in his groin area, but nothing on his penis. Even if he used a condom there’d be more there than we found.’

‘Right,’ says Quinn. ‘If he really did rape her, he’d have had her all over him.’

‘Yeah, OK,’ says Ev, ‘but it wouldn’t have been beyond the wit of bloke to find a flannel, now would it? Even rugby players wash.’

Quinn looks sceptical. ‘While keeping her DNA intact on his hands? That’s not so easy.’

Ev shrugs. ‘Rubber gloves?’

But Quinn’s still not convinced. ‘So he rapes her, goes to a hell of a lot of trouble to make sure she won’t remember it, but then goes out of his way to draw attention to himself – and cause himself no end of shit – by reporting her for attempted assault? What’s all that about?’

‘I think you’re right,’ says Gislingham. ‘There’s something else going on here – something we’re not seeing.’

Somer looks up, a frown darkening her face. ‘Maybe we just haven’t been asking the right questions.’

‘OK,’ says Gis slowly, ‘well, now’s our chance. Marina Fisher’s in the room down the hall.’

* * *

Interview with Marina Fisher, conducted at Kidlington Witness Suite, Oxford

13 July 2018, 12.15 p.m.

In attendance, DS C. Gislingham, DC V. Everett, Ms N. Kennedy (solicitor)

CG: Interview commenced at 12.15, Friday 13th July. This is the third interview in connection with the sexual assault allegations made by Caleb Morgan. I should remind you that you are still under caution. For the purposes of the recording, Professor Fisher’s son, Tobin, has just been interviewed by a specialist Thames Valley officer. During this interview, Tobin was asked about the night of July 6th. He says he saw you in the kitchen, Professor Fisher. With Caleb Morgan.

MF: What do you mean he ‘saw’ us?

CG: The description is consistent with the two of you having sex.

MF: But I told you –

CG: That you couldn’t remember, I know. Well, there might be a reason for that. The way Tobin described it, Morgan may have given you some sort of date-rape drug. That would account for your lack of recall.

MF: [gasps and turns away]

CG: Tobin also said he thought Morgan was hurting you. Though that may just have been down to him not understanding what he was seeing –

MF: [begins to sob]

But I’d have known – the following morning, I’d have known –

NK: [quietly, to her client]

Not necessarily. Not if he used protection.

CG: So on that basis –

NK: [interrupting]

Can’t you just give her a moment, for heaven’s sake?

[silence]

VE: Professor Fisher, we do understand how hard this must be, but what Tobin said – it could change everything.

MF: [struggling for composure]

OK.

[pause]

OK.

NK: Are you sure? You don’t have to do this right now –

MF: No – I want to. I want to get this over with and take my son home.

NK: [turning to the officers]

OK, so what exactly did Tobin say?

VE: He said Professor Fisher looked ‘floppy’ and ‘sleepy’. That’s why we believe she could have been administered with some sort of date-rape drug, possibly in the champagne.

[to Fisher]

Do you remember if you were watching when Mr Morgan poured it?

MF: No, he had his back to me. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.

CG: I see. We’ve already checked the bottle and glasses, but there was no trace of such a substance in either. Nor was anything detected in your toxicology screen, which, as you no doubt realize, is going to make it almost impossible to prove.

NK: Why am I not surprised –

CG: Having heard what your son said, is there anything else you can recall about that night? Perhaps something that may not have seemed relevant before?

MF: No. I’m sorry. I’ve already told you everything I can remember.

VE: If Morgan hadn’t used such a substance before he might not have realized how long it would take to take effect, especially as you’d had a heavy meal. That could account for the scratches – he might have started to assault you before you were fully sedated, and you attempted to defend yourself. Are you sure you don’t remember anything like that?

MF: [hangs her head]

No.

CG: If you were given such a drug, it would of course throw a very different light on the subsequent accusation made against you. Do you know why Mr Morgan would have made such an allegation, that being the case?

NK: Isn’t it obvious? He wanted to cover up his own criminal behaviour by turning the tables on my client.

CG: That’s one explanation. But there may be others. Revenge, perhaps? Is there any motive at all that you can think of?

MF: [despairing]

No, absolutely nothing. I always thought we got on very well. I’ve gone out of my way to support him –

NK: Are you proposing to charge Morgan?

CG: Clearly we have yet to interview him about this –

NK: You were quick enough to arrest Marina. No wonder Tobin’s been having nightmares – he saw his mother being raped –

* * *

‘Blimey, he doesn’t do things by halves, does he? Must be nice having parents who can afford to call in a whole platoon.’

Gislingham and Quinn are back at St Aldate’s, watching as Caleb Morgan and his lawyers are shown into Interview One. Meredith Melia is in a mint-green trouser suit and Patrick Dunn in his trademark white open-necked shirt; he must buy them by the hundredweight. They’ve brought a bag-carrier too, an earnest-looking young woman in glasses, laden with two pilot cases and a stack of files.

‘They’re probably full of bricks, just to intimidate us,’ says Quinn, nodding towards the bags.

Gislingham gives a grim smile. ‘Well, it’s working.’ He draws himself up a little, then turns to Quinn. ‘Find Ev, would you? Let’s rustle up a little posse of our own.’

Quinn grins. ‘I’ll see if I can find you a nice big sheriff badge too.’

* * *

Unlike his lawyers, Caleb Morgan hasn’t bothered dressing for the occasion. In fact, Ev wouldn’t be at all surprised if they’d told him exactly what to wear: the slightly grubby T-shirt and cargo shorts might as well be a big flashing sign saying, ‘Our client is completely relaxed about this whole process.’

By the time everyone has a seat and a glass of water, the room is already fugging up, and Ev’s starting to envy that T-shirt. She can feel the sweat prickling under her arms.

Gislingham looks round the table and it’s not until the room is absolutely silent that he begins to speak.

‘Caleb Owen Morgan, I am arresting you on suspicion of sexual assault on 6th July 2018. 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.’

Morgan is gaping. ‘What the fuck –’

‘Let us handle this, Caleb,’ says Melia, turning to Gislingham. ‘What the hell’s going on? Our client is the victim here – oh, but I forgot, men can’t possibly be victims, can they. This is unbelievable –’

‘What I would like to know,’ says Dunn, cutting across her, ‘is what evidence you have for this absurd allegation.’

Gislingham matches him stare for stare. ‘Contrary to what we previously believed, there was, in fact, a witness to what happened that night.’

Morgan looks incredulous. ‘What?’

Meredith Melia looks up. ‘A witness?’

Gislingham relishes the pause. ‘Tobin Fisher.’

Morgan shakes his head. ‘No. No way. He was asleep. I checked on him only a few minutes before Marina got back.’

‘That’s as may be, but he told us he came down to get a drink.’

Morgan sits back. ‘Well, I never saw him.’

‘No. That’s what he said too.’

A frown flickers across Morgan’s brows. ‘So what did he say?’

‘He said he saw you having sex with his mother.’

The room detonates with silence.

‘Never happened,’ says Morgan tersely. ‘Never. Bloody. Happened.’

‘Well, his description was pretty damn detailed,’ observes Quinn.

‘So what?’

Quinn raises an eyebrow. ‘So how does an eight-year-old describe the mechanics of sex unless he’s actually seen it? He said you took her from behind, by the way, is that how you like it?’

Morgan shoots him a savage look, then turns to Gislingham. ‘Who knows how many lovers Marina’s had? He could have seen her with any one of them.’

Dunn sits forward. ‘My client makes an extremely valid point, officer. And for the record, I find your colleague’s last comment exceptionally offensive.’

‘Likewise,’ says Melia. ‘And in any case, the child is only eight. I doubt anything he says can be considered reliable.’

‘True,’ says Gislingham, ‘he is very young. But we do have specially trained officers with extensive experience in questioning children of his age. Should it come to it, I’m sure the CPS would consider it fully admissible. So, to confirm, Mr Morgan’s position –’

Quinn stifles a snort. Melia glares at him.

‘Mr Morgan’s position is that no such sex act took place between him and Professor Fisher?’

‘No,’ says Morgan. ‘It did not.’

‘According to Tobin, you were hurting his mother –’

Morgan starts shaking his head.

‘– not only that, he said she looked “floppy” and “sleepy”. A description that leads us to believe that some sort of date-rape drug may have been involved.’

Morgan’s been struggling to keep his anger down, but this is too much. ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me – I’ve never heard so much bullshit in my whole fucking life –’

‘Caleb,’ begins Melia but he shakes her hand off, his eyes still on Gislingham.

‘You’re actually believing that shit?’

Gislingham shrugs. ‘Why would he make it up?’

Morgan leans forward, elbows on the table. ‘He’s just a kid. A pretty vulnerable kid too, frankly. I’m not the only one who thought he might have some sort of a problem. So if you think you can rely on a single word he’s saying, I’ll have some of whatever you’re smoking.’

Quinn and Gislingham exchange a glance. Gislingham turns a page in the file.

‘There was also the question of the tattoo.’

Morgan frowns. ‘The tattoo?’

‘The one on your shoulder. The red dragon?’

‘What about it? You knew about that already.’

‘Tobin knows about it too,’ says Quinn. ‘In fact, he’s been doing a version of it in his colouring book.’

Morgan looks baffled. ‘I really don’t see –’

‘I suspect your lawyers do,’ says Gis drily, glancing across at them.

‘Caleb,’ says Melia, turning to him, ‘can you think of any occasion when Tobin might have seen that tattoo?’

‘Oh, right, OK.’ He looks away, pulls a hand through his hair. ‘Well, yeah, there was definitely one time – I was babysitting and Tobin threw one of his wobblers and spilt his juice all down me. I’m pretty sure I took my T-shirt off and ran it under the tap. I guess he must have seen it that way.’

‘There you are,’ says Melia quickly, with a gesture at Gislingham. ‘Happy now?’

‘And in any case,’ says Morgan, ‘if I’d raped Marina there’d have been evidence. DNA – all of that –’

‘Not necessarily,’ says Gis, ‘as I’m sure your lawyers are aware –’

But Melia hasn’t finished. ‘And as for Tobin Fisher – I say again, children that age are extremely suggestible. No court will ever take that so-called “evidence” seriously.’

‘I rather think that’s for a jury to decide,’ says Gislingham evenly. ‘Should it come to that.’

