by Hunter, Cara
‘Just before she speaks there’s a minute nod of the head – it’s almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Her words say one thing, but her body says something else. In general, her physical composure is pretty impressive, but a micro-gesture like that, it’s beyond the control of the conscious mind. Even if the mind in question does belong to an Oxford professor.’
‘So you think she does remember how the dress got damaged, she just doesn’t want to say so?’
‘That would be my guess, yes.’
‘But when she says she can’t remember any physical contact with Morgan, that’s genuine?’
‘Yes,’ he says slowly, but he’s frowning now, and so am I. There’s something here that’s not adding up.
Gow hesitates then sits forward. ‘Do you by any chance have Morgan’s tape?’
* * *
* * *
Adam Fawley
9 July 2018
11.52
I load the disk and we watch, and then Gow rewinds it and plays it again, before pressing pause, sitting back and giving me an enquiring look. And now I know what I’m looking for, I can see it myself. Marina Fisher isn’t the only one who isn’t telling the whole truth. There’s something about that night Caleb Morgan doesn’t want to admit either. To me, to his girlfriend, perhaps even to himself.
I just have to find out what it is.
There’s a knock at the door.
Quinn.
‘Sorry to barge in, boss, but there are some people downstairs to see you.’
I frown. ‘Can’t you deal with it?’
He shakes his head. ‘Tried that. They’re not having it.’
He hands me a couple of business cards. Thick, textured paper stock, a confident, understated logo. A City law firm so prestigious even I’ve heard of them. And these people are both partners. I was expecting a top-end Oxford outfit but Petra Newson has gone straight for SWAT.
‘OK,’ I say, ‘show them into the first-floor meeting room, will you?’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re putting them in the cheap seats?’
I give him a look. ‘We don’t want them getting too comfortable, do we?’
* * *
‘Anything interesting?’
Baxter looks up. Somer’s standing behind him, looking over his shoulder.
He gestures at the phone. ‘Ev was right about the prosecco. Marina Fisher buys her wine by the case from Berry Brothers & Rudd. She also spends at least a grand a month on clothes and has over ten thousand Twitter followers, how’s that for starters?’
Somer nods. ‘Doesn’t surprise me. Any of it.’ She seems distracted, fiddling with the end of her hair.
‘Apart from that,’ says Baxter, ‘I haven’t got much. Though as far as I can see there wasn’t anything going on between Morgan and Fisher before all this blew up.’
Somer moves round and stands in front of him. ‘What difference would that make?’
She’s staring at him, her fists clenched, and he blinks; where the hell has this come from? It’s not like her. ‘It’s just that –’
‘You think if you’re in a relationship with someone you don’t get to say no? Is that it?’
Baxter’s gone red now; he can sense Asante out of the corner of his eye. He’d been typing but he isn’t any more. He’s staring at them. The room is gradually falling silent.
‘Of course not. But it can make a difference – in court – you know that – look what happened with that Met case –’
‘I don’t believe this,’ she says, turning on her heel and walking away. ‘I don’t fucking believe it.’
Baxter stares after her then looks across at Asante. ‘Did I miss something?’
Asante shrugs. ‘Search me.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
9 July 2018
12.18
The woman is in a tailored dress, the man in an open-neck white shirt and one of those slim royal-blue suits that seem to be the thing these days. They rise as I enter and we shake hands.
‘Meredith Melia,’ says the woman as I take my seat, ‘and this is my colleague Patrick Dunn. We’re representing Caleb Morgan.’
‘Thank you for the information, but I’m not sure why you’re here. Mr Morgan is the victim of an alleged crime, he doesn’t need “representation”.’
She smiles. ‘I’m sure you can appreciate that Mr Morgan’s family are very concerned that he receive the best possible advice and support.’
‘He’s been offered the assistance of an Independent Sexual Violence Adviser, and he has a dedicated police point of contact. The whole team is working extremely hard on his behalf. I’m not sure what other sort of support Mr Morgan needs that his family can’t provide themselves.’
