The Whole Truth

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 –

NK: But –

GQ: – and as Professor Fisher remains, for the time being, under arrest, we don’t have any choice but to conduct any interview with her under caution. As I’m sure you’re aware.

NK: [pause]

OK. Fair enough. What do you want to know?

* * *

‘So, Mr Morgan,’ says Asante. ‘I’d like to start by asking you again about what Tobin Fisher saw on the night of July 6th –’

Meredith Melia rolls her eyes. ‘Not again.’

Patrick Dunn clears his throat. ‘I have to say, I agree. We’ve already discussed this, repeatedly and at length. Whatever that child saw or thinks he saw, he’s a child. A young, impressionable and therefore – by definition – unreliable child.’

Morgan turns to him. ‘No, it’s not just that – he’s a lying little toerag. He lies all the time – if he told me the sky was blue, I’d go and fucking check.’

Asante glances at Somer. Her turn.

‘You told us before you thought he had “problems”.’

Morgan nods. ‘Right. Exactly.’

‘A child like that, he’d probably find any sexual act alarming, wouldn’t you agree?’

He frowns, unsure, suddenly, where this is going.

‘You see,’ says Somer, sitting forward now, ‘we think we know what happened that night. There never was an assault, was there, Caleb?’

His head drops, but he says nothing.

‘What Tobin saw was his mother having sex. He’d never seen it before, he had no idea what it meant and he was understandably frightened. But he had no need to be: his mother wasn’t in any danger. Like I said, she was just having sex. But if that’s what happened – if that’s all it was – you’ve got a lot of questions to answer. Starting with why the hell you’ve been lying to us all this time.’

* * *

GQ: As I said, it’s much harder to bring a successful prosecution where the case relies on a child as the only eyewitness. Juries worry that they might have been coached or told what to say.

MF: I would never do anything like that.

GQ: All the same, you can appreciate that before we go any further we need to establish whether Tobin’s testimony can be relied upon.

MF: I’m not sure I understand –

VE: Morgan’s lawyers are also questioning his reliability. Which is not unreasonable, given his age.

GQ: So, Professor Fisher, is your son a truthful child, would you say?

* * *

The room is silent. Morgan’s head is in his hands. He’s shaking his head slowly, again and again. The time on the recording machine moves steadily on; a minute, a minute and a half, two.

‘Was she threatening you, Caleb?’ says Somer eventually. ‘Is that why you lied?’

Meredith Melia leans over and puts a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. ‘Caleb,’ she says quietly. ‘Are you OK?’

There’s no response. Melia turns to the officers. ‘Perhaps you could give us an explanation for this sudden interrogatory volte-face?’

Somer and Asante exchange a glance.

‘The leak of Professor Fisher’s identity,’ says Asante. ‘It’s prompted someone to come forward. Someone who went through a similar experience.’

‘Halle-bloody-lujah,’ says Dunn, under his breath.

* * *

MF: What are you suggesting? Of course he’s truthful –

GQ: In one of our earlier interviews you told us he lied to you about the dress.

MF: That was different.

GQ: Different? How, exactly?

MF: [silence]

GQ: So he has, in fact, lied, on one occasion, at least. Does he make things up as well? Tell stories about things that turn out not to have happened?

MF: No, of course he doesn’t.

GQ: Ah, you see, that’s the problem. I spoke to Tobin’s teacher, yesterday afternoon. And before you ask, Ms Kennedy, the conversation was authorized by an Inspector under Section 29 of the Data Protection Act 1998, which allows for the disclosure of personal information without parental consent for the purposes of detecting or preventing crime.

NK: Even so –

GQ: And given that the enquiry we were making might potentially exonerate Professor Fisher, it would be very odd if she were to object to it now.

[pause]

Wouldn’t you agree?

* * *

‘Did you know?’ says Somer. ‘That this had happened before? That she’d done the same thing to someone else?’

Morgan shakes his head. He looks like he’s struggling to take this on.

‘The young man in question transferred to King’s London eighteen months ago,’ Somer continues. ‘Before you came to Oxford. He couldn’t face staying here after what happened to him. That’s why we need you to tell us the truth. And all of it, this time.’

Morgan sits back. His face is pale and he’s having difficulty making eye contact.

‘OK, I admit it – I slept with Marina. Once. Once. It was when me and Freya were on a break. Freya never knew.’ He glances up at them. ‘And I don’t want you telling her now, either.’

‘So when you told us you’d never had sex with Professor Fisher, that was a lie?’

He hesitates, then nods. He’d dropped his gaze again and his face is flushed now. ‘I thought if I admitted it, you wouldn’t believe me about that night.’

Somer nods slowly. How many women have thought the same thing, over the years? How many rape victims decided not to come forward for exactly the same reason?

‘Go on,’ says Asante.

Morgan’s still not looking at them. ‘I told her it was over. That I was back with Freya, and her and me were finished. That we never even started.’

‘When did you tell her that?’

He flickers a look at them. ‘That night. After the dinner. I just wanted to get it over with and get out of there – but like I told you before, she was buzzing. She said she wanted a drink and she wanted sex – you know, right there and then, on the bloody kitchen table.’

Ev nods. ‘And what did you say to that?’

‘I said no – that I wished I hadn’t done it the first time and I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. But she refused to accept it.’

‘What happened next?’

The flush deepens. ‘Like I said, she just wasn’t taking no for an answer.’ He stops, starts rubbing the back of his head. ‘So, well, you know –’

‘You had sex.’

He nods. ‘I said, OK, for old times’ sake and all that. But just once. She seemed OK with it at the time.’

‘But afterwards, she changed her mind?’

He glances up, looks away again. ‘Yeah. I said to her, after we’d – you know – done it, that it was over now. Really over. That was when she turned nasty.’

GQ: You know what the school told us, don’t you, Professor Fisher?

MF: [silence]

VE: According to his teacher, Tobin’s been caught out lying several times in the last few months.

MF: [silence]

GQ: On one occasion he lied to get another child into trouble. A child he disliked.

MF: He didn’t realize – it was just a silly mistake – he was confused –

NK: Oh come on – you’re actually taking this playground stuff seriously?

MF: It’s the other children – they make things up to make him look bad –

NK: [quietly]

I don’t think we need to discuss this any further, Marina.

GQ: Was that why you kept telling us you couldn’t remember what happened to the dress? We never could figure that out. But it makes sense now. You were embarrassed to admit just how good a liar your eight-year-old son is.

MF: [silence]

GQ: Though, of course, some kids really do struggle telling lies – they find it hard to concoct stuff because their brains just aren’t wired that way.

MF: [silence]

GQ: Kids with autism, say, or Asperger’s. They have difficulty making things up, just as they have difficulty interacting with other people. If something like that applied to Tobin then, of course, it would be much easier to believe that all those incidents with the other kids really were just ‘misunderstandings’.

MF: [silence]

GQ: You thought that might be the explanation, didn’t you, back then? In fact, you went so far as to have him tested.

* * *

Morgan takes a deep breath. ‘She told me that if I wanted her help – if I wanted a decent reference – then I should do what she wanted. It was entirely up to me, but if I didn’t, well –’

‘What did you say to that?’

He rubs his hand through his hair again. ‘I don’t know – I was all over the place – my career, my research – all that work – I just bottled it – said I’d think it over. I just wanted to buy myself some time.’

‘And after that you went home?’ says Asante.

He nods. ‘Right. And I just sat there for a while, churning it all up. And eventually I went round to see Freya. I felt trapped – I didn’t know what the hell to do.’

‘She must have been angry,’ says Somer. ‘When you told her you’d slept with Fisher. Especially after you refusing to let her into the house. If you had, none of this would ever have happened.’

He makes a face. ‘Don’t think that hasn’t occurred to me. And yeah, she was pretty pissed off with me. But she was absolutely fucking furious with Marina.’

He sits back and looks at them, finally, square in the face. ‘The assault allegation – reporting it to college, to you. The whole thing. It was all Freya’s idea.’

* * *

GQ: According to the teacher, Tobin went through a full developmental assessment earlier this year, at your request.

NK: [to her client]

You never told me that.

GQ: Only it didn’t come up with anything, did it, Professor Fisher? The child psychologist concluded that he does indeed have difficulties socializing with other kids, but it’s not because he has any sort of ‘developmental issue’. It’s far more likely to be a reflection of his home environment, and in particular, his relationship with you –

MF: I absolutely do not accept that. I’m getting another opinion – I’m not about to take the word of some local authority second-rater –

GQ: According to the professionals, Tobin is highly intelligent, but extremely anxious, especially when separated from you. He has problems interacting with strangers, and coping with negative emotions, even to the point of aggression.

NK: I haven’t got a clue what you’re on about –

GQ: Oh, I think you’ll find Professor Fisher does. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.

* * *

In the adjoining room, Gislingham is staring at the screen. ‘She was so bloody convincing,’ he says, half to himself. ‘I bought the whole thing.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up too much,’ says Gow, making a note. ‘I’ve come across subjects like her before.’

‘No wonder the kid is so messed up,’ says the CPS lawyer darkly. ‘Poor little sod.’

‘’Fraid so,’ says Gow with a sigh. ‘Motherhood’s one thing even those machines of hers can’t fake.’

* * *

GQ: [picks up a sheet of paper]

‘Anxious attachment is usually the result of inconsistent, erratic or absent parenting. Such children become highly insecure and over-focused on the parent in question, which manifests itself in clinging and suspicious responses, and a willingness to do almost anything to please that parent and secure their attention.’

‘Almost anything’, Professor Fisher. Including, I suggest, a willingness to lie. If Mummy asked him to.

MF: [angrily]

Tobin was never diagnosed with that.

