by Hunter, Cara
Challow’s PA is coming towards them now.
‘Oh shit,’ mutters Conway. ‘Down periscope.’
Nina grins despite herself, but the smile fades somewhat when the PA comes to a halt at her desk.
‘Alan’s asked if you could sit in on this one, if that’s OK.’
She doesn’t have much choice. Conway grins at her as she collects her papers and follows the PA back to Challow’s office. King is already installed: coffee, water bottle, tablet. He and Quinn really were separated at birth. He sits back now, crossing one ankle on the other knee. He’s not wearing any socks. Nina’s only been in the same room with him for thirty seconds and he’s already pissing her off.
‘This is DS King,’ says Challow. ‘He’d like a “heads-up” on anything useful from the Fawley house.’
‘The search team has only just got back –’
‘Yeah, well,’ says King, eyeing her, ‘that never stopped any competent CSI I’ve ever worked with. You must have something.’
Nina gives him an eloquent look, then opens her file. ‘The clothes DI Fawley was wearing on the night of the murder had already been washed, so we won’t be able to retrieve anything useful there. The team did retrieve the training shoes but given the MO involved in the killing, I think it’s unlikely they will yield either blood or bodily fluids. Though we will, of course, check.’ She sits back. ‘And there was nothing of any value in the rest of the house. Sorry.’
‘No condoms?’
‘No.’
‘I assume they did check the gym bag?’
A withering look this time. ‘Er, yes, funnily enough that did occur to them.’
He frowns. ‘What about the Mondeo?’
She takes a breath, counts to ten. ‘No, nothing.’
‘Did they check the boot?’
Oh for fuck’s sake, she thinks. ‘Yes. And no – there was nothing visible there either. No fluids, no obvious hair. We’ve submitted samples for DNA just in case but I very much doubt we’ll find anything. And before you ask, the car hasn’t been recently cleaned. In short, there’s nothing to suggest DI Fawley used that vehicle to transport a body.’
King gives her a sardonic smile. ‘Well, I guess if anyone would know to put down sheeting, it’d be a serving police officer.’
‘That’s assuming,’ says Challow quietly, ‘there was ever a body in there at all.’
The smile twists into a sour laugh. ‘Yeah, right.’
* * *
When Freya unlocks her door, Caleb hasn’t moved. He’s still sitting on the window seat, staring blankly down at the garden, exactly as he was when she left half an hour ago.
‘I got tuna and sweetcorn,’ she says. ‘Your favourite.’
It sounds artificial, and she knows it. She just needs to fill the silence.
She goes over to the window but he doesn’t turn, doesn’t even seem to realize she’s there.
‘Caleb?’ she says, louder now.
He turns at last and looks up at her.
‘Sorry, babe. I was miles away.’
She sits down next to him and puts her arm about his shoulders. ‘It’ll be OK, babe. Really.’
He nods, but he’s not looking at her. His body is rigid against hers.
* * *
Gislingham puts the phone down. ‘OK, so that was the CPS lawyer. Apparently she told Fawley there are still some issues she’d like to see bottomed out on the Fisher case before she makes a final decision on whether to pursue it.’
‘Fucking waste of fucking time,’ mutters Quinn, but the mood in the rest of the team isn’t much brighter.
‘Come on, guys,’ says Gis, trying to inject some energy into his voice. ‘Quicker we do it, quicker we get it over with, one way or the other. So – where are we?’
Baxter glances at Quinn, but he’s clearly too pissed off to reply.
Baxter takes a deep breath. ‘Well, there were deffo some inconsistencies in the statements. Fisher’s especially. She claimed not to know how her dress got ripped but Bryan Gow reckons she’s lying, though when she says she can’t remember any sort of contact with Morgan, she’s telling the truth.’ He shrugs. ‘Whichever way you look at it, that’s odd. What’s so special about the dress that it’s worth lying about?’
‘Good question,’ says Gis. ‘Let’s get her in and ask her, eh?’
