by Hunter, Cara
Speaking after the verdict, Chief Superintendent Michael Oswald of Thames Valley Police said he was confident that the right man had been convicted and confirmed that no other credible suspect had ever been identified in the course of what became a county-wide investigation. ‘I am proud of the work done by my team. They went to enormous lengths to find the perpetrator of these appalling crimes and bring him to justice, and it is absolutely unacceptable that they should be subject to either threats or intimidation. Police officers put their lives on the line on a regular basis to protect the public, and you may rest assured that we take all necessary steps to ensure the continued safety of our officers and their families.’
Jennifer Goddard, mother of one of the victims who committed suicide after her ordeal, spoke to reporters outside the court after the verdict, saying that nothing was ever going to bring her daughter back, but she hoped she could now rest in peace: ‘The man who destroyed her life is finally going to get what he deserves and pay the price for what he’s done.’
* * *
At St Aldate’s, Sergeant Paul Woods is spending the afternoon on reception, and is very far from happy about it. He works the giddy heights of the custody suite these days but the civilian desk officer is on holiday and the PC covering her has food poisoning, and Woods drew the short straw. And along with it, a short fuse. It’s far too bloody hot for a start. BBC Oxford said it might hit 30 degrees today. 30 degrees. It’s bloody indecent, that’s what that is. He’s propped open the main street door but all it’s allowing in is fumes. And more people. A good half of them are just looking for some respite from the sun – there’s never been so much interest in the leaflet stand, that’s for sure. It can go weeks without needing to be refilled, but suddenly they’re all out of How To Protect Your Home From Thieves and Things To Look Out For When You Shop Online. There’s a group milling around it right now – tourists clearly, and mostly Chinese.
Woods glances up at the clock. Another twenty minutes before he can take a break. The tourists around the leaflet stand are talking eagerly among themselves now. One is gesturing towards Woods; she appears to be trying to get up the courage to come and talk to him. He draws himself up to his full authority, and at six foot two and sixteen stone that’s a lot of gravitas in every sense. It’s not that he’s trying to discourage her as such, it’s just that he knows from dreary experience that these sorts of questions can almost always be answered by any half-decent map. He really has had his fill of unofficial trip-advising over the years.
He’s saved, as it turns out, by the bell. Just as the Chinese woman starts to approach the desk, the phone goes. It’s the woman on the switchboard – another civilian, Marjorie something. She must have got the short straw too.
‘Sergeant Woods – can you take this one, please? I’ve tried CID but there’s no one in. It’s Edith Launceleve.’
He picks up his pen, momentarily irritated that he never has known the correct way to write that bloody place. Whose bright idea was it to call a college after someone nobody can spell?
‘OK,’ he says heavily. ‘Put them through.’
He raises his hand grandly to the Chinese tourist as if he has the Chief Constable on the line.
‘Is that Sergeant Woods? Jancis Appleby here, Edith Launceleve College.’
It’s the sort of voice that makes you sit up straight.
‘How can I help you, Miss Appleby?’
‘I have Professor Hilary Reynolds on the line.’
She says it as if even a minion like Woods will have heard that name. And actually, he has, but right this minute he can’t for the life of him remember when –
‘The Principal,’ she says briskly. ‘In case you may have forgotten. Hold on, please.’
Now that does bring him up short. The bloody Principal? What could possibly be so important that the Principal gets on the blower? What is she even doing in the office at the weekend?
The line clicks into life again.
‘Sergeant Woods?’
Not the female voice he was expecting and he loses the first few words remembering Hilary can be a bloke’s name too.
‘I’m sorry, sir, could you say that again?’
‘I said I’m afraid I need to report an incident involving a student at the college.’
Woods’ eyes narrow; ‘incident’ can cover a multitude of sins, from the mortal to the extremely mundane.
‘What sort of incident would that be, sir?’
An intake of cultured, well-educated but slightly irritated breath. ‘A serious incident, Sergeant. I’m afraid that’s all I’m prepared to say at this stage. Could you put me through to Detective Inspector Fawley?’