* * *

‘So what do you think?’ says Quinn, glancing at Gis as he presses the button on the coffee machine. Morgan is on his way downstairs to be processed.

Gis frowns. ‘Interesting what he said about Tobin.’ There’s a pause, then, ‘And was it just me or did he react a bit weirdly when we asked him about the tattoo?’

Quinn kicks the machine and it starts to gurgle. ‘Nope. It wasn’t just you.’

Gis is looking thoughtful now. ‘Get me a copy of that interview footage. I’m going to talk to Bryan Gow.’

* * *

‘So what did you want to talk to me about?’

Penelope McHugh takes a seat and opens her file, keeping her tone brisk. Her client seems a little more measured today, a little more in control. The fanaticism in his eyes has gone, and he’s agreed to come upstairs to a meeting room. The tiny room is as stifling as the cell, but at least all it smells of is far too much plug-in air freshener. Every room McHugh finds herself in seems to have one of those bloody things. It’s an occupational hazard in criminal defence.

‘Emma Smith’s clothes,’ he says quickly. ‘What she was wearing when she was found.’

McHugh picks up her pen. ‘OK.’

‘When I left, she was wearing some sort of leggings. Blue. And a T-shirt.’

‘What colour?’

He thinks. ‘Pale yellow? With some sort of logo on the front? To be honest, I really wasn’t looking. Half the time I couldn’t even tell you what my wife –’

He stops. Checks himself. Takes a breath.

McHugh pretends not to notice. She flicks back through the file. ‘According to this, the victim was wearing a white cotton sundress when she was found. You’re sure that couldn’t have been what you saw?’

He’s shaking his head. ‘No. Absolutely not.’

‘So she must have changed her clothes after you left and before the killer arrived – that’s your position?’ She sits back. ‘Because I have to tell you, a jury’s going to have trouble understanding why anyone would bother getting changed at that time of night –’

He leans towards her, his eyes intent. ‘But that’s exactly it – she didn’t. He did. Gavin Parrie. He assaulted her and killed her, and then he changed her clothes. He had to make absolutely sure the only DNA they’d find was mine.’

So we’re back to that, she thinks, her heart sinking. The Roadside Rapist’s Revenge.

But her client doesn’t appear to notice the sudden chill in the air.

‘You do know, don’t you,’ she begins slowly, ‘that this case would be a whole lot easier to defend if you had had sex with her.’ He looks up and she continues quickly. ‘I mean, we’d still have trouble explaining the massive coincidence of her killer arriving on exactly the same night, but at least the forensics –’

‘It didn’t happen,’ he says quietly, holding her gaze. ‘I love my wife.’

And he does. She’s never seen emotion expressed so painfully in a man’s face. He might want to lie, but he won’t. He can’t.

‘OK,’ she says, picking up her pen, brisker now. ‘Anything else?’

He swallows. ‘Can you see if you can get access to the PM?’

She starts shaking her head.

‘I know – I know – it’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.’

‘OK,’ she says, after a moment. ‘I can speak to Gallagher. What do you want to know?’

He sits forward a little. ‘See if there was anything missing on the body – jewellery, earrings – Parrie has a thing about earrings. And if any of Smith’s hair had been cut or pulled out.’

She frowns. ‘No one’s mentioned anything like that –’

‘It’ll be there,’ he says doggedly. ‘It has to be. Parrie won’t have been able to stop himself.’

She takes a deep breath. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in all these years, it’s that juries hate conspiracy theories. Lead balloons are buoyancy aids by comparison. You must know that.’

He gives her a despairing look. Perhaps so, but it’s all he has.

‘OK,’ she says, suppressing a sigh. ‘Talk me through how it would have worked – as a police officer.’

His eyes flicker with something like hope, and she realizes suddenly that he must have thought she didn’t believe him. All this time, he’s been assuming that even his own lawyer thought he was lying.

‘Parrie knows all about DNA,’ he says. ‘He was always incredibly careful never to leave biological trace. And he had way more time to clear up with Smith than he did with any of the previous victims. He didn’t dump her body at Walton Well until nearly 1.30 – he could have been in that flat for more than three hours. Plenty long enough to clean up the scene, wash the body, change her clothes.’ He shrugs. ‘That’s what I’d have done, if –’

If you’d killed her.

The words hang in the air like nerve agent, paralysing her brain.

She pulls herself together. ‘What about the electronic tag – how did he get round that? You’re suggesting he managed to disable it somehow?’

‘Well, did he?’ he says quickly. ‘Those things do malfunction. Not often, but it does happen. Have you checked?’

‘No, I haven’t. I will, of course, look into it. But it’s a risk – what if all it does is confirm he was miles away at the time and couldn’t possibly have done it? We could just be gifting him a gold-plated alibi.’

‘Yes,’ he says quietly. ‘I do know that.’

‘And what about the forensics?’ she says. ‘I get it that he’d have made sure not to leave his own DNA. What I don’t get is how he came by yours.’

He’s clearly had a lot of time to think about this. He sits forward, eager now. ‘The fact that they found my DNA on her body is the best proof we have that I didn’t kill her.’

She stares at him. ‘Sorry – what?’

He holds her gaze. ‘Everything I just said about Parrie also applies to me – only more so. I know about forensics, I know how murder scenes are processed. Why on earth would I have been so stupid as to leave my DNA all over that flat? All over her? I don’t know how he did it – I don’t know where he got it – but it was Gavin Parrie who put my DNA there.’

She leaves a pause, lets him sweat. And he is. There’s a sheen of perspiration beading his forehead.

‘That’s not quite true, though, is it, Adam? That the same reasoning that applies to Parrie also applies to you?’

He frowns, the zeal curdling in his face. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re saying that as an experienced police officer, you’d have cleaned up the scene, changed her clothes, washed the body, right? But you said yourself, all that takes time. And you’re right, if it was Gavin Parrie, he had plenty of it. But you didn’t, did you? You couldn’t stay there all night – you had to get home, see your wife, establish an alibi. You’d have had an hour in that flat at the most. Nowhere near long enough.’

He’s still frowning.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, gentler now. ‘I’m just being devil’s advocate. But I am worried that if we use that argument, all they’ll do is turn it against you. They’ll say you knew you couldn’t clean up properly in the time so you didn’t bother – you focused instead on finding a way of disposing of the body that would bypass the DNA altogether. Hence the freight train.’

He sighs, runs his hands through his hair.

‘DS King said as much in the last interview. It would make the death look like suicide and cause so much damage to the body there’d be practically nothing left to autopsy. The police probably wouldn’t even have bothered to search her flat, far less process it as a crime scene. In which case, it wouldn’t matter how much of your DNA you left behind, because no one was ever going to find it.’ She sits back. ‘You used everything you’ve learnt from decades of working homicide cases to commit as near as dammit a perfect murder. And without that gang of engineers, that’s exactly what it would’ve been. But like you said before, even professionals make mistakes. That was yours.’

His breath is ragged now. He’s struggling to stay composed. ‘So I can’t win – is that what you’re telling me? Whatever I say, I can’t win?’

‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m just trying to be realistic. But I will check with Inspector Gallagher – find out whether there were any clothes in the flat that look like the leggings and T-shirt you saw.’

‘Fat chance,’ he says grimly. ‘Parrie wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave them there.’

She nods. ‘I suspect you’re right, but we won’t know until we ask. And even if there’s nothing in the flat, the neighbour may remember what Emma had on when she came to the door that night. And failing that, there could be other ways to prove she owned clothes like that. Although it’ll mean tracking down either witnesses or photos. It’s not impossible, but we don’t have Thames Valley’s resources. Or their ability to buttonhole Joe Public at will.’

He makes a face and looks away. ‘The more I see of the view from this side of the tracks, the less I like it.’

‘On the other hand,’ she says, trying to sound more positive, ‘we can certainly make a very solid case for Gavin Parrie having a motive. And, if we’re lucky, there’ll be evidence out there somewhere that will either alibi you out or incriminate someone else.’

‘What about Cleland?’

‘Not as promising as he initially appeared, from what I hear. I believe they’ve yet to rule him out formally, but without forensic evidence on his clothes or in Smith’s flat, I can’t see King taking it any further.’

Fawley wouldn’t either, she can see that from his face.

She picks up her pen again. ‘But if there’s footage of his car at Walton Well, that situation could change. I need to chase up on whether they have CCTV on the bridge.’

He makes a rueful face. ‘I wouldn’t hold my breath. If I know Parrie, he’ll have checked out that location long before he used it.’

She frowns. ‘How, exactly?’

He shrugs. ‘Google Earth? Though I wouldn’t put it past him casing it out in person. After all, we know he’s worked out how to get round his tag, and we know he has transport – he must do, to get here from wherever he is, transport the body, get away. Worth checking what sort of vehicle he has access to, because there absolutely must be one.’

‘Presumably not a white van this time,’ she says drily. ‘That would be too easy.’

He shrugs. ‘Who knows. My wife thought she saw one near the house once or twice lately.’

‘Really? Do you have a reg number?’

He shakes his head dully. ‘Nope. If I did, I’d have checked out the bloody thing myself.’

* * *

‘Freya? It’s me.’

His voice is muffled, like he’s behind glass.

She grips the phone. ‘Jesus, Caleb – I’ve been trying to get through to you for hours. What’s happened – is there something wrong with your phone? This isn’t your number –’

‘I got a pay-as-you-go. The police took mine.’

Her eyes widen, and she sits down slowly. ‘The police? Why?’

She can hear noise in the background now, traffic – as if he’s out on the street.

‘They fucking arrested me, didn’t they. They’re saying Tobin saw me raping her – that I gave her GHB or some shit like that so she wouldn’t remember.’

‘Oh my God –’

‘Yeah, right – how fucked up is that?’

Her heart rate is brutal. ‘But, babe, this is really bad – they must be taking it seriously or they wouldn’t have arrested you –’

He laughs bitterly. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve been “Released Under Investigation” while they dig about for dirt.’

She swallows. ‘What did your lawyers say?’

‘That they won’t be able to prove it – that there’s no forensics and they’ll just be relying on Tobin’s word for it. And we all know what a lying little fucker he is.’

‘Yeah,’ she says slowly, ‘we do, don’t we.’