* * *
The mood in the Major Crimes office is a good deal more animated than it is next door. Rape and murder, with a DI in the frame; whole careers have been built on less. But Simon Farrow’s under no illusions about his own place in the food chain. He hasn’t been a DC long – not even a year yet – so he tends to have ‘OK to dump on’ tattooed on his forehead. Not that he’s complaining. He’s always wanted to be a detective, ever since he was a little boy and got a Sherlock Holmes set for Christmas. His mother likes to attribute it to growing up with wall-to-wall Inspector Morse – ‘and we were living in Oxford too’ – but at least he’s managed to persuade her not to trot that one out in front of his girlfriends. Though it’s hard to see John Thaw putting up with the sort of crap Simon’s getting lumbered with at the moment. What with the online appeals and the sign posted at Walton Well bridge, they’ve been inundated with calls, but dealing with them is the arse-end of the task list. They share it round because it purées your brain after a while, and right now it’s his turn on the shit shift. Still, as his gran always used to say, they also serve who only stand and wait. Or, in this case, sit and sieve.
He’s about to get up for more coffee when one of the other DCs calls across at him.
‘Hey, Farrow – must be your lucky day. King just called. He wants you down at Newbury. Pronto.’
* * *
DK: Interview resumed at 16.10. DC Simon Farrow is now present in place of DI Gallagher. So, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I’ve listened to everything you’ve said, Fawley, and some of it makes sense, and no doubt some of it can even be corroborated. But there’s no getting round the fact that, right now, everything’s pointing to the same conclusion: some sort of sexual act took place between you and Emma Smith and she ended up dead –
AF: No – that’s not what happened –
DK: You panicked – your career, your marriage, your whole bloody life would be wrecked if this came out. So you wrapped the body in something – plastic or sheeting –
AF: [shaking his head]
DK: And shoved it in the back of your car. Your dark-blue Ford Mondeo.
AF: [emphatically]
No.
DK: The car was seen. You were seen. The neighbours identified a vehicle matching yours, and a man wearing exactly what you say you were wearing, outside Emma Smith’s flat on the evening of the 9th July.
AF: How many more times – I told you – I was there. Of course they saw me –
DK: And then you went home to your wife as if nothing had happened. She remembers you chatting for a couple of minutes in the kitchen, making her that cup of tea. What she didn’t know was that that whole time the dead body of one of her oldest friends was in the boot of your car –
AF: This is insane –
DK: You had a glass of wine, watched the telly, and later, when you could be sure there was no one about, you slipped out in the dark and drove to Walton Well bridge. You knew you had to get rid of that body, and you had to do it fast. And where better than on the railway line – a freight train would pretty much do for the evidence, even assuming anyone bothered to investigate. If you were lucky, it would just be filed under suicide and that would be that. But you couldn’t risk hanging around, could you, in case you were seen, so you just tipped the body over the parapet and legged it. It wasn’t until the following day that you realized what a catastrophic balls-up that was.
PM: For the record, my client categorically denies every single one of these ludicrous allegations.
DK: You dumped the sheeting in a bin somewhere on your way home, and probably did the same with Smith’s phone. Though let’s not forg
et, the canal’s only a few yards from that bridge –
PM: It’s an ingenious story, Detective Sergeant, but speaking purely practically I find it very hard to believe that my client could have driven from Risinghurst to Walton Well bridge – a distance of, what, five or six miles? – without passing a single ANPR device or CCTV camera.
DK: [passing over a sheet of paper]
In fact, as you can see, there is a perfectly feasible route. Anyone with Google Maps could do it, never mind a police officer of DI Fawley’s rank and experience.
AF: [swallows]
What about CCTV at the bridge?
DK: I’m the one asking the questions here. Not you.
* * *
It’s the first time Gislingham has encountered Marina Fisher in the flesh, though he’s seen the pictures, and had a characteristically measured and objective assessment from Gareth Quinn (‘getting on a bit but definitely shaggable’). Though the minute she comes through the door Gis can see what Quinn was getting at. Fisher definitely has something about her, even in these less than ideal circumstances. He’s heard all about her extravagant dress sense too, but it comes as no surprise to see she’s gone for knee-length and navy today. In fact, if he didn’t know any better, he’d be hard-pressed to decide which was the client and which the lawyer.
