The Whole Truth

by Hunter, Cara

  And it was never about you anyway, thinks Everett. Not really. You’re just collateral damage.

  ‘He went round that Friday. Took a bottle of wine. He thought it would help keep things civilized but she obviously got the wrong end of the stick because she started saying she knew he’d see sense, and he wouldn’t regret it –’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  The girl flicks a look at her. ‘Right. It just made things ten times worse. When he finally managed to convince her that he wasn’t there to screw her she just totally flipped out. She said she’d ruin me. She’d take Tobin to the police and he’d tell them what I’d been doing to him. She actually went and got Tobin and made him repeat the whole thing, then and there, in front of him. Seb said it was terrifying – anyone hearing that would have believed it.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  Zoe throws up her hands. ‘We caved. What else could we do? Marina agreed to drop the grooming accusation on condition that Seb and I signed an NDA agreeing never to talk about her or share any “material” about her –’

  ‘Of course, the photo.’

  She nods. ‘Yeah, the photo. And we weren’t to disclose anything at all about our relationship with her, either publicly or privately.’

  ‘And I assume that included the university authorities?’

  ‘And the police.’ She sits back. ‘She could sue me, just for being here, having this conversation.’

  She reaches into her bag and pulls out a white envelope. ‘Here, see for yourself.’

  Ev opens it in silence and takes out the document inside.

  ‘Now you know why I was scared to come,’ says Zoe softly. ‘I know what that woman is capable of.’

  * * *

  Ev gets her lie-in, but has to make do with yogurt and fruit at home rather than brunch at Gail’s. As for the walk in Christ Church meadow, that’s on permanent hold. When she turns up at Gislingham’s door at just gone 11.00 it’s his wife, Janet, who opens the door. She’s obviously been in the garden a lot lately – her shoulders are pink and the skin on her nose is a bit raw. She wasn’t expecting Ev but she smiles all the same, and Ev realizes suddenly that she’d been slightly apprehensive about her welcome. She knows how long the Gislinghams had to wait for their son, and how hard they had it in the months after his birth. There was a period when Gis was doing everything around the house and Janet was barely leaving it. So much so that Ev had been close to wondering out loud whether Janet might have postnatal depression. But then things seemed to get a little better, and then a little better still. Gis lost the grey look he had that first year; he became DS, first temporarily and then permanently, and he started talking about his wife the way he had before Billy was conceived. And now, when someone turns up on the doorstep unannounced, Janet just takes it in her stride.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ she says gaily. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages! Come on in – Chris is out the back.’

  Ev follows her down the hall to the kitchen and Janet gestures at the kettle. ‘Fancy a coffee?’

  ‘God, yes,’ says Ev with a grin. ‘I’m gasping.’

  Janet smiles again. ‘I’ll bring it through.’

  Janet must be watering her patio pots every day because the marguerites and geraniums are lush, but the rest of the garden looks tired and the borders are shrivelling. In the middle, on the brown grass, Gis is playing football with Billy, who’s wearing a miniature Chelsea strip with ‘Gis’ and the number one on his back. He’s nearly two now and even though he’s small for his age he’s sturdy, and more than capable of giving his dad the runaround – literally. Gis rolls the ball towards him and the little boy swings out a foot and bangs it against the fence.

  ‘GOAL!!!’

  Gis bends over, leaning on his knees, breathing heavily, then spots Ev and straightens up.

  ‘Boy, am I glad to see you,’ he says, coming slowly towards her. ‘It’s too bloody hot to be cavorting about like this.’

  ‘Da – ad,’ says Billy, in the beginning of a whine, but Gis gives him a firm look. ‘Now, we don’t do that, do we? No one likes a whinger.’

  Billy’s mouth puckers a little, but Gis tousles his hair and the smile eventually comes. ‘Now, why don’t you go and see if Mummy’s got any more of that juice, while I have a quick chat with Auntie Ev?’

  ‘Not sure about “Auntie Ev”,’ she says, giving him a firm look of her own.

  ‘Godmother’s privilege,’ he says, grinning. ‘Now, what dragged you all the way from Summertown on a Sunday morning?’

  * * *

  ‘I mean, you’ve got to have fish at The Perch, haven’t you?’ says Caroline Asante gaily. ‘Stands to reason.’

