The Whole Truth

by Hunter, Cara

  On the screen, the road is now deserted. No passers-by, no other vehicles. No signs of life at all until 01.31, when the car reappears going in the opposite direction, heading back fast towards town. Gallagher swallows. She knows what this man just did. And what he had in that car.

  King freezes the image. It’s impossible to see who’s driving, but the car itself is clear enough.

  It’s a dark-blue Ford Mondeo.

  * * *

  The day is still stifling but the sky has clouded. The air is thickening with approaching thunder and despite the high ceilings and long windows, the sitting room at St Luke Street feels grey, oppressive. On the sofa, Marina clutches her sobbing son on her lap, like some ghastly perversion of a Madonna and Child.

  ‘It’s not fair!’ he wails. ‘They said I was lying but I wasn’t!’

  ‘I know you weren’t, darling,’ she whispers, rocking him against her. ‘I know you weren’t.’

  ‘I saw him, Mummy! I saw him! I saw him!’

  ‘I know, sweetheart, I know.’

  His sobs stutter, turn to gasps. He sits back and looks at her. ‘Then why –?’

  She strokes his hair, her own eyes filling with tears now. ‘It’s like that sometimes, darling – it’s not fair and it can break your heart, but people don’t always believe you. Even if you are telling the truth.’

  * * *

  ‘So you’re going to charge him?’ says Harrison. He has his jacket off and his shirt sleeves rolled up. Safe to say he’s feeling the heat, whichever way you look at it.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ says Gallagher. ‘We need to put the new evidence to him in interview first, but the CPS are confident that the case against DI Fawley is now very sound.’

  ‘I gather we have DS King to thank for that.’

  She frowns slightly; even if that were true, King had no business talking to Harrison behind her back. ‘Actually, sir, it was DC Asante who tracked the footage down. He knows the area around the bridge and thought it likely some of the residents would have their own security systems. And he was right.’

  Harrison looks up. ‘Really? Asante? Getting off his backside and using his initiative, eh? We could do with a bit more of that round here, frankly.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Though I suspect he isn’t feeling much like celebrating. He clearly thought it would be Hugh Cleland’s car we found on that footage.’

  ‘Ah – tricky.’

  ‘But I’ll speak to him – pass on your comments.’

  ‘Yes, do that.’ He sits back, frowns again. ‘Meanwhile –’

  ‘Meanwhile, Adam Fawley will be charged this afternoon – the press office would rather we didn’t do it any earlier as they’d prefer he didn’t go before the magistrate until tomorrow morning. Give them as much time as possible to man the barricades.’

  ‘Yes, well, I can’t imagine they’re exactly thrilled by the prospect.’

  Gallagher grimaces. ‘They can’t say they didn’t know it was a possibility.’

  He gives her a knowing look. ‘Believe me, Ruth, you can never do too much prep for a shitstorm like this.’

  Above their heads, there’s a rumble of thunder. The symbolism is painful.

  Harrison sits back. ‘And as if having one of our own DIs up for rape and murder wasn’t enough, there’s now this other little matter.’

  ‘The timing is certainly unfortunate. But if you’re happy with how I propose to deal with it –’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he says curtly. ‘Whatever it takes as long as it’s out of my in tray. And off the front page of the bloody Oxford Mail.’

  * * *

  Gislingham clears his throat. ‘So you understand that by accepting a caution you are admitting to attempting to pervert the course of justice?’

  Morgan nods.

  ‘And that this information could be revealed as part of a criminal record check and might affect your ability to travel to certain jurisdictions?’

  Another nod. He’s starting to look impatient.

  ‘And you’re happy you’ve received appropriate legal advice and understand the full implications –’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says tetchily, ‘let’s just get it over with.’

  Sergeant Woods exchanges a dry look with Gislingham and passes Morgan the form.

  ‘Sign here, please.’