* * *

Telephone call with Lloyd Preston, Network Rail

13 July 2018, 5.15 p.m.

On the call, DS Chris Gislingham

CG: Hello? This is Thames Valley Police, am I speaking with Lloyd Preston?

LP: Yeah, that’s me. Thames Valley, did you say?

CG: Yes, sir – just a couple more routine questions about the incident at Walton Well –?

LP: I don’t know what else I can tell you. I already told that other police bloke everything I saw. Sparrow, was it?

CG: DC Farrow.

LP: Yeah, that’s the one. So are you his boss or what?

CG: Something like that. Like I said, it’s just routine.

LP: So what do you want to know?

CG: Do you remember seeing anyone on the bridge that night? Either before or after you saw the body fall?

LP: No. Like I said to the other bloke. That’s why I thought it was a suicide.

CG: What about a car, a van?

LP: You can’t see the road from the tracks.

CG: Then maybe you heard something? That time of night, when there’s no other noise, it must be much easier to hear a vehicle –

LP: I’m not sure –

CG: Take your time.

LP: Look, I can’t be sure, OK? There may have been.

CG: When exactly? Before or after you saw the body?

LP: Before. As soon as we saw the girl we were just focused on getting through to the control room A-SAP so that’s all we were thinking about. I wouldn’t have noticed a car then.

CG: How long before, do you think? A minute? Five minutes?

LP: More than that, but I couldn’t tell you exactly.

CG: So if the man driving that vehicle was the same one who threw the body on the track, he could have been there for some time before he did it? He could have been waiting for you to be in range?

LP: That’s a hell of a lot of ‘could ofs’.

CG: But it’s possible?

LP: Yeah, OK, I suppose it’s possible. Just don’t ask me to stand up in court and swear to it.

* * *

She could have made an official appointment, but McHugh reckons Ruth Gallagher might be more amenable if she’s caught off guard. She knows Gallagher has a young family and calculates (rightly) that she’s not going to have much time for presenteeism, especially not on a Friday night. So she loiters for a while on a bench with her Kindle and a grandstand view of the St Aldate’s entrance, and at just after six, she gets her reward. Gallagher emerges from the door into the evening sunshine and heads briskly to an old Volvo estate on the far side of the car park.

It’s not the car McHugh had bet on – her money was on the shiny hybrid SUV on the other side. She’d dismissed the Volvo as far too earnest and disorganized for a senior DI. It was the junk in the back that did it. Plastic boxes of old clothes, discarded toys, dog-eared books – there’s a whole squadron of middle-aged Oxford women driving round with crap like that in the back of their cars, but McHugh didn’t have Gallagher down for one of them. Just shows – you never can tell.

‘DI Gallagher?’ she says, slightly out of breath after the dash across the road.

The Inspector turns. She doesn’t look especially enthused at the sight of her.

‘Sorry to ambush you, but could I have a quick word?’

You can almost see Gallagher’s heart sink.

‘I’m not sure this is quite the place –’

‘I just had a couple of questions – just factual stuff. It won’t take long.’

Gallagher weighs her car keys in her hand. ‘I’m afraid I have to get back to my kids. My husband’s out tonight and I’m on the pizza rota.’

‘Oh,’ says McHugh brightly, ‘you live in Summertown, right? I’m in Kidlington. Why don’t I come with you as far as the shops and I can get my bus from there?’

And it’s true. McHugh does indeed live in Kidlington. She also has her own car parked in the Westgate multistorey. But Gallagher doesn’t need to know that.

The DI frowns and opens her mouth to say something, but it’s too late. McHugh is already reaching for the car door, smiling broadly. ‘Thanks so much. I really appreciate it.’

* * *

Somer is one of the last patients of the day. The only other people waiting were an elderly chap with trembling hands, bent double over his walking frame, and a harassed mother with two overactive toddlers long past their bedtime. After the shrieks and the tantrums and the tumbling plastic bricks, the silence of the consulting room is something of a relief. But not enough to quiet the anxiety slithering in her gut.

She finishes doing up her skirt and comes back out from behind the screen. Her doctor is at the desk, a page of notes open on her screen. Somer sits down, swallows.

‘I’m pregnant, aren’t I.’ It’s a statement, not a question. ‘I mean, I know the test was negative, but those High Street things, they’re not always accurate, are they –’

The doctor sits back and adjusts her glasses. ‘Have you been trying for a baby, Erica?’

‘No. I mean, I do want children eventually, but right now –’ She throws up her hands. ‘It’s complicated, that’s all.’

The doctor smiles. ‘These things usually are.’

Somer takes a deep breath. ‘Me and my partner – we haven’t been seeing each other that long and we haven’t even discussed having children. He has two already – teenage girls. I have no idea if he wants to start all over again. And, in any case, there’s my career – it would be terrible timing –’

She stops, realizing there’s a sob in the back of her throat.

The doctor is watching her. ‘You’re not pregnant.’

Somer stares at her. ‘But – are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘But what about the other symptoms – the nausea –?’

The doctor shifts a little in her seat. ‘There are other things that can cause that, but ovarian cysts are the usual culprit. And based on the internal examination I just did, I suspect that may well be the case here.’

She turns to her screen and starts tapping at her keyboard. ‘I’m going to book you in for an ultrasound at the JR so we can be sure.’

Somer’s struggling to keep up with her own feelings. She doesn’t even know if she’s relieved or regretful that there’s no child, and now –

‘I’m sorry – I wasn’t expecting this. I don’t know anything about ovarian cysts – are they serious? Should I be worried?’

The doctor is businesslike. ‘Most are nothing to be concerned about. Where there are complications, it’s usually because they cause an infection, which can sometimes lead to difficulty in conceiving at a later date. That’s why I asked whether you’ve been trying for a baby.’

‘But –’ Somer takes a breath, realizes her fingernails are digging into her palms. ‘You said “most” are nothing to worry about, so some of them are, right?’

‘Those are very rare –’

‘But even those, the rare ones – they’re benign? We’re not talking about –’

The doctor gives a quick professional smile. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Like I said, the vast majority are not serious. Let’s get that ultrasound done, shall we, and see where we go from there.’

* * *

Having been sandbagged into spending twenty minutes with McHugh in a confined space, Gallagher’s evidently going to make the lawyer work for her scraps. She certainly isn’t volunteering anything as they edge through the rush-hour traffic in Oxpens Road.

‘It was the CCTV I was going to ask about,’ says McHugh, turning to look out of the window as if the question isn’t really that important. There’s a queue outside the ice rink. She used to take her own kids there, but that was before they turned teenagers and skating wasn’t cool any more. It’d be cool now though, on a hot night like this. The air sparkling with ice, the swoop of the skates –

‘There isn’t any,’ says Gallagher, who clearly knows a thing or two about cool herself. ‘CCTV, I mean.’

It was a long shot at best; McHugh tries another tack.

‘Have you ascertained Gavin Parrie’s movements on the night of July the 9th?’

Gallagher looks across at her and raises her eyebrows, then turns her gaze back to the road. ‘I take it you do realize quite how preposterous that sounds?’

McHugh shrugs. ‘That’s as may be. I still need to ask.’

The van in front shifts suddenly and Gallagher puts the car in gear. ‘The answer is yes, we have. And no, he was nowhere near Oxford that night.’

‘How near is nowhere near?’

Gallagher frowns a little, though whether it’s the traffic that’s irritating her or her passenger, it’s hard to say.

‘Leamington Spa,’ she says after a moment. ‘He’s in a halfway house near there, and has been ever since he left Wandsworth. That information is, of course, confidential, but in the circumstances, it may help you to know.’

It may help put paid to this wild and implausible theory: the message is clear enough, even though her tone is studiously objective.

‘Does he have access to a vehicle?’

Gallagher shoots her a glance, Well, what do you think?

‘How is Adam?’ she asks after a moment, her voice still neutral, her eyes still fixed on the road.

‘Much like anyone in his situation, I imagine,’ says McHugh. ‘Stressed to the eyeballs. Angry. Worried about his wife. What do you expect?’

‘He’s always been a fine officer,’ says Gallagher, ‘and speaking personally, I like him very much –’

‘But?’ says McHugh, who’s registered that initial past tense.

Gallagher looks at her and then away. ‘But however hard we look – and believe me, we’ve tried – we cannot find a single piece of evidence to exonerate him. Or even cast a reasonable doubt –’

‘Not even this man Cleland? He had a motive.’

‘Possibly. But that’s all. There is absolutely nothing else linking him to the crime. No witnesses, no forensics, no proof he went anywhere near there.’ She glances across again. ‘I’m sorry. I want it to be Cleland as much as you do, but it’s a non-starter. Everything we have points to Adam, and you’ve given me nothing I can use to refute it. And as for this obsession of his about Gavin Parrie – it’s – it’s insane.’

McHugh’s about to answer, but Gallagher’s still talking. ‘I have to confess I’ve become increasingly concerned about him – the way he’s been reacting, it’s so out of character. My whole team has noticed.’

Is she asking me if Fawley’s losing it? thinks McHugh. Is that really where they’re going with this?

Gallagher sighs now. ‘And what with the baby, and coming so soon after losing Jake – even the strongest people can break under stress like that –’

She doesn’t finish the sentence but the inference is up there now in neon lights: Are you sure your client is of entirely sound mind? Could he, in fact, be so unstable, under such intolerable pressure, that he actually did this?

* * *

‘Giles? It’s me. Look, I’m really sorry but I can’t come down tomorrow after all. Something – something’s come up.’

He doesn’t reply straight away, but this is Giles: unlike most men, he thinks before he speaks.

‘Is everything OK?’ By which he really means ‘Are you OK?’ But he’s trying not to crowd her, not to intrude.

‘Yes, it’s just,’ she takes a breath, ‘work stuff, you know. This sexual assault case is a nightmare, and appraisals are coming up, and then there’s Fawley being arrested –’

She stops herself, but not quickly enough. She’s heard Fawley say it a hundred times – you can always tell a liar from the overkill. Three answers when one is plenty.

‘OK,’ he says, after a moment. She can hear the hurt in his voice. ‘I’m really sorry I won’t see you, but I understand.’

She nods, knowing it’s pointless because he can’t see her, but she can’t trust herself to speak.

‘Look – I’m not going to push it, but I think there’s something worrying you, and if there is, and I can help, you only have to ask. I hope you know that. I just want you to be happy, OK? That’s all.’