* * *
It’s hot in Boars Hill too, but somehow it seems a lot more bearable up here. No doubt some of that comes with the altitude, but the thirty-foot swimming pool and well-stocked poolside bar are definitely helping. Those come with the altitude too, though that’s an elevation of a rather different kind. Given the address, you don’t need to be a fully paid-up member of CID to make some shrewd deductions about the sort of house this was likely to be, but Gareth Quinn was, all the same, quietly impressed when he saw what lay behind the wrought-iron gates that swung silently open for his Audi A4, newly valeted for the occasion. A good acre of lawns (also valeted for the occasion, though he wasn’t to know that), a parterre and orange trees, and a scatter of what estate agents probably call ‘useful outbuildings’, shunted discreetly out of sight of the chiselled neo-Palladian pile and its uninterrupted prospect of ‘That View’. The bristle of construction cranes is unfortunate but in all other respects the spires lie dreaming down there this afternoon in the shimmering heat, just as Matthew Arnold once saw them.
Quinn had no idea how loaded Maisie’s parents were when he met her. At first glance, she was just another of those pony-tailed French-nailed girls with their soft smiles and their crisp vowels. Avocados, he calls them: ripe, ready and green. Though not quite so green, in this case, that she was prepared to go to bed with him on the first date, and in the almost unprecedented ten days it took for that to happen he realized she had rather more to her than most of her identikit predecessors. She made him laugh and she listened, but she didn’t give him an easy ride, and he found himself having to articulate why he believed what he did, some of which surprised even him. He also realized – and this was fairly unprecedented too – that he actually liked her, as much out of bed as in it. Which is why, even though he’s always had an almost anaphylactic reaction to the idea of meeting his girlfriends’ parents, he’s not only here but still here, long after he’d agreed with Maisie that they would leave. The beef was rare, the wine likewise, and Ted and Irene Ingram are decidedly not what it said on the tin. Yes, they have a lot of money, but they’re not shy of showing it, which was never going to be a problem with Quinn. The two men edged around the Brexit bear trap for a good half-hour before Ingram let slip which side he was on, whereupon they fell on each other with all the relief of oppressed fellow devotees. In Oxford, at least, theirs is most definitely the Leave that dare not speak its name.
So all in all, Quinn has been enjoying himself royally. By the time the phone call comes through there’s even an imp in the back of his brain whispering that Maisie is the Ingrams’ only child, and if in-laws are inevitable then these two might not be such a bad option. There’s a bottle of 1996 Sauternes on the table now, and a box of Havana cigars, and Quinn has slid Maisie his car keys. Which, as the look on her face makes clear, is also pretty much unprecedented. She glances at him now, as his mobile goes: it’s the ringtone he uses for calls from work.
As he reaches for the phone, Quinn glances round the table, smiling his contrition. ‘I’m really sorry – they wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.’
Ingram waves the apology away. ‘Of course. Maisie explained this might happen. I completely understand. It’s an important job, what you do.’
Irene Ingram pushes back her chair tactfully and Maisi
e gets to her feet. They start clearing the plates, and Quinn walks away down the garden. Perhaps he’s doing it to get a better signal, but then again, perhaps he’d rather Maisie’s father didn’t hear him answering with his current rank.
A few yards further on he finally takes the call.
‘DC Quinn.’
‘Woods here.’ Quinn can hear the traffic in the background; Woods must be at the front desk. He makes a perfunctory apology for ruining Quinn’s Saturday but it’s clear from his tone that he’s not getting a bloody weekend so why the hell should CID.
‘Just had the Principal from Edith Launceleve on the blower asking for Fawley.’
Quinn frowns. ‘What’s wrong with the duty inspector?’
‘Tried that. Nothing doing. Sorry.’
