by Hunter, Cara
The office is certainly impressive, if only in terms of size. Wood panelling, windows over the garden, more framed photographs, this time of the previous heads of the college. They’re all women. Unlike the person walking towards them, hand outstretched.
‘Hilary Reynolds – you must be Detective Sergeant Quinn?’
Ev sees Quinn open his mouth but Reynolds has already moved on.
‘DC Everett? Please – take a seat.’
‘So,’ says Quinn, after a moment. ‘You asked to see us?’
Reynolds frowns. ‘You don’t think we should wait until DI Fawley arrives?’
Quinn shifts a little. ‘He said we should start without him. You know what it’s like, weekend traffic, tourists –’
Reynolds sits back, fingertips together. ‘This whole situation is extremely delicate.’
Quinn nods. ‘We do understand, sir, but until we know what it’s about –’
Ev glances at him and then at Reynolds. ‘If it helps, I have done sexual offences training.’
Reynolds turns to face her. He doesn’t say anything but she can see from his face that she’s bang on.
He clears his throat. ‘Yes, DC Everett, well guessed. This is indeed an issue of that sort.’
Everett takes out her notebook; Quinn may be playing at being one of the grown-ups but someone still has to do the heavy lifting.
‘Perhaps I can take some details? I’m assuming no one is in need of immediate medical assistance?’
Reynolds gives a quick, sharp shake of the head. ‘No, nothing like that.’
Quinn sits forward a little; he evidently feels the need to reassert the initiative. ‘An official complaint has been made to you, as head of the college?’
Reynolds nods. ‘The appropriate internal processes will in due course be put in motion as required by University protocols, but I felt the circumstances warranted an immediate referral to the civil authorities.’
Sounds like he cut-and-pasted that from the latest Equality and Diversity policy handbook, thinks Everett, as she makes a note. Leaving no arse uncovered, that’s for sure.
‘I see,’ says Quinn. ‘Perhaps you could talk us through the “issue” as you understand it. You told my colleague at St Aldate’s that one of your students was involved?’
Reynolds starts fiddling with something on his desk. ‘A postgraduate. One of our brightest. Transferred here from Cardiff at the beginning of Michaelmas term.’ He glances at Ev and waves a finger at her notes. ‘October, in other words.’
Gee, thanks, she thinks. As if a low-life like me could possibly know that.
‘And the other person involved?’ she says evenly.
Reynolds’ expression has darkened. ‘I’m afraid the other party is one of the college academic staff.’
It doesn’t come as any surprise – certainly not to Ev, and not only because she’s done sexual offences training.
‘OK,’ says Quinn, who’s going to lose his patience very quickly if there’s much more pussy-footing about. ‘Perhaps it would be easier if we talked direct to the parties involved?’
* * *
‘Do you want another glass of wine?’
Erica Somer looks up, shielding her eyes against the sun. She’s sitting on the terrace of Giles Saumarez’s house. Three fishermen’s cottages knocked together into a long, low, whitewashed space with polished stone floors and windows overlooking Southampton Water. It’s cool and airy inside, but out here the sunlight is blinding. At least a breeze has got up now; out on the estuary, among the tankers hauling towards the refinery, there are four or five small yachts leaning into the wind. Somer has never sailed, never wanted to, but she yearns suddenly to be out there, on the water, on her own. No one to think about, no one to answer to, wholly at the mercy of the current and the bright blue air. It’s the impulse of a moment only, and hard on its heels comes a pang of remorse. She should be grateful she’s here at all – at this amazing house, with Giles, who’s put so much effort into this weekend but doesn’t undo it all by telling her so every five minutes, like most blokes would. He’s bought the wine he knows she likes, put flowers in their bedroom, fresh towels in the shower. It’s been a beautiful day, and they’ve had a beautiful lunch. Literally. Crumbly white cheese, golden focaccia sprinkled with rosemary and salt, ripe figs, prosciutto, cubes of deep-orange quince jelly – the table was crying out for a #foodporn hashtag.