She puts the phone down and sits there in her empty flat. She’s never felt so utterly alone.

* * *

Sent:Fri 13/07/2018, 20.35 Importance: High From:Colin.Boddie@ouh.nhs.uk To:DIRuthGallagher@ThamesValley.police.uk

Subject: Case no 75983/02 Smith, E

In re the request from Penelope McHugh for information relating to the post-mortem, I can confirm that only one earring was retrieved from the body (a silver hoop), but as this was merely hooked in, with no rear fixing, the second one probably came off either during a struggle with her assailant or when the body was dumped. Likewise a very small amount of the victim’s hair does indeed seem to be missing at the rear of the scalp (see photo attached). But as you will see, the quantum is so small it is very unlikely to be significant and was, again, probably the result of a struggle.

For the avoidance of doubt, I am sceptical that either the earring or the missing hair form any deliberate part of the killer’s MO. That, combined with the absence of ligature marks on either the wrists or ankles, leads me to caution against any comparison with the Gavin Parrie case.

Should further evidence emerge which leads me to reconsider this view, I will, of course, inform you.

CRB

* * *

Telephone interview with Sgt Vince Hall, Warwickshire Police, Leamington Spa

14 July 2018, 8.15 a.m.

On the call, DI Ruth Gallagher

VH: Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you, but I’ve checked the records you were asking about, and I’ve spoken to the probation officer as well.

RG: Excellent – thank you.

VH: The tag logs show Gavin Parrie never breached his licence conditions at any time on the night you’re interested in. He was either at the hostel or at most a mile away from it, the entire night. There’s no way he could have been anywhere near Oxford.

RG: And we’re sure the tag is fully functional?

VH: Yup. Only got checked last month. Nothing wrong with it.

RG: Good. I’m glad we’ve been able to clear that up. And I take it he has no access to any sort of car?

VH: Sorry?

RG: No, I’m sorry I even had to ask. I’m just covering all the bases. Our suspect’s lawyer has a bee in her bonnet about it.

VH: Well, for the record, he doesn’t. And for what it’s worth, the PO says Parrie’s been a right little goody-two-shoes since he got out. Spends half his time with youth offender programmes, giving them dire warnings about the error of their ways.

RG: And she thinks it’s genuine – this transformation of his?

VH: She’s not some rookie straight out of training – she’s been on the job fifteen years. And he was a model prisoner too, Parrie. So yes, it’s always possible he could be faking it, but he’s kept it up a bloody long time if he is.

* * *

Everett’s Friday evening wasn’t exactly restful. Most of it was eaten up by a week’s worth of undone chores, and she ended up so ragged with exhaustion she slept through this morning’s alarm. She drives down the Banbury Road under a sultry grey-yellow sky, which does nothing for her headache, and the low-level throb of guilt about her father and that call she still hasn’t made to Elaine Baylis isn’t helping much either. She keeps telling herself she’s doing as much as anyone could expect; that her dad’s being well looked after, he’s eating and people are trying to involve him in group activities like whist and bingo, all of which he despises at the top of his voice whenever any of the staff are near enough to hear. His contempt ought to reassure her, it’s so completely in character, but there’s a vehemence to it now which leaves her uneasy.

The rest of the team are already at their desks when she gets in. Somer looks up briefly but doesn’t meet her eye, and is then so intent on looking busy she might as well hang up a sign saying ‘Leave me alone’. Ev unloads her phone and notebook from her bag, wondering how she should play it. She’s pretty sure Somer had an appointment last night with her doctor, but she never actually said so, and Ev’s attempts to WhatsApp her later got nothing more than one-word answers.

* * *

For an expert in body language, Bryan Gow isn’t very good at masking his own. When he rounds the corner and sees Gislingham in the corridor outside CID his reaction is such a perfect picture of acute embarrassment he could use it as an example in his next PowerPoint presentation.

Gis frowns. ‘I thought your assistant said we couldn’t meet up because you were busy today?’

Gow flushes a little. ‘We can’t – that is, I am.’ He hesitates. ‘If you must know, Ruth Gallagher asked me to come in.’ He makes a face. ‘Hashtag awkward.’

Because he’s helping her on the Emma Smith case. Because he’s helping to convict Fawley.

Gis forces away the thought, and the resentment that comes with it. All this shit – none of it’s Gow’s fault.

‘I was going to ask you to look at some footage for us. The Fisher case again.’

Gow nods slowly. ‘OK, I can do that. I’ll drop by later.’ He looks round. ‘And in the meantime, perhaps you could tell me what Gallagher has done with her team, because that office of theirs is doing a pretty good impersonation of the Mary Celeste.’

* * *

Gow wasn’t the only one wrong-footed by that this morning. Major Crimes were just as confounded themselves. Overnight, without warning, their entire operation had been tea-crated and relocated upstairs. The first thing everyone noticed was that the new office is about as far away from CID as it’s possible to get; the second was the secure-access keypad on the door.

And just in case anyone was being especially dense, Dave King makes a big show of getting the facilities manager to reset the code right in front of them.

‘From now on, we’re the only ones who’ll have access to this room,’ he says, staring round. ‘Not even the bloody cleaners are getting in here without one of us present. So if there are any more leaks about this investigation – external or internal – I’ll know it was someone here, not one of Fawley’s arse-lickers gone rogue. Do I make myself clear?’

Evidently so.

He nods, makes as if to go, then has second thoughts. ‘Oh, and if any of you happen to see DS Gislingham in the khazi, do make sure to pass that on.’

There’s an exchange of glances now, the odd murmur.

‘Right,’ says King. ‘Well, get on with it, then.’

The room kicks into action and King watches for a moment before making his way over to Simon Farrow’s desk. He smiles at him; Farrow is immediately wary. ‘I was going to ask,’ says King, perilously jovial. ‘It wasn’t you by any chance, was it, slipped CID a look at our files? Because someone made a call to that railway engineer last night and it wasn’t one of us.’

Farrow’s eyes widen. ‘Why are you asking me?’

The teeth are showing in King’s grin. ‘Yeah, well, it’s not gone unnoticed that you’ve got a bad case of the hots for that Erica Somer. Can’t say I blame you, though. I’d do her in a shot.’

Farrow drops his eyes. ‘Always a bad idea,’ he mumbles, ‘getting involved with people at work.’

King gives a quick bark of laughter. ‘Well, evidently she doesn’t think so. She was banging Gareth Quinn a while back for a start –’

One of the other DCs looks up. ‘And Fawley too, from what I hear.’

‘Really?’ says King sharply.

The man shrugs. ‘It was all round the station a few months ago.’

‘Interesting,’ says King, his tone half thoughtful, half sneer. ‘Not such a bleeding paragon of virtue after all, eh.’

‘Was there anything else you wanted, Sarge?’ says Farrow. ‘Only –’

King turns to him. ‘Yeah, sorry. Yeah, there was. Apparently Fawley’s lawyer had a “little chat” with Gallagher last night.’ He’s dropped his voice now. ‘She was crapping on again about CCTV at the bridge. I take it we’ve bloody confirmed that, have we? I don’t want it coming back to bite me in the arse.’

Farrow reddens slightly, though he has no reason to: he’s checked already. Twice. ‘No, Sarge. No cameras in that area at all.’

‘What about the clothes – the ones Fawley claims Smith was wearing – where are we on that?’

Farrow pulls up a file on his screen. ‘Here’s the inventory from the flat – no leggings or T-shirts matching that description.’

‘So he’s lying.’

Farrow hesitates. ‘Well, I guess if it really was Gavin Parrie who killed her, he’d deffo have got rid of the gear –’

King gives an incredulous scoff. ‘Don’t tell me you actually believe that bollocks.’

Farrow reddens again. ‘No, Sarge. Of course not. I’m just saying that the clothes not being there now doesn’t prove they never were. Absence of evidence isn’t evidence of –’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ begins King, but then there’s a tap at the glass panel in the door and they look up to see Ruth Gallagher outside. No one appears to have thought to give her the key code. King curses under his breath as one of the DCs rushes to open it. Gallagher thanks him, rather pointedly, takes a few steps into the room.

‘Just wanted to let you all know I finally had a call back from Warwickshire. They’ve confirmed Gavin Parrie’s electronic tag is fully functional and shows him as being within a mile of his designated accommodation the entire night of July 9th. Whoever killed Emma Smith, it certainly wasn’t him.’

Dave King does a fist pump. ‘Fucking nailed it,’ he says.

‘No,’ says Gallagher calmly, ‘we haven’t “nailed” anything. Gavin Parrie has been eliminated from the inquiry; Hugh Cleland is likely to be. Adam Fawley remains by far the most likely suspect. But right now, that’s all he is: a suspect.’

No title, no ‘DI’. Just Adam Fawley. No one in the room underestimates the significance of that.

‘But until I decide otherwise, you say nothing.’ She glances round at them, one by one, taking her time about it. ‘Am I clear? However tempted you may be, you are to say nothing – not to your mates, your family, even other Thames Valley officers. And if there’s anyone who thinks they might find that a bit of a challenge after a couple in the Red Lion, I suggest you play it safe and go straight home. Do your career a favour, if not your liver.’

She gives King a long last look, turns and is gone.

* * *

Ev decides, for once, to pack it in at five. The CID office is half empty anyway. Gis has been AWOL for at least an hour and she has no idea where Somer’s been all day. Bugger it, she thinks; it is Saturday, after all. She clatters her stuff into her bag before she has time for a rush of conscience, but it seems the universe has a sense of humour: the phone goes.

She looks round, hoping someone else will do the decent, and eventually Asante picks it up.

‘CID, DC Asante.’

She sees him nod then look over towards her. ‘Line two. Asking for you.’

She sighs, slides her bag back on to her desk and picks up the phone. But she is not sitting back down, she is not sitting back down –

‘Miss Everett? It’s Elaine Baylis again.’ There’s just the slightest stress on that last word.

‘Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been back to you –’

‘It’s not that,’ she says crisply. ‘I’m afraid there’s been another incident with your father.’

Ev grips the phone, turns away from Asante’s discreetly quizzical glance. ‘What sort of “incident”?’

‘An altercation with another resident. Nothing to be worried about, but in a community like this, even small disagreements can be very disruptive. I’m sure you can appreciate that –’

‘I do, I’m just not sure what I can do about –’

‘Could you come in tomorrow? Two thirty?’

