The Whole Truth

by Hunter, Cara

  She shakes her head with a sad little laugh. ‘I never watch that stuff. Every time I see something dreadful I assume you’re right in the middle of it.’

  I draw her towards me. ‘This time I’m afraid it’s true.’

  I feel her stiffen. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A body was found on the railway line last night. By Walton Well bridge. I’ve only just found out who it was.’

  ‘What do you mean, a body – what are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Alex. It was Emma.’

  She stares, then sways, and I reach out to steady her.

  ‘Sit down, please. You’re as white as a sheet.’

  She gropes for a chair, lowers herself into it as if she’s in pain.

  ‘Emma?’ she says, her voice half breath. ‘No, no, that can’t be right – I only just spoke to her –’

  I’ve seen this so many times. ‘But I saw them last week.’ Or last month, or last night. They say the cycle of grief starts with denial, but in my experience it’s less that than sheer bewildered disbelief.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say softly. ‘Her parents came. It’s definitely her.’

  She frowns. ‘Didn’t you just say the railway line? What the hell was she doing there –?’

  ‘Alex –’

  ‘Was it an accident?’

  I let the silence lengthen, speak for me. ‘No. It wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘Oh my God, are you saying she killed herself?’ There’s a gasp but it isn’t just the shock. She has her hand to her side.

  ‘Alex – what is it?’

  I’m on my feet now but she’s pushing me away, rejecting my hand.

  ‘It’s just Braxton Hicks – I’ve been having them all day.’

  ‘Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’

  She shakes her head, trying to smile it off, but her breath is shallow and there’s sweat along her upper lip.

  ‘Alex – you’re thirty-five weeks, for God’s sake –’

  And now she’s clutching her side again and I’m reaching for my car keys. ‘That’s it – I’m taking you to the JR.’

  ‘No, no.’ She grips my arm. ‘Please, Adam – you know how much I hate that place. And it’s going off now, seriously.’

  She breathes, slowly. In, then out; in, then out. A minute passes, and gradually her grasp on my arm softens and she gives me a wobbly smile. ‘See? I told you.’

  I put the keys down. ‘OK, but you need to go to bed right now –’

  ‘In a minute – what about Emma –’

  I shake my head. She’ll have to know the truth – Ruth Gallagher will be calling, for a start, and I want Alex prepared. But not now. Not tonight.

  ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning. Right now what you need is rest. That’s the only way I agree not to take you straight to the JR.’

  Her head drops and I reach for her hand. Her lips are trembling.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ she whispers. ‘Poor Em – poor, poor Em.’ She raises her eyes to mine, and the tears are brimming. ‘1992. That’s when we first met. 1992. Twenty-six bloody years. How did that happen?’ She puts a hand to her mouth. ‘I mean, I knew she’d been unhappy lately, but –’

  I could say something. Tell her I know exactly why Emma was unhappy. Tell her I went to see her, to try to help –

  But I don’t. Perhaps I should. Perhaps you would, if you were me. But you’re not, and I don’t. I should have told her I went to that flat long before this. Yesterday, as soon as I got back, even though she was exhausted and on her way to bed; or this morning, before I went to work. All I was doing was trying to protect her, cocoon her, keep her and our baby safe, but it’s too late now. If I tell her now she’ll think I have something to hide. And you wouldn’t blame her, would you? Because you’re thinking exactly the same. You’re wondering why this is the first you’ve heard of all this – why I never said a thing about it before.

  So let me be absolutely clear – just because you didn’t see, just because I didn’t tell you – at the flat, last night, with Emma? Nothing happened.

  Do you hear me?

  Nothing. Bloody. Happened.

  * * *

  This time, Quinn isn’t the only one in early. When he pushes open the office door at 7.55 the place is already humming.

  ‘Got the email, I see,’ says Everett drily.

  Quinn gives a non-committal grunt and goes across to his desk. But Ev’s not giving up. She comes over.

  ‘That came out of a blue sky, didn’t it – Gallagher taking over? Did Fawley say anything to you – you know, before?’