GQ: No, he wasn’t. Not officially. But only because you withdrew him from the assessment before that could happen. But it would certainly tally with everything our team has seen of him over the last week or so. As well as everything we’ve learnt of his behaviour in the past. Because this has happened before, hasn’t it? He’s lied for you before.

MF: What the hell are you talking about?

VE: Does the name Sebastian Young ring any bells?

* * *

‘I thought it was crazy – that we’d never pull it off – but Freya said we just had to be clever. She said Marina always assumed she was the smartest person in the room, but we could play her at her own game.’

Asante and Somer exchange a glance.

‘So what did that involve, exactly?’

‘Freya said that even if we reported an assault straight away it would be hours before the police got to question Marina. That there was no way she wouldn’t have showered by then, and I’d used a condom anyway, so there’d be no proof we’d actually had sex.’

‘And Freya helped you?’ says Somer. ‘To fabricate the evidence – preserve DNA in the right places and get rid of the rest?’

He nods. He looks uncomfortable.

‘It was a big risk, though, wasn’t it?’ says Asante. ‘How did you know Marina wouldn’t just tell us straight out that the two of you had been having an affair?’

But Somer’s shaking her head. ‘No. They knew what they were doing. They knew she’d never do that – she’d risk losing her job.’

Morgan looks at her and then away. His cheeks are flushed.

‘That’s right, isn’t it, Caleb?’

GQ: You know who we’re talking about, right? Sebastian Young? He’s the one who signed that fancy NDA Ms Kennedy here drew up for you. But just in case you need reminding –

[pushes a photograph across the table and points at it]

Keeping on top of your work, eh?

NK: Oh, please –

GQ: Marina Imogen Fisher, I am arresting you on suspicion of sexual assault against Sebastian James Young, on or about 20th November 2016. 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.

* * *

‘Look,’ says Morgan, ‘I’m sorry, OK? We shouldn’t have done it.’

‘No,’ says Somer heavily. ‘You absolutely shouldn’t have.’

He slumps back in his chair, throws up his hands. ‘I just didn’t know what else to do. She was using me – abusing her position –’

‘That’s not the point. It’s perverting the course of justice.’

‘And now you’re telling me she’s done this before?’

Somer sits forward. ‘You say she was abusing her power – why didn’t you just report her for that? Tell the college what was going on?’

He makes a sardonic face. ‘And say what, precisely?’

‘That she was blackmailing you into having sex with her, for a start.’

He scoffs. ‘Yeah, right. They were definitely going to believe that.’

* * *

MF: This is crazy – I didn’t assault Sebastian, any more than I assaulted Caleb. And you know I didn’t do that – you said yourselves –

GQ: [points at the photograph]

Perhaps. But we do ‘know’ you did this.

MF: [takes a breath]

Look – it was just that once and it was a huge mistake. It should never have happened.

GQ: I think we can all agree on that.

MF: You don’t understand. I was really struggling at the time. The relationship I was in had just broken up. I was lonely, vulnerable. And then there was the divorce, I’d just hit forty, it was all just – overwhelming. But I know that’s no excuse – I should never have let myself get drawn in.

VE: You’re saying he seduced you?

MF: [irritated]

Yes, of course he seduced me. What sort of person do you think I am? And then that horrible girlfriend of his marches in and takes that wretched picture and it all turned into a complete bloody nightmare. That’s why I needed an NDA – that girl was blackmailing me – threatening to release the picture to the department, the University –

GQ: So you gave her a dose of her own medicine? Said you’d go to the police and tell them some cock-and-bull story about Zoe grooming Tobin?

MF: [flushes]

It wasn’t like that.

[looking from one officer to the other]

Don’t look at me like that – I’m telling the truth –

GQ: But you got Tobin to lie, didn’t you? That story he told Sebastian Young about being groomed – none of that was true.

MF: But –

GQ: You coached him.

MF: Yes, I suppose, if you put it like that. But just to get them to back off. I’d never have taken it any further. Look, can’t you understand? I didn’t have any choice – I was going to lose my job – my position – everything I’d worked for –

NK: And might I remind you that whatever might have happened then, it doesn’t mean Tobin isn’t telling the truth now.

VE: [silence]

Shall I tell you what I think is the truth?

MF: [looks away]

VE: I think you and Caleb Morgan had sex that night. Straightforward, consensual sex. And it wasn’t the first time, either. So when Morgan came forward and accused you of assault, you were completely thrown – what on earth was he playing at? You couldn’t tell us what really happened because you couldn’t admit you were sleeping with a student, so the only option was to hope it would all just go away. And you’re clever, you worked out pretty quickly that it would only ever be he said/she said. All you had to do was tough it out. Tell us you couldn’t remember. Because there’s no way we could prove it one way or the other, right?

MF: No – that’s not what happened. I never slept with him, never –

VE: But then you were outed on Twitter and everything changed. Your career was on the line now. It wasn’t just the Morgan relationship, either – it could all come out about Sebastian Young as well. You had to do something. So you did exactly what you did the first time round, with Sebastian. You turned the tables. Played Caleb Morgan at his own game.

MF: No – I didn’t –

VE: You made yourself into the victim. But you had to be clever about how you did it. You couldn’t just turn round and start making accusations against Morgan – it had to be a lot subtler than that. You needed us to think we’d worked it out – that us ‘second-rate’ minds had actually managed to crack the case.

MF: [shaking her head]

This is madness.

VE: All that time you’d been claiming you couldn’t remember, hoping it would all go away – it’s only now you realized what a fabulous get-out-of-jail card that could be.

MF: It’s not a claim – it’s the truth.

VE: A date-rape drug. What could be simpler?

MF: No – no –

VE: You’re a scientist – you knew how quickly those things metabolize, so forensics wouldn’t be a problem. But you couldn’t plant the idea yourself. To be really credible, it had to come from somewhere else. And who better than an innocent eight-year-old boy? You used your own son. After all, you knew he’d be convincing. He’d lied for you before.

MF: [becoming distressed]

VE: You told him what to say – what story to tell. You told him about the red dragon –

MF: [looking from one officer to the other]

Dragon? What dragon?

VE: You told him to say Morgan was ‘hurting’ you – that your dress was up over your waist, that you were all ‘floppy’ and ‘sleepy’. You planted those ideas in your son’s mind, you made him see those pictures in his head –

MF: [extremely distressed now]

No – I never said anything about any of that – I was raped – he raped me –

NK: That’s enough, Constable.

* * *

Morgan’s lawyers are on their feet now, collecting papers, surreptitiously checking their phones.

‘So you understand, Mr Morgan?’ says Somer, forcing his attention. ‘We’ll need to talk to the CPS, but I doubt they’ll decide to take any further action against you. If so, you’ll be issued with a formal caution.’

‘Don’t worry, Caleb,’ says Melia. ‘We’ll talk you through all that.’

‘It’s not a get-out-of-jail card,’ continues Somer, making him look at her. ‘It’s serious. And it has consequences – you do understand that?’

Morgan hesitates a moment then nods. ‘Yeah, I understand.’

* * *

In the adjoining room, Gislingham turns to the CPS prosecutor. ‘What do you think – should we interview Tobin again – see if we can get him to admit that his mother told him what to say?’

The lawyer sighs. ‘I doubt it’s worth the effort – no jury is going to believe that child now.’

She starts to pack her notebooks into her bag. ‘And the physical evidence is all over the place – the whole case is a complete morass.’

Gow glances up, raises his eyebrows. Evidently he agrees.

‘Let her sweat a bit,’ says the lawyer, ‘then let her go.’

Gis frowns. ‘He gets a caution and a criminal record, but she goes scot-free?’

‘He admitted what he did. She’s denying it, and we can’t prove it. It’s all circumstantial.’

‘We could contact her other students – say we’re investigating sexual assault allegations and ask anyone with information to contact us?’

The lawyer nods. ‘I don’t have any problem with you doing that. It may help keep the press off your backs, if nothing else. But unless someone else comes forward with a case that will actually stand up in court, I’m afraid this is a non-starter.’

‘So she just gets away with it.’

The prosecutor gives him a heavy look. ‘You think having her name dragged through the dirt and wrecking her career is “getting away with it”?’

Gis considers. ‘Well, I guess if you put it that way …’

* * *

Dave King presses pause on his tablet screen and turns to Ruth Gallagher.

‘It’s enough, right?’ he says. ‘Enough to nail him?’

She frowns. ‘Play it again.’

She’s already seen the CCTV footage three times, and she’s rarely seen evidence so incontrovertible. That’s not what’s holding her back. It’s the look on the face of the man who’s showing it to her. There’s been a zeal, almost a fanaticism, about King these last few days that’s made her increasingly uneasy. No police officer should be that elated about bringing down one of their own – whatever he’s supposed to have done.

King starts the footage again. She can see how hard he’s working not to betray his impatience. There’s a little vein pulsing in the side of his neck.

The camera is from one of the flats on the corner of William Lucy Way, looking straight at Walton Well Road. The bridge is out of range to the left, but you can see anything – and anyone – heading towards it. Including the car that passes at speed at 01.09 on Tuesday 10 July, fifteen minutes before a team of Network Rail engineers will spot a body falling on to the northbound line.

‘That stretch of road is a dead end,’ says King, as if Gallagher didn’t already know. ‘And with all the parked cars it’s too narrow for a three-point. He had to go down to the car park by Port Meadow to turn round.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Just a pity the tosser who put up the camera didn’t stick it somewhere where we could see the sodding reg number.’

On the screen, the road is now deserted. No passers-by, no other vehicles. No signs of life at all until 01.31, when the car reappears going in the opposite direction, heading back fast towards town. Gallagher swallows. She knows what this man just did. And what he had in that car.

