by Hunter, Cara
For rape.
[UNDER BED OF ‘I FOUGHT THE LAW AND THE LAW WON’ – THE CLASH]
I’m Jocelyn Naismith and this is Righting the Wrongs. You can listen to this and other podcasts from The Whole Truth on Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts.
[FADE OUT]
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
15.49
‘So if you can come with us now, we’ll do the Video-Recorded Interview, and take the samples the CPS will need if the case goes to court.’
It’s Ev doing the talking. And no question, doing it bloody well. Perhaps it’s the specialist training, but she’s managing to be completely unfazed by the killer flip in this case. Unlike me. Even Quinn seems to have got his head round it, though perhaps it’s just that he’s had longer to get used to the idea. And meanwhile Ev has been calmly taking down the details for the Initial Investigative Report, and talking Morgan through what to expect at the Sexual Assault Referral Centre, and what help he can ask for, and what support he can get. And at the end of it all, when she tells him he can have a male officer as his police point of contact if he prefers, it doesn’t surprise me at all that he decides to stick with her.
I’ve not said much in the last half-hour, and nothing at all to Reynolds, and I was rather hoping to keep it that way, but when we all get up to leave, he clears his throat in that way he has.
‘Could you remain behind for a moment, Inspector?’
Ev gives me a questioning look, but I just nod. ‘You go ahead. I’ll call you later for an update.’
Reynolds must have pressed some sort of button on his desk, because the door opens and the PA appears, tray of tea in hand. Either that or she’s been listening to the whole bloody thing on the intercom, which, frankly, wouldn’t surprise me.
Quinn looks rather enviously at the tea – we haven’t even been offered water thus far – but it’s evidently not designed for the likes of him. Silver teapot with a college crest, milk jug, sugar bowl and tongs, plate of lemon slices. And only two cups.
When the door closes behind them, Reynolds turns to me.
‘There’s a reason I wanted to speak to you, Inspector. Caleb Morgan – it’s rather more complicated than it might initially appear.’
More complicated? A female professor accused of assaulting a male student. Gender politics, university politics. Minefields don’t get any murkier than that. What the hell else could there be?
He coughs again. ‘He takes his father’s surname, but Caleb’s mother – she’s Petra Newson. I imagine you’ve heard of her?’
Of course I’ve bloody heard of her. An extremely combative local MP, with an agenda longer than my service record. If Reynolds hasn’t already put in that call to Bob O’Dwyer, odds are Petra bloody Newson has beaten him to it.
I keep my tone even. ‘I assume Ms Newson is aware of what’s happened?’
Reynolds nods slowly. ‘I believe Caleb called her, yes. She’s in the US this weekend but is due back in her constituency tomorrow.’
So with luck we may have twenty-four hours’ grace. Sufficient unto the day and all that.
I take a deep breath. ‘Tell me about Professor Fisher.’
If Reynolds thinks that’s a conversational swerve he gives no sign. He leans forward and starts busying himself with the tea.
‘Marina is one of the country’s leading authorities on Artificial Intelligence. Not my area, of course,’ he says, with one of those apparently-self-deprecating-only-not-really looks academics give you, ‘but those in the know tell me her work’s been genuinely groundbreaking. And, needless to say, that whole field is extremely media-worthy these days.’
Needless to say, but he still went ahead and bloody said it. I remember now there was a Radio 4 programme about machine learning a few weeks ago, which I vaguely recall having on in the background when I was cooking, but I was distracted and didn’t follow it all. Thinking about it now, I reckon it was Marina Fisher who was fronting it; the BBC were bound to want a female voice for something like that.
‘Between ourselves,’ says Reynolds, proffering me the slices of lemon, ‘she’s just been approached for this year’s Royal Institution Christmas lectures.’
Despite everything – despite the crime she’s just been accused of – he still can’t quite keep the smugness out of his voice. Which tells me everything I need to know about what sort of asset this woman must be to the college. EL isn’t up there with the likes of Balliol or Merton – none of the former women’s colleges are. They don’t have the prestige, and they don’t have the pulling power. But a world expert in something as sexy as AI – that’s quite a coup. But the greater the triumph, the vaster the potential elephant trap: I don’t need to tell you how ‘media-worthy’ this story will be.