  * * *

  The atmosphere in the CID office is as changed as the weather. After the adrenaline high of the last hour they’re all going a bit cold turkey. Except Quinn, of course, who’s nowhere to be seen. Probably wandering the corridors, thinks Ev, hoping he’ll ‘accidentally’ run into Harrison and be able to bask in the warmth of his appreciation. Though she has to admit Quinn deserves his pat on the back this time. His intuition about Tobin was what unlogged the jam. But when they’re handing out the plaudits she hopes Gis gets a look-in too: he’s handled this minefield of a case really well, and almost entirely without benefit of DI.

  So when she looks up a few minutes later and sees the DS standing in the doorway she’s momentarily thrown. Because he’s frowning. Really frowning, in a way he hardly ever does.

  ‘I thought that went pretty well,’ she begins, only to falter because he’s shaking his head.

  ‘It’s not that. It’s Gallagher. She wants to see you. Now.’

  But it’s not Ev he’s looking at. It’s Somer.

  * * *

  ‘Ah, DC Somer, come in. And close the door, please.’

  Gallagher sits back in her chair. It’s hard to read her face. She has a track record of supporting junior female officers, as Ev and Somer well know, but right now there’s a thin grim line between her brows. A line that says unease, as much as it says displeasure.

  ‘DS King says you threw coffee in his face. Scalding-hot coffee. What the hell were you thinking? He’d have every right to pursue you for ABH – I assume you do know that?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ says Somer. She’s staring at the floor, her body rigid.

  Gallagher frowns. ‘DC Somer – Erica – I know you. Or at least I thought I did. You’re astute, thoughtful, the very opposite of impulsive. I can quite easily see DC Quinn flipping a latte at someone in a fit of pique, but you?’

  Somer bites her lip. She can feel tears prickling the back of her throat, but she will not cry, she will not cry –

  Gallagher’s still staring at her. ‘Help me out here, will you, because I just don’t get it.’

  Somer takes a breath. ‘DS King made a derogatory remark. I just – reacted.’

  Gallagher’s frown deepens. ‘A remark about you?’

  Somer shakes her head. ‘No. About my boyfriend. About when they worked together.’

  Gallagher is taken aback. ‘Worked together? When was this?’

  Somer can feel her cheeks going hot. Sweat is seeping down her back. ‘I don’t know.’

  Gallagher just looks baffled now. ‘But surely you’ve checked with – Giles, isn’t it? What does he say?’

  Somer’s cheeks are burning. ‘I haven’t spoken to him about it.’

  Gallagher sighs. There’s clearly more to this than she feels comfortable prising out. ‘Well, for what it’s worth, I know for a fact that DS King has never worked either with or for Hants Police. In any case, there must be some sort of misunderstanding at the root of this, because DS King says you were discussing the Emma Smith case at the time –’

  She stops; Somer suddenly has her hand to her mouth, swallowing, as if she’s trying not to be sick.

  ‘I think, ma’am,’ she says quietly, ‘I think I may have got it wrong. What DS King said, I think it must have been about DI Fawley.’

  ‘DI Fawley? But why? He’s not your boyfriend –’ Gallagher stops, counts to ten, then takes a deep breath. ‘Unless you’re trying to tell me there’s been something going on between you two?’

  Somer is shaking her head vigorously and looking her, finally, in the eye. ‘No. There isn’t and there never has been. But, a few months back, there were rumours – some people thoug
ht –’ She makes a sad, despairing gesture. ‘He’d supported me – brought me into CID – so they thought we were – you know.’

  Gallagher nods slowly; she knows, all right. Not about this specifically, but how common ‘this’ still is. The casual assumption – even by people who’d never think of themselves as sexist – that an attractive and ambitious woman must be using the one to further the other. She’s faced it enough times in her own career, but she’d been hoping dinosaur attitudes like that were finally dying out.

  ‘What exactly did DS King say?’

  Somer looks up at her again, then drops her gaze. ‘He said he assumed I’d be finishing with him and I could do a lot better. That even if he was a “sodding DI” he was still a bastard.’

  Gallagher sighs. Needless to say, King’s story is rather different, though given the way he’s been gunning for Fawley she suspects Somer’s version of events is likely to be closer to the truth. But even if she could prove it, that’s still no excuse for what Somer did.