King freezes the image. It’s impossible to see who’s driving, but the car itself is clear enough.

It’s a dark-blue Ford Mondeo.

* * *

The day is still stifling but the sky has clouded. The air is thickening with approaching thunder and despite the high ceilings and long windows, the sitting room at St Luke Street feels grey, oppressive. On the sofa, Marina clutches her sobbing son on her lap, like some ghastly perversion of a Madonna and Child.

‘It’s not fair!’ he wails. ‘They said I was lying but I wasn’t!’

‘I know you weren’t, darling,’ she whispers, rocking him against her. ‘I know you weren’t.’

‘I saw him, Mummy! I saw him! I saw him!’

‘I know, sweetheart, I know.’

His sobs stutter, turn to gasps. He sits back and looks at her. ‘Then why –?’

She strokes his hair, her own eyes filling with tears now. ‘It’s like that sometimes, darling – it’s not fair and it can break your heart, but people don’t always believe you. Even if you are telling the truth.’

* * *

‘So you’re going to charge him?’ says Harrison. He has his jacket off and his shirt sleeves rolled up. Safe to say he’s feeling the heat, whichever way you look at it.

‘Yes, sir,’ says Gallagher. ‘We need to put the new evidence to him in interview first, but the CPS are confident that the case against DI Fawley is now very sound.’

‘I gather we have DS King to thank for that.’

She frowns slightly; even if that were true, King had no business talking to Harrison behind her back. ‘Actually, sir, it was DC Asante who tracked the footage down. He knows the area around the bridge and thought it likely some of the residents would have their own security systems. And he was right.’

Harrison looks up. ‘Really? Asante? Getting off his backside and using his initiative, eh? We could do with a bit more of that round here, frankly.’

‘Yes, sir. Though I suspect he isn’t feeling much like celebrating. He clearly thought it would be Hugh Cleland’s car we found on that footage.’

‘Ah – tricky.’

‘But I’ll speak to him – pass on your comments.’

‘Yes, do that.’ He sits back, frowns again. ‘Meanwhile –’

‘Meanwhile, Adam Fawley will be charged this afternoon – the press office would rather we didn’t do it any earlier as they’d prefer he didn’t go before the magistrate until tomorrow morning. Give them as much time as possible to man the barricades.’

‘Yes, well, I can’t imagine they’re exactly thrilled by the prospect.’

Gallagher grimaces. ‘They can’t say they didn’t know it was a possibility.’

He gives her a knowing look. ‘Believe me, Ruth, you can never do too much prep for a shitstorm like this.’

Above their heads, there’s a rumble of thunder. The symbolism is painful.

Harrison sits back. ‘And as if having one of our own DIs up for rape and murder wasn’t enough, there’s now this other little matter.’

‘The timing is certainly unfortunate. But if you’re happy with how I propose to deal with it –’

‘Yes, yes,’ he says curtly. ‘Whatever it takes as long as it’s out of my in tray. And off the front page of the bloody Oxford Mail.’

* * *

Gislingham clears his throat. ‘So you understand that by accepting a caution you are admitting to attempting to pervert the course of justice?’

Morgan nods.

‘And that this information could be revealed as part of a criminal record check and might affect your ability to travel to certain jurisdictions?’

Another nod. He’s starting to look impatient.

‘And you’re happy you’ve received appropriate legal advice and understand the full implications –’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says tetchily, ‘let’s just get it over with.’

Sergeant Woods exchanges a dry look with Gislingham and passes Morgan the form.

‘Sign here, please.’

* * *

The atmosphere in the CID office is as changed as the weather. After the adrenaline high of the last hour they’re all going a bit cold turkey. Except Quinn, of course, who’s nowhere to be seen. Probably wandering the corridors, thinks Ev, hoping he’ll ‘accidentally’ run into Harrison and be able to bask in the warmth of his appreciation. Though she has to admit Quinn deserves his pat on the back this time. His intuition about Tobin was what unlogged the jam. But when they’re handing out the plaudits she hopes Gis gets a look-in too: he’s handled this minefield of a case really well, and almost entirely without benefit of DI.

So when she looks up a few minutes later and sees the DS standing in the doorway she’s momentarily thrown. Because he’s frowning. Really frowning, in a way he hardly ever does.

‘I thought that went pretty well,’ she begins, only to falter because he’s shaking his head.

‘It’s not that. It’s Gallagher. She wants to see you. Now.’

But it’s not Ev he’s looking at. It’s Somer.

* * *

‘Ah, DC Somer, come in. And close the door, please.’

Gallagher sits back in her chair. It’s hard to read her face. She has a track record of supporting junior female officers, as Ev and Somer well know, but right now there’s a thin grim line between her brows. A line that says unease, as much as it says displeasure.

‘DS King says you threw coffee in his face. Scalding-hot coffee. What the hell were you thinking? He’d have every right to pursue you for ABH – I assume you do know that?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ says Somer. She’s staring at the floor, her body rigid.

Gallagher frowns. ‘DC Somer – Erica – I know you. Or at least I thought I did. You’re astute, thoughtful, the very opposite of impulsive. I can quite easily see DC Quinn flipping a latte at someone in a fit of pique, but you?’

Somer bites her lip. She can feel tears prickling the back of her throat, but she will not cry, she will not cry –

Gallagher’s still staring at her. ‘Help me out here, will you, because I just don’t get it.’

Somer takes a breath. ‘DS King made a derogatory remark. I just – reacted.’

Gallagher’s frown deepens. ‘A remark about you?’

Somer shakes her head. ‘No. About my boyfriend. About when they worked together.’

Gallagher is taken aback. ‘Worked together? When was this?’

Somer can feel her cheeks going hot. Sweat is seeping down her back. ‘I don’t know.’

Gallagher just looks baffled now. ‘But surely you’ve checked with – Giles, isn’t it? What does he say?’

Somer’s cheeks are burning. ‘I haven’t spoken to him about it.’

Gallagher sighs. There’s clearly more to this than she feels comfortable prising out. ‘Well, for what it’s worth, I know for a fact that DS King has never worked either with or for Hants Police. In any case, there must be some sort of misunderstanding at the root of this, because DS King says you were discussing the Emma Smith case at the time –’

She stops; Somer suddenly has her hand to her mouth, swallowing, as if she’s trying not to be sick.

‘I think, ma’am,’ she says quietly, ‘I think I may have got it wrong. What DS King said, I think it must have been about DI Fawley.’

‘DI Fawley? But why? He’s not your boyfriend –’ Gallagher stops, counts to ten, then takes a deep breath. ‘Unless you’re trying to tell me there’s been something going on between you two?’

Somer is shaking her head vigorously and looking her, finally, in the eye. ‘No. There isn’t and there never has been. But, a few months back, there were rumours – some people thought –’ She makes a sad, despairing gesture. ‘He’d supported me – brought me into CID – so they thought we were – you know.’

Gallagher nods slowly; she knows, all right. Not about this specifically, but how common ‘this’ still is. The casual assumption – even by people who’d never think of themselves as sexist – that an attractive and ambitious woman must be using the one to further the other. She’s faced it enough times in her own career, but she’d been hoping dinosaur attitudes like that were finally dying out.

‘What exactly did DS King say?’

Somer looks up at her again, then drops her gaze. ‘He said he assumed I’d be finishing with him and I could do a lot better. That even if he was a “sodding DI” he was still a bastard.’

Gallagher sighs. Needless to say, King’s story is rather different, though given the way he’s been gunning for Fawley she suspects Somer’s version of events is likely to be closer to the truth. But even if she could prove it, that’s still no excuse for what Somer did.

‘OK,’ she says. ‘This is what’s going to happen. I’ve already spoken to DS King and he’s not minded to resolve this informally, which is regrettable, but unless he has a change of heart, a formal misconduct investigation will have to be instigated.’

Somer drops her head, nods.

‘There’s nothing I can do about that, even if I wanted to. And in any case, Superintendent Harrison has already decided to refer the case to Professional Standards. So what you need to do now is talk to a Police Federation rep as soon as you can – today, if possible. Take them through exactly what happened. All of it, mind – the precise words he used, the assumptions he made – the whole thing. You understand what I’m telling you?’

Somer nods again.

‘I’m not going to recommend suspension –’

Somer gasps – but surely she must have realized it was a possibility?

‘– but I am going to suggest you transfer temporarily to other duties. But right now, this minute, I want you to go home and contact your rep. You look completely bloody exhausted.’

Somer says nothing. There’s something about her demeanour – the deadness of it – that makes Gallagher suddenly wonder –

‘Are you OK, Erica? Is there something I should know – something that might affect your case?’

Somer shakes her head. ‘No, ma’am,’ she says. ‘Nothing at all.’

* * *

Fair to say it’s been a slow news day for Richard Yates at the Oxford Mail. There are only so many ways you can say ‘Phew, what a scorcher’ without actually saying ‘Phew, what a scorcher’, and what with the usual silly season crap, the pickings right now are particularly parched. He sifts idly through the latest crop of press releases but nothing’s popping; another round of Endeavour filming really isn’t cutting it as ‘news’ these days, and as for the Martin Scorsese honorary degree, he’s already squeezed two bylines out of that and his suggestion for a vox pop at the station cab rank was well and truly spiked (‘That’s enough Taxi Driver references, Ed’, as his editor took great delight in scrawling on Yates’s message pad).

He sits back in his desk chair and swings it idly from side to side. His mobile starts to ring, but he doesn’t exactly jump to it. The way today’s going, it’s probably his mum.

‘Dick, old mate, how are you?’