  They came early because they know how busy this place gets at the weekend, and in this weather, shady spots in the garden are at a premium. But once in possession of a prize position, they’re taking their time. On the next table, there’s another middle-aged couple with their daughter and what’s clearly her fairly new boyfriend: he’s smiling a lot and trying a little too hard. Further over, a gaggle of kids is trying to climb the huge old willow tree. There’s jazz coming from the marquee and people are sitting about on the grass because for once it’s dry enough to do that in an English summer. The whole thing is almost too perfect.

  ‘I’m considering the mussels,’ begins Asante’s father carefully, ‘or perhaps the Cumberland ring.’

  His mother laughs, reaching for her glass of Pinot Grigio. ‘Honestly, Kwame, you manage to sound like a diplomat even when you’re ordering sausages and mash.’

  He smiles at her; it’s an old joke. He was a Ghanaian trade attaché for more than twenty years.

  ‘I’ll go in and order,’ says Asante, making to get up, but his mother stops him.

  ‘No need to rush. Let’s have a chat.’

  Parent code for ‘you never tell us anything’. He stifles a sigh.

  ‘How’s the job going?’ His father now. They always ask, as a point of honour, even though they’ve never really reconciled themselves to their only son going into the police. It simply baffled them, even when he was accepted on the fast-track graduate scheme. But they were, as always, too well bred, too ‘diplomatic’ to say so. Your children must be allowed to make their own choices, even if you’d much rather they opted for medicine or the law, even – if all else fails – the City.

  ‘It’s good,’ says Asante. ‘Better than Brixton.’

  ‘In what way?’ His mother, ‘showing an interest’.

  ‘The job’s more varied. And the town. More interesting people.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ says Caroline in that alert-for-a-girlfriend tone all mothers seem to develop. But then again, as Asante reminds himself, he isn’t just an only son but an only child.

  ‘Don’t get too excited, Mum,’ he says. ‘I don’t get out much. Those people I mentioned – they’re the ones I’m arresting.’

  * * *

  ‘Bloody hell,’ says Gis, sitting back.

  ‘I know,’ replies Ev, finishing the last of her coffee. ‘And for once in this bloody case, we don’t have to just take her word for it. There’s the NDA.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, frowning and pulling the sheet of paper back towards him, ‘but it’s not that explicit, is it? It just stops them talking about her. It doesn’t say why. There’s absolutely nothing about the grooming or the kid or anything.’

  ‘True – but we know Fisher slept with Young. I saw the picture – and believe me, there is absolutely no mistaking what they’re doing.’

  ‘But all that proves is that they had sex. Not that Fisher forced him to do it. Don’t get me wrong,’ he says quickly, ‘I’m with you. I’m just anticipating what the CPS will say. No one knows the full story but them.’

  Ev points at the logo at the head of the paper. ‘Niamh Kennedy must, surely? If she drafted this thing?’

  Gis shrugs. ‘Possibly, though perhaps not all the details. But I bet you any money you like she’ll hide behind client confidentiality even if she
does.’

  Ev frowns. ‘Well, I reckon she knows a hell of a sight more than she’s saying. I remembered, after I spoke to Zoe – last time they were in she called Fisher “Marina”. Like you would if you were friends, rather than just lawyer and client.’

  Gis sits back again, staring up towards the house. Janet is at the kitchen window. She looks up and gives them a wave.

  ‘I reckon you’re right,’ he says after a moment. ‘For what it’s worth, I reckon Caleb Morgan may well be just the last in a whole line of poor naive saps Fisher’s done this to.’

  ‘Only this time it’s different,’ says Ev. ‘This time, the sap’s fighting back.’

  * * *

  ‘We can easily drop you, Anthony,’ says his mother, opening the car door. ‘It’s barely even out of our way –’

  But he was prepared for this – he knew they’d offer, and he knew he’d need a good excuse.

  ‘It’s fine, Mum, really. It’s a beautiful day and I can walk back across Port Meadow. It’ll do me good to get some fresh air.’

  He knows she’ll struggle to argue back at that, but she still gives it a go.

  ‘You don’t exactly have the right shoes for a hike, darling.’

