by Hunter, Cara
‘It’s a fascinating area, don’t you think?’ he says, leafing one of them. ‘Apparently IBM think they’ll be able to replicate a fully functioning human brain by 2023.’
I glance at him. ‘Trust me, there are some things machines will never be able to do.’
He looks up. ‘You say that, but this technology is moving so fast – apparently eighty per cent of office jobs could eventually be automated. Eighty per cent. Whole armies of employees who’ll work 24/7, don’t need to be paid, never make a mistake, never complain to HR. And when you add in speech recognition, visual perception, the capacity for decision-making and planning –’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, right.’
He nods. ‘No, really – I mean, I know it sounds like crazy sci-fi, but the sort of machines they’re developing now really do have the capacity to learn – the more they do something, the better they get at it. It’s getting to the point where the machines are actually improving the original spec. And not just in obvious areas like manufacturing, either – AI’s going to revolutionize the way pharmaceutical companies develop new drugs. And then there’s financial services, healthcare, education –’
It strikes me suddenly that he’s trying to give me an AI for Dummies briefing without making it too crashingly obvious. I can’t work out if I’m grateful or just irritated.
‘Not policework, though,’ I say, half under my breath. ‘I can’t see robots running murder inquiries any time soon.’
‘Ah,’ he says quickly, taking a step towards me, ‘that’s where you’re wrong –’
I flash him a look and he falters. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean – it’s just that I read this really interesting article about –’
But I never get to find out. Downstairs, in the hall, someone’s just come in.
* * *
The Sexual Assault Referral Centre is in a quiet street a little way out of town. If you didn’t know what it was, you probably wouldn’t guess. It doesn’t exactly advertise itself – just the obligatory car parking and a bland front sign with a logo of a tree. It could just as easily be a doctor’s surgery, a community centre or a primary school. And inside, pretty much the same applies: there’s a waiting room with armchairs, a coffee machine and a playpen. And, behind that, a corridor of closed doors. Where the real work happens.
Ev had phoned ahead so the Nurse Practitioner is in the reception area to meet them, but other than her, the place is deserted. Ev knows her vaguely from her training course, but they’re both careful not to overdo it on the meet and greet. This is not about them.
‘Mr Morgan?’ she says, extending a hand. ‘My name is Eileen Channon. If it’s OK with you, I’ll be doing your forensic examination today. I can arrange a male nurse if you prefer, though with it being a weekend there might be a bit of a wait until we can get someone here. But it’s totally up to you, if that’s what you prefer.’
Morgan shakes his head quickly. ‘I don’t want to wait.’
‘OK, and would you like to speak to an Independent Sexual Violence Adviser at this stage?’
Another no.
‘That’s fine. I know it’s a lot to take in. You can always change your mind later, just let DC Everett know.’
Channon gives him a brief professional smile; enough for human contact, but not so much as to imply that anyone is here to enjoy themselves.
‘I have a few forms for you to sign,’ she says, handing him a clipboard. ‘Sorry about that, but there’s no way round it, I’m afraid. It’s just some basic questions about your medical history and a consent form for the examination. I’ll be back in a few minutes, so take your time.’
Morgan goes to the furthest corner of the waiting room and sits down. There’s a box of tissues on the table next to him, and a stack of leaflets on STDs and counselling services. Ev turns away and takes Quinn by the arm, pulling him towards the coffee machine.
‘Stop staring,’ she hisses. ‘It’s not helping.’
Quinn flushes. ‘Sorry. It’s just that I haven’t done this shit before.’
‘Neither has Morgan,’ she replies in an undertone. ‘And if he can cope, so can you.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
16.56
Her son must have gone down to meet her, because we can hear Marina Fisher talking to him as she comes up the stairs. Perfectly pitched Upper-Middle Mother: slightly overloud, not entirely listening. She sounds decisive, breezy. Unconcerned.
‘I want to show you my drawing, Mummy.’
‘Lovely, darling, what a clever little boy you are.’
Footsteps, coming closer now, hard heels on the wooden steps.
‘I want to show you now!’ His tone is half pleading, half tantrum. ‘It’s important!’
‘Sweetheart – Mummy has some things she needs to do first. Tobin – stop that – I’ve told you before, you’ll hurt me.’
They can hear him stamping now. ‘But it’s not fair! I want you to talk to me! Not them!’
A pause. ‘Who, darling? What are you talking about?’
She rounds the corner into the sitting room and her expression changes.
‘Who the hell are you?’
* * *
‘You can leave your clothes behind the screen and DC Everett will bag up what we need afterwards. There’s a gown hanging on the back of the door and we have some T-shirts and yoga pants you can change into afterwards.’
Ev wonders how often this place needs that stuff in XXL, but unlike Quinn, she’d never say it out loud.
Morgan’s head is down – it has been ever since they came into the room. As if by avoiding eye contact he can pretend to himself that none of this is really happening.
‘You want me to take off everything?’ he says, a hot blush flaring across his cheeks. ‘Underwear and that?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ says Channon briskly. ‘And just to make sure – you’re still OK for DC Everett to remain in the room for the medical examination?’