There’s only one person who calls him that. It fucks him off every time, but he bites his tongue because of who this bloke is.

‘You got something for me?’

‘Off the record, right? Really off. Because if it gets out you got this from me, they’ll have my arse.’

Yates sits forward, scoop feelers on full alert. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says as casually as he can muster. ‘When have I ever dumped on you?’

There’s a sigh at the other end. ‘OK. Just needed to say it, right?’

Yates pulls his notebook towards him. ‘So what’ve you got?’

‘Emma Smith. We’ve charged someone.’

‘That forty-six-year-old bloke you arrested?’

‘Right. We won’t be making an announcement but he’ll be up before the beak first thing tomorrow, so make sure you’re down there waiting, OK? And take a bloody photographer.’

Yates is writing furiously. ‘You think he’s definitely your man?’

No mistaking the self-satisfaction at the other end. ‘Oh yeah, he’s our man, all right. But it’s not that. It’s who he is. Seriously, mate, this is hold-the-fucking-front-page territory.’

Yates grasps the phone a bit tighter. ‘You going to give me a heads-up or just be a bloody prick-tease?’

‘If I do, you can’t break it early, right? You’ll have to wait for the court list. Security on this one is as tight as a duck’s backside.’

‘Yeah, yeah –’

A low laugh. ‘Let’s just say you could do worse than mugging up on the life and career of one Adam John Fawley.’

Yates frowns; he knows that name. Every reporter in this city knows that name. ‘Hang on, are you seriously telling me –’

‘Too right, mate. That’s exactly what I’m telling you. The bastard who raped and murdered Emma Smith? It was Detective Inspector Adam Fawley.’

* * *

‘I wanted Cheerios,’ says Ben, standing by the open cupboard. He’s just back from his bike ride, sweaty, dusty and in quest of quick carbs. ‘But we’ve run out.’

Nell Heneghan glances across from the sink. ‘I’m sure we haven’t, darling. I only got another packet a couple of days ago.’

Ben is standing his ground. ‘We’ve run out,’ he says in martyred tones, ‘because Auntie Alex keeps eating them. They’re supposed to be for me.’

Nell smiles. ‘I told you, didn’t I – pregnant ladies sometimes have weird cravings. I stuffed myself with pickled onions when I was carrying you – I’ve never been able to eat a single one since. Auntie Alex just happens to fancy Cheerios right now, OK? It’s not a problem – there’s plenty to go round.’

‘No,’ says Ben stolidly. ‘There isn’t.’

Nell’s slightly nettled now. ‘You’re probably just not looking properly.’

Like his father, like her father. It’s one of those bloke things.

Ben’s still not moving, so she puts down the potato peeler with an audible sigh and goes over to the larder. But three frustrated minutes later she has to concede defeat.

‘Can’t you have something else? I can make toast – there’s Nutella –’

Ben’s the one frowning now. ‘But what about tomorrow? What about breakfast?’

Nell checks her watch. She could nip out now and be back in time to get the food on, and then go and collect Nicky from judo. And Gerry should be back in twenty minutes.

‘OK,’ she says, ‘I’ll pop down to Tesco to get some. Can you keep an eye on Auntie Alex while I’m gone?’

He shrugs. ‘I can’t. She’s got the door closed.’

‘Don’t be so literal, darling. You know what I mean. I’ll just pop up and tell her before I go. And in the meantime, the toaster’s over there if you’re on the brink of death.’

She tousles his hair, gets an annoyed shrug for her pains, then turns and goes upstairs.

There’s no sound from the spare room and Nell hesitates at the door. Because what Ben said has rekindled her own concern. Alex has been acting oddly all day – in fact, she’s been acting oddly ever since last night. She hardly ate anything, just kept fiddling with her tablet, which really got on Gerry’s nerves, because they don’t let the boys bring devices to the table. And she didn’t appear for breakfast at all. Nell’s been up twice with cups of tea, but Alex just called out that she was fine and would be down soon. Nell knows her sister is a private person – that she’s acutely embarrassed about taking up space in the house and getting in the way – but this is getting ridiculous.

‘Alex?’ she says, knocking firmly this time. ‘I’m just nipping out to the shops. Do you need anything?’

Silence.

Nell’s heart quickens – privacy is one thing but her sister is pregnant, very pregnant –

She hesitates one second more, then grips the handle and opens the door.

* * *

The pub is busy. It may be Monday but it’s hot, and it’s the holidays, and the place is heaving, though the first fat drops of rain dropping on to the scorching tarmac have scuttled people back to the gloom inside, where the loud drinks in primary colours with straws and umbrellas now look ludicrously, endearingly out of place.

Despite the rain, the door’s wedged open to get what passes for fresh air on the Banbury Road, and there’s a slight blonde woman standing at the threshold. And she’s not just looking for a way to stay dry – she’s intent, scanning the crowd. The light is behind her and the room dark, so it’ll probably take a few moments for your eyes to adjust. But you’ll recognize her soon enough.

She starts to move now, through the crowd towards a table near the back. There are two young people sitting there already, a young man and woman talking in low voices, their heads and bodies close together. He has a white T-shirt and an angular hawk-like tattoo on his left forearm that you’ve seen somewhere before. As for the girl, she has her auburn hair in a tiny ponytail …

There’s a bottle of wine on the table and three glasses. When they look up, you can see the expectation in their eyes.

The blonde girl dumps her bag and sits down.

‘It’s done,’ she says, the words coming in a rush of breath. ‘He just called from the police station. They’re giving him a caution, and he says I’ll probably get one too, but that’s it – nothing more. It’s over. Pour me a bloody drink, will you, Sebastian – I fucking need one.’

The other two are looking at each other; triumph on her face, relief on his.

‘You aced it, Freya,’ says the girl, holding out her glass for wine. ‘We seriously owe you one.’

‘It’s Caleb you should be thanking, not me.’

‘Thank God he’s only getting a caution– I mean, after they arrested him and everything –’

Freya nods. ‘I know – I was really worried for a moment back there. I thought the whole thing might be going to shit.’

‘And you’re sure the cops didn’t suspect anything?’ begins the man tentatively. ‘Because if they worked out me and Caleb knew each other from rugby, they’d work it all out –’

Zoe frowns. ‘Oh, stop being such a girl, Seb. Why would they even think that? And we scrubbed our phones – there won’t be anything there even if they go looking. Which they won’t.’

He makes a face. ‘OK, OK, sorry. I just feel a bit of a shit, that’s all. I mean, yes, Marina did make up that crap about the grooming, but only because of that picture – because she was scared. And as for the sex, I mean, you know how much I wish it had never happened, but it just did – she never forced me – she was just upset –’

‘Well, she forced Caleb,’ says Freya quickly, glaring at him. ‘Remember?’

She stares at him, holding his gaze. After a moment he drops his eyes. ‘I still don’t know why you needed to drag me in.’

‘Because no one would have believed us otherwise,’ she insists. ‘It would just have been her word against Caleb’s. There had to be another victim to make them take us seriously. Especially after she got that bloody kid to lie for her.’

Zoe shakes her head. ‘Jesus, Freya, I’m so sorry – I never thought she’d dare do that again.’

‘And we agreed, remember,’ says Freya, still staring at Sebastian, ‘that night, after it happened? All four of us: you, me, Zo, Caleb. We had to do something, right? Once was bad enough – but twice? You can’t do that – you can’t just go around screwing other people’s boyfriends and expect there to be no comeback. She had to be stopped.’

Zoe reaches out and touches Sebastian on the arm. ‘She was a class-one bitch over that NDA, babe. She practically drove us out of Oxford. Why should she get away with that?’

‘And what if it was the other way round?’ says Freya quickly. ‘What if it’d been Zo and a male tutor – what would you say then – would you think that was OK?’

Sebastian is still staring down at his wine.

‘Because it’s no bloody different,’ says Freya. ‘She’s in a position of power and that means that what she did was abuse. Abuse of Caleb and abuse of you – whether you think she “forced” you or not. The only person who’s done anything wrong here is her and she’s finally going to get what she deserves.’

She raises her glass and the other girl follows, and then, after a moment, Sebastian does too.

‘To revenge,’ says Zoe.

‘To justice,’ says Freya.

* * *

It’s obvious why Alex didn’t answer Nell’s knock. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed in her pyjamas, earphones in, staring at her laptop, making notes on a counsel’s pad. Her hair is straggly and she clearly hasn’t showered.

‘Alex,’ cries Nell, ‘for God’s sake, you’re not working? This is crazy – after everything the doctor said –’

Alex looks up. Her cheeks are flushed, but she doesn’t look unwell – she looks excited, wired.

‘Nell,’ she says, pulling out one earphone. But only one. ‘Sorry. I didn’t hear you.’

Her sister takes a step forward, her face grave. ‘What are you doing?’ She gestures at the laptop, the paper. ‘You’re on leave – you shouldn’t even be thinking about this stuff, never mind –’

Alex cuts across her. ‘I’m fine, Nell, really. And it’s not work. I promise.’

Nell frowns. ‘You should be taking it easy – resting. Remember what the doctor said?’

Alex smiles, placatory. ‘I know – and I’m fine. Really.’ Her hand is already poised to put her earphone back.

‘OK,’ says Nell with a sigh. She knows better than to argue with Alex when she gets in this mood. And at least there’s some colour in her cheeks now. ‘I’m popping out to the shops. I’ll only be half an hour. Ben’s downstairs if you need anything. And Gerry won’t be long.’

But Alex has already gone back to her programme.

Nell stands there for a few more moments, but her sister doesn’t even seem to register her presence. She’s paused the audio and is making another note, underlining something.