  Quinn shakes his head. He was already smarting at King for showing him up in front of Cleland. And now he’s pissed off with Fawley for being the reason.

  ‘It’s turning into a bit of a habit,’ says Baxter from the other side of the room. He’s leaning back in his chair, cradling a Frappuccino.

  Ev frowns. ‘What is?’

  ‘Gallagher having to tidy up Fawley’s mess.’

  Somer looks across. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Baxter shrugs. ‘Well, it happened with the Appleford case, didn’t it –’

  Ev is shaking her head. ‘Come on, that was completely different,’ she begins.

  ‘No.’ Somer, sharper now. ‘If he’s got a point, let’s hear it.’

  Baxter holds up his hands. ‘Nothing. I was just saying.’

  Somer’s about to reply but Ev intercepts her with a look. A look that says, Let it lie.

  Quinn starts unloading his messenger bag. He got it from Jekyll and Hide. It’s as close as he could find to the one Asante carries without looking like he’s actually copying. Which, of course, he is.

  ‘If you ask me,’ he says, ‘all that stuff about Fawley not knowing who Smith was is a load of bullshit.’

  Ev turns to look at him. ‘What makes you say that?’

  He tugs his tablet out of the bag and puts it down on the desk. ‘Well, the thing about not knowing her surname is crap, for a start.’

  Somer frowns. ‘Why? I bet you don’t know the surnames of any of your girlfriend’s mates.’

  ‘That’s different and you know it,’ he snaps. ‘I’ve only been seeing her a few weeks – Fawley knew this woman for years.’

  Somer turns away, her face dark. ‘You’re just hacked off because it’s a big case and they’ve taken it off you.’

  Quinn stands his ground. ‘I’m not, actually,’ he says coolly. ‘Because it wasn’t just that. Not by a long way. This whole thing – it stinks.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Ev now. ‘Care to elaborate on that?’

  Quinn squares up to her. ‘It was me who took the call when Smith was reported missing.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I remember repeating back the address.’

  But Somer isn’t backing down. ‘And your point is?’

  ‘My point is that Fawley heard that. He was right here, at that very moment, in this room.’

  He looks to Baxter, who nods. ‘He’s right. He was.’

  Quinn lifts his chin, vindicated. ‘So even if you accept the name thing, how do you explain that?’

  ‘I was here too, actually,’ says Somer. ‘And as far as I remember Fawley was looking at that Joseph Andrews Twitter account when that call came through.’ She glances across at Baxter. ‘Right?’

  Baxter hesitates then nods. This is getting distinctly uncomfortable.

  ‘So it’s quite possible,’ continues Somer, ‘that Fawley didn’t even hear what Quinn said. I mean, do you remember hearing that address?’

  Baxter’s eyes widen. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah, you. Do you remember Quinn saying that address?’

  ‘I’m not sure –’

  She flips her hand at him. ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘To be fair,’ says Asante quietly, ‘you’d be far more likely to notice an address if it was one you already knew. It’s like someone saying your name. You’re more attuned to it.’

 
‘Right,’ says Quinn, piling in. ‘And he definitely did know that address because he’d been there – he said so –’

  ‘But the email doesn’t say when, does it?’ says Somer. ‘It could have been weeks before – months –’

  Quinn throws up his hands and turns away. ‘Whatever. Fuck it. If you’re that determined to take his side, go right ahead. But you mark my words – there’s something fishy about all this.’ He starts fiddling with the papers on his desk, muttering ‘time of the month’. Somer’s too far away to hear but when he looks up again Ev is glaring at him.

  Baxter raises his eyebrows and goes back to the safety of his screen; Asante’s clearly regretting ever getting involved.

  The room is silent now, but it’s the silence of dissent, and the atmosphere isn’t much better when the door opens fifteen minutes later and Ruth Gallagher appears. She knows this team – she worked with them only a few months ago – and she can tell at once there’s a problem. There are two spots of colour in Somer’s cheeks, and Quinn has that defensive-offensive don’t-blame-me look she’s seen before. Though it’s usually on her fifteen-year-old son.

