The Whole Truth

by Hunter, Cara

  Within a few months he and Sandra had split up, and Gavin had moved back to Cowley. Both his brothers had gravitated back to Oxford by then, so the move made sense, even if it meant he wouldn’t see as much of his kids as he’d have liked. He got a flat, started seeing a new girlfriend, tried to make a new start. Life seemed better than it had for a long time.

  And then, on January 27th 1998, a 23-year-old woman called Erin Pope was dragged off the street in the outskirts of Oxford, on her way home from work. Her hands were bound with cable ties and a plastic bag pulled over her head. She was found, an hour later, badly beaten, her underwear missing and a clump of her hair ripped out.

  The Roadside Rapes had begun.

  [UNDER BED OF ‘SEX CRIME 1984’ – EURYTHMICS]

  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]

  * * *

  The uniformed PC is on the doorstep when they arrive. One of the new intake at Cowley Road; Quinn vaguely remembers seeing him once or twice before.

  ‘Acting DS Quinn. What have we got here?’

  The PC stands up a little taller. ‘I attended the address at 11.06 hours, sir, at the request of Ms Elizabeth Monroe. She was concerned for the occupant’s welfare, having been unable to reach her this morning after she failed to turn up at work. I found the door open, no evidence of forced entry, and the premises empty. Sir.’

  Quinn smiles drily. ‘What’s your name?’

  He flushes. ‘Webster, sir.’

  ‘OK, Webster, there’s no need to talk like a Speak Your Weight machine. Ordinary lingo’s fine, even in the presence of CID.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Quinn heads into the flat and Ev grins at Webster as she passes. ‘And no need to call him “sir”, either.’ She drops her voice to a whisper and winks. ‘It just gives him ideas.’

  It’s a small flat on the ground floor of a converted 1930s semi. Kitchen, sitting room, bedroom, a shower room with no windows. Everything is tidied neatly away as if the owner was expecting people – guests, parents, potential buyers. If this place has been burgled someone’s gone to enormous lengths to cover it up. Ev pulls her gloves out of her pocket, then reaches for the handbag lying on the coffee table.

  ‘Purse, wallet and keys,’ she says after a moment. ‘But no phone.’

  Quinn’s still working his way round the room. Picking things up, putting them down again.

  ‘Not very, you know, “girly”, is it?’

  Ev gives him the side-eye. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’

  But she knows what he means. There are books and the odd magazine, sponsor mailings from Barnardo’s and Save the Children, a charity envelope for UNICEF, but no trinkets, no ornaments; barely anything personal at all. Not even photographs.

  Quinn stops and puts his hands on his hips. ‘There’s only one toothbrush so odds on she lives alone, but that’s about the only thing I get from this place. It’s like one of those short-term rentals.’

  ‘There’s that,’ says Ev, nodding at the copy of Women’s Running on the table. ‘And there are three pairs of trainers in the hall. So we know at least one thing she does in her spare time.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s it – something happened while she was out running?’

  Ev frowns. ‘Having left the front door open when she left?’

  ‘Could have been mugged and had her keys stolen?’

  Ev’s still frowning. ‘And the mugger came back here, decided not to bother nicking anything and put the keys back in her bag? And how did he know where she lived anyway?’

  Quinn nods slowly. ‘Right. It doesn’t really add up.’

  ‘It doesn’t add up at all.’ She puts the handbag down. ‘Something’s wrong here, Quinn. I know it.’

  * * *

  * * *

  ‘So you don’t know her very well?’

  The man shrugs and shakes his head, though Everett’s not sure whether that’s because he doesn’t actually know her or because he hasn’t really understood the question. The little girl holding on to his leg is chattering away in what sounds like Polish.

  ‘OK,’ she says, handing him her card. ‘Do give us a call if you think of anything.’

  She goes back down the path and along to the next house. She can see Quinn two doors further on, and when he turns she catches his eye and shrugs. He shakes his head: seems he isn’t getting very far either.

  This time the door is opened by a woman. Not much more than five feet high, in a bright-yellow sari.