Nell reaches for the door and pulls it quietly closed.

* * *

9 July 2018, 9.25 p.m.

62a Shrivenham Close, Headington, Oxford

Despite the heat, she has the doors and windows closed, but it’s not making her feel safe, just even more paranoid. She’s scared all the time now. At home, in the street, on her own, near other people. All the time.

No wonder Amanda dumped her – it must have been like dating a double agent. If they’d known each other better, perhaps she could have told her, but she was too afraid of the look in her eyes, of what she’d say – what everyone would say if they knew. Her friends, her parents, Beth at work. They’d want to be sympathetic, they’d want to believe – of course they would – but the more she said, the more they’d wonder. The more she’d see the doubt in their eyes. Because, yes, something like this happened once before, and she was wrong about it then, and the guy she accused got no end of shit he didn’t deserve. And no, she can’t be totally sure this time either. She’s never seen his face, never really seen him, not properly. Just an impression, a quick movement, a silhouette, always just out of sight, always just out of reach. It’s all shadows and glimpses and bad vibes. Just like last time.

Only this time it’s different. Because this time it’s true.

If only she could believe it was Hugh Cleland. At least that would be logical, something she could explain. But she knows she would be kidding herself. This man – whoever he is – is thinner, slighter, nimbler. And in any case, he’s been stalking her for weeks. Long before it all blew up with the Clelands.

The ring on the doorbell makes her jump. She holds a hand to her chest for a moment, feeling the beat against the bone. For God’s sake, pull yourself together. Just see who it is, OK? You don’t have to open the door. Not unless you want to. Not unless you know them.

She takes a deep breath and goes down the hall, telling herself to walk with purpose, to get a grip. There’s a peephole in the panelling and she puts her hand to the wood, squinting into the glass. Then she straightens up and smiles a little see-you’re-just-overreacting-again smile.

She takes off the chain and opens the door.

* * *

It’s more like forty-five minutes in the end. The storm broke like Niagara while Nell was in the store and the months-dry roads are awash. Even at twenty miles an hour she can barely see where she’s going – the windscreen wipers just can’t work fast enough and the car’s steaming up inside. The sheer effort of driving in a straight line is making her eyes ache. When she finally turns into their road there’s a blur of red and blue lights up ahead. Up ahead, where they live. She frowns. Don’t be stupid, she tells herself sternly. It’s not us, of course it’s not us –

But it is. The ambulance is outside their house, it’s their front door that’s open.

There’s iron in her chest now – not one of the boys – please don’t let it be one of the boys –

She puts her foot down, loses control for a moment, slides sideways, and the car crunches metal.

Shit

Shit shit shit

She stops the car, throws open the door. Two paramedics are manoeuvring a stretcher down the path.

Not one of the boys. Not Gerry –

Alex.

She splashes down the pavement, soaked in seconds, rain running down her face.

The paramedics are lifting the stretcher now, sliding it into position. Alex’s face is white against the pillow, her eyes closed, an oxygen mask pushed over her nose and mouth.

One of the medics turns and sees her, frowns a little. ‘Are you the sister? She was asking for you.’

‘What happened?’ gasps Nell. ‘Is she OK?’

‘Her waters broke. All happened very suddenly apparently. Your son called us. Just as well he did. Bit of a responsibility though, for such a young kid.’

The frown explains itself now. Nell swallows. Oh my God, this is all my fault. What sort of mother leaves a heavily pregnant woman alone with an eleven-year-old child?

‘My husband was on his way,’ she stammers. ‘Isn’t he here?’

The man shrugs. ‘Got held up. So your son said.’

The other paramedic steps down and nods to her colleague. Nell darts forward and peers up into the back through the rain.

‘Alex? It’s me – everything’s going to be fine, OK? I’ll follow as soon as I can.’

Alex opens her eyes and tries to sit up, reaching out desperate hands, trying to say something, but the second medic is already closing the doors.

‘We need to get moving,’ says the woman. ‘I’m worried about her heart rate – the baby could be in distress.’ And then, to Nell, ‘She asked you to get a message to her husband.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Nell says as they walk back round to the cab. ‘Tell her I will –’

The engine starts up and she takes a step back, blinking away tears. This baby, this longed-for baby, is finally coming and her sister is going to the hospital alone. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

* * *

9 July 2018, 9.26 p.m.

He smiles at her. She has no interest in men, but she can see why other women might go for him. The dark hair, the hazel eyes. She finds herself thinking – irrelevantly – that he’d probably look pretty good in a suit; he doesn’t look that bad even in an old trackie top and joggers.

‘Hi,’ he says.

* * *

Ben is standing white-faced on the doorstep, watching as the ambulance pulls away.

‘Is she going to be OK?’ he asks in a small voice.

Nell reaches out and puts an arm around his shoulders, faking a confidence she doesn’t feel.

‘Of course she is. And apparently I have a hero for a son – phoning for the ambulance like that. Well done, you.’

His lip is trembling a little. ‘She just asked me to phone 999. I didn’t really do anything.’

She squeezes his shoulder. ‘Yes, you did. And she’ll be really grateful. Just you wait.’

He hangs his head. ‘It was horrible, Mum. She was breathing funny, and it really hurt, I could tell, and the bed was all wet –’

She grasps him to her, stroking his back. ‘It’s OK, darling,’ she whispers. ‘I know it looks frightening if you haven’t seen it before, but that’s just what happens when a baby is coming.’

He’s trying not to cry. She kisses the top of his head. ‘You were very brave and I am very proud of you. And I’m so so sorry I wasn’t here.’

He sniffs, pulls away. ‘It’s OK.’ He smiles, a little wobbly. ‘It was my fault, wanting the Cheerios.’

She puts her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh Lord, I left the car running.’ She glances down the street – the car’s door is open and the lights on, but at least someone hasn’t nicked it. Gerry’s going to be pissed off enough about the prang. It would have to be the Wilders’ SUV, now wouldn’t it.

‘I’m just going to get the shopping –’

She’s turning to go when Ben grabs her sleeve. ‘She wanted you to phone someone called Gislingham. She wrote down his number.’

‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she says, turning her collar up against the rain. ‘I’ll do it as soon as I’ve sorted the car.’

‘No,’ he says, surprisingly insistent. ‘She said it was urgent – it’s about Uncle Adam being arrested.’

She starts; the children weren’t supposed to know about that. Not yet, anyway. Not while there’s still some hope it’s all just some ghastly misunderstanding.

‘She made me promise,’ Ben’s saying. ‘She said she’s found something out.’

She stares at him. ‘What are you talking about? Found out? Found out what?’

He looks down, shrugs. ‘I don’t know. She said it was too difficult to explain. But it was all on her notepad. That you should look at that. And tell this person Gislingham. She said he’d know what to do.’

She frowns. ‘OK. So you really do think it’s important?’

He looks up at her, his brown eyes serious. ‘Yeah. I think it is.’

* * *

9 July 2018, 9.27p.m.

‘I’m collecting for UNICEF,’ he says, holding out the card he’d held up at the peephole for her to see. ‘The Children of Syria Appeal. Would you consider making –’

‘But I know you, right?’ she says, interrupting him. ‘You run at Shotover, Saturday mornings?’

He starts, then recognition dawns. ‘You helped me out a couple of weeks ago – when that little kid fell over on the path and started screaming the place down? Poor little beggar, heaven only knows where his mum had got to.’

She smiles. ‘I remember – you were really good with him.’

He grins. ‘Had a lot of practice. Not with my own,’ he says quickly. ‘But I’ve had to take care of my brother’s kids. You know, when he couldn’t be around.’

His face had become serious, but he smiles again now. ‘How about that? Coincidence, eh?’

She holds out her hand for the charity envelope. ‘If you wait here a minute, I’ll go and get my purse.’

* * *

When Gislingham’s phone goes, he’s standing at the coffee machine, trying to work out the least-worst option. Needs must: it’s definitely not a day to be going outside. He stares at the screen, frowns. He doesn’t recognize the number.

‘DS Gislingham – hello?’

He can’t make out what she’s saying at first – it’s all in a rush, and breathless, and half panicked – but when he gets her to slow down, the first word that registers is a name.

Adam.

* * *

9 July 2018, 9.45 p.m.

RAGE

Rage and fear and frustration at her idiocy, her absolute and total stupidity

How could she have been so bloody naive?

She shouldn’t have had that wine

She shouldn’t have opened the door

He knew she wouldn’t let him in – not unless she recognized him, not unless she knew his face

He made her think he was harmless – he made her think he was like her – a runner – someone who cares about kids

The UNICEF envelope, Shotover, that charade with the boy – all of it – it was all deliberate

He wasn’t running there by accident all those weeks – he was there because she was

How long has he been planning this?

She struggles again, trying to dislodge the gag, loosen her wrists, her ankles. Whatever he’s tied her with is soft against her skin but wire underneath. It will not move.

She can hear him now, in the bathroom, in the bedroom. The jangle of hangers, the slide of drawers. Fingering her things with those horrible latex gloves. He was in here earlier, laughing to himself

Reading her diary – laughing at his own cleverness – seeing just how pathetic she is, how stupid, how scared

She has no idea who this man is, but he’s been three steps ahead of her right from the start

And now –

Now it’s too late

* * *

‘Ma’am, can I have a word?’

Ruth Gallagher looks up. Gislingham, at her office door. He looks agitated.

She waves him in. ‘What is it, Chris?’

She gestures at the chair but he doesn’t take it. He has a piece of paper in his hand.

‘I need to get a message to Fawley – they said you’d charged him?’

She sighs. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, I should have told you. We’ve had new evidence – CCTV from Walton Well.’