If it gets out.
‘There was a fund-raising dinner last night,’ he’s saying now, ‘for the University’s most important Chinese donors. Marina was the keynote speaker. The Faculty is aiming to create the world’s leading AI research facility pioneering the use of interdisciplinary methodologies.’
He’s beginning to sound like a sponsorship proposal, which perhaps he realizes, because he flushes very slightly and does that cough of his again. It’s already starting to get on my tits.
‘All this is highly confidential, needless to say. Negotiations are at a very delicate stage.’
‘Were you there?’
Reynolds gives a quick laugh. ‘No, Inspector, I was not. But I hear Marina stole the show. The Vice-Chancellor was relying on Marina to lead from the front and it appears she more than delivered. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that there’s a lot riding on this.’
He’s going to offer to draw me a diagram next. But I’ve got the message. Loud and clear. Both the college and the University are going to do their damnedest to prevent this woman going down. And taking them with her.
‘Mr Morgan said the incident took place at Professor Fisher’s house, last night.’
Reynolds raises an eyebrow. ‘Yes – that’s what he claims.’
I register the nuance of that ‘claims’, and wonder in passing if Reynolds’ facade of scrupulous objectivity is starting to crack.
‘So what was Morgan doing there?’
Reynolds frowns now, and I press my advantage.
‘You just told me that Professor Fisher was at a University dinner, so she must have got back quite late. So I’m going to ask again – what was Morgan doing in her house at that time of night?’
Reynolds’ frown deepens. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Your officers will have to ask Mr Morgan, but I cannot think of any reason why he should have been there.’
‘Is Professor Fisher in the habit of inviting students to her home?’
‘I doubt it – indeed, it is explicitly prohibited by college policy, as Professor Fisher will be well aware. We make an exception for occasional social gatherings – Christmas drinks, for example. But Fellows are strictly forbidden from holding one-to-one meetings or tutorials in their private residences. Not least, in these litigious times, for their own protection.’
He’s looking unsettled now – as if he’s only just realized how disquieting Morgan’s story is.
‘Who else lives in Professor Fisher’s house? Does she have a family?’
He shifts in his seat, making the leather creak.
‘I will need to be mindful of privacy issues here, Inspector. Data protection and so on. Someone in your position, you know how it is. But it’s common knowledge that Marina lives alone, with her son.’
‘How old?’
‘Eight, I think. Perhaps nine now?’
I sit back, allow the pause to lengthen a little.
‘The address you gave DC Quinn – it’s a very desirable part of town.’
That’s an understatement. Georgian town houses. Golden stone, sash windows, wrought-iron balconies; even Pevsner was impressed. A lot are offices now, or flats, but judging from her address,
Marina Fisher has the whole three storeys. That’s some chunk of real estate.
Reynolds reaches to pour tea. And – apparently – buy time.
‘Marina’s former husband was a financier,’ he says eventually, lifting his cup. ‘He returned to Boston after the divorce. I believe Marina got the Oxford house as part of the settlement.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Now, if you will forgive me, I promised my wife I’d be home over an hour ago.’
There’s something he’s avoiding here, and it’s not just the quagmires of the Data Protection Act. But I’ll play the game. For now.
The door opens and the guard-dog PA stands there once again, waiting to show me safely off the premises.
‘I trust I can rely on you to keep me in the loop, Inspector?’ says Reynolds as I get to my feet. ‘This is going to be challenging enough, without being blindsided into the bargain.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir. But I’m sure you can appreciate that there’s only so much I’ll be able to tell you.’ I allow myself a small smile. ‘Data protection and all that. Someone in your position, you know how it is.’
* * *
Thames Valley Police
INITIAL INVESTIGATIVE REPORT
Rape and Sexual Offences
LOCATION AND IDENTITY OF THE PERSON MAKING THE REPORT
Professor Hilary Reynolds, Principal, Edith Launceleve College, Oxford OX2
THE EXACT LOCATION (WHERE POSSIBLE) AND TIME OF THE INCIDENT
Monmouth House, St Luke Street, Oxford OX1
06/07/2018 11.30 p.m.
