by Hunter, Cara
Quinn and Gislingham exchange a glance. Gislingham turns a page in the file.
‘There was also the question of the tattoo.’
Morgan frowns. ‘The tattoo?’
‘The one on your shoulder. The red dragon?’
‘What about it? You knew about that already.’
‘Tobin knows about it too,’ says Quinn. ‘In fact, he’s been doing a version of it in his colouring book.’
Morgan looks baffled. ‘I really don’t see –’
‘I suspect your lawyers do,’ says Gis drily, glancing across at them.
‘Caleb,’ says Melia, turning to him, ‘can you think of any occasion when Tobin might have seen that tattoo?’
‘Oh, right, OK.’ He looks away, pulls a hand through his hair. ‘Well, yeah, there was definitely one time – I was babysitting and Tobin threw one of his wobblers and spilt his juice all down me. I’m pretty sure I took my T-shirt off and ran it under the tap. I guess he must have seen it that way.’
‘There you are,’ says Melia quickly, with a gesture at Gislingham. ‘Happy now?’
‘And in any case,’ says Morgan, ‘if I’d raped Marina there’d have been evidence. DNA – all of that –’
‘Not necessarily,’ says Gis, ‘as I’m sure your lawyers are aware –’
But Melia hasn’t finished. ‘And as for Tobin Fisher – I say again, children that age are extremely suggestible. No court will ever take that so-called “evidence” seriously.’
‘I rather think that’s for a jury to decide,’ says Gislingham evenly. ‘Should it come to that.’
* * *
‘So what do you think?’ says Quinn, glancing at Gis as he presses the button on the coffee machine. Morgan is on his way downstairs to be processed.
Gis frowns. ‘Interesting what he said about Tobin.’ There’s a pause, then, ‘And was it just me or did he react a bit weirdly when we asked him about the tattoo?’
Quinn kicks the machine and it starts to gurgle. ‘Nope. It wasn’t just you.’
Gis is looking thoughtful now. ‘Get me a copy of that interview footage. I’m going to talk to Bryan Gow.’
* * *
‘So what did you want to talk to me about?’
Penelope McHugh takes a seat and opens her file, keeping her tone brisk. Her client seems a little more measured today, a little more in control. The fanaticism in his eyes has gone, and he’s agreed to come upstairs to a meeting room. The tiny room is as stifling as the cell, but at least all it smells of is far too much plug-in air freshener. Every room McHugh finds herself in seems to have one of those bloody things. It’s an occupational hazard in criminal defence.
‘Emma Smith’s clothes,’ he says quickly. ‘What she was wearing when she was found.’
McHugh picks up her pen. ‘OK.’
‘When I left, she was wearing some sort of leggings. Blue. And a T-shirt.’
‘What colour?’
He thinks. ‘Pale yellow? With some sort of logo on the front? To be honest, I really wasn’t looking. Half the time I couldn’t even tell you what my wife –’
He stops. Checks himself. Takes a breath.
McHugh pretends not to notice. She flicks back through the file. ‘According to this, the victim was wearing a white cotton sundress when she was found. You’re sure that couldn’t have been what you saw?’
He’s shaking his head. ‘No. Absolutely not.’
‘So she must have changed her clothes after you left and before the killer arrived – that’s your position?’ She sits back. ‘Because I have to tell you, a jury’s going to have trouble understanding why anyone would bother getting changed at that time of night –’
He leans towards her, his eyes intent. ‘But that’s exactly it – she didn’t. He did. Gavin Parrie. He assaulted her and killed her, and then he changed her clothes. He had to make absolutely sure the only DNA they’d find was mine.’
So we’re back to that, she thinks, her heart sinking. The Roadside Rapist’s Revenge.
But her client doesn’t appear to notice the sudden chill in the air.
‘You do know, don’t you,’ she begins slowly, ‘that this case would be a whole lot easier to defend if you had had sex with her.’ He looks up and she continues quickly. ‘I mean, we’d still have trouble explaining the massive coincidence of her killer arriving on exactly the same night, but at least the forensics –’
‘It didn’t happen,’ he says quietly, holding her gaze. ‘I love my wife.’