  Ev smiles. ‘Sorry to bother you. My name is Detective Constable Everett, Thames Valley Police. We’re making enquiries about the woman who lives in number 62a. Do you know her at all?’

  The woman clasps her hands together. ‘Of course. A very nice lady. But I hope she is OK? Nothing bad has happened?’

  Ev tries to look reassuring. ‘She hasn’t been seen since last night. We’re just trying to locate her. We’ve no reason to suspect anything untoward at present.’

  The woman looks concerned. ‘I see. Oh dear.’

  ‘Did you happen to see her last night? Mrs –?’

  ‘Singh. I am Mrs Singh.’

  ‘So – did you see anything yesterday evening?’

  She nods slowly. ‘Yes, I did. There was a man. At her door.’

  Ev feels her heartrate quicken. She pulls her notebook out of her pocket. ‘And when was this?’

  ‘It must have been about nine o’clock. I was cooking and one of those people came to the door. Selling things, you know.’

  Nottingham knocker, thinks Ev.

  ‘Could you describe the man – the one at 62a, I mean.’

  She looks contrite. ‘I am sorry, I was not really concentrating. I was trying to make the salesman go away. My husband does not like those people. I wanted him to go before Rajesh came home.’

  Ev doesn’t like them much either. It’s one of the unexpected benefits of living in a first-floor flat with an entryphone and no street door.

  ‘The man at 62a – was he tall? Young? White?’

  The woman nods. ‘White, yes. And dark hair. Quite tall, but everyone looks tall to me.’ She smiles, then glances across at Quinn on the next-door step. ‘He looked a bit like your friend, perhaps? But I only saw his back. I do not think I would know him again.’

  ‘What was he wearing, do you remember?’

  ‘Oh yes. It was shorts. Shorts and a T-shirt. A white one. And training shoes. Like for running, you know?’

  ‘Do you remember the colour of the shorts?’

  Mrs Singh’s face crumples a little. ‘Oh dear. Not really. Black, perhaps? I am sorry, I am not sure.’

  ‘And the conversation they were having – did that seem friendly to you?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’m sure they knew each other. She let him in, after all.’

  ‘She let him in?’

  The woman nods. ‘Yes, yes. I saw him go inside.’

  Ev’s making frantic notes now. ‘Did you see him leave?’

  ‘No. I was cooking, and then Rajesh came home and it was fuss, fuss, fuss. Husbands – you know how it is.’ She gives a conspiratorial smile, which Ev tries to mirror, but never having been married it’s a bit of a fake.

  ‘You didn’t hear or see anything after that? No arguments, cars leaving suddenly, anything like that?’

  Mrs Singh shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘But there was a car outside I hadn’t seen before. When I pulled the front curtains later it had gone.’

  ‘And that would have been around –?’

  ‘The time? Ten thirty. I always go to bed at the same time.’

  Ev nods. ‘And what sort of car was it? I know this is hard, but if you could remember the make –’

  The woman shakes her head with a smile. ‘I do not know anything about cars. It was dark. Blue or grey? Something like that. An ordinary car.’

  ‘Ordinar
y?’

  ‘You know. Not one of these big ones that look like the army.’

  ‘Ah, I see. A saloon. Not an SUV.’

  The woman holds up a finger. ‘Exactly! Exactly that. That is what I meant.’

  When Quinn joins her on the pavement a couple of minutes later Ev’s still making notes.

  ‘Looks like you had more luck than me.’

  She glances up. ‘There was a man at number 62a last night. About nine. Dark, tallish and possibly driving a dark-coloured car.’

  Quinn exhales. ‘Blimey, that changes things a bit.’

  Ev’s face is grim. ‘It wasn’t random, Quinn, and it wasn’t while she was out running. She let this predator in.’

  * * *

  ‘OK, Baxter, can you get started on her social media, Ev, you’re on the parents, and Somer, I want you to go and see her colleagues, especially the one who called it in.’

  Back at St Aldate’s and Quinn’s back in his stride. This is more like it. Real policework. He’s not dissing the assault case – well, not as such – but that whole area is a bloody bear trap and whatever you do is wrong. Quinn likes his crime clear-cut. No hidden snares, nothing that’ll come back to bite you on the arse. A chance to actually achieve something. And if he gets this sewn up before Gis gets back –

  But an hour later his initial elation has rather cooled.