WHETHER THE PERSON MAKING THE REPORT IS THE VICTIM, THIRD PARTY OR WITNESS, AND THE CAPACITY IN WHICH THEY ARE MAKING THE REPORT
Third party (head of the college, to which report was initially made)
NATURE OF THE INCIDENT
SEXUAL ASSAULT
Suspect made sexual advances to the victim, which he rejected. The suspect persisted, leading to a minor physical altercation, which resulted in minor scratches being sustained by the victim, and intimate touching in the groin area. It is not yet known if the suspect sustained any injuries. After this altercation occurred, the victim was able to leave the premises.
IDENTITY AND LOCATION OF THE VICTIM (IF KNOWN)
Caleb Owen Morgan, DOB 09/11/1995
Address: Flat 34, Graduate Accommodation Block, Edith Launceleve College, OX2
IDENTITY AND LOCATION OF THE SUSPECT (IF KNOWN)
Marina Imogen Fisher, DOB 17/01/1976
Address: Monmouth House, St Luke Street, Oxford OX1
WHETHER MEDICAL ASSISTANCE IS REQUIRED AND DETAILS OF ANY INJURIES
N/A
Superficial scratches
A FIRST DESCRIPTION OF THE SUSPECT
IC1 Female, 42, 5' 6", approx. 150 lbs
IF THE SUSPECT IS KNOWN TO THE VICTIM, WHETHER THERE IS A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE OR SEXUAL OFFENCES
None
WHETHER STEPS HAVE BEEN TAKEN TO PRESERVE EVIDENCE
Victim advised not to wash and still wearing clothing that he was wearing during incident.
Scene is suspect’s address and will be secured upon arrest.
Suspect outstanding at this time.
WHETHER THERE ARE ANY PARTICULAR CONSIDERATIONS, FOR EXAMPLE, DISABILITY, LANGUAGE AND WHETHER AN INTERPRETER IS REQUIRED
N/A
DETAILS OF THE DEMEANOUR OF THE VICTIM OR REPORTER
Victim was calm, articulate and coherent, and did not appear to be under the influence of drugs or alcohol.
PREFERRED CONTACT POINT IF NOT AT THE SCENE
N/A
IF THE REPORTER WISHES TO REMAIN ANONYMOUS, THE REASON FOR THIS
N/A
ATTENDING OFFICERS DI A. Fawley
DC G. Quinn
DC V. Everett DATE AND TIME 07/07/2018
15:45
* * *
Taking Morgan to the Sexual Assault Referral Centre by squad car was only going to crank up the rumour mill, so Ev drives down to St Aldate’s and picks up a car from the CID pool. It’s only a Corsa, and the air con is struggling, which makes the small space even more oppressive. She’s uncomfortably aware of Morgan’s sheer size, crammed into the back seat behind them, so close she can feel his breath on the back of her neck.
No one says very much. Ev’s learnt over the years that it’s best to talk as little as possible in these circumstances, even when the Gen Pub in question is in a chatty mood. But Morgan shows no inclination to talk at all. He just stares out of the window, at the tourists and the families and the ice-cream vans; silent, unseeing, sunk in thought. He looks completely desolate.
* * *
4.15pm Saturday
It’s happened again. Just now. He was out there. I was upstairs and when I looked out of the window there he was, down the road. Too far away to see his face. He always makes damn sure of that. Just sitting there, behind the wheel. No one does that, no one normal anyway. I went straight back downstairs but by the time I got to the door he was gone.
I told myself I’d imagined it. That I’m just being paranoid and overreacting. That there’s some perfectly logical explanation – some bloke innocently checking his phone or looking at a map. But I know what I saw.
Jesus – even I think I’m starting to sound crazy now. Writing this stuff down is the only thing stopping me losing it completely. I can’t even talk to A, never mind anyone else. People would look sympathetic and say it’s understandable, after what happened, but I’ll see that look in their eyes. And next time we met that look would still be there.
