The Whole Truth

by Hunter, Cara

  She finishes doing up her skirt and comes back out from behind the screen. Her doctor is at the desk, a page of notes open on her screen. Somer sits down, swallows.

  ‘I’m pregnant, aren’t I.’ It’s a statement, not a question. ‘I mean, I know the test was negative, but those High Street things, they’re not always accurate, are they –’

  The doctor sits back and adjusts her glasses. ‘Have you been trying for a baby, Erica?’

  ‘No. I mean, I do want children eventually, but right now –’ She throws up her hands. ‘It’s complicated, that’s all.’

  The doctor smiles. ‘These things usually are.’

  Somer takes a deep breath. ‘Me and my partner – we haven’t been seeing each other that long and we haven’t even discussed having children. He has two already – teenage girls. I have no idea if he wants to start all over again. And, in any case, there’s my career – it would be terrible timing –’

  She stops, realizing there’s a sob in the back of her throat.

  The doctor is watching her. ‘You’re not pregnant.’

  Somer stares at her. ‘But – are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘But what about the other symptoms – the nausea –?’

  The doctor shifts a little in her seat. ‘There are other things that can cause that, but ovarian cysts are the usual culprit. And based on the internal examination I just did, I suspect that may well be the case here.’

  She turns to her screen and starts tapping at her keyboard. ‘I’m going to book you in for an ultrasound at the JR so we can be sure.’

  Somer’s struggling to keep up with her own feelings. She doesn’t even know if she’s relieved or regretful that there’s no child, and now –

  ‘I’m sorry – I wasn’t expecting this. I don’t know anything about ovarian cysts – are they serious? Should I be worried?’

  The doctor is businesslike. ‘Most are nothing to be concerned about. Where there are complications, it’s usually because they cause an infection, which can sometimes lead to difficulty in conceiving at a later date. That’s why I asked whether you’ve been trying for a baby.’

  ‘But –’ Somer takes a breath, realizes her fingernails are digging into her palms. ‘You said “most” are nothing to worry about, so some of them are, right?’

  ‘Those are very rare –’

  ‘But even those, the rare ones – they’re benign? We’re not talking about –’

  The doctor gives a quick professional smile. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Like I said, the vast majority are not serious. Let’s get that ultrasound done, shall we, and see where we go from there.’

  * * *

  Having been sandbagged into spending twenty minutes with McHugh in a confined space, Gallagher’s evidently going to make the lawyer work for her scraps. She certainly isn’t volunteering anything as they edge through the rush-hour traffic in Oxpens Road.

  ‘It was the CCTV I was going to ask about,’ says McHugh, turning to look out of the window as if the question isn’t really that important. There’s a queue outside the ice rink. She used to take her own kids there, but that was before they turned teenagers and skating wasn’t cool any more. It’d be cool now though, on a hot night like this. The air sparkling with ice, the swoop of the skates –

  ‘There isn’t any,’ says Gallagher, who clearly knows a thing or two about cool herself. ‘CCTV, I mean.’

  It was a long shot at best; McHugh tries another tack.

  ‘Have you ascertained Gavin Parrie’s movements on the night of July the 9th?’

  Gallagher looks across at her and raises her eyebrows, then turns her gaze back to the road. ‘I take it you do realize quite how preposterous that sounds?’

  McHugh shrugs. ‘That’s as may be. I still need to ask.’

  The van in front shifts suddenly and Gallagher puts the car in gear. ‘The answer is yes, we have. And no, he was nowhere near Oxford that night.’

  ‘How near is nowhere near?’

  Gallagher frowns a little, though whether it’s the traffic that’s irritating her or her passenger, it’s hard to say.

  ‘Leamington Spa,’ she says after a moment. ‘He’s in a halfway house near there, and has been ever since he left Wandsworth. That information is, of course, confidential, but in the circumstances, it may help you to know.’

  It may help put paid to this wild and implausible theory: the message is clear enough, even though her tone is studiously objective.

  ‘Does he have access to a vehicle?’

  Gallagher shoots her a glance, Well, what do you think?

  ‘How is Adam?’ she asks after a moment, her voice still neutral, her eyes still fixed on the road.