He frowns. ‘I didn’t think there were cameras on the bridge?’

‘There aren’t. But there are some on the flats on William Lucy Way. It was Asante who worked it out –’

He gapes. ‘Asante? You got the evidence to charge Fawley from Asante?’

She looks a little embarrassed. ‘Yes, it’s rather awkward – I don’t think that was what he hoped –’

But he’s moved on. ‘Forget it – this isn’t about that. I just had a call from Nell Heneghan – she’s Fawley’s sister-in-law. His wife has gone into labour.’

Gallagher looks concerned. ‘That’s a bit early, isn’t it?’

He makes a face. ‘Yeah, way too early.’

She sits forward and reaches for her phone. ‘Newbury custody suite, please. Hello – is that the Custody Sergeant? It’s DI Gallagher, Major Crimes. Can you arrange for a squad car to take DI Fawley to the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford. As soon as possible, please. Yes, the maternity suite. Tell him his wife is in labour, but that’s all the information I have at present.’

She puts the phone down.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ says Gislingham. But he isn’t moving.

‘Was there something else, Sergeant?’

‘Alex – Mrs Fawley – you probably know – she’s a lawyer.’

She nods. ‘Yes, I did know that.’

He looks half embarrassed now. ‘Well, according to her sister, Mrs Fawley thinks she found something. About the Parrie case.’

Gallagher frowns. ‘What, exactly?’

‘That’s just it. I’m not sure. And neither is Nell. Alex didn’t get a chance to tell her. Just left a message to look on her notepad.’

He puts the sheet of paper down on her desk.

‘Nell took a photo and WhatsApped it to me.’

The image is slightly off centre, as if taken in a hurry. Words and phrases, single letters, underlinings, circlings, arrows, question marks. Ruth looks up at Gislingham.

‘How on earth are we supposed to make head or tail of this? It’s just a load of random jottings.’

Gislingham pulls out a chair and sits down, pulling the paper round so they can both see.

‘Not all of it,’ he says. ‘See this here, Ep? That must mean “episode”. I think Alex has been listening to that podcast about Parrie. The Whole Truth one.’ He points, ‘TWT, see?’

‘Ye gods, I can’t imagine anything I’d want to avoid more. Especially if I was one of his victims.’

Gislingham nods. ‘Me too. But if that’s what she’s been doing, perhaps there’s something in it – something new? She wouldn’t have been in court for the whole trial – perhaps she’s found out something she didn’t know before? Maybe even something we didn’t know before?’

Gallagher looks up at Gislingham. ‘She may have been listening to the podcast, but it’s not the Roadside Rapes she’s interested in. This is the Smith case.’

Alex Fawley is looking for a way to get her husband off. Gallagher sighs; not all that again. Just when she thought everybody had moved on. Though judging from the look on Gislingham’s face, that’s everybody minus at least one.

‘I’m not sure what she thought she could achieve,’ she says heavily. ‘I’m sure she’s a very good lawyer, but she can’t possibly know the case in enough detail to draw any conclusions.’

Gis shrugs. ‘I don’t know, it looks to me like she’s going about it pretty much the same way we’ve done.’ He points. ‘Transport, tag, DNA – the logic’s there.’

‘As far as it goes,’ says Gallagher drily. ‘Though she doesn’t appear to be aware that we found one of her husband’s pubic hairs in the victim’s vagina.’

‘Yeah, well,’ mutters Gislingham, staring at the floor, ‘she wouldn’t, would she.’

But Gallagher doesn’t seem to have heard him. When he lifts his head she’s looking at the paper, her forehead puckering into a frown. She glances up at him, a question in her eyes. ‘Ryan? Who’s Ryan?’

‘Parrie’s son. Must be twenty-odd now.’

The frown deepens. ‘Looks like there’s something relating to him at the end of episode six?’

They exchange a glance, then Gis gets out his phone. He finds the right page, swipes forward to the last five minutes and puts it on speaker.

‘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 …’

‘A gym,’ says Gislingham. ‘Ryan Powell is working at a bloody gym. Jesus, why didn’t I think of that? How much DNA do you think gets left behind on a bloody gym towel? You just dump the damn things in those bins and don’t give it a second thought. That’s how they framed Fawley –’

‘Hang on, hang on,’ says Gallagher. Though she seems to have gone very pale. ‘You’re jumping to vast conclusions –’

Gislingham’s stabbing at his phone, breathing heavily now. ‘Look,’ he says after a moment, holding it towards her, his hand trembling with purpose. ‘Look – Headington Health and Leisure – HHL – it’s the boss’s gym –’

A line of PT instructors smile out of the screen, neat and tidy in branded polo shirts, by a row of gleaming exercise machines. Rhona Hammond, Daryl Jones, Polly Lewis, Jad Muhammad, Ryan Powell.

A bright, open face, fair hair. He looks clean-cut, honest, genuine. But Gallagher is not fooled.

Gislingham is watching her. ‘That pubic hair you mentioned? The one thing the boss has never been able to explain?’

She looks up. ‘Yes?’

‘If you were trying to filch one of those from someone without them knowing, I can’t think of many better sources than a used gym towel. Can you?’

She opens her mouth, closes it again. Shit, she thinks. Shit.

* * *

Alex watches the doctor standing over the foetal heart monitor. Even with the oxygen, her own pulse is beating so fast she feels light-headed. The midwife has her by the hand, trying to calm her, telling her it’s all going to be fine, but they wouldn’t have called the obstetrician if there wasn’t a problem – they wouldn’t have brought in that machine if they weren’t concerned –

The doctor looks up. ‘The heart rate’s tachycardic,’ she says crisply. ‘Prep for caesarean, please, and notify Theatre Two. We need to get this baby out.’

* * *

‘But even if you’re right about the hair,’ says Gallagher, ‘we still need to check if you can actually transfer viable DNA from a towel –’

Gislingham cuts across her. ‘But it fits, doesn’t it? It all fits.’ He points at the ‘RP’ ringed at the bottom of the page. ‘And it looks like Alex thinks so too.’

‘Do we know if Ryan’s been in contact with his father?’

Gis shakes his head. ‘I don’t, no, but we can easily check. Though from what I know of Parrie, he’ll have found a way to do it that doesn’t leave a trace. Snail mail would be my bet.’

Gallagher looks back at the paper. ‘This point she makes here, about him watching their house –’

Gislingham makes a face. ‘According to Nell, Alex’s been convinced there was someone watching the house for weeks, but everyone kept telling her she was imagining it – that Parrie had a tag so there was no way it could be him.’

Gallagher nods slowly. ‘And they were right. He wasn’t.’

‘No, he wasn’t. But we were all reckoning without his son, weren’t we? He was completely under the radar. Especially if he’s been calling himself Ryan Powell. And if he’s been watching the Fawleys, he’d know a shitload about both of them – where they shop, who their friends are, the fact that the boss goes to Headington Health and Leisure –’

Gallagher takes a deep breath. ‘So he gets himself hired at the same gym – is that what you’re thinking?’

Gis shrugs. ‘Why not? Places like that are always looking for staff. And Alex is right about the car too. It’d be easy enough to rent a Ford Mondeo – there must be hundreds of the bloody things.’

‘And poor Emma Smith just happened to do the wrong thing at the wrong time.’

Gislingham is nodding. ‘Going round to see the Fawleys when Ryan was sat outside, right.’ He sits back again; he looks troubled now. ‘He must have worked out pretty smartish that she was just what they were looking for: a single woman who lived alone and had hardly any friends. The ideal victim.’

Gallagher sighs. That poor woman, she thinks. She was sure someone was stalking her, she just didn’t know why.

Or who.

Gislingham is watching her face. ‘Smith never saw enough to ID him, but Ryan made bloody sure she knew he was there – he wanted her to know.’

Gallagher stares. ‘But why –?’

‘Think about it, ma’am – if you’re scared you’re being stalked and you know a DI, who are you going to ask for advice?’

‘She could have just spoken to him on the phone. There was no guarantee he’d actually go round there.’ She’s saying the words, but it’s just the devil’s advocate kicking in. She knows he’s right.

‘Parrie’s had nigh on twenty years to plan this. He’d have found a way to get Fawley round to that flat sooner or later. Staged a break-in – something.’ He shrugs. ‘And the minute he did turn up – bingo – game on.’

‘So it was Ryan who killed her – is that what you’re saying?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nah. After all those years inside, Parrie’s not going to pass up the chance to do another girl, is he? What was done to Emma, that has him written all over it. Even down to that tiny bit of hair he just couldn’t stop himself taking.’

She gives him a dry look. ‘There’s still the not-so-small matter of the electronic tag. Despite what Alex Fawley says, they really don’t malfunction that often. And as for some sort of conspiracy with his PO, that’s just absurd –’

But Gis is shaking his head. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the bloody tag. Parrie didn’t come to Oxford to kill Emma Smith, because he didn’t need to. He had his evil little shit of a son deliver her straight to his door.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

16 July 2018

18.17

‘Put the bloody siren on, can’t you?’

It’s thirty miles from Newbury nick to the JR – forty minutes on a good day, but it’s not a good day. Rain coming down like iron rods, lorries, vans, tourist buses, bloody people everywhere.

We’ve been stuck at this set of lights for over five minutes now, inching forward, staring an HGV up the arse.

I lean forward. ‘My wife is in labour –’

The two PCs exchange a look and the one in the driving seat reaches for the switch.

The blue light’s blaring now and people are trying to get out of the way, but it’s still too slow, too fucking slow –

I throw myself back in the seat, helpless with anxiety and fear and guilt – because this is all my fault – if Alex loses the baby – if my child dies – it will be all my fault –

The traffic parts suddenly and we jolt forward –

* * *

Gallagher reaches for her keyboard and pulls up the Police National Computer, her heart hammering, trying to stifle the panic, the consequences, cursing King for his fixation with Fawley.