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
16.35
I called Tony Asante on my way over to St Luke Street, and though it’s barely a ten-minute drive, he’s still there before me. His new flat is only about half a mile away; no one else in the team could afford to live this central, but I guess it helps if your mother has the sort of job that gets her on the cover of Forbes.
When I park up, Asante’s on the other side of the road, leaning against a wall, apparently scrolling through his phone. He’s chosen a position out of direct sight of the house, but even if someone was watching they wouldn’t pay him particular attention. In his white T-shirt and Ray-Bans he could be anything – tourist, postgrad. CIA.
He’s not as absorbed by the phone as he’s feigning though: he’s at the car before I open the door.
‘Afternoon, sir.’
I wonder if he got changed before he came out – it’s so bloody hot I can’t move without sweating, but Asante looks like he just stepped out of a cold shower. There are still laundry folds in his T-shirt.
He gestures back towards the house. ‘I haven’t seen anyone go in or out since I got here, but the windows are open, so I assume someone’s in.’
‘You’re up to speed?’
‘DC Everett emailed me the IIR. Though there wasn’t much by way of detail.’
‘She and Quinn are taking Morgan to the SARC now, so we’ll know more later.’
He nods. ‘So, shall we?’
We ring and wait, and ring again, and the door is opened, eventually, by a small boy. Marina Fisher’s son, evidently. If he’s eight going on nine he’s small for his age. Red shorts and a Winnie-the-Pooh top, and soft blond hair that, personally, I think needs a cut. He stares up at us.
‘Who are you?’
I notice, now, that there’s a woman in the corridor behind him. She’s slender and rather beautiful but she looks tentative, as if she doesn’t really belong. Then she moves slightly and I see she has a duster in one hand.
I smile at the boy and show him my warrant card. ‘We’re from the police. We wanted to have a quick chat with your mummy.’
He shakes his head, over-vigorously, the way small children do.
‘She’s not here.’
‘I see. Do you know where she went?’
He turns to the woman, who taps out something on a mobile phone and holds it out to me. It’s a Google translate page. Faculdade is evidently Portuguese fo
r ‘college’.
I try my best this-is-just-routine smile. ‘I assume she won’t be very long in that case. Do you mind if we come in and wait – is that OK?’
The woman hesitates, then nods, and we follow the two of them up the stairs to the first floor. There are black-and-white framed pictures all the way. It’s like those documentaries about 10 Downing Street, with a full deck of prime ministers going up the stairs. Only here, the pictures are all of the same person. Marina Fisher doesn’t just blow her own trumpet, she toots a whole brass section. There are two portraits of her in doctoral robes (I’m assuming one of those must be honorary, but hey, what do I know), one shot of a Newsnight panel, one that looks like her doing a TED Talk and another on stage with the Vice-Chancellor and Theresa May. With each picture I pass the stakes inch up. And not just for her.
The sitting room spans the whole depth of the house. Tall front sashes with long muslin curtains shifting gently in the rising heat. Stripped floors, deep ochre velvet sofas and, on one wall, a huge canvas of swirling koi carp that’s halfway to abstract – flickering blues and oranges and eddying yellows. You can almost see the water churning. To the rear, the windows look over a small but immaculate courtyard garden, with flowering shrubs elegantly arranged in terracotta pots. The boy must have a playroom somewhere else because there isn’t a toy or a mess in sight. The house whispers calm and grace and order. And screams money. Lots and lots of money.
Asante, meanwhile, is still staring at the painting.
‘Alan Hydes,’ he says, gesturing at the signature. ‘I know him. Well, not know, exactly – my parents have one of his. They met him in Mallorca – he has a studio in the same village.’
He looks embarrassed suddenly and turns away, as if he’s said too much. Perhaps it was that ‘same’ that did it, with its implied second home. He goes over to the table under the window and starts sifting through the pile of magazines. I clocked those myself – given the surroundings, you might have expected Homes & Gardens or House Beautiful, but these all have navy-blue covers and grown-up titles like Journal of AI Research and Neural Transfer Learning for Natural Language Processing.