Ev’s heart sinks. She had her Sunday all planned. A lie-in, brunch at Gail’s, a walk round Christ Church meadow. Not a twenty-mile round trip in thirty-degree heat and another dressing-down by matron in an office that smells of pee.

‘I appreciate you have a demanding job,’ says Baylis in a tone that rings with don’t we all, ‘but this is about your father’s welfare and that of the other residents in our care.’ A heavy, self-righteous pause. ‘It’s important.’

‘OK,’ says Ev, gritting her teeth and reminding herself that Baylis will be working on Sunday too. ‘Two thirty. I’ll see you then.’

She puts down the phone and turns to see Asante still looking at her.

‘Line three,’ he says.

‘You’re taking the piss.’

But Asante doesn’t take the piss.

He shrugs. ‘Sorry. I did try. But it’s you he wants.’

‘Someone down here to see you,’ says one of the desk officers when she picks up.

‘Oh yes?’

‘Won’t give her name,’ he says, slightly more loudly, as if he wants the visitor, whoever they are, to hear quite how hacked off he is.

Ev frowns. ‘So why –?’

‘Has to be someone on the Fisher case, she says. And it has to be a woman.’

* * *

‘Show it to me again?’

Gis rewinds the footage and presses play. ‘See – where we ask him about the tattoo? He seems to almost stop breathing.’

Gow nods slowly. ‘It’s a textbook anxiety response. I suspect that was a question he hadn’t prepared for.’ He glances up at Gis, who has his arms folded, thoughtful. ‘Does that help?’

Gis starts a little; he was miles away.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘It does.’

Gow gets up and reaches for his briefcase. ‘Well, if there’s nothing else, I shall return to my weekend.’

Gis grins. ‘Hot date with a steam locomotive?’

Gow winks at him. ‘Well, let’s just say you’re half right.’

He edges round the table towards the door, but just as he gets there Gislingham calls him back.

‘Did he do it?’

Gow turns, frowns. ‘I just told you –’

Gis shakes his head. ‘I’m not talking about Morgan. I’m talking about Fawley.’

Gow takes hold of the door handle. ‘No,’ he says after a moment. ‘I don’t think he did.’

* * *

The coffee shop the girl chooses isn’t one students usually go to and Ev suspects she picked it for exactly that reason. An old-style caff down one of the narrow passages leading off the High Street, with a nail bar one side and a Chinese takeaway the other, lino on the floor and a fad-free menu board where the only sort of coffee started life in a jar.

Ev sends the girl to a table in the far corner – largely so she can’t turn tail and scarper without her seeing – and queues up at the counter for two mugs of tea, shooting surreptitious glances at the girl all the while. She must be twenty-two or -three, with green eyes and soft auburn hair that’s only just long enough for the tiny ponytail at the nape of her neck. She was picking at her nails at the station and she’s fretting with the bowl of sugar now; Ev suspects it took a long time for her to make up her mind to come here at all.

Ev collects her order, goes over to the table and sits down. The red-and-white oilskin cloth is slightly sticky and the ketchup comes in a large plastic tomato. It’s like being inside an Alan Bennett.

She’s going to give the girl as much time as she needs to broach this her own way, but there’s only so much fiddling with the milk sachet she can do. Eventually, just as she’s about to give up –

‘My name’s Zoe. Zoe Longworth.’

Ev nods. ‘OK.’

She flickers a look up at Ev, then stares doggedly back at her tea. ‘I saw it online.’

‘The story about Professor Fisher?’

The girl nods. ‘I mean, it didn’t actually name her but it was pretty bloody obvious who it was. At least to me.’

‘You know her?’ says Ev.

There’s a pause.

‘Did she teach you?’

A longer pause then another nod. ‘She used to. I’m in London now. But I was here before, a couple of years ago. If I hadn’t seen it on Twitter I’d never have realized – I had no idea she’d done this to someone else.’

Ev nods. Every time there’s a controversy about identifying people charged with sexual offences the same rationale is trotted out: disclosing perpetrators’ names means other victims come forward – victims who might otherwise have remained silent. Or ignorant. But this girl can’t be a victim. Can she?

‘So why did you want to talk to us, Zoe?’

She’s stirring the tea now, almost obsessively. The clang of the spoon is setting Ev’s teeth on edge.

‘It was great to start with – having Marina as a supervisor. She was really supportive, got really involved. I couldn’t believe my luck.’

Caleb Morgan, remembers Ev, said exactly the same thing.

‘We both thought so.’

Ev frowns. ‘We?’

Longworth looks up briefly. ‘My boyfriend, Seb. Seb Young.’

So that’s it, thinks Ev. But she keeps it from her face. ‘Go on.’

‘One Friday night, out of the blue, she invited us for drinks at her house. We thought all her grad students were going but when we turned up it was only us.’

‘I see.’

‘Her little boy was there. Must have been ages after his bedtime but she didn’t make him go upstairs. She kept saying how well he took to us – how he was really shy with most people, but he’d taken to us straight away. You could have fooled me – he barely opened his mouth, but she kept going on and on about it.’

‘Let me guess – she started asking you to babysit?’

She bites her lip, nods. ‘And to start with, it was fine. Better than fine. She’d leave out wine and tell us we could raid the fridge, watch her Sky. We had sod-all money so it was like a night out.’

There’s a silence.

‘So what changed?’ says Ev eventually.

She sighs. ‘I didn’t realize it had, not at first. And then I started noticing that we seemed to be round there every Friday, and sometimes two or three other nights as well. It was all just a bit full-on. And when we did actually babysit, she wasn’t paying. Like she didn’t need to bother offering us money any more, and of course we were too embarrassed to ask. I felt like we were being used.’ She hesitates, puts down the spoon, looks up. ‘And then there was the thing with Tobin.’

‘What thing, Zoe?’

‘She had this huge vase in the sitting room – an ugly purple thing. I thought it looked like something out of some sleazy seventies cocktail bar, but apparently it was worth, like, a grand. Anyway, one afternoon we were there babysitting while she was at some event in London and Tobin had one of his meltdowns and it got broken.’

‘So?’

‘When she got back we told her what happened and she was actually quite nice about it – she said she knew Tobin could be a bit “lively” and it was OK, she was insured and they’d pay for it. Then she went upstairs to talk to him, and I just happened to go to the loo at the same time and I overheard them. He was telling her we’d done it. And he was really convincing. It completely freaked me out.’

Ev frowns. ‘You didn’t confront her – tell her the truth?’

‘I was going to,’ says the girl, ‘but Seb said to forget it. That it would be embarrassing to admit I’d been eavesdropping and, in any case, I probably got the wrong end of the stick because kids his age just aren’t that good at lying.’ She makes a grim face. ‘Yeah, right.’

* * *

‘I’m glad I caught you before you left. Someone dropped this in for you earlier. I did call up at the time but you were engaged.’ The woman on the front desk smiles at Asante, not unkindly. ‘I think she was a bit upset to miss you.’

Asante registers the smile but doesn’t return it. He slits open the envelope and drops the contents on to the counter. A comps slip from the adoption service, with a couple of lines from Beth Monroe to say that the enclosed arrived at the office for Emma, and she didn’t know if it might be important. Asante picks it up. It’s a postcard of Verona, with a short message on the back in a big confident hand.

Asante’s detective antennae flare for a moment, only to sag again when he sees from the postmark that it was sent the same day Emma died. All the same, he should probably pass it on to Gallagher’s team. Just for completeness.

‘Thanks,’ he says absent-mindedly as he turns back towards the stairs. When he gets up to the Major Crimes office the only person there is Simon Farrow. Asante taps on the glass and Farrow looks up with a frown, then pushes back his chair and comes over.

‘Yeah, what is it?’ he says, wedging the door open with one foot.

Asante hands him the postcard. ‘This arrived at the adoption service for Emma Smith. It’s clearly personal, though given it was sent to her office, it doesn’t suggest anyone particularly close. But I guess you never know.’

Farrow scans it, then looks up. ‘Probably Amanda Haskell – she’s the woman Smith was seeing.’

Asante raises an eyebrow. ‘Woman? Sorry, I had no idea she was gay.’

Farrow glances up. ‘No, we only just found out too. Haskell came forward – she didn’t see the news before because she’d been away.’ He holds up the card. ‘Which this rather proves.’

‘Sorry – I just thought, you know.’

‘No, no, you were right. I’ll pass it on to DC Carroway. It’ll make a nice change from the assorted loonies, nosey parkers and nutters on the tip line.’

Asante grins. ‘Or forty-eight hours of CCTV.’

Farrow grimaces. ‘If only. If they’d put some sodding cameras on that bridge I wouldn’t be spending my Saturday going squared-eyed at traffic cams. There must be hundreds of bloody Mondeos in this town –’ He stops, flushes a little, realizes he’s said too much.

Asante frowns. ‘You’re looking for Fawley’s car? You’ve ruled out everyone else?’

Farrow looks a little embarrassed. ‘Pretty much. The boss ain’t interested in Hugh Cleland any more, that’s for sure.’

And the boss in question isn’t Gallagher. That’s pretty clear too.

Farrow lets the door go and it starts to close. ‘Thanks for this, anyway.’

‘No problem,’ says Asante. But when the door clicks shut he’s still standing there, his face thoughtful.

* * *

‘So what happened, Zoe? Why did you come all the way from London to talk to us?’

The girl takes a deep breath. She’s put the spoon down but the tea is still untouched.

‘It was that summer. She messaged Seb one Saturday morning saying there was some light bulb or other that needed changing, and she didn’t like going up stepladders, so could he pop round later and do it for her. I think she assumed he’d go on his own – she had a funny look on her face when she saw me on the doorstep and I hadn’t been there five minutes when she turns round and asks me to take Tobin to the pictures.’

Ev sighs. ‘She wanted you out of the house.’

She makes a bitter face. ‘It was Despicable Me. Ironic, huh? So anyway, off we go, leaving Seb there with her, and of course the light bulb is in her bedroom, isn’t it. So he gets up the ladder to change it and when he comes back down she’s standing there in the doorway behind him, all tarted up in stilettos and a red silk number that looked like Ann Summers, but knowing her was probably more like bloody Agent Provocateur.’ She bites her lip, looks away. ‘I mean, what a fucking cliché.’

