by Hunter, Cara
RG: You’re saying that’s what happened?
AF: No, I’m saying that could have happened. Frankly, I don’t remember either way.
RG: Your DNA wasn’t just identified in one location, DI Fawley, or only on her hands. It was all over her body.
AF: No. Absolutely not. No way –
DK: Including, and most significantly, in her genital area.
RG: In addition, post-mortem examination of that area located a single pubic hair. A hair that did not originate from the victim. It’s a male hair. And it came from you.
* * *
Alex Fawley sits in the garden, pretending to read, hearing the search team moving through her home. The low voices, the footsteps back and forth down the front path. She won’t let herself imagine the ogling neighbours, the old dears ‘just popping out for a pint of milk’ to get a better gawp.
The only CSI person she’s met is Alan Challow, at one of the St Aldate’s Christmas drinks, but there’s no sign of him today. He’s probably too embarrassed. She knows she would be. The person who seems to be in charge is an Asian woman. She’s calm and professional and thorough, but there’s something in the dark eyes behind the mask that Alex doesn’t want to see. Right now, sympathy is more than she can stand.
The back door opens and the scrawny DC comes down the garden towards her. He could do with a haircut. Every time he flicks it out of his eyes she has to bite her tongue.
‘Mrs Fawley?’
She glances up and then back at her book.
‘I’m sorry to bother you but could I just ask you a few questions?’
She looks up at him again, shading her eyes against the sun. ‘What about?’
‘Just some basic factual stuff. What time your husband got back on Monday night – things like that.’
She wants to send him packing, tell him to mind his own bloody business, but she’s not stupid. She knows that will only make it worse. And the one thing she really can’t face is being taken down to St Aldate’s. Sweating in the back of a squad car, stared at, feeling the size of a whale.
‘I think,’ she says heavily, ‘that you should get yourself a chair.’
* * *
[THEME SONG – AARON NEVILLE COVER VERSION OF ‘I SHALL BE RELEASED’]
[JOCELYN]
I’m Jocelyn Naismith, and I’m the co-founder of The Whole Truth, a not-for-profit organization that campaigns to overturn miscarriages of justice. This is Righting the Wrongs, series 3: The Roadside Rapist Redeemed?
Chapter four: Plaster
You might be thinking ‘Plaster’ is an odd title for this episode. But as far as Gavin Parrie is concerned, it’s only too horribly relevant.
Before we go any further I should warn you that this episode includes details some listeners may find distressing.
We heard in the last episode how the Roadside Rapist’s third victim, Alexandra Sheldon, went on to marry one of the lead detectives in the case, DS – now DI – Adam Fawley. In our view, this is perhaps the single most important factor to be considered when assessing Gavin Parrie’s alleged guilt.
But I’m getting ahead of myself again. First of all, we need to retrace our steps a little.
On the evening of 16th October 1998, Louise Gilchrist was on her way home from her job at a doctor’s surgery in Cutteslowe when she was dragged into undergrowth and brutally raped. And barely a month later, the fifth victim, a 19-year-old trainee midwife, was attacked on her way home from the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford, sustaining horrendous injuries.
The time between the attacks was getting smaller, and the violence was getting worse. The Roadside Rapist was escalating.
[ALISON DONNELLY]
‘I mean, I’d heard about the Roadside Rapist – everyone had. But that was in Oxford. Abingdon was miles away. No one thought it could happen to us.’
[JOCELYN]
That’s Alison Donnelly. She’s the only one of the surviving victims who’s been prepared to talk in public about her ordeal. She was only 21 at the time.
[ALISON]
‘I was walking home down Larborough Drive, just a few doors away from my flat. It’d been raining all afternoon so the gutters were overflowing, and when I stopped to cross the road a big truck came past really close and sprayed water all over me. I guess I was distracted for a minute. That’s when it happened.’
[JOCELYN]
Alison never heard the man coming up behind her. The man who thrust a plastic bag over her head and dragged her off the street into the undergrowth.