She shakes her head now: the glass Giles poured for her more than half an hour ago is still almost full.
He pushes up his sunglasses so he can look her in the eye. ‘Everything OK?’
She nods quickly, reaching for the glass, making an effort.
‘Yes, fine, just felt a bit off earlier, that’s all.’
He sits down next to her.
‘We don’t have to go out tonight if you don’t want to. It’s just that last time you were here, you said –’
‘No,’ she says, cutting across him. ‘I want to go. Will you please just stop fussing.’
She looks away, at the water, the gulls, the wheeling boats. Anything to block out the hurt and bewilderment in his eyes.
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
15.17
Hilary Reynolds isn’t the first head of house I’ve come across in this job. Principals, Provosts, Wardens – the handles may differ but they all grow the same masterly veneer; that grand self-assurance that comes of habitual High Table dining, an entire organogram of domestic staff and a great deal of getting your own way. Reynolds is no different; or at least not at first sight. It takes me a moment to realize quite how much anxiety is running in this room. And who’s generating it.
He’s in the far corner, leaning against the window seat. He must be twenty-two, twenty-three; pale skin, toffee-coloured hair bleaching to blond at the ends. A dark tattoo on one forearm, something spiky and sinister, like a Venetian mask. He’s taller than me, and broader too. The physique of an athlete; I’d go for rugby if you forced my hand.
‘Inspector Fawley,’ says Reynolds with a small cough, ‘I’m grateful you were able to join us. This is Caleb Morgan. He’s with the Mathematics faculty, working on compressed linear algebra for large-scale machine learning.’
Condescending and inconsequential; I have to hand it to Reynolds – as irrelevant information goes, that was pretty stellar.
Quinn must be sensing my irritation because he steps in quickly. ‘There’s been an allegation of sexual assault, boss.’
I stare at him. What the fuck is he playing at? This is Policework 101 – get your facts together before you go anywhere near the perp. And I mean, all your facts.
I pull Quinn to one side. ‘What’s he doing here?’ I say quietly. ‘You didn’t think you ought to speak to the victim first?’
He flushes. ‘I did,’ he says. ‘He is the victim.’
I turn to look at Morgan. His pale-blue eyes are intent on my face and I feel myself flush. And now I look properly, I can see the livid red mark on his neck. But even though it goes against all the training, against everything they drum into us these days, I just can’t stop myself thinking – this lad is six foot two, he’s built like a full back, surely he could have defended himself –
‘So,’ says Reynolds, looking at Quinn and then at me, ‘now we’ve got that straightened out, I imagine you’ll want to speak to Professor Fisher?’
Ev glances quickly at me. ‘Professor Fisher is Mr Morgan’s supervisor –’
Reynolds cuts across her. ‘I would, of course, prefer that you did not conduct that interview on college premises, especially given that the incident did not take place here. Professor Fisher’s address is Monmouth House, St Luke Street,’ he says, sitting back in his chair. ‘And it being a Saturday afternoon, I would imagine it’s more than likely you will find her at home.’
Her?
Morgan’s assailant was a woman?
* * *
In Risinghurst, Alex Fawley is saying goodbye to her sister. It’s
taken the best part of half an hour to get both the dog and the boys into the car, and the dog was definitely the easiest of the three. Gerry is in the driving seat now, impatient to be away before one of his sons decides he needs the loo for the third time.
Nell reaches her arms around her sister, holding her close.
‘You will tell me if you need anything, won’t you?’
‘I’m fine, really. Adam’s being wonderful.’
Nell pulls away. ‘When he isn’t rushing back to work when he’s supposed to be having a day off, you mean.’
‘It’s not his fault. Comes with the job.’
Nell makes a face. ‘You don’t need to tell me – I’ve known him almost as long as you have.’
There’s a sudden bang in the street – a couple of skateboarders, taking advantage of the hill and the speed bump to try out some tricks – but Nell sees her sister flinch, then try at once to disguise it.
‘It’s only a few lads mucking around – you’re just being paranoid. That man – Parrie – he won’t be allowed anywhere near you. You do know that, don’t you?’