Another smile. ‘It’s not that simple, though, is it, Inspector? This is a very unusual situation and the issues are both complex and exceptionally sensitive. The family is particularly concerned that Mr Morgan’s privacy should be protected.’
‘You can rest assured that we will treat Mr Morgan with the same respect and consideration that we give everyone else in his position, male or female, and regardless of who their “family” are.’
The lawyers exchange a glance.
‘Perhaps you could take us through the evidence you have assembled thus far?’
‘No.’
‘You’re refusing to do that?’
I sit back. ‘I’m under no obligation to. And if, in due course, I reach a point where I do want to have that conversation, I will have it with Mr Morgan. Whether he wants any of you in the room at the time will be entirely up to him.’
The woman frowns. ‘We were assured of your cooperation –’
‘Really? By whom?’
She opens her mouth to reply but I hear Dunn clear his throat.
‘We’re all on the same side, Inspector. I appreciate you don’t particularly like a bunch of rogue tanks turning up on your lawn but we’re not here to trip you up, get under your feet or generally make your life any harder than it already is. But it strikes us – and we hope you agree – that a policy of full and open communication would minimize the possibility of anything untoward appearing in the press, and make a successful outcome a lot more likely.’
I’m tempted to ask whether their client has also been adhering to that ‘full and open policy’ of theirs, because right now, I wouldn’t bet on it.
Dunn looks at the woman. ‘I think our best course would be to let Detective Inspector Fawley return to his work. There’ll be time enough for a fuller briefing when the DNA results come back.’
I show them back to the front desk and stand there, watching them out through the door and down the street. That comment about the DNA wasn’t a throwaway remark or a lucky guess. It was a message, and not a very subtle one: these people have backchannels and they’re going to use them. They’re giving me a choice: I can do this the hard way or the easy way, but if I know what’s good for me I’ll shut up and play nice.
They’re getting into a car now, a black Merc with tinted windows that’s just stopped on the yellow line a few yards up. As it pulls away into the buses and the bikes, I realize suddenly that there’s someone else in the street. Someone I recognize.
I hesitate a moment, wondering if it’s just a coincidence. But you know by now what I think about coincidences. And as our eyes meet across the traffic, I know I’m right.
We have to wait for a bus to pass, but a few moments later we’re standing face to face on the crowded pavement.
‘Hello, Adam,’ she says.
* * *
Alex Fawley has reached the point in her pregnancy where her baby is a good deal more active than she is. She’s always so tired now, and it’s not just the heat. When Adam’s at work she spends most of the day lying on the bed with the blinds down. She can’t even summon the energy to read, just plugs in her headphones or has the TV on in the background, treating it like radio.
She pours herself a glass of iced water and
wanders back into the sitting room. There’s no one parked outside. No one unfamiliar, anyway. Just the Hamiltons’ SUV and the grey Fiat Uno owned by that woman a bit further down whose name Alex still doesn’t know. The white van hasn’t been back. Or at least she doesn’t think it has. But would he really be stupid enough to use a vehicle he knew she’d be looking for? If it was her, she’d go to a rental place. Get something bland and forgettable. And a different one each time, just to make sure. This man isn’t stupid; if he’s using a white van it’s intentional. Because he wants her to know he’s there. To scare her – deliberately scare her –
Her heart quickens and the baby turns, uneasy. She sits down slowly, willing her pulse to slow. Adam keeps asking her if everything’s OK – if she’s seen the van again – and she keeps just smiling and saying no. She doesn’t want him worrying – or starting to think she’s losing her mind. Because it makes no sense, she knows that: Gavin Parrie is miles from here, tagged, monitored, curfewed. But her fear just won’t go away.
She cradles her body now, feeling the baby settle.