‘OK, so –’
Woods interrupts him. ‘I’d have called Gislingham, as DS, but given he’s out till Wednesday –’
Quinn ignores the snipe. He’s got used to all the not-so-subtle digs about his demotion. He could have got a transfer, but when he decided not to, he knew the price would be sucking it up. And some of the bolder wags have, of course, taken great delight in using exactly that phrase. But he only has himself to blame: he let his dick rule his head and got involved with a suspect. He was lucky he didn’t get fired. But he’ll show them – he’ll get his stripes back. It’s just a matter of time. In fact – who knows? – perhaps this call is a golden opportunity. With Gis away, a slam-dunk chance to show his class.
‘No worries,’ he says airily. ‘What is it – what have you got?’
By the time Woods has finished, the opportunity is looking rather less than twenty-four carat, but there’s no need for Ted Ingram to know that. As far as he’s concerned, this is a mega-important hush-hush murder case requiring the attention of a fast-track officer destined for greater things. The sort of man, whispers the imp, Ingram would positively welcome as a son-in-law. Quinn squares his shoulders, lifts his chin and starts back up the grass towards the pool.
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
14.35
A call from Quinn is just about the last thing I was expecting. He’s at his girlfriend’s parents’ today – he made a big thing about how nonchalant he was about it, which rather indicated the opposite to me, but that’s Quinn all over. He’s been deputizing for Gis while he’s away, but we don’t have a big case on at the moment – certainly nothing that would merit a call at the weekend. I’d have thought Quinn would relish the chance of flying solo again, even though I did make it abundantly clear it’s just unofficial ‘standing in’ not official ‘Acting’.
We’re all still in the dining room when he calls. The afternoon is reaching the fuggy stage, though Alex’s dad is still chirpy – as garrulous as I’ve seen him in years. I’ve always liked Stephen. It’s the anomaly of in-laws: the same age as your parents, and you can end up knowing them almost as long, but if you’re lucky – as I’ve been – they have your back but they don’t press your buttons. Though that could just be because they don’t know where the dangerous buttons are.
Alex flickers an anxious look at me as the phone goes, but says nothing. She has one hand curled round her belly and she’s fiddling with her napkin with the other. She’s getting tired. I need to start manoeuvring people to leave.
Out on the patio, I take the call.
‘Quinn? What is it?’
‘Sorry to bother you, boss. I’m meeting Ev at Edith Launceleve. There’s been an incident involving a student.’
I frown – I know Quinn’s being uber-careful not to balls anything up at the moment, but does he really need to call me about this? But then I remember that most of the students have already gone down for the summer so it’s unlikely to be just the usual vomit-and-shouting undergraduate excess.
‘What are we looking at?’
‘Not sure yet.’
‘So why –’
‘Apparently the Principal asked for you specifically. His name’s Hilary Reynolds. Ring any bells?’
A small one, a long way away – a conference a couple of years ago?
‘I googled him,’ says Quinn, ‘and apparently he’s some hot-shot human rights lawyer.’
I was right – it was that conference –
‘He’s just been appointed to that parliamentary advisory panel on whole-life tariffs. You know, the one Bob O’Dwyer is on.’
That’s all we need: Robert O’Dwyer is the Chief Constable. But creds to Quinn for checking, rather than just ploughing straight in like the Lone Ranger.
‘OK, I’ll need to take my in-laws home first, but I can be there in about an hour.’
* * *
Edith Launceleve College – EL to its students – sits on fourteen gardened acres straddling the Banbury and Woodstock Roads. Not very far from town, according to any normal notion of geography, but still the equivalent of Outer Mongolia in the excitable microcosm that is the University of Oxford. It’s been mixed for more than thirty years, but it was founded as an institution for the education of young women, by a vigorous Victorian spinster who simply wouldn’t take no for an answer, and named after the twelfth-century patroness of the nearby Godstow nunnery, who was by all accounts equally energetic and equally bloody-minded. EL’s accumulated an impressive roll call of alumnae in its hundred-plus years, including several generations of women who had – and needed – exactly the same tenacity. Quinn’s not to know, but DC Asante’s mother was one of them. She now runs a FTSE-100 company, but the number of other women doing the same can be counted on the fingers of one hand. EL’s splendid isolation from town and all its temptations was no doubt seen as an advantage by its uncompromising foundress, but it’s definitely a downside these days – when the University has open days they have to resort to chalk marks on the pavement to tempt sixth-formers that far north. On the other hand, it does have one Unique Selling Point: there’s almost always somewhere to park. Maisie finds a space right opposite the lodge and turns off the engine. Quinn sits for a moment, staring across at the gates.