[ALISON]
‘I was trying to struggle but I couldn’t see – the plastic was sticking to my face. Then I felt him dragging me through the bushes and bundling me into the back of a van. There was plasticky stuff on the floor. I’ve never been so terrified in my whole life. I thought he was going to kill me.’
[JOCELYN]
We know now that the attacker drove Alison more than ten miles to a car park on the Oxford ring road.
[ALISON]
‘He dragged me out of the van and across some asphalt – I could feel it under my feet. Then he threw me down on my back and tore off my underwear and raped me. Then I felt him pull away and stand up and then his footsteps walking away. I just lay there, holding my breath, praying he wouldn’t come back.’
[JOCELYN]
But those prayers were not going to be answered.
[ALISON]
‘A few minutes later I heard footsteps again, coming closer, and then he was grabbing me and throwing me over on to my face. It was so painful – I’d never had sex that way before. He seemed different now – rougher. Crueller. He must have known how much he was hurting me but he didn’t care. I thought he was punishing me for it being over so fast before. He had his hand on the back of my neck, pushing me into the ground, and I couldn’t breathe, but when I tried to struggle he started to beat my head against the concrete. And this time, it wasn’t over quickly.’
[JOCELYN]
Alison suffered a fractured skull and lost the sight in one eye. Her injuries were horrific.
[ALISON]
‘I must have blacked out at some point because when I came to there were flashing lights and police and an ambulance.’
[JOCELYN]
Alison was rushed to the JR hospital, where she underwent emergency surgery. It would be five weeks before she was well enough to go home, and she faced months of rehabilitation. Meanwhile, and for the first time, Thames Valley had a lucky break. There was something embedded in the soles of Alison’s shoes, which could only have come from the back of the van.
It was a substance called calcium sulphate. Plaster dust. It was the police’s first real clue. And it would prove to be critical.
Nor was that the only development in the case. One of Alison’s flatmates remembered seeing a white van parked down their street several times in the days before the attack. It was the first indication that DS Adam Fawley’s theory was right: the rapist really could be stalking his victims.
It was important progress, but it didn’t come in time to save Lucy Henderson, who was to be his seventh and last victim. On 12th December, she was attacked on her way home from work, bundled into a van and driven to an abandoned industrial site where she was savagely raped. Once again, plaster dust was found on her shoes.
[ALISON]
‘After what happened to Lucy the police asked me if I’d do a reconstruction so they could put it on Crimewatch, and I said yes, because I wanted to do everything I could to help. But it was horrible – like reliving the whole thing all over again.’
[JOCELYN]
As the judge in the trial was later to say, Alison showed extraordinary courage and resilience in the face of such a horrendous attack. And now, twenty years later, she’s found a new vocation as a counsellor, helping other victims of sexual assault. So something positive did eventually come out of her terrible ordeal.
But, tragically, the same would not be the case for all the Roadside Rapist’s victims.
>
On Christmas Eve 1998, Jennifer Goddard, the mother of his fifth victim, got home to find her daughter had taken an overdose. There was a note by the bed saying that she was sorry, but she just couldn’t go on any more. She was only 19.
The Roadside Rapist had claimed his first life.
[UNDER BED OF ‘TEARS IN HEAVEN’ – ERIC CLAPTON]
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]
* * *
RG: Interview resumed at 13.10. Those present as previously stated.
DK: Let’s get back to those forensics, shall we? Because frankly I’m struggling to come up with any explanation. Apart from the blindingly obvious.
AF: There must have been a mistake –
DK: A mistake? Seriously? How many times have I heard suspects come out with that exact same crap over the years? ‘It wasn’t me, I wasn’t there.’ That’s really the best you can come up with?
AF: Look, if I’d had sex with her you’d have found semen, not just a pubic hair.
DK: You could have used a condom.
AF: You may have the sort of marriage where you carry round condoms on the off-chance, King, but I can assure you, I don’t.