  ‘OK,’ she says. ‘This is what’s going to happen. I’ve already spoken to DS King and he’s not minded to resolve this informally, which is regrettable, but unless he has a change of heart, a formal misconduct investigation will have to be instigated.’

  Somer drops her head, nods.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do about that, even if I wanted to. And in any case, Superintendent Harrison has already decided to refer the case to Professional Standards. So what you need to do now is talk to a Police Federation rep as soon as you can – today, if possible. Take them through exactly what happened. All of it, mind – the precise words he used, the assumptions he made – the whole thing. You understand what I’m telling you?’

  Somer nods again.

  ‘I’m not going to recommend suspension –’

  Somer gasps – but surely she must have realized it was a possibility?

  ‘– but I am going to suggest you transfer temporarily to other duties. But right now, this minute, I want you to go home and contact your rep. You look completely bloody exhausted.’

  Somer says nothing. There’s something about her demeanour – the deadness of it – that makes Gallagher suddenly wonder –

  ‘Are you OK, Erica? Is there something I should know – something that might affect your case?’

  Somer shakes her head. ‘No, ma’am,’ she says. ‘Nothing at all.’

  * * *

  Fair to say it’s been a slow news day for Richard Yates at the Oxford Mail. There are only so many ways you can say ‘Phew, what a scorcher’ without actually saying ‘Phew, what a scorcher’, and what with the usual silly season crap, the pickings right now are particularly parched. He sifts idly through the latest crop of press releases but nothing’s popping; another round of Endeavour filming really isn’t cutting it as ‘news’ these days, and as for the Martin Scorsese honorary degree, he’s already squeezed two bylines out of that and his suggestion for a vox pop at the station cab rank was well and truly spiked (‘That’s enough Taxi Driver references, Ed’, as his editor took great delight in scrawling on Yates’s message pad).

  He sits back in his desk chair and swings it idly from side to side. His mobile starts to ring, but he doesn’t exactly jump to it. The way today’s going, it’s probably his mum.

  ‘Dick, old mate, how are you?’

  There’s only one person who calls him that. It fucks him off every time, but he bites his tongue because of who this bloke is.

  ‘You got something for me?’

  ‘Off the record, right? Really off. Because if it gets out you got this from me, they’ll have my arse.’

  Yates sits forward, scoop feelers on full alert. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says as casually as he can muster. ‘When have I ever dumped on you?’

  There’s a sigh at the other end. ‘OK. Just needed to say it, right?’

  Yates pulls his notebook towards him. ‘So what’ve you got?’

  ‘Emma Smith. We’ve charged someone.’

  ‘That forty-six-year-old bloke you arrested?’

  ‘Right. We won’t be making an announcement but he’ll be up before the beak first thing tomorrow, so make sure you’re down there waiting, OK? And take a bloody photographer.’

  Yates is writing furiously. ‘You think he’s definitely your man?’

  No mistaking the self-satisfaction at the other end. ‘Oh yeah, he’s our man, all right. But it’s not that. It’s who he is. Seriously, mate, this is hold-the-fucking-front-page territory.’

  Yates grasps the phone a bit tighter. ‘You going to give me a heads-up or just be a bloody prick-tease?’

  ‘If I do, you can’t break it early, right? You’ll have to wait for the court list. Security on this one is as tight as a duck’s backside.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah –’

  A low laugh. ‘Let’s just say you could do worse than mugging up on the life and career of one Adam John Fawley.’

  Yates frowns; he knows that name. Every reporter in this city knows that name. ‘Hang on, are you seriously telling me –’

  ‘Too right, mate. That’s exactly what I’m telling you. The bastard who raped and murdered Emma Smith? It was Detective Inspector Adam Fawley.’

  * * *

  ‘I wanted Cheerios,’ says Ben, standing by the open cupboard. He’s just back from his bike ride, sweaty, dusty and in quest of quick carbs. ‘But we’ve run out.’

  Nell Heneghan glances across from the sink. ‘I’m sure we haven’t, darling. I only got another packet a couple of days ago.’

  Ben is standing his ground. ‘We’ve run out,’ he says in martyred tones, ‘because Auntie Alex keeps eating them. They’re supposed to be for me.’