  ‘She’s not on Facebook? Come on, Baxter, everyone’s on Facebook.’

  ‘No,’ says Baxter stubbornly, ‘they’re not. And this woman’s one of them. There is an Instagram account, but it looks to me like she only set it up to post shots from when she was out running, but after half-a-dozen or so she must have lost interest. She’s not on Twitter at all, and the LinkedIn is just professional stuff to do with her work at the council. Whoever that bloke was she let in last night, I don’t rate your chances of finding him on there.’

  Quinn frowns. ‘OK, OK, but keep looking, right? She lives alone so it’s a fair bet she’s on Match.com or Tinder or something.’

  Baxter heaves a loud sigh, but he doesn’t argue.

  ‘Right,’ says Quinn. ‘What about the rest – the mobile? Ev?’

  She looks up. ‘The last signal was at 9.47 last night at the flat. Nothing since.’

  ‘Did you track down the parents?’

  She nods. ‘Yes, but they couldn’t add much. They weren’t aware there was a boyfriend on the scene at the moment and didn’t come up with much by way of male friends either. I didn’t get the impression they knew much about her personal life.’

  ‘When did they last speak to her?’

  Ev flips back through her notes. ‘Two and a bit weeks ago. It was her father’s birthday. But it was just a call. Not a visit. They live in Bournemouth, so I suppose it would have been a bit of a trek. I for one wouldn’t have relished spending two hours on the road in this weather.’

  Quinn frowns. ‘I thought she didn’t have a car?’

  ‘No,’ she says, a bit flustered. ‘She doesn’t. Sorry – it was just a figure of speech.’

  ‘What about Somer?’ says Quinn, looking round. ‘Wasn’t she supposed to be talking to the co-workers? Where is she?’

  ‘Ah,’ says Ev quickly. ‘I think she just nipped out for a coffee. She won’t be long.’

  * * *

  ‘Quinn’s looking for you. He wants to know why you haven’t left yet.’

  Somer looks up. She’s standing over the sink, leaning in.

  ‘Are you OK?’ says Ev, taking a step closer. ‘You look like you’ve been throwing up.’

  Somer takes a deep breath. ‘Must be something I ate.’

  Which is, of course, possible, but Ev isn’t buying it. And if she’s right, it would explain a lot more than just this. But she’s not going to pry; Somer will tell her when she’s good and ready.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, touching her friend lightly on the arm. ‘I’ll get Asante to go instead. Take your time.’

  Somer nods. She doesn’t trust herself to speak.

  She hears Ev go back to the door, and the sound of it opening. And then a pause. ‘Perhaps it might be an idea to go to the doc’s? You know, just to be on the safe side?’

  Somer nods again, and after a few moments the door swings shut and she’s alone.

  She raises her head slowly and stares into the mirror. Her skin looks greenish in the unforgiving light. Ev’s right. She’s been trying to pretend this isn’t happening, but she knows in her heart she can’t put it off much longer.

  She needs to know.

  And then, well, then –

  * * *

  ‘Not as bad as it could have been,’ says Boddie, snapping on his gloves. ‘When I see “railway incident” on the docket I usually assume I’ll need a sieve.’

  The two CSI technicians exchange a glance. Colin Boddie’s mortuary humour is the stuff of legend; they’ve even set up an ‘Overheard in the Morgue’ Instagram account (though no one’s yet had the courage to tell him that).

  ‘What’s the background here?’ he says, walking round the head of the table. The woman’s body is naked now, the skin waxy, and deep lividity in the back and buttocks. There are scratches, cuts, surface scrapes, dirt encrusted in the long blonde hair, but the damage – at least to the naked eye – is surprisingly slight.

  The British Transport Police constable looks up. ‘Bunch of engineers found her on the line at Walton Well bridge in the early hours. They thought she’d jumped.’

  Boddie glances across. ‘They saw her do it?’