DK: [leans forward]
Explain.
The.
Hair.
AF: [pause]
There is no explanation.
DK: [sits back again]
Oh, I think there is. Don’t you?
* * *
‘I still don’t bloody believe it,’ says Gislingham.
It’s gone 2.00 p.m. No one’s done any work for hours. Jackets are off, ties are loosened, and the machine in the corridor has run out of cold cans. Someone suggested decamping to the pub a while back, but no one seems to have the willpower to actually get their stuff and go.
‘What did Gallagher say again?’
‘It wasn’t her I got it from,’ says Quinn. ‘It was that bloke Farrow. According to him, it’s the DNA that’s the clincher, but when I pushed him he went all need-to-know on me. Though he couldn’t resist letting slip that even Fawley won’t be able to talk himself out of this one.’
‘Fuck,’ says Gislingham. He still can’t believe he came back from the Costa Brava straight into this.
‘You want me to talk to Clive Conway?’ asks Baxter. ‘He owes me one. Or three.’
But Gis is shaking his head. ‘Best not. Don’t want you landing yourself in the shit. There’s enough of that coming down already, by the sounds of it.’
‘And in any case,’ says Ev hopelessly, ‘what difference would it make? There’s nothing any of us can do.’
Gis opens his mouth to reply, then closes it again. Because there’s someone at the door, his bulk filling the narrow space.
Harrison.
Gis straightens up. ‘Afternoon, sir.’
‘Ah, DS Gislingham, good to have you back. We could have done with you, the last few days.’
Quinn bristles a little, but takes care it’s not quite enough to catch Harrison’s notice.
The superintendent moves to the centre of the room. He knows how to command a space.
‘I imagine you’ve all heard the unfortunate news about DI Fawley. Well, clearly I’m not going to discuss the case or go into any detail about the evidence against him. That would be both inappropriate and premature. What I will say, is that I am expecting, indeed relying on you, as a team, to demonstrate the highest possible standards of professional integrity. This is not your case, and you must under no circumstances interfere with the investigation or impede DI Gallagher’s personnel in any way.’
He looks around the room, slowly, at each of them in turn.
‘And for the avoidance of doubt, this explicitly includes any sort of contact with the press. No “quiet words”, no “sources close to the inquiry” – do I make myself clear? There will, needless to say, be no official comment of any kind unless and until DI Fawley is charged.’
Gislingham isn’t the only one to wince at that: it’s one of Fawley’s phrases.
Harrison clears his throat. ‘It’s bad enough our murder suspect is a Thames Valley Detective Inspector; it’ll be ten times bloody worse if that fact gets out.’
He glances around again. Murmurs of ‘Yes, sir’, ‘Of course, sir’.
‘There’s plenty else for you to be getting on with. The Fisher case for a start – or had that slipped your minds?’
Quinn looks up. ‘I thought we were waiting on the CPS –’
Harrison stares at him, and then, pointedly, at Gislingham. ‘I’ll leave it with you then, Detective Sergeant.’
* * *
DK: Let’s go back to the stalker.
AF: I’ve already explained about that.
DK: Not to me, you haven’t.
AF: [pause, then slowly]
I asked her for details of the incidents, and then I talked through any likely suspects. Anyone who might have a grudge against her – colleagues or old boyfriends –
DK: And what did she say?
AF: She was at a loss. She had no idea who it could be.
DK: So she specifically didn’t mention this man Cleland?
AF: [pause]
No.
DK: What about the most recent boyfriend – what did she say about him?
AF: That she hadn’t been seeing him long. That it hadn’t been that serious, and in any case he was the one who ended it. He had no reason to stalk her.
DK: She actually said that – that this man had dumped her?
AF: Not ‘dumped’, no –
DK: But it was his decision to finish it.
AF: Yes. Absolutely.
DK: You see, that’s what I’m having trouble with. This ex-boyfriend.