  ‘Morning, everyone,’ she says, looking around. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen the email from DI Fawley by now, so you’ll be aware that Major Crimes is taking on the Smith murder case.’

  No response. They’re just staring at her.

  She tries again. ‘My team are setting up an incident room in the office next door. Assuming we can get the IT to work, of course.’

  A flimsy joke, but it’s usually a banker ice-breaker. Not this time, though. Half of them have already gone back to their computers.

  The door opens again and Gallagher glances towards it, visibly relieved. ‘Ah, there you are. This is DC Farrow, everyone, so if you can hand him what you’ve got on Hugh Cleland so far that would be great.’

  Quinn shuffles his papers into a pile and holds them up, forcing Farrow to walk over and collect them. As one-upmanship manoeuvres go it’s pretty unsubtle, but Gallagher isn’t about to make a thing of it.

  Asante looks up. ‘I’ve already sent you everything from my side.’

  ‘Thank you, DC Asante. Anything else?’

  Baxter sits back. ‘I was just about to start checking ANPR for Cleland’s wife’s Honda. I’ll email you the reg number.’

  Farrow waits in the middle of the room, but it seems that’s all he’s going to get. Ev sees him hesitate a moment by Somer’s desk, but when she doesn’t even register his presence he’s forced to move on.

  * * *

  When Nina Mukerjee gets back from the water cooler there’s an email waiting for her from the lab. The forensics on the Smith case. That was quick, she thinks, sliding the cup on to her desk and sitting down. She prints out the attachment – when it comes to technical stuff she always prefers paper to pixels – and starts to read.

  Ten minutes later she’s still sitting there. There’s a frown line across her brow. And her water is untouched.

  She gets slowly to her feet and makes her way round to Alan Challow’s office. He’s had the same one for ten years but it still looks like he’s hot-desking. No pictures, no desk junk, not even a weary cheese plant. He’s tapping at his keyboard, his eyes fixed on his machine.

  He glances up at her, but only for a moment, then gestures to the empty chair.

  ‘I got the forensics back on Smith’s flat,’ she says.

  ‘Oh yes?’ He’s still absorbed in his screen.

  She pushes the sheet of paper across the desk at him. He reads it, looks at her, then reads it again. Then he sits back.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  He tosses the paper on to the desk.

  ‘There’s only one thing we can do.’

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  11 July 2018

  9.42

  I should have left for work over an hour ago. But I let Alex sleep in, and then the health visitor was running late, and when she did finally arrive it took far longer than I anticipated. Sitting there, hearing the standard advice, collecting the standard leaflets, answering the standard questions; it took all the self-control I could muster not to keep checking my watch. It would have been so easy to tell her that we know all this – that we’ve done it all before – but it’s nowhere near that simple. Not for us. Yes, we had a child, but we don’t have one any more. Because our child took his own life, and this woman knows that. So I sit, and I listen, and I find the right words, because I can’t risk her thinking I have better, more pressing, more urgent things to do.

  But then, finally, she collects up her notes and her handouts and her Etsy bag, and I show her to the door. Where she turns and faces me, square-on.

  ‘Is there something your wife wasn’t telling me, Mr Fawley?’

  I wasn’t expecting her to be so direct. Or, perhaps, so shrewd.

  Her eyes narrow a little. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  I hesitate then nod. ‘Yes, you are. But it’s nothing to do with the baby.’

  She gives me a look. ‘Right now, Mr Fawley – with your wife’s medical history – everything is to do with the baby.’

  ‘OK, yes, I get that. It’s just that Alex has just had some bad news. A friend of hers has been killed. She’s very upset.’

  ‘Oh Lord, how awful. Was it some sort of accident?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. We thought at first it was a suicide, but I’m afraid we’ve had to launch a murder inquiry.’

  She registers that ‘we’. ‘Ah yes, I remember now. You’re a police officer, aren’t you.’