And he does. She’s never seen emotion expressed so painfully in a man’s face. He might want to lie, but he won’t. He can’t.
‘OK,’ she says, picking up her pen, brisker now. ‘Anything else?’
He swallows. ‘Can you see if you can get access to the PM?’
She starts shaking her head.
‘I know – I know – it’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.’
‘OK,’ she says, after a moment. ‘I can speak to Gallagher. What do you want to know?’
He sits forward a little. ‘See if there was anything missing on the body – jewellery, earrings – Parrie has a thing about earrings. And if any of Smith’s hair had been cut or pulled out.’
She frowns. ‘No one’s mentioned anything like that –’
‘It’ll be there,’ he says doggedly. ‘It has to be. Parrie won’t have been able to stop himself.’
She takes a deep breath. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in all these years, it’s that juries hate conspiracy theories. Lead balloons are buoyancy aids by comparison. You must know that.’
He gives her a despairing look. Perhaps so, but it’s all he has.
‘OK,’ she says, suppressing a sigh. ‘Talk me through how it would have worked – as a police officer.’
His eyes flicker with something like hope, and she realizes suddenly that he must have thought she didn’t believe him. All this time, he’s been assuming that even his own lawyer thought he was lying.
‘Parrie knows all about DNA,’ he says. ‘He was always incredibly careful never to leave biological trace. And he had way more time to clear up with Smith than he did with any of the previous victims. He didn’t dump her body at Walton Well until nearly 1.30 – he could have been in that flat for more than three hours. Plenty long enough to clean up the scene, wash the body, change her clothes.’ He shrugs. ‘That’s what I’d have done, if –’
If you’d killed her.
The words hang in the air like nerve agent, paralysing her brain.
She pulls herself together. ‘What about the electronic tag – how did he get round that? You’re suggesting he managed to disable it somehow?’
‘Well, did he?’ he says quickly. ‘Those things do malfunction. Not often, but it does happen. Have you checked?’
‘No, I haven’t. I will, of course, look into it. But it’s a risk – what if all it does is confirm he was miles away at the time and couldn’t possibly have done it? We could just be gifting him a gold-plated alibi.’
‘Yes,’ he says quietly. ‘I do know that.’
‘And what about the forensics?’ she says. ‘I get it that he’d have made sure not to leave his own DNA. What I don’t get is how he came by yours.’
He’s clearly had a lot of time to think about this. He sits forward, eager now. ‘The fact that they found my DNA on her body is the best proof we have that I didn’t kill her.’
She stares at him. ‘Sorry – what?’
He holds her gaze. ‘Everything I just said about Parrie also applies to me – only more so. I know about forensics, I know how murder scenes are processed. Why on earth would I have been so stupid as to leave my DNA all over that flat? All over her? I don’t know how he did it – I don’t know where he got it – but it was Gavin Parrie who put my DNA there.’
She leaves a pause, lets him sweat. And he is. There’s a sheen of perspiration beading his forehead.
‘That’s not quite true, though, is it, Adam? That the same reasoning
that applies to Parrie also applies to you?’
He frowns, the zeal curdling in his face. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re saying that as an experienced police officer, you’d have cleaned up the scene, changed her clothes, washed the body, right? But you said yourself, all that takes time. And you’re right, if it was Gavin Parrie, he had plenty of it. But you didn’t, did you? You couldn’t stay there all night – you had to get home, see your wife, establish an alibi. You’d have had an hour in that flat at the most. Nowhere near long enough.’
He’s still frowning.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, gentler now. ‘I’m just being devil’s advocate. But I am worried that if we use that argument, all they’ll do is turn it against you. They’ll say you knew you couldn’t clean up properly in the time so you didn’t bother – you focused instead on finding a way of disposing of the body that would bypass the DNA altogether. Hence the freight train.’
He sighs, runs his hands through his hair.