Quinn closes the door behind them, and they take their seats, women one side, men the other.
‘We haven’t met, Professor Fisher,’ says Gis. ‘I’m DS Chris Gislingham, and I’ll be running the inquiry for the time being.’
‘What about DI Fawley?’ says the lawyer quickly. ‘I thought this was his case?’
‘DI Fawley has been called away to deal with another matter. But rest assured I’m completely up to speed.’
He looks to Quinn, who starts up the recording.
‘So,’ says Gislingham. ‘Before we start, I need to check you’ve been reminded that you are still under caution. Now, we’ve asked you back this afternoon to talk to you about the incident with your dress.’
Fisher glances briefly at her lawyer. ‘But I’ve already told you – I don’t remember how the gown got ripped.’
‘I should tell you we’ve had a profiler look over our interview with you. An expert in body language. And he’s quite sure that you do, in fact, know exactly how the dress got ripped. There’s only one explanation we can think of as to why you’d lie about that: because it happened during a sexual assault on Caleb Morgan. An assault you’re still saying never took place.’
There’s a silence. Fisher shifts in her seat.
‘OK,’ she says at last. ‘You’re right. I think I do know how the gown got damaged.’
She takes a breath, reaches for her water.
‘I didn’t notice the rip when I first got up the following morning – I just wanted a cup of tea and some aspirin. But when I went back up to Tobin’s bedroom he was on the floor playing with some sequins – red sequins. He said he wanted them to stick on his drawing.’
‘You’re saying your son tore your dress – to get the sequins?’
She flushes a little. ‘While I was downstairs, yes, I think so.’
‘Has he done that sort of thing before?’
Her flush deepens. ‘He likes shiny things. And he probably didn’t realize how hard it would be to get them off.’ She shrugs. ‘Like I said before, children don’t always know their own strength.’
‘Did you ask him about it?’
She looks away, nods.
‘And what did he say?’
Her gaze drops. ‘He denied it. Said he never touched the gown. That he found the sequins on the kitchen floor.’
‘But you didn’t believe him.’
She still isn’t looking at them. ‘There weren’t any sequins on the kitchen floor.’
‘Have you asked him again – since then?’
She shrugs. ‘He’s still denying it.’ She looks from one officer to the other. ‘Oh, come on – he’s not the first child to tell a fib because they’ve done something naughty.’
Gis nods slowly – he’s the father of a two-year-old. He knows.
But Quinn’s still pushing. ‘So why didn’t you tell us all this right from the start?’
She glances at him, then looks away. ‘It was a family matter.’
Her face is closed; an ice sheet has come down.
* * *
‘Thanks for helping with this, Bryan,’ says Gallagher. ‘I just wanted another pair of eyes. Unofficially.’
Gow looks up at her from the video screen. ‘No problem. I was in Kidlington today anyway.’
He looks back at the screen again, then presses pause, a small frown creasing his brow.
‘Well?’ says Gallagher. Her arms are folded. She looks restless, edgy.
He pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘It’s a first, certainly. Watching one of these things to decide whether it’s a police officer who’s lying.’
‘He’s a suspect. Just like any other.’
Gow gives her a pointed look, then makes a note on his pad.
‘Well, is he?’ she says, a little impatiently now. ‘Lying?’
He glances up at her. ‘I could see no sign of it. I’ll take the footage back with me and review it again, but there’s nothing jumping out right now. He’s under acute strain, which is hardly a surprise, but when he denies having committed the crime his words and body language show no divergence. None at all.’
‘Dave King would no doubt say that if anyone knew how to do that, it’d be Adam Fawley.’
Gow raises an eyebrow. ‘No doubt.’
Gallagher gets the message. ‘Look, I know King can be a bit – unsubtle – but he’s a good copper. He has good instincts.’
Gow is writing again. ‘If you say so.’