  ‘My colleagues are going to have to speak to Alex today. Which, I know, is very far from ideal, but there’s no way round it. Alex was one of the last people to talk to her.’

  She nods slowly. ‘I see.’

  ‘That’s why Alex seemed upset just now – we were talking about it before you arrived. It was after I told her the news last night that she had that scare –’

  Another nod. ‘I understand. It must be very distressing for her. But thank you – it does help me to have a fuller picture.’ She puts her hand briefly on my arm – ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, just give me a call’ – then heads off down the path.

  I watch her for a moment, then scan the street, almost automatically. The cars, the people; the men in vehicles, the men on their own. Then I go back into the house to collect my car keys.

  It was true, what I said to that woman. Alex knows now how Emma died.

  But I still haven’t told her I was at her flat.

  * * *

  Simon Farrow hesitates before knocking at Dave King’s door. In fact, he pretty much always hesitates before knocking at King’s door. He’s a good DS, no question – tough, uncompromising. And he gets results, even if he has to be a bit of a shit to do it. One thing’s for sure, though – no one could accuse him of being a people person. He can’t be arsed to manage down, so his team are forced to manage up, which makes life occasionally explosive and a lot more tiring. Farrow can hear him now, on the other side of the door, talking on the phone. He can’t hear what he’s saying but King sounds wired, whatever it is.

  Farrow takes a breath, knocks, then pushes open the door.

  King is on his feet, shunting his mobile into his pocket.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, boss, just checking you wanted me to pick up on the ANPR on the Clelands’ car? It matches the description given by Smith’s neighbour so it could be the car she saw –’

  But King is waving it away. ‘Never mind about that crap. I just heard back from forensics. I’m going to see Gallagher. This is fucking dynamite.’

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  11 July 2018

  9.59

  When the doorbell goes a second time, I assume it’s the postman. But it isn’t.

  ‘I thought you said you were going to call first?’

  Ruth Gallagher hesitates a moment. ‘I was –’

  I move on
to the step and pull the door closer behind me.

  ‘Look, can it wait? I’ve not had a chance to talk to Alex yet. Not properly. We had a bit of a scare last night –’

  ‘I’m sorry. Is she OK?’

  ‘Yes, but you’ll appreciate why I didn’t want to stress her out any more. So can you talk to her later? It’s only for background, after all.’

  She hesitates. ‘Actually –’

  I realize now she’s not alone. A man with dark sandy hair and a beard has just locked his car and is coming up the path towards us. Even if I didn’t already know him, he has to be CID; we’re the only idiots wearing jackets in this heat.

  I frown. ‘You brought King? You really need two of you for this?’

  Gallagher flushes, just a little. ‘I’m sorry. I think we’re at cross purposes. I do need to talk to your wife, but that’s not why I’m here.’

  King joins us at the step and gives me a supercilious nod; I’ve never liked him, and the feeling is spectacularly mutual. He was one of my DCs once, years ago. But only once. Let’s just say I wasn’t too fond of his methods. And when the DS job came up in my team I gave it to Jill Murphy. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me.

  I turn to Gallagher, cutting King out. ‘I don’t understand –’

  ‘We’re not here for Alex, Adam. We’re here for you.’

  She’s irritating me now. I shunt the door open again and take a step back. ‘You want to go through all that crap again? OK then. Come on in. Let’s get it over with.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry. We can’t do it here.’

  ‘You’re taking me in? Seriously? Jesus, Ruth –’

  I can hear Alex now, calling me from upstairs, asking who it is.

  I go to the foot of the stairs. ‘It’s just the postman – no need to come down.’

  I return to Gallagher, drop my voice. ‘Look, like I said, we had a scare last night – I thought I was going to have to take her to the JR. Just let me settle her down and I’ll come in. Half an hour tops, what difference can that possibly make –’

  I see King start to object but Gallagher forestalls him.

  ‘Adam Fawley, I am arresting you on suspicion of the rape and murder of Emma Smith –’

  I gape at her. ‘No – that’s crazy – you don’t seriously think –’