‘Yeah, whatever. I just want this over with.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
16.58
She has quite a presence, even in this large room. She’s not especially tall, but she has poise, no question, and she carries herself with confidence – enough confidence to get away with not just the mini-length sundress but a straw fedora and calf-high gladiator sandals, both of which would be getting some serious eye-rolling from Alex if she were here. The look is in stark contrast with the crisp professional images on the stairs, but evidently Fisher’s personal style is a good deal less buttoned-up when she’s not on public show. There are auburn streaks in the long blonde bob and her make-up is flawless, even in this heat. So much so that, from where I’m sitting, she looks scarcely twenty-five.
There was an edge to her voice, and I suppose it’s understandable. Two strangers – male strangers – alone in the house with her eight-year-old child and a cleaner who doesn’t speak English. And we’re not in uniform.
I get up and walk towards her, holding out my warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Adam Fawley. This is Detective Constable Asante.’
She puts her hand down to touch her son’s head; instinctively protective now. The boy is hiding behind her, clinging to her leg, his thumb in his mouth.
‘Perhaps the other lady we saw could look after the little boy while we talk? It might be best.’
She stares at me for a moment and then nods.
She bends down. ‘Tobin, could you go and find Beatriz and ask her to give you a glass of milk?’
‘Don’t want milk. Want Fanta.’
‘All right, then. Just this once.’
She straightens up and ushers him gently out on to the landing. ‘Good boy. I won’t be long.’
We all wait until his footsteps fade down the stairs and then she turns to me again. ‘So perhaps you could now explain to me what you’re doing here?’
‘We have some questions
. About last night.’
She looks blank, perplexed, the ghost of the smile still hovering on her dark-red lips. As if this has to be some sort of mistake. As if she’ll be regaling her friends about it later over rhubarb and tamarind artisan gin. ‘Sounds like a bad teen flick.’
But we’re not laughing.
* * *
‘And as well as not changing your clothes, you also haven’t showered since the incident took place, is that right?’
She didn’t really need to ask – the air in the small room is stifling now, and it’s not just the heat.
Morgan shakes his head. ‘I was going to but Freya – my girlfriend – she said I shouldn’t.’
Ev’s ears prick up: it’s the first time he’s mentioned talking to anyone other than Reynolds. In cases like these, any sort of corroboration can end up being significant.
Channon is nodding. ‘Your girlfriend was absolutely right. But as soon as we’re done here there’s a shower cubicle next door. That’s bound to make you feel a lot more comfortable. Then you can have a cup of tea and DC Everett can take your evidential account. Which is really just a fancy term for a statement.’
‘There’s no rush,’ says Ev quickly. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’
The room is silent again as Channon goes calmly about her business, quietly explaining what she’s doing as she collects and bags forensic swabs from Morgan’s body. Face, neck, hands, chest, groin. You’d know he played a contact sport just from the old scars and Channon dutifully notes those too, but what she’s looking for are the unhealed. The scratch on his neck, the other, smaller ones high on his chest.
‘It’s my team,’ he says, seeing Everett looking at the tattoo on his forearm. He rubs it self-consciously. ‘The Ospreys.’
Channon asks him to stand, and he turns left, turns right, raises his arms, as requested, as biddable as a small child. He’s trying to tough this out and everyone is being impeccably sensitive and considerate and discreet, but it’s clear, all the same, that he’s finding it all horribly intrusive.
He briefly catches Ev’s eye and makes a sad wry face. ‘And to think I never used to get why so few women report being raped.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
17.04
‘Marina Fisher, I am arresting you on suspicion of sexual assault. 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.’
She’s shaking her head, backing away from me. ‘Sexual assault? What are you talking about?’ Her voice falters, and she feels behind her for the sofa and sits down heavily. When she speaks again, her breath is ragged. ‘Who – who said this –’
‘I believe you know a student called Caleb Morgan?’
She frowns. ‘Caleb? Caleb says I raped him?’
‘Professor Fisher, we really need to have this conversation at St Aldate’s. Where it can be recorded.’
‘St Aldate’s – you mean the police station?’ Her eyes widen and for the first time she looks genuinely afraid.
I nod. ‘It’s better that way. Not just for us – for you too.’
She looks down, fighting for self-control, then nods. ‘I’ll need to call my lawyer.’
‘Of course. You can do that when we get there. Can Beatriz stay with the child or is there someone else you want us to call?’
She’s silent so long I’m not sure she’s heard.
‘Professor Fisher?’
She looks up, half startled. ‘What? Oh – yes, I’ll ask her.’
Asante takes a step towards her. ‘And we’ll need the clothes you were wearing last night. I assume you’ve taken a shower today?’
She stares at him. ‘Of course I have –’
Though perhaps she regrets answering so sharply because she bites her lip now. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be – it’s just this whole thing is –’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Yes, I have showered.’
‘We’ll need your clothes too. Everything you were wearing last night. Including your underwear.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s already been washed. And my gown is at the dry cleaner’s.’
I glance at Asante, who raises an eyebrow, but she forestalls us.