‘Ryan Sean Powell,’ she begins, ‘born 8/10/95 –’ Then her voice trails off. ‘There’s nothing here. He’s clean.’

Gislingham frowns. ‘Nothing at all?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not even a bloody speeding fine.’

‘But it has to be him – it all fits –’

She looks up. ‘On paper, yes – but we have absolutely no evidence.’

‘Not enough for an arrest, but enough to at least talk to him, surely? That’s if he hasn’t bolted – he could be halfway to Florida by now.’

‘Yes,’ she says, the panic surging back, only worse now, because he’s right: it may already be too late. ‘Yes, we can do that – get up to that gym – even if he’s not there, they’ll have an address. And I’ll call Warwickshire – get them over to that hostel.’

Gislingham is almost at the door when she calls him back. ‘Chris?’

He stops and turns.

‘Take someone with you – Asante –’

He looks her straight in the eye. ‘No, ma’am. I’m sorry, but no. I’m taking Quinn.’

* * *

9 July 2018, 10.50 p.m.

She can smell petrol and sweat and her own urine, and underneath it, a thick chemical waft of cleaning fluid. He blindfolded her but she knew where she was, even before the boot thudded shut and the engine started. Her knees bent double against her face, the hot plastic under her sticking to her skin. No room to straighten, to brace against the sides when the car rounds a bend. And he’s driving fast – that much she knows, though she’s lost sense now of how long they’ve been moving. She can’t see, can’t loosen her hands, but she’s trying to feel around behind her – for a tyre iron, a jack, anything she could use. But there’s nothing, nothing at all. The boot is empty. As if the car isn’t even his – as if he hired it – as if he hired it just for this –

Oh God – oh God –

They stop.

The door.

Footsteps.

The boot opens.

A rush of air, of sound. Wind. Trees?

More footsteps.

And a voice.

But it’s not his.

* * *

Gallagher sits back in her chair. She’s still breathing far too fast. It can’t be good for you, this sort of stress. And now she’s stuck here, powerless, waiting for news. If that doesn’t sum up the female dilemma since the dawn of time, she doesn’t know what does. She reaches for the paper Gislingham left behind; anything to deflect some of this useless energy.

Alex’s writing is more familiar now, so it’s easier to detect the clear, methodical thinking under all the apparently haphazard annotations. Gallagher remembers all at once that sudden, almost euphoric release of energy she felt just before her own children were born. The body preparing for labour. Perhaps she’s looking at the fruits of that here.

She’s about to put it down again when something catches her eye. She holds the page a little closer, frowns and changes the angle. Hand-scrawl to photo to printout makes it third-hand imperfect at best, and she could be making something out of nothing. But all the same –

She reaches for her phone.

* * *

Gislingham is stuck in traffic too, crawling yard by yard through the centre of town. Quinn’s drumming his fingers against the windowsill; he hates being driven, even at the best of times. And this is not the best of times.

‘Should have gone the other way,’ he mutters. ‘Rush hour – fucking monsoon – every sodding car in Oxford is on the road.’

Thanks for that, thinks Gislingham, I’d never have worked it out if you hadn’t told me.

His mobile goes and he puts it on speaker.

‘DS Gislingham.’

‘Chris – it’s DI Gallagher –’

‘I’m afraid we’re stuck in traffic, ma’am –’

‘It’s not that. I was just looking at these notes again. Did you print out the whole thing? There’s no chance part of the page could have got missed off?’

Gis glances across at the phone. ‘Don’t think so. Why?’

‘Is there any way I can check?’

Gislingham frowns; Quinn’s taking an interest now too.

‘You could phone Nell Heneghan?’ says Gislingham. ‘I’ll text you her mobile number. And if that’s off they’re probably in the book. His initial’s G and they live in Abingdon.’

He can hear her writing it down. A bus goes past on the other side of the road, arcing water over the front of the car. Quinn swears as the water deluges down the windscreen and Gislingham stands on his brakes.

‘Anything I should know about, ma’am?’ he says, raising his voice slightly.

‘No, no,’ she replies quickly. ‘It may be nothing. But if it isn’t, I’ll let you know.’

The line goes dead.

* * *

‘Alex Fawley – she came in earlier – I’m her sister.’

Nell’s lungs are ragged with running across the water-logged car park and up two sets of stairs. She leans heavily against the reception desk, her heart racing, her hair hanging in rat-tails.

The nurse looks at her kindly. ‘Just catch your breath a minute, love – we don’t want you admitted as well, do we?’

She scans down her screen then looks up. ‘She’s in Room 216 – down the corridor on the left.’

Nell shoots her a thank-you smile and rounds the corner, muttering frenzied prayers to a God she’s never believed in that it will be OK, it will be OK, but Alex is already on a stretcher, being wheeled away, a drip and a mask and machines – too many machines –

‘Oh my God – Alex – Alex!’

She races to catch up with the orderlies.

‘Alex – are you OK?’

Her sister grabs at her hand, her eyes frantic, her voice muffled through the mask. ‘Did you speak to Gislingham?’

‘Yes, yes, I told him – I sent him a picture –’

Alex drops her head back on the pillow and closes her eyes. ‘Gis – thank God –’

‘Are you coming to the delivery room?’ says the orderly. ‘Only we need to keep moving here.’

‘Yes, yes,’ says Nell quickly. ‘I’m coming with her.’

* * *

‘Hello?’

It’s a man who answers. Gallagher can hear other voices in the background. It sounds like the radio. BBC news.

‘Hello – Mr Heneghan? You don’t know me – my name’s Ruth Gallagher – I’m an Inspector at Thames Valley.’

‘Oh yes? What’s this about?’

‘Is your wife there?’

‘Afraid not. She’s at the JR with her sister.’

Of course she is, thinks Gallagher. Of course she is. That’s why her mobile is off.

‘Well, you may be able to help me. Your wife sent a photo to one of our sergeants earlier – Chris Gislingham –’

‘Ah, right, yes, she said something about that. But it was all a bit rushed – I’m afraid she left as soon as I got here so I don’t really know much about it.’

‘The picture was of one of the pages in Mrs Fawley’s notebook. I was hoping to get another shot of it.’

‘Hold on a minute,’ he says. ‘Ben may know more than I do.’

There are scuffling noises the other end, the sound of Gerry calling Ben’s name, and then, eventually, another voice. Younger, softer.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello – Ben, is it? My name’s Ruth. I’m hoping you can help me with something. Your mum took a picture earlier –’

‘Auntie Alex’s notebook.’

‘Yes – exactly. That’s exactly what I mean. I think your mum may have been in a bit of a hurry when she did it and there may be something missing on the photo. At the bottom of the page?’

‘She was worried about Auntie Alex. The ambulance men took her away. They had the lights on.’

You can tell how much that frightened him and Gallagher bites her lip – not the least of her many looming guilts is the effect all this has had on Fawley’s already stressed and vulnerable wife. And if something happens to that baby –

She forces the thought down, tries to sound reassuring.

‘I’m sure everything will be OK. It’s a really good hospital. But it’s important I have another look at that notepad.’

‘Is it about Uncle Adam? I like Uncle Adam.’

And from nowhere there are tears in her eyes. ‘I do too. I like him a lot. That’s why I’m trying to help him.’

‘OK,’ says Ben. Nonchalant now, in one of those on-a-sixpence mood changes children always wrong-foot you with. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Can you get your dad to help you take another picture of the same page? And make sure it includes the whole thing? And then could you please text it to this number?’

She repeats it twice and he writes it down, and she tells him how grateful she is, and how Uncle Adam and Auntie Alex will be too, and by the time she puts the phone down she’s crying for real.

* * *

Headington Health and Leisure is behind the parade of shops on the London Road, not far from the ring road. A tired thirties building obviously chosen solely for the size of its car park. They’ve done their best to drag the exterior into the new millennium but it was always going to be a challenge. Inside, though, it’s a different story. The whole ground floor has been gutted, knocked through and fully sleeked-out with state-of-the-art lighting, funky graphics and a health-food café offering chai lattes and vegan quiche.

Gislingham strides up to the reception desk (‘Ask us how we can help you achieve your personal goals’) and flashes his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Chris Gislingham, Thames Valley Police; this is DC Quinn. I believe you have a member of staff here called Ryan Powell?’

The girl at the desk looks completely terrified. She opens her mouth to say something but no sound comes.

Quinn leans on the counter and puts on his affable face. ‘According to your website, Powell has an abs class starting in fifteen minutes. So I reckon he’s probably around here somewhere, don’t you?’

She swallows, shakes her head. ‘No.’

Gislingham’s eyes narrow. ‘What do you mean “no”?’

‘He’s on holiday.’ She’s flushed red now. ‘Malaga. He’s been there two weeks.’

The men exchange a glance, a glance that quickly turns into a frown as they do the math.

‘Two weeks?’ says Gislingham.

She nods.

‘OK,’ says Quinn slowly. ‘So when exactly did he leave?’

* * *

The text pings in and Gallagher almost sends her mobile skittering on to the floor as she grabs at it. She’s just opening up the image when the phone starts to ring. She sticks it on speaker so she can still see the text.

‘Ma’am, it’s Gislingham.’

She’s too distracted to register his tone. His defeat.

She scrolls down, zooms in – it’s there – she’s right – it wasn’t just a random line, it was an arrow –

Gis is still speaking. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. Ryan Powell didn’t abduct Emma. He had nothing to do with it – he’s been in Spain since July 3rd. We’ll double-check he definitely boarded the flight but he’s sent photos to some of his mates at the gym, so I reckon the alibi’s legit.’