  He smiles. ‘OK, confession time. There’s something I want to check. To do with a case.’

  She purses her lips. ‘If it’s work-related it should be done on work time.’

  ‘That’s just it, Mum. It’s not exactly “official”.’

  * * *

  Ev checks her watch and reaches for her bag. ‘I think that’s everything, boss. Young’s coming in this afternoon to give a statement, so I’ll give you a call afterwards.’

  ‘Good work,’ he says. ‘I’d see if Somer’s free to sit in on that as well, if I were you.’

  ‘Already done,’ she says, smiling. ‘And I’ve let Fisher’s lawyer know we’ll want to talk to her again tomorrow.’

  She gets to her feet. ‘I have to go.’

  He makes a face. ‘Your dad?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says with a sigh. Only a small one, but even that feels disloyal. ‘My dad.’

  * * *

  As for Quinn, he’s spending his Sunday in Boars Hill. Maisie raised an eyebrow when he suggested it (‘With my parents? Are you feeling OK?’), but he just laughed and said who wouldn’t want a swim in this weather? And that genuinely was a good half of the motivation. As for the rest, well, that’s a rather longer game.

  Her parents have made themselves admirably and discreetly scarce, so it’s been just the two of them by the pool most of the morning, Quinn on a lounger, within a languid stretch of an ice bucket stacked with beer, and Maisie a few feet away, floating gently on an inflatable blue-and-white-striped hammock (blow-up flamingos are evidently too Benidorm for Boars Hill). Maisie’s wearing a floppy pink cotton sun hat and a pair of huge Jackie O sunglasses; she looks like she’s walked straight out of the Profumo affair. Down below, in the valley, the city glitters like a mirage.

  ‘Love the hat,’ says Quinn.

  She looks up from her book. ‘This? It’s completely ancient. I’ve had it since I was at school.’

  Her hair has corkscrewed in the wet, and with no make-up she looks adorably fresh-faced.

  ‘I bet your school was the sort that had straw boaters.’ She sticks her tongue out and he starts laughing. ‘It did, didn’t it?’

  She grabs an ice cube out of her drink and lobs it at him but it misses by miles and plops harmlessly into the water.

  He grins. ‘Have you still got it? I mean, you’d look seriously hot in school uniform –’

  She looks at him witheringly over her sunglasses. ‘Honestly, blokes. You’re all the same. Perving over gymslips.’

  ‘Blimey, have you got one of those too?’

  She sighs loudly and returns, rather pointedly, to her book.

  ‘What’s it like?’ he says, gesturing at it. ‘Any good?’

  ‘OK so far,’ she says, without looking up. ‘Though you know what it’s like with crime – it’s all about the ending.’

  He gives a dry laugh. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Though apparently this one’s OK. The ending, I mean. That’s what Mum said, anyway.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  She glances up now. ‘A missing girl. Her parents are really horrible so you’re supposed to think one of them must have done it, but it obviously won’t be as simple as that. And the kid is really manipulative.’ She laughs. ‘Reminds me a bit of me. I used to tell the most enormous fibs at that age, but Dad swallowed it every time.’

  ‘What about your mum?’

  She smiles. ‘She was far too shrewd. But Dad just couldn’t believe sweet little eight-year-old girls could be such good liars.’

  Quinn reaches for another beer; Maisie’s definitely going to have to drive them home. Twice in two weeks – it’s becoming a habit.

  ‘Not just girls,’ he says. ‘The kid in that sexual assault case I’m working on? He’s exactly the same age and he tells whoppers the size of Birmingham.’

  Maisie pulls her sunglasses down her nose. ‘Didn’t you say he was probably on the spectrum or something?’

  Quinn’s can fizzes open. ‘Yeah, he’s definitely not all there. Bright – just, you know, a bit of a weirdo. And no, before you ask, I didn’t actually say that.’

  But her face is serious. ‘What was he lying about?’

  ‘That call I got on the way here? Looks like this isn’t the first time the mother’s got involved in something like this. Only last time she threatened to report the bloke’s girlfriend for grooming the kid. But it was all a complete fabrication, just to stop them blabbing.’

  She frowns. ‘That makes the mother the liar, not him.’