  ‘Much like anyone in his situation, I imagine,’ says McHugh. ‘Stressed to the eyeballs. Angry. Worried about his wife. What do you expect?’

  ‘He’s always been a fine officer,’ says Gallagher, ‘and speaking personally, I like him very much –’

  ‘But?’ says McHugh, who’s registered that initial past tense.

  Gallagher looks at her and then away. ‘But however hard we look – and believe me, we’ve tried – we cannot find a single piece of evidence to exonerate him. Or even cast a reasonable doubt –’

  ‘Not even this man Cleland? He had a motive.’

  ‘Possibly. But that’s all. There is absolutely nothing else linking him to the crime. No witnesses, no forensics, no proof he went anywhere near there.’ She glances across again. ‘I’m sorry. I want it to be Cleland as much as you do, but it’s a non-starter. Everything we have points to Adam, and you’ve given me nothing I can use to refute it. And as for this obsession of his about Gavin Parrie – it’s – it’s insane.’

  McHugh’s about to answer, but Gallagher’s still talking. ‘I have to confess I’ve become increasingly concerned about him – the way he’s been reacting, it’s so out of character. My whole team has noticed.’

  Is she asking me if Fawley’s losing it? thinks McHugh. Is that really where they’re going with this?

  Gallagher sighs now. ‘And what with the baby, and coming so soon after losing Jake – even the strongest people can break under stress like that –’

  She doesn’t finish the sentence but the inference is up there now in neon lights: Are you sure your client is of entirely sound mind? Could he, in fact, be so unstable, under such intolerable pressure, that he actually did this?

  * * *

  ‘Giles? It’s me. Look, I’m really sorry but I can’t come down tomorrow after all. Something – something’s come up.’

  He doesn’t reply straight away, but this is Giles: unlike most men, he thinks before he speaks.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ By which he really means ‘Are you OK?’ But he’s trying not to crowd her, not to intrude.

  ‘Yes, it’s just,’ she takes a breath, ‘work stuff, you know. This sexual assault case is a nightmare, and appraisals are coming up, and then there’s Fawley being arrested –’

  She stops herself, but not quickly enough. She’s heard Fawley say it a hundred times – you can always tell a liar from the overkill. Three answers when one is plenty.

  ‘OK,’ he says, after a moment. She can hear the hurt in his voice. ‘I’m really sorry I won’t see you, but I understand.’

  She nods, knowing it’s pointless because he can’t see her, but she can’t trust herself to speak.

  ‘Look – I’m not going to push it, but I think there’s something worrying you, and if there is, and I can help, you only have to ask. I hope you know that. I just want you to be happy, OK? That’s all.’

  She puts the phone down and sits there in her empty flat. She’s never felt so utterly alone.

  * * *

  Sent: Fri 13/07/2018, 20.35 Importance: High

  From: Colin.Boddie@ouh.nhs.uk

  To: DIRuthGallagher@ThamesValley.police.uk

  Subject: Case no 75983/02 Smith, E

  In re the request from Penel
ope McHugh for information relating to the post-mortem, I can confirm that only one earring was retrieved from the body (a silver hoop), but as this was merely hooked in, with no rear fixing, the second one probably came off either during a struggle with her assailant or when the body was dumped. Likewise a very small amount of the victim’s hair does indeed seem to be missing at the rear of the scalp (see photo attached). But as you will see, the quantum is so small it is very unlikely to be significant and was, again, probably the result of a struggle.

  For the avoidance of doubt, I am sceptical that either the earring or the missing hair form any deliberate part of the killer’s MO. That, combined with the absence of ligature marks on either the wrists or ankles, leads me to caution against any comparison with the Gavin Parrie case.

  Should further evidence emerge which leads me to reconsider this view, I will, of course, inform you.

  CRB

  * * *

  Telephone interview with Sgt Vince Hall, Warwickshire Police, Leamington Spa

  14 July 2018, 8.15 a.m.

  On the call, DI Ruth Gallagher

  VH: Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you, but I’ve checked the records you were asking about, and I’ve spoken to the probation officer as well.

  RG: Excellent – thank you.