* * *
‘So, Professor Fisher, just to be clear, and for the purposes of the recording, you’re now modifying your statement to the effect that you do, in fact, know how your dress was damaged.’
Fisher heaves a loud sigh. ‘Yes.’
Quinn nods. ‘So what about the previous night, with Morgan? Is there anything about that you haven’t told us?’
‘We could do without the sarcasm, Sergeant,’ says the lawyer.
‘The answer to your question,’ says Fisher, ‘is no. I remember no more about that than I told you before.’
‘Really?’ says Quinn, openly sardonic.
She flashes him a look. ‘Really.’
She takes a breath and looks away, and Gis is suddenly aware that she’s blinking back tears.
The lawyer looks at her with concern and passes her a glass of water. Then she turns to Gislingham. ‘Look, Sergeant, this whole thing is taking the most enormous toll on Marina – she’s not sleeping – her son is having nightmares –’
‘I’m not sure what you’re expecting me to do about that –’
‘What I’m asking you to do is drop this preposterous case. The whole thing is absurd – it’s political correctness gone psychotic.’
Gis opens his mouth to reply, but she’s not finished. ‘I mean, look at her, for God’s sake. Do you seriously think she could possibly have perpetrated a sexual assault on a six-foot rugby player against his will?’
She stares at Gis and then at Quinn. ‘Well, do you?’
* * *
You don’t often see small children in a police station, so when Somer slips out to buy something for dinner that night it’s hard to miss Tobin Fisher, sitting quietly alone on a chair by the main door. She looks around, worried that no one’s with him, then notices one of the female PCs is at the drinks machine, collecting a can of Fanta.
Somer hesitates, then makes her way towards him. He has a colour-by-numbers book on his lap, and even though she’s now standing in his light, even though there are people passing and noise and phones going, he doesn’t look up. She moves round and takes a seat next to him.
‘What are you drawing, Tobin?’
* * *
Quinn and Gis
lingham watch as a uniformed PC shows Fisher and Kennedy out. The lawyer puts an arm around Fisher’s shoulders as they reach the lift, and she leans in, almost staggering.
‘Was Caleb Morgan that convincing?’ asks Gis.
Quinn turns to him. ‘Sorry?’
‘Just saying. Fisher looked pretty genuine to me. When she picked up that water her hands were shaking.’
‘It’s in her interests to be convincing. And don’t forget all that TV stuff she does. That woman is a performer. She knows exactly how to play a crowd.’
* * *
The female PC comes back from the drinks machine and hands the can of Fanta to Tobin. He takes it, but he doesn’t look at her or say thank you. Somer’s eyes meet the officer’s over the boy’s head and the woman shrugs, evidently unsurprised. Somer isn’t surprised either; in fact, she’s beginning to wonder whether Tobin might be on the spectrum somewhere. There’s no doubting his intelligence, but he barely functions socially at all. Can someone as well informed as Marina Fisher really not have noticed what’s going on with her own child?
The little boy is still colouring in, carefully and deliberately, utterly absorbed in what he’s doing. He’s filling in one colour range at a time, a rainbow of pencils laid out on the chair next to him, their ends and points neatly aligned.
‘Can I see?’
The scratching at the paper stops. He doesn’t look up but after a moment he puts the pencil down in the correct place in the line and hands her the book.
Somer looks at the drawing, then takes a breath – realizing suddenly what this is.
* * *
‘Something up?’ asks Ev.
Somer’s a few yards away, by the whiteboard, staring at the pictures from the Morgan case. Marina Fisher’s kitchen, the ripped evening gown, the empty bottle of champagne, the photos of Caleb taken at the Sexual Assault Referral Centre.
Ev gets up and goes over, and Somer registers her presence at last.
‘Sorry,’ she says, glancing across. ‘I didn’t realize you were there.’
‘Penny for them?’ says Ev.
Somer turns back to the board. ‘I saw Tobin Fisher just now. He was waiting downstairs while his mother was being interviewed. He had a colouring book with him – one of those “educational” things mothers like Fisher get for their kids. Illustrations from Shakespeare, the Greek myths, that sort of thing.’