  The officer nods. ‘They saw someone fall. Just as well they did. There was a thirteen-car Freightliner less than two minutes away that wasn’t planning to stop. If that crew hadn’t been there –’ He shrugs.

  Boddie nods. ‘Raspberry ripple.’

  He bends a little closer, looking at the bloodied nostrils, the wide eyes now starting to cloud.

  ‘OK,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Let’s see what she’s prepared to tell us.’

  * * *

  The council office is in a Victorian building just off the Iffley Road. The words ‘Iffley Parish Institute’ are engraved in the stone above the main entrance, but according to the much more assertive modern sign on the edge of the pavement the building is now shared not only by the council fostering and adoption team but a community centre, the Samaritans, a playgroup, and a Silver Threads lunch fellowship.

  Asante had the sense to call ahead and make an appointment, but he still spends ten minutes kicking his heels in the waiting area. There’s a box of toys in the corner and signs pinned up on the wall behind: Evacuation in the Event of Fire, a Public Liability Insurance certificate and a hand-written note from the playgroup organizer: ‘Please stack chairs at the end of your meeting so the cleaners can do their job.’

  When someone eventually comes to find him, the room he’s shown into looks like what you’d get if you typed ‘office’ into a Google image search. Cheap furniture, tired pot plant, view over the staff car park. The woman who rises from behind the bland grey desk looks cool in a light-green and purple summer dress. Early thirties, chestnut-brown hair twisted up in a clip and heavy-framed glasses that make her look like a 1950s secretary. It’s a reassuring look, he’ll give her that. The look of someone who knows what they’re doing.

  ‘I’m Beth Monroe. I know a few people at St Aldate’s but I don’t think we’ve met?’

  Asante smiles, but not too much. ‘I haven’t been here long. Transferred up from London a few months ago.’

  ‘Really?’ she says, gesturing for him to sit down. ‘Where?’

  ‘Brixton.’

  She nods, more animated now. ‘I used to work at the Blue Elephant Theatre. Many moons ago.’

  They smile; they have something in common. And then the smile trails away.

  ‘We’re all just devastated. It’s awful – to think something could have happened to her –’

  ‘I gather it was you who went round to the house this morning?’

  She f
olds her hands in front of her. ‘It was so unlike her. Not turning up and not calling either. I can’t remember when she was last off sick.’

  ‘So the last time you’d have seen her would have been yesterday?’

  She nods. ‘That’s right. She was still here when I left at six.’

  ‘How did she seem to you?’

  She considers. ‘OK. A bit preoccupied but that was nothing unusual. There are only five of us and we’re always swamped. Finding children new families – it’s such important work and she takes it so seriously –’

  She stops, bites her lip. ‘I still can’t quite believe this –’

  ‘We think Ms Smith let a man into her flat last night – someone she knew –’

  Her eyes widen. ‘Oh my God. You think – you think this man may have abducted her?’

  ‘We’re at a very early stage of the investigation,’ says Asante, switching evenly into police-issue platitudinese. ‘We just need to talk to him. He was tallish, dark hair. Does anyone spring to mind? A colleague, perhaps?’

  Monroe frowns. ‘No. The only man on our team is Ed, and he’s five foot six and bald as an egg.’

  ‘What about friends, boyfriends? Anyone who might fit that description?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know much about her private life. She really wasn’t one for swapping gossip at the coffee machine.’

  ‘You haven’t had any staff events that included partners?’

  She smiles ruefully. ‘Er, no, all we do is a Christmas party and that’s strictly employees only. Even then the budget only stretches to warm cava and Aldi sausage rolls.’

  Asante makes a note. ‘There’s no one else she works with who might know more?’

  Monroe shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. I was probably the closest she had to a friend in the office. Like I said, she was a very private person. But I can give you their contact details if you want to speak to them.’

  Asante shifts forward a little in his seat. ‘This is probably an outlier, but is there anyone Ms Smith may have crossed paths with in the course of her job – someone who might have a grudge against her?’

  Her eyes widen. ‘A client, you mean?’

  He shrugs. ‘It has to be possible, surely? Like you said, it’s life-changing, what you do. And it must be the last chance for some people – the only way they’re ever going to have a child.’