  VH: The tag logs show Gavin Parrie never breached his licence conditions at any time on the night you’re interested in. He was either at the hostel or at most a mile away from it, the entire night. There’s no way he could have been anywhere near Oxford.

  RG: And we’re sure the tag is fully functional?

  VH: Yup. Only got checked last month. Nothing wrong with it.

  RG: Good. I’m glad we’ve been able to clear that up. And I take it he has no access to any sort of car?

  VH: Sorry?

  RG: No, I’m sorry I even had to ask. I’m just covering all the bases. Our suspect’s lawyer has a bee in her bonnet about it.

  VH: Well, for the record, he doesn’t. And for what it’s worth, the PO says Parrie’s been a right little goody-two-shoes since he got out. Spends half his time with youth offender programmes, giving them dire warnings about the error of their ways.

  RG: And she thinks it’s genuine – this transformation of his?

  VH: She’s not some rookie straight out of training – she’s been on the job fifteen years. And he was a model prisoner too, Parrie. So yes, it’s always possible he could be faking it, but he’s kept it up a bloody long time if he is.

  * * *

  Everett’s Friday evening wasn’t exactly restful. Most of it was eaten up by a week’s worth of undone chores, and she ended up so ragged with exhaustion she slept through this morning’s alarm. She drives down the Banbury Road under a sultry grey-yellow sky, which does nothing for her headache, and the low-level throb of guilt about her father and that call she still hasn’t made to Elaine Baylis isn’t helping much either. She keeps telling herself she’s doing as much as anyone could expect; that her dad’s being well looked after, he’s eating and people are trying to involve him in group activities like whist and bingo, all of which he despises at the top of his voice whenever any of the staff are near enough to hear. His contempt ought to reassure her, it’s so completely in character, but there’s a vehemence to it now which leaves her uneasy.

  The rest of the team are already at their desks when she gets in. Somer looks up briefly but doesn’t meet her eye, and is then so intent on looking busy she might as well hang up a sign saying ‘Leave me alone’. Ev unloads her phone and notebook from her bag, wondering how she should play it. She’s pretty sure Somer had an appointment last night with her doctor, but she never actually said so, and Ev’s attempts to WhatsApp her later got nothing more than one-word answers.

  * * *

  For an expert in body language, Bryan Gow isn’t very good at masking his own. When he rounds the corner and sees Gislingham in the corridor outside CID his reaction is such a perfect picture of acute embarrassment he could use it as an example in his next PowerPoint presentation.

  Gis frowns. ‘I thought your assistant said we couldn’t meet up because you were busy today?’

  Gow flushes a little. ‘We can’t – that is, I am.’ He hesitates. ‘If you must know, Ruth Gallagher asked me to come in.’ He makes a face. ‘Hashtag awkward.’

  Because he’s helping her on the Emma Smith case. Because he’s helping to convict Fawley.

  Gis forces away the thought, and the resentment that comes with it. All this shit – none of it’s Gow’s fault.

  ‘I was going to ask you to look at some footage for us. The Fisher case again.’

  Gow nods slowly. ‘OK, I can do that. I’ll drop by later.’ He looks round. ‘And in the meantime, perhaps you could tell me what Gallagher has done with her team, because that office of theirs is doing a pretty good impersonation of the Mary Celeste.’

  * * *

  Gow wasn’t the only one wrong-footed by that this morning. Major Crimes were just as confounded themselves. Overnight, without warning, their entire operation had been tea-crated and relocated upstairs. The first thing everyone noticed was that the new office is about as far away from CID as it’s possible to get; the second was the secure-access keypad on the door.

  And just in case anyone was being especially dense, Dave King makes a big show of getting the facilities manager to reset the code right in front of them.

  ‘From now on, we’re the only ones who’ll have access to this room,’ he says, staring round. ‘Not even the bloody cleaners are getting in here without one of us present. So if there are any more leaks about this investigation – external or internal – I’ll know it was someone here, not one of Fawley’s arse-lickers gone rogue. Do I make myself clear?’

  Evidently so.

  He nods, makes as if to go, then has second thoughts. ‘Oh, and if any of you happen to see DS Gislingham in the khazi, do make sure to pass that on.’

  There’s an exchange of glances now, the odd murmur.