  Quinn shrugs. ‘Whatever. All I know is that the kid had the whole thing off pat.’

  Maisie puts her book down in her lap. ‘That doesn’t sound right to me. If he really is autistic he’d find that really, really difficult. Kids like that – they can’t even do little white lies, never mind great big complicated ones. Why do you think they have so much trouble dealing with other people? There’s such a thing as too much truth.’

  Quinn wedges his can back into the ice. ‘How come you know so much about it all of a sudden?’

  She shrugs. ‘I read a couple of articles about it after that Chris Packham programme.’

  Up at the house, her mother is waving at them from the edge of the terrace.

  Maisie checks her watch. ‘God, is that the time? Lunch must be ready.’ She slips off the hammock into the water, moves over to the side and pulls herself out.

  ‘You coming?’ she asks, picking up a towel; Quinn still hasn’t moved.

  ‘In a minute.’ He’s frowning, staring into the distance, tapping his fingers against the table.

  ‘OK,’ she says, slipping on her sundress. ‘I’ll see you up there.’

  He nods, not looking up.

  As soon as she’s out of earshot he reaches for his phone.

  * * *

  Sebastian Young is already in reception when Somer gets there, looking for all the world like he’s come for a job interview in his light cotton suit and button-down shirt. Ev was apologetic about dragging her in on a Sunday, but frankly it was a relief. Anything to stop her thinking about where she was supposed to be this weekend. And why she isn’t. But she’s careful not to arrive at the station too early, because she can’t risk any small-talk time with Ev. She’s incredibly fond of her, and she knows how much she cares, but right now, she isn’t in the mood for confessions.

  She isn’t in the mood for Dave King, either. Her heart plummets when she spots him at the coffee machine right outside CID. And the fact that it’s obvious what’s dragged him into the office on a Sunday doesn’t help. She’s been trying not to think about Fawley; she can’t believe he’s guilty of something so unimaginable, but she can’t square away the evidence either. It’s all too much, on top of everything else – Giles, the baby that wasn�
�t, the ultrasound –

  King extracts a cup and presses the button, then looks at her with a nasty knowing smile.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be seeing much of the boyfriend now then, all things considered?’

  She stares at him; how the hell does he even know about Giles? What business is it –

  He takes his cup and straightens up. ‘I mean, you could do a whole lot better than that. Even if he is a sodding DI.’ She glares at him and he lifts his hands, all innocence. ‘Just saying.’

  ‘You don’t know the first thing about him.’

  He raises an eyebrow, evidently amused. ‘Ah, now that’s where you’re wrong. We worked a case or two together, back in the day.’ He takes a step closer. ‘I know a lot about that bastard – much more than you think –’

  He has his coffee black, which is unfortunate, because it means the liquid is scalding as it hits his face, his eyes, his chest – splattering over the floor, running down his neck –

  ‘What was that for?’ he gasps, staggering back. ‘You fucking bitch – how fucking dare you – look at my fucking shirt –’

  He’s shouting now, because she’s walking away. ‘You bitch – I’ll get you for this – you hear me? I’ll fucking get you for this –’

  * * *

  Alex Fawley looks at her watch again. Ten to four. Somewhere in her brain she registers Nell next door in the bathroom, sorting laundry, Gerry downstairs with the kids, one of the neighbour’s dogs barking. She checks her tablet, refreshes the page. Her fingertip leaves a damp mark across the screen.

  * * *

  [ARCHIVE TAPE OF BBC JOURNALIST, OUTSIDE THE OLD BAILEY, 20 DECEMBER 1999]

  ‘After a nine-week trial, Gavin Parrie, the so-called “Roadside Rapist”, was today sentenced to life for the rape and attempted rape of seven young women in the Oxford area. Judge Peter Healey described Parrie as “evil, unrepentant and depraved” and recommended he serve at least fifteen years. There was uproar in court as the sentence was announced, with Parrie’s family abusing both the judge and jury from the public gallery. As Parrie was led away, he shouted threats at the officer who had been instrumental in his arrest, saying he would “get him” and he and his family would “spend the rest of their lives watching their backs”. The officer in question, Detective Sergeant Adam Fawley, has received a commendation from the Thames Valley Chief Constable for the role he played in securing the conviction.’