‘One of the girls in my year at Burghley Abbey went here,’ says Maisie.
Quinn turns. ‘Yeah?’
She nods. ‘She said it was OK but it didn’t really feel like Oxford. I mean, there are blokes there now and everything, but she said it still came off like a girls’ boarding school.’
Quinn turns back to look again. There’s a group of young people standing chatting by the main door. They’re clutching files and the obligatory water bottles, but there are ID cards on lanyards round their necks, so it’s a fair bet they’re summer school, not permanent. They seem happy enough, either way. Smiling, looking to the future with confidence, perfectly balanced across race and gender. It could be the cover shot for the college brochure.
‘Do you want me to wait till your colleague arrives?’ asks Maisie.
He turns to her again. ‘Nah, no need. Ev only lives ten minutes away – in fact, I’m surprised she’s not here already.’ He pushes open the door. ‘I’ll see you back at the flat – if it’s going to be a long one I’ll give you a bell.’
‘OK, see you later.’
She starts the engine and pulls away, turning right at the junction in a screech of rubber. Quinn smiles, despite his precious tyres. That girl has balls; she drives almost as fast as he does.
He crosses the road as Everett’s Mini pulls into the space Maisie just left. He assumed she’d walk down from her flat in Summertown, but perhaps she wasn’t at home when she got the call. He hardly ever sees her off-duty so the clothes come as a surprise. Whatever she’s been doing, it seems it required a skirt.
‘Very natty,’ she says as she comes towards him, nodding to his chinos and pink shirt. ‘I hope they were suitably impressed.’
He could take umbrage but he decides to smile instead. ‘Slayed ’em,’ he says. ‘Eating out of my hand.’
She hitches her bag higher up her shoulder. ‘So what’s all this about?’
/> ‘Some sort of “incident”. But not a 999 job so I’m assuming no one’s dead. Woods says it was the Principal who called it in. Refused to say anything more, just kept on saying he wanted to speak to Fawley.’
‘Serious, then.’
He nods. ‘The boss is on his way. But, right now, your guess is as good as mine.’
Ev has a guess all right, but decides, for now, to keep that to herself.
Quinn goes to check in with the lodge, and Ev waits outside; he doesn’t need her holding his hand, especially if he’s bigging himself up as surrogate DS. The group by the door has dispersed now, and the courtyard is empty. Bits of glitter and confetti are caught in the paving, the last fragments of Finals. She can feel the heat coming off the stone through her thin sandals.
‘OK,’ says Quinn, coming back towards her again. ‘They said Reynolds’ office is on the first floor. Turn right down the corridor and up the stairs. The PA will meet us there.’
It’s surprisingly cool inside, but something about the parquet flooring and the echo of their feet has Ev thinking of disinfectant and imminent hockey sticks. The upstairs corridor is a good deal plusher, and the PA is hovering, looking slightly irritated. She gives the impression she knows to the second how long it should have taken them to cover the distance and they have woefully underperformed.
‘Professor Reynolds is just on a call – please take a seat, it won’t be long.’
The PA returns to her desk, but the visitor chairs have a distinct waiting-for-detention look about them which is hardly appealing. As for Quinn, he doesn’t seem able to keep still. He spends the next five minutes scrutinizing the framed photos of the teaching body, until the PA’s intercom beeps and she gets to her feet.
‘This way, please.’