‘Don’t worry, sweet one,’ she whispers, the tears gathering in her eyes. ‘You’re safe. Daddy would never let anyone hurt us. You and I are his whole world.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
9 July 2018
14.25
Reynolds can’t see me till gone two. The PA tells me he ‘has a lunch’ so would I ‘come to the Lodgings’. No doubt they want to keep the likes of me from contaminating their hallowed turf. Given I have time on my hands, I opt to walk. Up St Aldate’s and through Cornmarket. The sun is bringing them all out – Jehovah’s Witnesses, a choir of Seventh Day Adventists, the local Islamic centre and a kiosk informing me that ‘The Message of the Cross is foolishness to those who are perishing’. Though parching might be a better word, given the temperature. And all of it jumbled up any-old-how with the payday lenders, a stall selling sunglasses and smiley-face cushions, and that carrot-haired regular who plays the bagpipes. (There’s a furious-looking little old lady standing right opposite him with a knotted handkerchief on her head and a placard that says REBUILD HADRIAN’S WALL. That’s Oxford for you – never knowingly under-nuttered.) It’s six-deep in tourist groups most of the way so progress is slow, though at least most of those are managing to keep their clothes on. Unlike the locals, who are going hell for leather into another round of the Great British Kit-Off. If there was a law against raw bloke moobs in a built-up area I’d need to send for reinforcements.
When I get to the lodgings the flunkey at the door shows me through to the garden. Which is, of course, glorious – a green half-acre of lawns and honeysuckle and rose beds tended to within an inch of their lives. There are a couple of blokes there now, weeding and dead-heading. Needless to say, these chaps are keeping their shirts firmly on. As is Reynolds, who’s in a white linen number, sitting under an umbrella with a laptop open in front of him on a mosaic table. He gestures to an adjacent chair.
‘Take a seat, Inspector. I won’t be a moment. Do help yourself to lemonade. My wife makes it – an old family recipe.’
Forcing me to watch him fiddle about with emails is pretty low-grade stuff as power plays go, but the lemonade isn’t bad, so I content myself with the view. Somewhere nearby someone’s playing the piano. Mozart. That’s not bad, either.
‘Right,’ says Reynolds a few moments later, taking off his glasses and pushing the laptop slightly to one side. Though he doesn’t – I note – close it altogether. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘We’re making headway with the inquiry, sir, but I could do with some more background. A clearer picture of both Morgan and Fisher.’
He reaches for his glass. ‘Off the record, you mean.’
‘I’m not a journalist – we don’t work by those rules. I can’t guarantee that anything you tell me won’t end up in the public domain, but it won’t do so gratuitously. Police officers may be a touch bull-headed on occasion, but we do try to keep out of china shops.’
He smiles, a little uneasily, evidently unsure how to reply. Then the smile subsides. ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘Let’s start with Marina Fisher. I find the situation with her ex-husband a little odd.’
He frowns. ‘How so? They got married, they got unmarried, he went back to Boston. It was a lot cleaner than most divorces I’ve been forced to witness.’
‘But that’s my point. Joel Johnson went back to the US. How old was Tobin when they separated? A year? Even younger? And yet Johnson was perfectly happy to leave him behind, knowing he’d scarcely ever see him. You don’t think that’s odd?’
Reynolds gives me a heavy look. ‘Not really. Tobin Fisher isn’t Joel Johnson’s child.’
So that’s it.
‘In fact, he was the reason for the divorce.’
‘Fisher had an affair?’
Reynolds takes a sip of lemonade and puts the glass down. ‘I gather “one-night stand” would be a more accurate description.’
‘But she’s sure the child isn’t Johnson’s?’
‘He was in the US for most of that term. And in any case, Johnson is African American.’
He’s looking at me as if this is a tutorial and he’s just caught me out for not doing enough prep. And he’s right – irritating, but right: I should have known that. I should have looked Johnson up.
‘Fisher was at Edith Launceleve at the time?’
He nods. ‘It was her second or third year. But I’d known her before that. It was largely down to me that she came here. I was the one who persuaded her to leave Imperial. And it took some doing, I can tell you.’
If I’d come right out with it and asked him what size of dog he has in this fight I couldn’t have got a clearer answer. He’s up to his neck in it. Mastiff-level.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he says. ‘And the answer is no.’