‘How did he react to that?’

‘He laughed.’

‘Ah,’ says Ev. ‘I don’t imagine she took that very well, did she?’

‘No, she bloody well didn’t.’ There’s a harshness in her voice now. ‘She told him he ought to think very carefully because he had precisely three minutes to make a decision and it had better be the right one. She was his supervisor – she could make him or break him. She could get him stuck in some shithole for the rest of his career.’

She picks up her spoon again, starts drawing circles in the droplets of water on the tablecloth.

‘She was going on about how she could offer him so much more than I could. That I was just a stupid little girl who was not only an also-ran in the brains department but probably didn’t have a bloody clue when it came to sex either. Whereas she –’ She stops, takes a breath that buckles into a sob.

‘It’s OK,’ says Ev gently. ‘Take your time.’

She reaches for a napkin, wipes her eyes. ‘Anyway, I’d taken Tobin to the bloody film but we’d only been there about ten minutes when he started screaming the place down and I had to take him home.’

Ev shakes her head. ‘I think I know what’s coming next.’

She gives a fierce nod. ‘Right. I could tell what was going on the minute we came through the door. I mean, the bloody noise they were making.’ She tosses the spoon back down on the table with a clatter. ‘I told Tobin to go down to the kitchen and I went straight up there. And there she was. On top of him, naked, screwing him.’

Ev takes a breath. ‘What did you do?’

Zoe gives a contemptuous snort. ‘What do you think I did? I took a fucking picture, didn’t I.’

* * *

Oxford Mail online

Saturday 14 July 2018 Last updated at 18:12

BREAKING: Man arrested in murder of Headington woman

By Richard Yates

The Oxford Mail has learned that a 46-year-old man has been arrested in connection with the murder and suspected sexual assault of local Headington resident Emma Smith, 44, whose body was discovered in the early hours of Tuesday morning.

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

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

* * *

‘And what happened then?’

‘I just walked out. Went back to my flat. Seb came round about half an hour later. He was in a terrible state.’

‘That’s when he told you that she’d coerced him?’

She nods. ‘He was crying – he knew what it must’ve looked like – he knew what I’d think.’

No shit, Sherlock, thinks Ev. I’d have had his balls for the barbecue.

‘But you believed him.’

‘Not to start with. But yeah. In the end.’

‘And that was the end of it?’

Zoe shakes her head slowly. ‘No, that was only the beginning. Later that week Seb has a supervision with her and she asks him when they’re going to “meet up” again. So he tells her no way – that it should never have happened –’

Ev sighs. ‘Let me guess.’

‘Right. She tried to persuade him but he kept saying no, and in the end he thought she’d backed off.’

Ev waits.

She swallows. ‘Two days after that I got a phone call. From her.’

‘What did she say?’

The girl’s gone very pale. ‘That Tobin had been having nightmares, and when she talked to him about it he told her that I’d been grooming him. He didn’t use that word but that’s what she meant. Grooming him.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘He was six, for fuck’s sake. If it wasn’t so horrific it’d be totally hilarious.’

But Ev isn’t laughing. ‘She must have had some evidence to make an accusation like that.’

‘She had nothing,’ she says, shrill now – so shrill that a couple of other customers turn and look at them. ‘She claimed I’d been having an “inappropriate” relationship with him – that I’d been showing him “unsuitable material” on TV behind her back – it was David fucking Attenborough, for Christ’s sake, when I was looking after her kid when she couldn’t be fucking bothered –’

She must realize that people are staring, because she drops her voice. Her cheeks are flushed now and there’s a red stain reaching up her neck like a rash. She takes a deep breath, and then another. ‘I realized there was absolutely nothing I could do – it would just be her word against mine.’

Here we go again, thinks Ev. Only now it’s she said/she said.

‘She could say anything she liked, accuse me of the most vile and horrible things, because Tobin would say exactly what she told him to. He used to trail around after her like some sort of lovesick puppy. He’d do anything, just to please her.’

‘I suspect,’ says Ev, ‘that she was getting her defence in first. A pre-emptive move – just in case Sebastian decided to make a complaint against her.’

Zoe nods. ‘That’s what he said too. So he went to see her, to try to sort it out. I wanted to go too but he said that would make things worse. And he was probably right. I’d have just ended up screaming the place down.’

And it was never about you anyway, thinks Everett. Not really. You’re just collateral damage.

‘He went round that Friday. Took a bottle of wine. He thought it would help keep things civilized but she obviously got the wrong end of the stick because she started saying she knew he’d see sense, and he wouldn’t regret it –’

‘Oh dear.’

The girl flicks a look at her. ‘Right. It just made things ten times worse. When he finally managed to convince her that he wasn’t there to screw her she just totally flipped out. She said she’d ruin me. She’d take Tobin to the police and he’d tell them what I’d been doing to him. She actually went and got Tobin and made him repeat the whole thing, then and there, in front of him. Seb said it was terrifying – anyone hearing that would have believed it.’

‘So what did you do?’

Zoe throws up her hands. ‘We caved. What else could we do? Marina agreed to drop the grooming accusation on condition that Seb and I signed an NDA agreeing never to talk about her or share any “material” about her –’

‘Of course, the photo.’

She nods. ‘Yeah, the photo. And we weren’t to disclose anything at all about our relationship with her, either publicly or privately.’

‘And I assume that included the university authorities?’

‘And the police.’ She sits back. ‘She could sue me, just for being here, having this conversation.’

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a white envelope. ‘Here, see for yourself.’

Ev opens it in silence and takes out the document inside.

‘Now you know why I was scared to come,’ says Zoe softly. ‘I know what that woman is capable of.’

* * *

Ev gets her lie-in, but has to make do with yogurt and fruit at home rather than brunch at Gail’s. As for the walk in Christ Church meadow, that’s on permanent hold. When she turns up at Gislingham’s door at just gone 11.00 it’s his wife, Janet, who opens the door. She’s obviously been in the garden a lot lately – her shoulders are pink and the skin on her nose is a bit raw. She wasn’t expecting Ev but she smiles all the same, and Ev realizes suddenly that she’d been slightly apprehensive about her welcome. She knows how long the Gislinghams had to wait for their son, and how hard they had it in the months after his birth. There was a period when Gis was doing everything around the house and Janet was barely leaving it. So much so that Ev had been close to wondering out loud whether Janet might have postnatal depression. But then things seemed to get a little better, and then a little better still. Gis lost the grey look he had that first year; he became DS, first temporarily and then permanently, and he started talking about his wife the way he had before Billy was conceived. And now, when someone turns up on the doorstep unannounced, Janet just takes it in her stride.

‘Hello, stranger,’ she says gaily. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages! Come on in – Chris is out the back.’

Ev follows her down the hall to the kitchen and Janet gestures at the kettle. ‘Fancy a coffee?’

‘God, yes,’ says Ev with a grin. ‘I’m gasping.’

Janet smiles again. ‘I’ll bring it through.’

Janet must be watering her patio pots every day because the marguerites and geraniums are lush, but the rest of the garden looks tired and the borders are shrivelling. In the middle, on the brown grass, Gis is playing football with Billy, who’s wearing a miniature Chelsea strip with ‘Gis’ and the number one on his back. He’s nearly two now and even though he’s small for his age he’s sturdy, and more than capable of giving his dad the runaround – literally. Gis rolls the ball towards him and the little boy swings out a foot and bangs it against the fence.

‘GOAL!!!’

Gis bends over, leaning on his knees, breathing heavily, then spots Ev and straightens up.

‘Boy, am I glad to see you,’ he says, coming slowly towards her. ‘It’s too bloody hot to be cavorting about like this.’

‘Da – ad,’ says Billy, in the beginning of a whine, but Gis gives him a firm look. ‘Now, we don’t do that, do we? No one likes a whinger.’

Billy’s mouth puckers a little, but Gis tousles his hair and the smile eventually comes. ‘Now, why don’t you go and see if Mummy’s got any more of that juice, while I have a quick chat with Auntie Ev?’

‘Not sure about “Auntie Ev”,’ she says, giving him a firm look of her own.

‘Godmother’s privilege,’ he says, grinning. ‘Now, what dragged you all the way from Summertown on a Sunday morning?’

* * *

‘I mean, you’ve got to have fish at The Perch, haven’t you?’ says Caroline Asante gaily. ‘Stands to reason.’

They came early because they know how busy this place gets at the weekend, and in this weather, shady spots in the garden are at a premium. But once in possession of a prize position, they’re taking their time. On the next table, there’s another middle-aged couple with their daughter and what’s clearly her fairly new boyfriend: he’s smiling a lot and trying a little too hard. Further over, a gaggle of kids is trying to climb the huge old willow tree. There’s jazz coming from the marquee and people are sitting about on the grass because for once it’s dry enough to do that in an English summer. The whole thing is almost too perfect.

‘I’m considering the mussels,’ begins Asante’s father carefully, ‘or perhaps the Cumberland ring.’

His mother laughs, reaching for her glass of Pinot Grigio. ‘Honestly, Kwame, you manage to sound like a diplomat even when you’re ordering sausages and mash.’

He smiles at her; it’s an old joke. He was a Ghanaian trade attaché for more than twenty years.

‘I’ll go in and order,’ says Asante, making to get up, but his mother stops him.

‘No need to rush. Let’s have a chat.’

Parent code for ‘you never tell us anything’. He stifles a sigh.

‘How’s the job going?’ His father now. They always ask, as a point of honour, even though they’ve never really reconciled themselves to their only son going into the police. It simply baffled them, even when he was accepted on the fast-track graduate scheme. But they were, as always, too well bred, too ‘diplomatic’ to say so. Your children must be allowed to make their own choices, even if you’d much rather they opted for medicine or the law, even – if all else fails – the City.

‘It’s good,’ says Asante. ‘Better than Brixton.’

‘In what way?’ His mother, ‘showing an interest’.

‘The job’s more varied. And the town. More interesting people.’

‘Oh yes?’ says Caroline in that alert-for-a-girlfriend tone all mothers seem to develop. But then again, as Asante reminds himself, he isn’t just an only son but an only child.

‘Don’t get too excited, Mum,’ he says. ‘I don’t get out much. Those people I mentioned – they’re the ones I’m arresting.’