Alex forces herself to smile. ‘It’s just my nerves – they’re all over the place.’
The car door opens and Gerry leans out. ‘You coming?’
Nell gives her sister’s arm a quick squeeze. ‘Remember what I said, OK? If you need anything – and I mean anything – I’m only a phone call away.’
Alex nods and Nell gets into the car, but even after they’ve pulled away, Alex lingers there, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The two skateboarders are still coasting up and down, flipping and twisting as they come off the slope, but Alex isn’t looking at them. She’s looking beyond them, through them, at the white van parked a few doors down. There’s a man in the driver’s seat, with a baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes.
It doesn’t matter how many times people tell her that Gavin Parrie will be miles away, that he’ll be strictly monitored, under electronic curfew, she still sees him on every corner, in every van, in every shadowed and half-glimpsed face.
Because he knows. And one day – maybe not today, maybe not this week or this month or this year – but one day, he’s going to find her, and he’s going to make her pay for what she did.
It’s 30 degrees but she’s shivering suddenly, her hot skin iced with sweat.
* * *
[IVY PARRIE]
‘Hi, Gav, it’s your mum. Just wanted to let you know I got your message about the hearing. We’re all rooting for you here, love, and Jocelyn and the team are working really hard on your behalf. See you next week.’
[SOUND OF PHONE CALL ENDING]
[JOCELYN]
My name is Jocelyn Naismith and I’m the person referred to in that clip. The voice you heard was Mrs Ivy Parrie. Ivy is 76, she lives in Coventry, and you just heard her leaving her son a voicemail. She couldn’t call him direct because he was in prison. In Wandsworth, to be precise. Serving a life sentence for a crime he has always claimed he did not commit.
The clip was recorded in April 2018, shortly before Gavin Parrie appeared before the parole board. Thanks to the work done by my team, and with the support of Gavin’s solicitor, the long battle for justice was finally won, and he regained his freedom in May this year.
This podcast series tells Gavin’s story. How he was convicted in the first place, what The Whole Truth organization has discovered about the original investigation, and why we think the real perpetrator is still out there.
I’m Jocelyn Naismith, and I’m co-founder of The Whole Truth, a not-for-profit organization that campaigns to overturn miscarriages of justice. This is Righting the Wrongs, series 3: The Roadside Rapist Redeemed?
Chapter one: Prologue
[THEME SONG – AARON NEVILLE COVER VERSION OF ‘I SHALL BE RELEASED’ [BOB DYLAN]]
Standing next to me in this lonely crowd
Is a man who swears he’s not to blame
All day long I hear him shout so loud
Crying out that he was framed
I see my light come shining
From the west unto the east
Any day now, any day now
I shall be released.
[JOCELYN]
Bob Dylan wrote that song in 1968, the same year Gavin Parrie was born. He was the second of three Parrie boys, sandwiched between the oldest, Neil, and the youngest, Robert (who the family called Bobby). His mother worked part-time as a shelf-stacker in a local supermarket, and his father, Vernon, was employed at what was then the British Leyland car plant in Cowley, on the outskirts of Oxford. The family lived in a small terraced house off the Cowley Road, and all three boys attended the local primary school, and then Temple Green Secondary Modern.
Ken Waring was Gavin’s form teacher in his first year at Temple Green.
[KEN WARING]
‘He was a bit of a tearaway, there’s no getting away from that. Always getting into scrapes. But I never thought he was a bad lad. He struggled with his reading, but looking back with the benefit of hindsight I suspect he may have been dyslexic. But of course, back then, you didn’t get assessed for things like that, and you didn’t get any extra help either. Kids like him often became disruptive just because they were having trouble keeping up. He was good with his hands, though, I remember that – he always got good marks in Woodwork and Metalwork. I guess I assumed he would follow his father into the car industry. That’s what the majority of our lads did.’