AF: Why? It’s perfectly straightforward.
DK: [shaking his head]
I’m afraid it isn’t. Not by a long way. Because there was no ex-boyfriend.
AF: I’m not with you.
DK: Emma Smith didn’t have a boyfriend. Not then, not ever. Because Emma Smith was gay.
AF: [silence]
No – you must have got that wrong –
DK: Nope. She wasn’t exactly out and proud, I’ll give you that. But she was gay. She’d been seeing a woman called Amanda Haskell – she just came forward after seeing the news reports. We’ve seen emails between them. There’s no mistake.
[sitting back]
So everything you just said – it was all a lie. All that crap about old boyfriends –
AF: No – absolutely not – that’s what she said –
RG: I’m afraid I’m also struggling with this.
AF: Perhaps she meant – look, the only thing I can think of is that she referred to a partner and I just assumed –
DK: You didn’t say that. In fact, you’ve never used the word ‘partner’. Not once, at any point when you’ve relayed that conversation. I’ve been keeping a note.
AF: Like I said, I must have just assumed – I mean, my wife has never suggested Emma was gay – I’d have remembered that –
DK: Speaking of your wife, let’s go over again exactly what you did after you left Emma Smith’s flat.
AF: I went straight home. I got back about 9.45. My wife was on her way to bed. I made her a cup of tea.
DK: And what did you do then?
AF: I had a glass of wine –
DK: Another glass of wine –
AF: I watched something on TV.
RG: What?
AF: I don’t know. Some American thing.
DK: And you went to bed when?
AF: Probably about 11.00. I don’t remember precisely.
DK: And can your wife confirm that?
AF: [silence]
RG: It’s a simple enough question, DI Fawley.
AF: [silence]
No, she can’t.
DK: You didn’t wake her up when you got into bed?
I always do – my wife’s always on my case about it.
AF: [silence]
DK: Ah, sorry, mate – I forgot. You’re in the spare room, aren’t you?
AF: How on earth –
DK: What a bummer, all on your lonesome. How long is it now? Three months? Four? Must be bloody frustrating.
If you know what I mean.
AF: The only way you could know about that is if you’d spoken to my wife –
DK: Yeah, well, you know what it’s like. No secrets in a murder inquiry, mate.
AF: I’m not your ‘mate’ –
PM: That was completely uncalled for, Detective Sergeant. DI Fawley is entitled to as much courtesy as any other suspect. Arguably, more.
RG: I apologize for any disrespect that DS King may have –
[looking at him]
– inadvertently displayed.
PM: Thank you –
RG: But the fact remains that there are numerous anomalies in your client’s version of events. Anomalies and inconsistencies. As he well knows, faced with such anomalies and inconsistencies, the police have no choice but to investigate vigorously. However uncomfortable that may be, on occasion. All the same, I think, perhaps, that this might be a good time to take a break. Interview suspended at 14.15.
* * *
Nina Mukerjee looks up. There’s a man following Alan Challow’s PA through the office; a man she hasn’t seen before.
‘Who’s that?’ she says to Conway.
He glances across and makes a face. ‘Dave King. DS in Major Crimes.’
She frowns; she’s been at Thames Valley eighteen months now and this is definitely the first time she’s come across him. ‘Is he new?’
Conway shakes his head. ‘Nah – he’s been here years. Just doesn’t bother with the likes of us. Usually sends one of the serfs.’
Nina looks back at King. He’s counter cast for ‘bruiser cop’, that’s for sure. In fact, he’d give Gareth Quinn a run for his money on the sartorial front. Pink shirt, slim suit, obligatory beard. He looks like someone in a Saturday-night psychological thriller – the smiley bloke who looks OK on the surface but almost certainly isn’t.
Conway makes a face. ‘No prizes for guessing he’s after the Fawley stuff.’
That figures. Forensics may not normally be worth King’s valuable time, but nailing a DI is evidently a very different matter.