  Nell smiles. ‘I told you, didn’t I – pregnant ladies sometimes have weird cravings. I stuffed myself with pickled onions when I was carrying you – I’ve never been able to eat a single one since. Auntie Alex just happens to fancy Cheerios right now, OK? It’s not a problem – there’s plenty to go round.’

  ‘No,’ says Ben stolidly. ‘There isn’t.’

  Nell’s slightly nettled now. ‘You’re probably just not looking properly.’

  Like his father, like her father. It’s one of those bloke things.

  Ben’s still not moving, so she puts down the potato peeler with an audible sigh and goes over to the larder. But three frustrated minutes later she has to concede defeat.

  ‘Can’t you have something else? I can make toast – there’s Nutella –’

  Ben’s the one frowning now. ‘But what about tomorrow? What about breakfast?’

  Nell checks her watch. She could nip out now and be back in time to get the food on, and then go and collect Nicky from judo. And Gerry should be back in twenty minutes.

  ‘OK,’ she says, ‘I’ll pop down to Tesco to get some. Can you keep an eye on Auntie Alex while I’m gone?’

  He shrugs. ‘I can’t. She’s got the door closed.’

  ‘Don’t be so literal, darling. You know what I mean. I’ll just pop up and tell her before I go. And in the meantime, the toaster’s over there if you’re on the brink of death.’

  She tousles his hair, gets an annoyed shrug for her pains, then turns and goes upstairs.

  There’s no sound from the spare room and Nell hesitates at the door. Because what Ben said has rekindled her own concern. Alex has been acting oddly all day – in fact, she’s been acting oddly ever since last night. She hardly ate anything, just kept fiddling with her tablet, which really got on Gerry’s nerves, because they don’t let the boys bring devices to the table. And she didn’t appear for breakfast at all. Nell’s been up twice with cups of tea, but Alex just called out that she was fine and would be down soon. Nell knows her sister is a private person – that she’s acutely embarrassed about taking up space in the house and getting in the way – but this is getting ridiculous.

  ‘Alex?’ she says, knocking firmly this time. ‘I’m just nipping out to the shops. Do you need anything?’

  Silence.
>
  Nell’s heart quickens – privacy is one thing but her sister is pregnant, very pregnant –

  She hesitates one second more, then grips the handle and opens the door.

  * * *

  The pub is busy. It may be Monday but it’s hot, and it’s the holidays, and the place is heaving, though the first fat drops of rain dropping on to the scorching tarmac have scuttled people back to the gloom inside, where the loud drinks in primary colours with straws and umbrellas now look ludicrously, endearingly out of place.

  Despite the rain, the door’s wedged open to get what passes for fresh air on the Banbury Road, and there’s a slight blonde woman standing at the threshold. And she’s not just looking for a way to stay dry – she’s intent, scanning the crowd. The light is behind her and the room dark, so it’ll probably take a few moments for your eyes to adjust. But you’ll recognize her soon enough.

  She starts to move now, through the crowd towards a table near the back. There are two young people sitting there already, a young man and woman talking in low voices, their heads and bodies close together. He has a white T-shirt and an angular hawk-like tattoo on his left forearm that you’ve seen somewhere before. As for the girl, she has her auburn hair in a tiny ponytail …

  There’s a bottle of wine on the table and three glasses. When they look up, you can see the expectation in their eyes.

  The blonde girl dumps her bag and sits down.

  ‘It’s done,’ she says, the words coming in a rush of breath. ‘He just called from the police station. They’re giving him a caution, and he says I’ll probably get one too, but that’s it – nothing more. It’s over. Pour me a bloody drink, will you, Sebastian – I fucking need one.’

  The other two are looking at each other; triumph on her face, relief on his.

  ‘You aced it, Freya,’ says the girl, holding out her glass for wine. ‘We seriously owe you one.’

  ‘It’s Caleb you should be thanking, not me.’

  ‘Thank God he’s only getting a caution– I mean, after they arrested him and everything –’

  Freya nods. ‘I know – I was really worried for a moment back there. I thought the whole thing might be going to shit.’