  ‘Right,’ says King. ‘Well, get on with it, then.’

  The room kicks into action and King watches for a moment before making his way over to Simon Farrow’s desk. He smiles at him; Farrow is immediately wary. ‘I was going to ask,’ says King, perilously jovial. ‘It wasn’t you by any chance, was it, slipped CID a look at our files? Because someone made a call to that railway engineer last night and it wasn’t one of us.’

  Farrow’s eyes widen. ‘Why are you asking me?’

  The teeth are showing in King’s grin. ‘Yeah, well, it’s not gone unnoticed that you’ve got a bad case of the hots for that Erica Somer. Can’t say I blame you, though. I’d do her in a shot.’

  Farrow drops his eyes. ‘Always a bad idea,’ he mumbles, ‘getting involved with people at work.’

  King gives a quick bark of laughter. ‘Well, evidently she doesn’t think so. She was banging Gareth Quinn a while back for a start –’

  One of the other DCs looks up. ‘And Fawley too, from what I hear.’

  ‘Really?’ says King sharply.

  The man shrugs. ‘It was all round the station a few months ago.’

  ‘Interesting,’ says King, his tone half thoughtful, half sneer. ‘Not such a bleeding paragon of virtue after all, eh.’

  ‘Was there anything else you wanted, Sarge?’ says Farrow. ‘Only –’

  King turns to him. ‘Yeah, sorry. Yeah, there was. Apparently Fawley’s lawyer had a “little chat” with Gallagher last night.’ He’s dropped his voice now. ‘She was crapping on again about CCTV at the bridge. I take it we’ve bloody confirmed that, have we? I don’t want it coming back to bite me in the arse.’

  Farrow reddens slightly, though he has no reason to: he’s checked already. Twice. ‘No, Sarge. No cameras in that area at all.’

  ‘What about the clothes – the ones Fawley claims Smith was wearing – where are we on that?’

  Farrow pulls up a file on his screen. ‘Here’s the inventory from the flat – no
leggings or T-shirts matching that description.’

  ‘So he’s lying.’

  Farrow hesitates. ‘Well, I guess if it really was Gavin Parrie who killed her, he’d deffo have got rid of the gear –’

  King gives an incredulous scoff. ‘Don’t tell me you actually believe that bollocks.’

  Farrow reddens again. ‘No, Sarge. Of course not. I’m just saying that the clothes not being there now doesn’t prove they never were. Absence of evidence isn’t evidence of –’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ begins King, but then there’s a tap at the glass panel in the door and they look up to see Ruth Gallagher outside. No one appears to have thought to give her the key code. King curses under his breath as one of the DCs rushes to open it. Gallagher thanks him, rather pointedly, takes a few steps into the room.

  ‘Just wanted to let you all know I finally had a call back from Warwickshire. They’ve confirmed Gavin Parrie’s electronic tag is fully functional and shows him as being within a mile of his designated accommodation the entire night of July 9th. Whoever killed Emma Smith, it certainly wasn’t him.’

  Dave King does a fist pump. ‘Fucking nailed it,’ he says.

  ‘No,’ says Gallagher calmly, ‘we haven’t “nailed” anything. Gavin Parrie has been eliminated from the inquiry; Hugh Cleland is likely to be. Adam Fawley remains by far the most likely suspect. But right now, that’s all he is: a suspect.’

  No title, no ‘DI’. Just Adam Fawley. No one in the room underestimates the significance of that.

  ‘But until I decide otherwise, you say nothing.’ She glances round at them, one by one, taking her time about it. ‘Am I clear? However tempted you may be, you are to say nothing – not to your mates, your family, even other Thames Valley officers. And if there’s anyone who thinks they might find that a bit of a challenge after a couple in the Red Lion, I suggest you play it safe and go straight home. Do your career a favour, if not your liver.’

  She gives King a long last look, turns and is gone.

  * * *

  Ev decides, for once, to pack it in at five. The CID office is half empty anyway. Gis has been AWOL for at least an hour and she has no idea where Somer’s been all day. Bugger it, she thinks; it is Saturday, after all. She clatters her stuff into her bag before she has time for a rush of conscience, but it seems the universe has a sense of humour: the phone goes.