[JOCELYN]
By 1984 the family had moved to Manchester. Vernon Parrie had been made redundant from Cowley, but managed to secure another job at a truck assembly plant up north. It came at a bad time for Gavin, who as we’ve heard, was already finding schoolwork difficult. The transition to a new school proved a challenge too far, and Gavin left the education system that summer with no formal qualifications.
He spent the next two years moving from job to job – some office cleaning, some mini-cabbing, the odd stint labouring alongside his brother Bobby, who was an apprentice plasterer by then. Remember that – it’s going to be important later.
It was around this time that Gavin first met the woman who would become his wife. Sandra Powell was 16 and photos of her in the family album show a typical fun-loving 80s teenager. Big shoulder pads, a big smile and big hair. Really big hair.
[SANDRA]
‘I know, I know, but we all had perms like that back then. My mum used to do mine in the back kitchen.’
[SOUND OF PAGE TURNING]
‘I can’t even remember the last time I looked at these. And I definitely can’t believe I wore all this stuff – look at those legwarmers – what were we even thinking?’
[JOCELYN]
That’s Sandra. As you can tell from her voice, there’s still some of that bright, sassy teenager left in her, though the intervening years have taken a heavy toll. She lives in Scotland now, and has reverted to using her maiden name (we’ll hear why in a later episode), but through it all, she’s remained in contact with Gavin and has always been a firm believer in his innocence. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Back to 1986.
[SANDRA]
[SOUND OF PAGE TURNING]
‘Ah, I love that one – that’s me and Gav at Blackpool a couple of weeks after we first started going out.’
[JOCELYN]
It’s a sweet picture, and not just because they’re both clutching candyfloss. Gavin has a shy smile and a mullet haircut that makes him look a bit like David Cassidy. Sandra is acting up for the camera, and even though she’s two years younger she looks a lot more worldly, a lot more mature. And according to Sandra, that’s a pretty accurate reflection of the early days of their relationship.
[SANDRA]
‘It took Gav a long time to adjust to moving to Manchester. He’d left all his mates behind in Cowley, and I think he resented that a bit. He didn’t get along that well with his dad either, so I think he was quite lonely. I was definitely his first serious girlfriend, that I do know. He real
ly wasn’t that confident back then – it took him so long to ask me out I was beginning to think he wasn’t interested.’
[JOCELYN]
But once their relationship started, things moved very fast. Within three months Sandra was pregnant, and by the end of that year they were the parents of a baby girl, Dawn.
[DAWN MACLEAN]
‘What’s my first memory of Dad? Probably him teaching me to ride my bike when I was about 6.’
[JOCELYN]
That’s Dawn. She’s a qualified beautician now, married and living in Stirling with two children of her own.
[DAWN]
‘I got the bike for my birthday, and I remember it absolutely poured down all day – you know what Manchester’s like – but he spent hours outside with me in the rain while I wobbled up and down. He wasn’t always that patient though. I remember he hated anything to do with paperwork or filling in forms – Mum always had to deal with Social Services or the council or our schools. I guess he was always a bit wary of people like that. People in authority. He said they were all out to get you. And let’s face it, he wasn’t wrong, was he?’
[JOCELYN]
Sandra and Gavin had two further children in the next ten years. Sandra had a job as a hairdresser but Gavin was still stuck with casual labouring jobs, so money was tight, and they couldn’t get by without benefits. After a while, the strain began to tell.
[DAWN]
‘By the time I was about 11 I knew my dad was struggling. I mean, I wouldn’t have used that word, but I knew he wasn’t happy. He seemed to be angry all the time, and I think he was drinking, and that just made him even more angry. And sad. I remember finding him in tears one day, upstairs in their bedroom. It was the first time I’d ever seen a man cry and it really scared me. It was after that that everything started to go wrong.’
[JOCELYN]
It was 1997. On May 2nd that year, a 16-year-old girl was attacked in Lockhart Avenue, Manchester. She was dragged into the undergrowth, sexually assaulted and left there, on the side of the road.
Three nights later, Sandra got a phone call.
It was Gavin. He was at Greater Manchester Police HQ, and he’d been arrested.