‘DS King said as much in the last interview. It would make the death look like suicide and cause so much damage to the body there’d be practically nothing left to autopsy. The police probably wouldn’t even have bothered to search her flat, far less process it as a crime scene. In which case, it wouldn’t matter how much of your DNA you left behind, because no one was ever going to find it.’ She sits back. ‘You used everything you’ve learnt from decades of working homicide cases to commit as near as dammit a perfect murder. And without that gang of engineers, that’s exactly what it would’ve been. But like you said before, even professionals make mistakes. That was yours.’
His breath is ragged now. He’s struggling to stay composed. ‘So I can’t win – is that what you’re telling me? Whatever I say, I can’t win?’
‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m just trying to be realistic. But I will check with Inspector Gallagher – find out whether there were any clothes in the flat that look like the leggings and T-shirt you saw.’
‘Fat chance,’ he says grimly. ‘Parrie wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave them there.’
She nods. ‘I suspect you’re right, but we won’t know until we ask. And even if there’s nothing in the flat, the neighbour may remember what Emma had on when she came to the door that night. And failing that, there could be other ways to prove she owned clothes like that. Although it’ll mean tracking down either witnesses or photos. It’s not impossible, but we don’t have Thames Valley’s resources. Or their ability to buttonhole Joe Public at will.’
He makes a face and looks away. ‘The more I see of the view from this side of the tracks, the less I like it.’
‘On the other hand,’ she says, trying to sound more positive, ‘we can certainly make a very solid case for Gavin Parrie having a motive. And, if we’re lucky, there’ll be evidence out there somewhere that will either alibi you out or incriminate someone else.’
‘What about Cleland?’
‘Not as promising as he initially appeared, from what I hear. I believe they’ve yet to rule him out formally, but without forensic evidence on his clothes or in Smith’s flat, I can’t see King taking it any further.’
Fawley wouldn’t either, she can see that from his face.
She picks up her pen again. ‘But if there’s footage of his car at Walton Well, that situation could change. I need to chase up on whether they have CCTV on the bridge.’
He makes a rueful face. ‘I wouldn’t hold my breath. If I know Parrie, he’ll have checked out that location long before he used it.’
She frowns. ‘How, exactly?’
He shrugs. ‘Google Earth? Though I wouldn’t put it past him casing it out in person. After all, we know he’s worked out how to get round his tag, and we know he has transport – he must do, to get here from wherever he is, transport the body, get away. Worth checking what sort of vehicle he has access to, because there absolutely must be one.’
‘Presumably not a white van this time,’ she says drily. ‘That would be too easy.’
He shrugs. ‘Who knows. My wife thought she saw one near the house once or twice lately.’
‘Really? Do you have a reg number?’
He shakes his head dully. ‘Nope. If I did, I’d have checked out the bloody thing myself.’
* * *
‘Freya? It’s me.’
His voice is muffled, like he’s behind glass.
She grips the phone. ‘Jesus, Caleb – I’ve been trying to get through to you for hours. What’s happened – is there something wrong with your phone? This isn’t your number –’
‘I got a pay-as-you-go. The police took mine.’
Her eyes widen, and she sits down slowly. ‘The police? Why?’
She can hear noise in the background now, traffic – as if he’s out on the street.
‘They fucking arrested me, didn’t they. They’re saying Tobin saw me raping her – that I gave her GHB or some shit like that so she wouldn’t remember.’
‘Oh my God –’
‘Yeah, right – how fucked up is that?’
Her heart rate is brutal. ‘But, babe, this is really bad – they must be taking it seriously or they wouldn’t have arrested you –’
He laughs bitterly. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve been “Released Under Investigation” while they dig about for dirt.’
She swallows. ‘What did your lawyers say?’
‘That they won’t be able to prove it – that there’s no forensics and they’ll just be relying on Tobin’s word for it. And we all know what a lying little fucker he is.’
‘Yeah,’ she says slowly, ‘we do, don’t we.’