‘Look, I know that probably looks dodgy or something, but I spilt some wine on it, OK? That’s all. And I was going past the cleaner’s on my way to college anyway.’ She shrugs. ‘It was just convenient, all right? If I don’t do it now I’ll forget, and by the time I drag it out of the wardrobe for the next shindig it’ll be too bloody late.’
It might make sense, it might not; but either way it’s going to have to wait. I’m not having this conversation here.
‘So,’ I say, ‘could you speak to Beatriz now? And our CSI team will also need access to the premises to conduct a forensic search. DC Asante will stay here until they arrive.’
She holds my gaze for a moment and then nods. ‘OK. I’ll tell her.’
She seems on the verge of tears.
* * *
* * *
The dry cleaner’s is on the Woodstock Road, and it is, indeed, in a direct line between St Luke Street and Edith Launceleve. But the affluent of North Oxford clearly have better things to do on a hot July afternoon than dirty laundry, so Asante isn’t at all surprised to find he’s the only person in the shop. In fact, he suspects the not-much-more-than-a-lad behind the counter was hoping to bunk off early, given the aggrieved look he shoots at Asante when he pushes open the door. Though he cheers up considerably when he discovers it’s the police. And not just police, CID. This is better than the footie.
Asante does his best to rise above it. ‘I believe you took in an evening dress for cleaning earlier today?’ He checks his tablet. ‘Full-length red satin gown with a sequinned bodice and chiffon sleeves. It would have been booked in under the name Marina Fisher.’
The lad drags the order book towards him and flicks back through the pages.
‘Yeah,’ he says after a moment. ‘Looks like it.’
‘Could I see it, please? The dress?’
The lad makes a face and flips the book shut. ‘Nah, sorry, mate.’
Asante frowns; they must clean on-site, he can smell the chemicals. ‘What do you mean, “no”?’
‘She asked for an express job, didn’t she – two-hour turnaround. It’s been done already.’
Asante sighs. RIP any chance of forensics. Sometimes luck is on your side; sometimes it just isn’t.
‘Can I take it anyway?’
The lad shakes his head. ‘No, sorry, mate. Like I said.’
Asante grits his teeth; frankly, it would be easier pulling them. ‘Why not, if you’ve finished doing it? Look, if it’s paperwork you need –’
The lad grins. ‘No, it ain’t that, mate. It’s been cleaned, yeah. But it’s not here. The van picked it up an hour ago.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘We clean here, but alterations – hems, that sort of stuff – that’s done off-site. And according to the docket, this one was a repair job.’
Asante’s eyes narrow. ‘Exactly what kind of a “repair job” are we talking about?’
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
18.43
I’m not in the room when CSI process Marina Fisher, but I am waiting at the coffee machine when Nina Mukerjee comes out. She doesn’t look surprised to see me.
‘Waiting for an update?’ she says, going over to the water cooler. She sticks a paper cup under the dispenser and presses the button. ‘We’ve taken all the usual swabs, but the only thing visible to the naked eye was the slight bruising on her right wrist.’
I frown – I don’t remember seeing that. And the sundress was sleeveless –
But then it comes to me. She had a heavy silver cuff bracelet on one wrist. A bracelet big enough to cover any damage. And it was her right wrist.<
br />
‘What did she say about it? The bruising?’
‘Claimed it was probably her kid, but couldn’t remember exactly how it happened. If you ask me, the marks were too big for a small child, but there’s no way to prove it one way or the other.’
‘And it couldn’t have happened at another time? Earlier that day, say?’
‘Impossible to say for sure. It might be worth trying to get hold of any photos taken at the dinner, see if they show anything.’
‘Is there likely to be any DNA?’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. I took fingernail scrapings though I doubt they’ll yield much. But you said Morgan hadn’t showered, so if there are marks on him and she made them, we’ve got a pretty good chance of proving it.’
‘And how did she seem to you, in general?’
Mukerjee considers. ‘Surprisingly composed, actually. She was a bit stressed when she first came in, and the lawyer fidgeting about like a mother hen probably didn’t help, but as soon as we got into it she calmed down at once.’
‘I guess she’s a scientist. Of sorts, anyway.’
‘Funnily enough, that’s exactly what she said. That she found the environment soothing, because it’s what she’s used to.’
Mukerjee picks up her water. ‘One thing’s for sure – she was a lot more composed than most people in her position. The lawyer couldn’t wait to get out of there but Fisher made a point of stopping and thanking me. She said that when it came down to it my job was the same as hers: it was all about the facts. And the facts would prove she’s telling the truth.’
* * *
When Clive Conway gets to the St Luke Street house it’s a uniformed PC who opens the door.
‘Afternoon, Puttergill. Some sort of rave round here last night, was there?’ he says, scraping his shoes on the mat. ‘There’s bits of glass all over the step.’
Puttergill looks blank, then ducks his head outside to look. ‘Is there? I can’t see anything.’
‘Curse of CSI,’ says Conway with a sigh. ‘Every random bit of crap looks like trace evidence.’ He unloads his forensic case in the hall and closes the door behind him. ‘So you got dumped on too, did you?’