* * *

‘Bloody hell,’ says Gis, sitting back.

‘I know,’ replies Ev, finishing the last of her coffee. ‘And for once in this bloody case, we don’t have to just take her word for it. There’s the NDA.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, frowning and pulling the sheet of paper back towards him, ‘but it’s not that explicit, is it? It just stops them talking about her. It doesn’t say why. There’s absolutely nothing about the grooming or the kid or anything.’

‘True – but we know Fisher slept with Young. I saw the picture – and believe me, there is absolutely no mistaking what they’re doing.’

‘But all that proves is that they had sex. Not that Fisher forced him to do it. Don’t get me wrong,’ he says quickly, ‘I’m with you. I’m just anticipating what the CPS will say. No one knows the full story but them.’

Ev points at the logo at the head of the paper. ‘Niamh Kennedy must, surely? If she drafted this thing?’

Gis shrugs. ‘Possibly, though perhaps not all the details. But I bet you any money you like she’ll hide behind client confidentiality even if she does.’

Ev frowns. ‘Well, I reckon she knows a hell of a sight more than she’s saying. I remembered, after I spoke to Zoe – last time they were in she called Fisher “Marina”. Like you would if you were friends, rather than just lawyer and client.’

Gis sits back again, staring up towards the house. Janet is at the kitchen window. She looks up and gives them a wave.

‘I reckon you’re right,’ he says after a moment. ‘For what it’s worth, I reckon Caleb Morgan may well be just the last in a whole line of poor naive saps Fisher’s done this to.’

‘Only this time it’s different,’ says Ev. ‘This time, the sap’s fighting back.’

* * *

‘We can easily drop you, Anthony,’ says his mother, opening the car door. ‘It’s barely even out of our way –’

But he was prepared for this – he knew they’d offer, and he knew he’d need a good excuse.

‘It’s fine, Mum, really. It’s a beautiful day and I can walk back across Port Meadow. It’ll do me good to get some fresh air.’

He knows she’ll struggle to argue back at that, but she still gives it a go.

‘You don’t exactly have the right shoes for a hike, darling.’

He smiles. ‘OK, confession time. There’s something I want to check. To do with a case.’

She purses her lips. ‘If it’s work-related it should be done on work time.’

‘That’s just it, Mum. It’s not exactly “official”.’

* * *

Ev checks her watch and reaches for her bag. ‘I think that’s everything, boss. Young’s coming in this afternoon to give a statement, so I’ll give you a call afterwards.’

‘Good work,’ he says. ‘I’d see if Somer’s free to sit in on that as well, if I were you.’

‘Already done,’ she says, smiling. ‘And I’ve let Fisher’s lawyer know we’ll want to talk to her again tomorrow.’

She gets to her feet. ‘I have to go.’

He makes a face. ‘Your dad?’

‘Yeah,’ she says with a sigh. Only a small one, but even that feels disloyal. ‘My dad.’

* * *

As for Quinn, he’s spending his Sunday in Boars Hill. Maisie raised an eyebrow when he suggested it (‘With my parents? Are you feeling OK?’), but he just laughed and said who wouldn’t want a swim in this weather? And that genuinely was a good half of the motivation. As for the rest, well, that’s a rather longer game.

Her parents have made themselves admirably and discreetly scarce, so it’s been just the two of them by the pool most of the morning, Quinn on a lounger, within a languid stretch of an ice bucket stacked with beer, and Maisie a few feet away, floating gently on an inflatable blue-and-white-striped hammock (blow-up flamingos are evidently too Benidorm for Boars Hill). Maisie’s wearing a floppy pink cotton sun hat and a pair of huge Jackie O sunglasses; she looks like she’s walked straight out of the Profumo affair. Down below, in the valley, the city glitters like a mirage.

‘Love the hat,’ says Quinn.

She looks up from her book. ‘This? It’s completely ancient. I’ve had it since I was at school.’

Her hair has corkscrewed in the wet, and with no make-up she looks adorably fresh-faced.

‘I bet your school was the sort that had straw boaters.’ She sticks her tongue out and he starts laughing. ‘It did, didn’t it?’

She grabs an ice cube out of her drink and lobs it at him but it misses by miles and plops harmlessly into the water.

He grins. ‘Have you still got it? I mean, you’d look seriously hot in school uniform –’

She looks at him witheringly over her sunglasses. ‘Honestly, blokes. You’re all the same. Perving over gymslips.’

‘Blimey, have you got one of those too?’

She sighs loudly and returns, rather pointedly, to her book.

‘What’s it like?’ he says, gesturing at it. ‘Any good?’

‘OK so far,’ she says, without looking up. ‘Though you know what it’s like with crime – it’s all about the ending.’

He gives a dry laugh. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘Though apparently this one’s OK. The ending, I mean. That’s what Mum said, anyway.’

‘What’s it about?’

She glances up now. ‘A missing girl. Her parents are really horrible so you’re supposed to think one of them must have done it, but it obviously won’t be as simple as that. And the kid is really manipulative.’ She laughs. ‘Reminds me a bit of me. I used to tell the most enormous fibs at that age, but Dad swallowed it every time.’

‘What about your mum?’

She smiles. ‘She was far too shrewd. But Dad just couldn’t believe sweet little eight-year-old girls could be such good liars.’

Quinn reaches for another beer; Maisie’s definitely going to have to drive them home. Twice in two weeks – it’s becoming a habit.

‘Not just girls,’ he says. ‘The kid in that sexual assault case I’m working on? He’s exactly the same age and he tells whoppers the size of Birmingham.’

Maisie pulls her sunglasses down her nose. ‘Didn’t you say he was probably on the spectrum or something?’

Quinn’s can fizzes open. ‘Yeah, he’s definitely not all there. Bright – just, you know, a bit of a weirdo. And no, before you ask, I didn’t actually say that.’

But her face is serious. ‘What was he lying about?’

‘That call I got on the way here? Looks like this isn’t the first time the mother’s got involved in something like this. Only last time she threatened to report the bloke’s girlfriend for grooming the kid. But it was all a complete fabrication, just to stop them blabbing.’

She frowns. ‘That makes the mother the liar, not him.’

Quinn shrugs. ‘Whatever. All I know is that the kid had the whole thing off pat.’

Maisie puts her book down in her lap. ‘That doesn’t sound right to me. If he really is autistic he’d find that really, really difficult. Kids like that – they can’t even do little white lies, never mind great big complicated ones. Why do you think they have so much trouble dealing with other people? There’s such a thing as too much truth.’

Quinn wedges his can back into the ice. ‘How come you know so much about it all of a sudden?’

She shrugs. ‘I read a couple of articles about it after that Chris Packham programme.’

Up at the house, her mother is waving at them from the edge of the terrace.

Maisie checks her watch. ‘God, is that the time? Lunch must be ready.’ She slips off the hammock into the water, moves over to the side and pulls herself out.

‘You coming?’ she asks, picking up a towel; Quinn still hasn’t moved.

‘In a minute.’ He’s frowning, staring into the distance, tapping his fingers against the table.

‘OK,’ she says, slipping on her sundress. ‘I’ll see you up there.’

He nods, not looking up.

As soon as she’s out of earshot he reaches for his phone.

* * *

Sebastian Young is already in reception when Somer gets there, looking for all the world like he’s come for a job interview in his light cotton suit and button-down shirt. Ev was apologetic about dragging her in on a Sunday, but frankly it was a relief. Anything to stop her thinking about where she was supposed to be this weekend. And why she isn’t. But she’s careful not to arrive at the station too early, because she can’t risk any small-talk time with Ev. She’s incredibly fond of her, and she knows how much she cares, but right now, she isn’t in the mood for confessions.

She isn’t in the mood for Dave King, either. Her heart plummets when she spots him at the coffee machine right outside CID. And the fact that it’s obvious what’s dragged him into the office on a Sunday doesn’t help. She’s been trying not to think about Fawley; she can’t believe he’s guilty of something so unimaginable, but she can’t square away the evidence either. It’s all too much, on top of everything else – Giles, the baby that wasn’t, the ultrasound –

King extracts a cup and presses the button, then looks at her with a nasty knowing smile.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll be seeing much of the boyfriend now then, all things considered?’

She stares at him; how the hell does he even know about Giles? What business is it –

He takes his cup and straightens up. ‘I mean, you could do a whole lot better than that. Even if he is a sodding DI.’ She glares at him and he lifts his hands, all innocence. ‘Just saying.’

‘You don’t know the first thing about him.’

He raises an eyebrow, evidently amused. ‘Ah, now that’s where you’re wrong. We worked a case or two together, back in the day.’ He takes a step closer. ‘I know a lot about that bastard – much more than you think –’

He has his coffee black, which is unfortunate, because it means the liquid is scalding as it hits his face, his eyes, his chest – splattering over the floor, running down his neck –

‘What was that for?’ he gasps, staggering back. ‘You fucking bitch – how fucking dare you – look at my fucking shirt –’

He’s shouting now, because she’s walking away. ‘You bitch – I’ll get you for this – you hear me? I’ll fucking get you for this –’

* * *

Alex Fawley looks at her watch again. Ten to four. Somewhere in her brain she registers Nell next door in the bathroom, sorting laundry, Gerry downstairs with the kids, one of the neighbour’s dogs barking. She checks her tablet, refreshes the page. Her fingertip leaves a damp mark across the screen.

* * *

[ARCHIVE TAPE OF BBC JOURNALIST, OUTSIDE THE OLD BAILEY, 20 DECEMBER 1999]

‘After a nine-week trial, Gavin Parrie, the so-called “Roadside Rapist”, was today sentenced to life for the rape and attempted rape of seven young women in the Oxford area. Judge Peter Healey described Parrie as “evil, unrepentant and depraved” and recommended he serve at least fifteen years. There was uproar in court as the sentence was announced, with Parrie’s family abusing both the judge and jury from the public gallery. As Parrie was led away, he shouted threats at the officer who had been instrumental in his arrest, saying he would “get him” and he and his family would “spend the rest of their lives watching their backs”. The officer in question, Detective Sergeant Adam Fawley, has received a commendation from the Thames Valley Chief Constable for the role he played in securing the conviction.’

[JOCELYN]

I wasn’t in court that day. I was still at college. But I do remember the case, and I remember thinking what sort of man could not only commit such terrible crimes against women, but then threaten the family of the man who’d helped convict him.