‘No, what?’
‘No, I’m not Tobin’s father. I have never had that sort of relationship with Marina.’
I sit back a little. ‘Do you know who the father is?’
He shakes his head. ‘Like I said, she described it as a one-night stand. It’s possible she never even told him Tobin exists.’
‘And she went ahead with the pregnancy, even though she must have known it would torpedo the marriage?’
He shrugs. ‘She wanted children, Joel didn’t. And given her age –’
He spreads his hands as if the rest goes without saying. And it does. Especially to me.
‘Has she had relationships since?’
He considers. ‘One or two. But before you ask, I can assure you they have all been entirely age-appropriate.’
‘So men in their forties.’
‘Or older, yes. I have never, in all the years I have known her, seen Marina take any interest in a student or a significantly younger man. This whole episode – it would be totally out of character.’
I note the conditional tense. And move on.
‘What about Caleb Morgan? Is this “episode” out of character for him too?’
Reynolds folds his hands on his lap. ‘Clearly, I haven’t known him as long, given he’s been here less than a year. But by all accounts he is an honest, hard-working and – if I dare use such an out-of-favour term – honourable young man.’
‘So if I were to tell you, purely theoretically, that he may have had an altercation with his girlfriend on the night of the alleged assault – that he may have pushed her – what would you say?’
His eyes narrow. ‘I’d say I find it hard to believe.’ He hesitates. ‘That wasn’t “theoretical” at all, was it?’
I let the silence lengthen, and I see his unease rise.
He reaches for the jug and refills his glass. ‘I don’t envy you, Inspector, taking this on. We’re the other side of the looking glass here; nothing about it makes any sense.’
But then again, this is Oxford. When it comes to through the looking glass, this place wrote the book.
/>
* * *
Chloe Blanchflower @Whitepetal1_99_1 18.22
Anyone else heard about this #Oxford thing with a guy getting assaulted by his female tutor?
#HeToo #VictHIM
4 9 9
Carmel Piper @NosyRosy1998 18.24
Replying to @Whitepetal1_99_1
I’ve been asking around about that since I saw it on here but no one seems to know anything. Copying @JosephAndrews2018
#HeToo #VictHIM
8 21 22
JosephAndrews2018 @JosephAndrews2018 18.39
Replying to @NosyRosy1998 @Whitepetal1_99_1
I have to be careful about what I say but let’s just say no one should behave the way this person has done – there should be no safe harbour for predators whatever their gender, and this particular person has been trawling the student pool for a while
#HeToo #VictHIM
276 551 1.75k
* * *
Alex Fawley checks her phone again. Still nothing from Adam. She knows he leaves his mobile in his locker when he’s at the gym, and he did say he might have to go somewhere afterwards, but he’s still more than an hour later than he said he’d be.
She leans over and picks up her tablet, navigates to the page and presses play. Just as well Adam isn’t here because he’d be furious with her if he knew. When they heard The Whole Truth organization were going to make a podcast about the Parrie case he made her promise she wouldn’t listen. He said they’d just be out for headlines – that whatever angle they took, digging about in the past couldn’t change it, so why torture herself going through it all again. It wouldn’t be good for her, and it wouldn’t be good for the baby. And he was right, of course he was right, but she still can’t stop herself. Because she knows what’s coming: whatever their agenda is, whatever ‘angle’ they come up with, they’ll still have to talk about her – about her and about Adam.
And what if they aren’t just digging about in the past? What if they’ve actually found something?
What if they know what she did?
What then?
* * *
Quinn’s first in the office on Tuesday. It’s almost like old times, back when he was the real DS and not just keeping Gis’s seat warm: getting set up for the morning meeting, picking up CID emails. He does another quick check (find a spare marker pen, turn the fan on – much good it’ll do), then takes a seat at the front and opens up his tablet. Next arrival is Baxter. Sweating already, and grumbling to himself about parking. He looks around and frowns.