A sigh so loud she can hear it, even over the traffic noise.

‘Back to square one.’

‘No,’ she says, finally listening to him properly. ‘No – we’re not. I think you were right about Ryan. I reckon he may well have been the source of the DNA, but he didn’t take Emma to Leamington and he didn’t dispose of her body. Those initials in Alex’s notes? RP isn’t Ryan Powell. RP is someone else.’

* * *

9 July 2018, 10.55 p.m.

‘Did anyone see you?’

The new voice is different. Rougher. Crueller.

‘No. I was careful. I’ve got pretty good at this, you know.’

‘And you know what you have to do when you get back?’

‘Yeah. It’s all set up, just like you said. And I checked – they’re still doing the works on the line. It was going on all night last night.’

‘Nice one.’

There are hands on Emma now, pulling her roughly up and out, scraping her skin against the metal.

She’s upright but she can’t stand straight, she can’t breathe. The urine runs down her legs and she feels herself go hot with shame.

The second man sneers, ‘Oh bless, I think she’s scared. You were right, she’s fucking perfect. I’m going to enjoy this.’

‘Yeah, well, I owed you one, didn’t I. For not letting on I was with you for that Donnelly bird.’

‘Well, it wasn’t your fault I got framed. And no bloody use both of us getting banged up, either. At least that way you could keep an eye on the kids.’

The click of a lighter, an intake of breath. ‘Talking of which, I got a text from your Ryan. He says Malaga’s even hotter than here.’

‘Blimey, he must be roasting his arse. But it was good timing, him being out of the way. Even Thames fucking Valley can’t fit him up for this if he’s in sodding Spain.’

A long exhalation. ‘You’re overreacting, mate – they’ll never make the connection. No way.’

‘All the same, you don’t think Ryan cottoned on, do you? About the gym? I mean, I wouldn’t want him to think –’

A quick laugh. ‘Nah, no risk of that, bless him. Right little goody-two-shoes, that one. It was as much as I could do to get him to sign me into that place on the QT. He was crapping himself just doing that.’ A laugh now. ‘Shitting hell, Gav, that Fawley is a tedious fucker. Takeaway Friday, shopping Saturday, gym four times a week, same time, same days, even the same fucking machines. Jesus.’

‘Don’t knock it – made it easier to get hold of the stuff, didn’t it?’

Another laugh. ‘Like shooting fish in a fucking barrel.’

‘Right,’ says the second man. Emma feels his grip tightening on her shoulder. ‘So, fancy joining the party? Once more for old times’ sake?’

‘Nah, mate, this one’s all yours. I’ll go for a fag – keep an eye out.’

‘Fair enough. But don’t hurry back. I’m planning to take my time. Reckon I deserve it, don’t you?’

The sound of footsteps now, and then he’s shoving her forward and pushing her face into the hot, dry grass.

* * *

* * *

‘There were two of them?’

Gislingham’s at Gallagher’s desk, staring at the screen on her phone, his sodden suit soaking the seat; behind him, Quinn’s obsessively smoothing his hair, rain still running down the back of his neck.

Gallagher sits forward. ‘I listened to episode four of that podcast – the one Alex highlights. It was an interview with Alison Donnelly. She was very articulate, very clear. She said she was raped once, then her attacker came back a few minutes later and raped her again. She says he was different that time. More violent. More brutal.’ She sighs. ‘She had a plastic bag over her head. She couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear properly. And in any case, he never spoke. She had no way of knowing that the second time it was a completely different man.’

‘Jesus,’ breathes Gislingham. ‘Why the hell wasn’t this picked up in ’98?’

Gallagher shrugs. ‘There was no DNA, nothing to suggest Parrie had an accomplice. And as far as I can tell, he didn’t – apart, that is, from that one time. And those questions Alex is asking? She’s bang on. I’ve had a look at the file. He was questioned, but they were more interested in establishing if he could provide Parrie with an alibi than whether he had one himself. Which, as it turned out, he did. At least for the last victim. He’d gone up to see his mum in Coventry, so there was CCTV at the railway station and a time-stamped ticket. There was no way he could have attacked that last girl, so he just got scrubbed from the list. No one even thought to ask where he was the night Alison Donnelly was raped. No one, that is, till now.’

‘Sorry,’ says Quinn, stopping mid-gesture. ‘Am I missing something? If RP isn’t Ryan Powell, who the hell are we talking about?’

She looks up at him. ‘Robert Parrie. Known to his family as Bobby. Gavin Parrie’s little brother.’

* * *

‘I don’t know what you think you’re going to find. I don’t do drugs and I’ve got no booze.’

He’s leaning against the doorway, arms folded, elaborately casual, but there’s an edge to his energy and a wariness in his eyes.

A uniformed officer is in the tiny bathroom, going through the pedestal cupboard, and a female sergeant is in the bedroom checking the chest of drawers. The bedding has been stripped and piled anyhow on the floor, along with the entire contents of the wardrobe. Which isn’t much. A couple of pairs of jeans, some T-shirts, a hoodie. There’s a shelving unit on the other wall, but it’s empty; no books, no photos, no personal items. The room barely looks lived in.

‘Look at that bloody mess. Fucking invasion of privacy, that’s what this is.’

The woman glances up. ‘You’re on licence, Parrie,’ she says briskly. ‘Random searches are part of the deal. And we don’t need to ask your permission. You know that.’

She whisks the drawer shut and goes over to the bedside table. In the bathroom, the officer is on his hands and knees, squinting up into the pipework under the basin.

Parrie’s eyes narrow.

* * *

They know there’s someone in because the windows are open and there’s music coming from inside. The Rolling Stones. Loud. Like so many other houses in this part of Cowley, the front garden is concreted over, thick now with the mud and litter washed in by the day’s floods. There’s a wheelie bin with the lid open, a crate of empty lager cans, a white van parked out front.

RP Plastering – No Job Too Small

* * *

‘Sarge? Think we may have something here.’

The officer is gesturing up at the inside of the cupboard. The sergeant shoots Parrie a look, then goes over to the bathroom and crouches down to see for herself.

‘Well, well, well,’ she says. ‘What do we have here, then?’

It’s so small, so watchfully hidden, that no casual observer would even see it. The small ziplock bag taped carefully to the back of the U-bend. But these are not casual observers. And they knew exactly what they were looking for.

Parrie takes a step back towards the door but there’s an officer barring the way.

An officer who wasn’t there five minutes before.

The sergeant peels the bag away from the pipe and gets back to her feet. You can see now what’s inside. The piece of white tissue carefully folded, as if what it contains is precious and needs to be kept safe.

She unzips the bag and slowly opens the paper out, hearing the gasp from her colleague when he realizes what it is.

A silver hoop earring, the metal spotted here and there with dark stains.

And coiled beside it, a single strand of long blonde hair.

* * *

‘It took a while because he went all the way to Banbury to cover his tracks, but we’ve got it now, in black and white. Bobby Parrie picked up a dark-blue Ford Mondeo on Saturday 7th July and returned it, already valeted, three days later. Uniform are on their way to pick it up.’

‘So we’re good to go, ma’am?’

There’s some crackling on the line now, but Gallagher’s voice is loud and clear. ‘You’re good to go.’

The two men exchange a look and then, in silence, get out of the car and walk up the path.

The man who answers the door has a beer bottle in one hand and a tea towel chucked over his shoulder. Dark hair, hazel eyes, a ready smile. A smile that quickly hardens.

‘Robert Craig Parrie?’ says the man on the step, holding out his warrant card. ‘DC Tony Asante, Thames Valley; this is DC Farrow. We’re here to arrest you.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

16 July 2018

19.09

I don’t know how I got my legs to move – that poor bloody PC was half carrying me by the end. The people we passed in the wards must have thought I was the one in danger – I was the one who needed medical attention. And perhaps I do, because by the time we get to the delivery room it feels like my chest is breaking open – all I can see is a blur of people in gowns and hairnets – all I can hear is the beating in my skull –

Someone’s coming towards me now, getting hold of my arms.

‘Adam –’ says a voice. Low. Kind. Familiar.

I know who this is – Nell – Nell –

‘She’s OK, Adam,’ she’s saying, shaking me, trying to make me listen. ‘Alex is OK –’

And suddenly the green wall parts and I can see her. On the bed, her hair spread over the pillow, her skin grey with exhaustion.

‘Adam,’ she breathes, reaching out for me, her face wrung with concern, ‘my God – you look terrible –’

Someone pushes me forward and I’m holding her hand, touching her cheek. ‘Alex, my darling, I’m so sorry – this is all my fault –’

‘No, it isn’t,’ she whispers. ‘None of it. I know what happened – I know you didn’t do it.’ She reaches for my hand, squeezes my fingers. ‘I’ve told Gis everything – it’s going to be all right. It’s going to be all right.’

I stare at her. ‘Gis? But how –?’

I feel Nell’s hand on my shoulder. ‘That can wait,’ she whispers. ‘There’s something else much more important right now.’

She pulls me gently round. There’s a nurse smiling into my dazzled face.

‘Mr Fawley,’ she says. ‘You missed all the excitement, I’m afraid. It seems this little one couldn’t wait to be born.’

And as I take my baby in my arms for the first time, I feel the warmth and the weight of my real, breathing child, the little fists paddling the big new air, the soft mouth opening and closing like a tiny bird, and after all these last terrible days when I barricaded my emotions, put my heart in lockdown, the tears spill finally down my cheeks because she is here and she is perfect.

My daughter.

Perfect, and alive, and as beautiful as her name.