Now, of course, I know a lot more than I did then. I’ve also talked at length to Gavin myself, and I know he sincerely regrets any distress he caused that day. He has also been deeply affected by the terrible toll the trial took on his own family, especially his children. Even though the Parries were divorced by the time he was convicted, his family were hounded – by the press, by vigilantes, by their own neighbours. They became pariahs, and Sandra was eventually forced to move to Scotland and revert to using her maiden name, purely in order to protect her kids.

[SANDRA]

‘It’d been bad enough bringing up three kids on my own before that – it was ten times worse so far away from my family. Gavin’s brother used to send me cash whenever he could, but most of the time we barely got by. As for traipsing five hundred sodding miles to visit Gav, forget it.’

[JOCELYN]

It meant Gavin scarcely saw them, of course, but he knew what they were going through – he knew his family were the Roadside Rapist’s victims too, just as much as he was, and the women were. And that made what he considered to be a terrible injustice all the harder to bear.

Because his position has never changed: he did not assault those women, and the man who did is still out there. He still believes the Thames Valley investigation was fundamentally flawed, though these days he doesn’t use words like ‘framed’ or ‘fitted up’. He’s older and wiser and more measured (eighteen years in prison will do that to you). But regardless of whether it was a cock-up or a conspiracy, the end result is the same. He’s spent the best years of his life in jail for crimes he did not commit.

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 six: Parole

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

[JOCELYN]

I’m going to start this episode with a confession. The first time Gavin and his lawyers approached The Whole Truth to take on his case, we turned them down. And the second. But then the case hit the headlines again, and everything changed.

Earlier this year, when Gavin was still in Wandsworth prison, there were two horrific assaults on young women in Oxford – assaults that bore an uncanny and terrifying resemblance to the attacks Gavin was accused of. Was it a copycat or were these attacks the work of the real Roadside Rapist?

That’s when Gavin’s lawyer, Jeremy Peters, contacted us again, and it didn’t take us long to realize that this was a case that deserved our attention.

[JEREMY PETERS]

‘Gavin’s conviction was reviewed by the Criminal Cases Review Commission in 2002, but they declined to send it back to the Court of Appeal. And even though he’d been a model prisoner, he’d always refused to admit guilt, and that hampered his ability to get parole, even though he’d have been eligible for it after fifteen years. So by early 2018, we were running out of options.’

[JOCELYN]

The fact that Gavin had never wavered in his insistence on his innocence, even though that was working against him, was probably the single most important factor in our decision to take on his case. And having made that decision, we did what we always do: we went right back to the very start and looked at the whole investigation. The statements, the forensics, the witnesses. How the police carried out their enquiries, the evidence the jury were presented with in court.

And – crucially – the evidence the jury never saw at all. Because there’s an element in this case that makes it unique in our experience: the fact that one of the leading detectives subsequently had a relationship with – indeed actually married – one of the victims. And not only a victim: the victim. The woman whose intervention led the police directly to the one and only piece of forensic evidence that definitively linked Gavin Parrie to the crimes: a strand of her hair, recovered in his lock-up. Hair Gavin Parrie has always believed was planted. Possibly with Adam Fawley’s knowledge; even – perhaps – at his instigation.

[JEREMY]

‘The Fawleys’ subsequent marriage should have been grounds for appeal on its own, but they both gave sworn affidavits to the CCRC that their relationship didn’t start until after the trial was over, and this was supported by other witnesses, including several of his superior officers and partners from her law firm. The CCRC had no choice but to accept that.’

[JOCELYN]

So however uneasy we were about the possibility that the Fawleys might have colluded in planting the evidence against Gavin, we knew it would be impossible to prove it. So we turned our attention elsewhere – to what had happened in the earlier stages of the investigation.

And when we did that, it quickly became clear that Thames Valley’s case against Gavin Parrie was what we call a ‘Frankenstein file’. Sadly, we encounter this all too often in prosecutions that turn out to be miscarriages of justice: cases that have been stitched together from bits and pieces of circumstantial evidence, which appear to add up to something monstrous, but are, fundamentally, ‘made-up’.

The police claimed that Gavin Parrie was angry, volatile and resentful. That he felt let down by life and let down by women, after he was rejected first by his wife and then by Julie, his girlfriend in Cowley. In fact, they went so far as to suggest that it was this second rejection, by Julie, that triggered the first attack on Erin Pope (they even claimed that Erin had a physical resemblance to Julie, and put up pictures in court to prove it).

They also cited the extreme nature of the porn found in Gavin’s lock-up, which he has never denied was his. But using porn – even hardcore porn – doesn’t make you a rapist.

They emphasized Gavin’s lack of a steady job, which would have given him the time and flexibility to stalk his victims, and stake out the locations prior to the attacks.

And they pointed out that he had his own van, and access to his brother Bobby’s. Bobby who was a plasterer and always had calcium sulphate residue inside his vehicle.

As far as they were concerned, it all fitted.

But that doesn’t mean it was true.

We worked closely with Gavin’s lawyers on a detailed analysis of the case, which was submitted to the Parole Board as part of their review. And I’m glad to say that we were successful. Gavin was released from Wandsworth prison on May 23rd 2018. But that’s not the same as being exonerated. His conviction still stands. He has to wear an electronic tag and observe strict licence conditions, which effectively prevent him leading anything like a normal life. And that includes having the sort of ordinary social contact that other people take for granted. He had a girlfriend when he left prison, but the relationship wasn’t strong enough to withstand the difficult process of adjustment post-release, and now, once again, he’s on his own.

But with luck and perseverance this won’t be the end of Gavin’s story. We’re still supporting Gavin and his lawyers, with a view to making a second application to the Criminal Cases Review Commission early next year.

In the meantime, Gavin’s determined to make the years he still has left count for something. He’s spending a lot of time with young offenders and rebuilding his relationship with his children. And, of course, they’re not kids any more. Ryan is working in the leisure and wellness sector, and Dawn now has a family of her own, as does her sister, Stacey, who’s living and working in Glasgow.

Gavin didn’t want to be interviewed on this podcast, but he’s been closely involved in producing it. He wants his story told, if only to help ensure other people don’t suffer the way he has.

I’ll give the last word to his ex-wife, Sandra.

[SANDRA]

‘The Gavin I’ve seen since he was released is the Gavin I first fell in love with. Things could have turned out so differently for him. If he’d got some qualifications for a start, or if he’d been a bit savvier about dealing with people. A bit less mouthy. Trouble with Gav is that every time he’s got himself into a situation it’s gone the wrong way. But that wasn’t always his fault – he always did have shit luck. But who knows, perhaps that’s changing now. Perhaps he’s finally going to get what he deserves.’

[UNDER BED OF ‘I SHALL BE RELEASED’]

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 puts her tablet down, then slowly reaches her hand to her mouth.

There’s a look on her face that’s hard to read.

But it’s not fear.

Not this time.

* * *

Not for the first time, Dave King is glad he keeps a spare shirt in the office. Though he’s made bloody sure to stick the wrecked one in an evidence bag. And take some majorly incriminating selfies to go with it. He’s going to cook that bitch’s goose good and proper. But first he’s going to deal with the Fawley fuck-up. Really deal with it this time.

He pushes open the door to the side office. They could have done this somewhere else, but he likes the idea of making it feel official, of upping the discomfort factor. And judging by the look he gets as he sits down, it’s working.

‘Sorry about the delay,’ says King breezily. ‘Managed to get coffee all down my fucking shirt.’ He puts his tablet on the table in front of him and leans forward. ‘So, you said on the phone you’ve got something to show me?’

‘Look,’ says Anthony Asante. ‘This is really difficult – what I found, it isn’t what I expected –’

King snorts. ‘Thought you’d be able to get the boss off the hook, did you? Play the hero and bank some major brownie points? Well, tough titties. You’re a copper. That’s how it is. Now give.’

Asante isn’t happy, that much is obvious, but he has no choice, and he knows it. ‘It’s CCTV,’ he says. ‘From the night Emma Smith died.’

* * *

‘Standing room only, I see,’ says Bryan Gow drily as he edges round the furniture to the only empty chair. Gislingham is already installed in front of the two video screens and the CPS rape prosecutor is taking a yellow counsel’s notepad out of her briefcase. Gis is tempted to ask if she has a couple of spares; she’s going to need them.

Gow takes his seat and glances across at Gis. ‘I sent Quinn some background info last night and talked him through it, so he should be fully briefed.’

‘I’ve read it too,’ says the CPS lawyer. ‘And I’ve read the NDA as well.’ She takes a print-out from her bag and tosses it on to the table with as much contempt as she can muster.

‘He’s played a bit of a blinder on this, by the way,’ says Gow. ‘Quinn, I mean. That was a pretty sharp insight of his about the boy.’

Gis nods. ‘I know. And I’ll make sure Harrison knows too, if it gets us a result. Though I suspect Quinn will probably beat me to it.’

They exchange a smile; Quinn is as predictable as he is ambitious.

‘And the rest of your team are prepped, are they?’ says the lawyer as the video monitors ping into life. ‘They know the score?’

‘Oh yes,’ says Gis softly. ‘They know the score.’

On the left-hand screen, Somer and Asante are showing Caleb Morgan and his lawyers into an interview room. As they take their seats and start going through the preliminaries, Morgan looks straight up into the camera, holding his gaze there long enough for the message to be clear: he knows they’re there.

But there’s one thing he doesn’t know.

He’s not the only one they’re watching.

* * *

Interview with Marina Fisher, conducted at St Aldate’s police station, Oxford

16 July 2018, 9.15 a.m.

In attendance, DC G. Quinn, DC V. Everett, Ms N. Kennedy (solicitor)

GQ: This is the fourth interview with Professor Marina Fisher in connection with an allegation of sexual assault made by Caleb Morgan, alleged to have taken place on July 6th 2018. Professor Fisher, I need to remind you once again that you are still under caution –

NK: What on earth is going on here? I thought we’d established that it was Marina who was assaulted, not Morgan. It’s him you should be interrogating, not her.

GQ: We’re still working to establish exactly what happened that night, and we need the Professor’s help to do that. And as I’m sure you can appreciate, any case where the principal witness is a very young child is especially complicated –