* * *
Telephone call with Lloyd Preston, Network Rail
13 July 2018, 5.15 p.m.
On the call, DS Chris Gislingham
CG: Hello? This is Thames Valley Police, am I speaking with Lloyd Preston?
LP: Yeah, that’s me. Thames Valley, did you say?
CG: Yes, sir – just a couple more routine questions about the incident at Walton Well –?
LP: I don’t know what else I can tell you. I already told that other police bloke everything I saw. Sparrow, was it?
CG: DC Farrow.
LP: Yeah, that’s the one. So are you his boss or what?
CG: Something like that. Like I said, it’s just routine.
LP: So what do you want to know?
CG: Do you remember seeing anyone on the bridge that night? Either before or after you saw the body fall?
LP: No. Like I said to the other bloke. That’s why I thought it was a suicide.
CG: What about a car, a van?
LP: You can’t see the road from the tracks.
CG: Then maybe you heard something? That time of night, when there’s no other noise, it must be much easier to hear a vehicle –
LP: I’m not sure –
CG: Take your time.
LP: Look, I can’t be sure, OK? There may have been.
CG: When exactly? Before or after you saw the body?
LP: Before. As soon as we saw the girl we were just focused on getting through to the control room A-SAP so that’s all we were thinking about. I wouldn’t have noticed a car then.
CG: How long before, do you think? A minute? Five minutes?
LP: More than that, but I couldn’t tell you exactly.
CG: So if the man driving that vehicle was the same one who threw the body on the track, he could have been there for some time before he did it? He could have been waiting for you to be in range?
LP: That’s a hell of a lot of ‘could ofs’.
CG: But it’s possible?
LP: Yeah, OK, I suppose it’s possible. Just don’t ask me to stand up in court and swear to it.
* * *
She could have made an official appointment, but McHugh reckons Ruth Gallagher might be more amenable if she’s caught off guard. She knows Gallagher has a young family and calculates (rightly) that she’s not going to have much time for presenteeism, especially not
on a Friday night. So she loiters for a while on a bench with her Kindle and a grandstand view of the St Aldate’s entrance, and at just after six, she gets her reward. Gallagher emerges from the door into the evening sunshine and heads briskly to an old Volvo estate on the far side of the car park.
It’s not the car McHugh had bet on – her money was on the shiny hybrid SUV on the other side. She’d dismissed the Volvo as far too earnest and disorganized for a senior DI. It was the junk in the back that did it. Plastic boxes of old clothes, discarded toys, dog-eared books – there’s a whole squadron of middle-aged Oxford women driving round with crap like that in the back of their cars, but McHugh didn’t have Gallagher down for one of them. Just shows – you never can tell.
‘DI Gallagher?’ she says, slightly out of breath after the dash across the road.
The Inspector turns. She doesn’t look especially enthused at the sight of her.
‘Sorry to ambush you, but could I have a quick word?’
You can almost see Gallagher’s heart sink.
‘I’m not sure this is quite the place –’
‘I just had a couple of questions – just factual stuff. It won’t take long.’
Gallagher weighs her car keys in her hand. ‘I’m afraid I have to get back to my kids. My husband’s out tonight and I’m on the pizza rota.’
‘Oh,’ says McHugh brightly, ‘you live in Summertown, right? I’m in Kidlington. Why don’t I come with you as far as the shops and I can get my bus from there?’
And it’s true. McHugh does indeed live in Kidlington. She also has her own car parked in the Westgate multistorey. But Gallagher doesn’t need to know that.
The DI frowns and opens her mouth to say something, but it’s too late. McHugh is already reaching for the car door, smiling broadly. ‘Thanks so much. I really appreciate it.’
* * *
Somer is one of the last patients of the day. The only other people waiting were an elderly chap with trembling hands, bent double over his walking frame, and a harassed mother with two overactive toddlers long past their bedtime. After the shrieks and the tantrums and the tumbling plastic bricks, the silence of the consulting room is something of a relief. But not enough to quiet the anxiety slithering in her gut.