by Hunter, Cara
‘And you’re sure the cops didn’t suspect anything?’ begins the man tentatively. ‘Because if they worked out me and Caleb knew each other from rugby, they’d work it all out –’
Zoe frowns. ‘Oh, stop being such a girl, Seb. Why would they even think that? And we scrubbed our phones – there won’t be anything there even if they go looking. Which they won’t.’
He makes a face. ‘OK, OK, sorry. I just feel a bit of a shit, that’s all. I mean, yes, Marina did make up that crap about the grooming, but only because of that picture – because she was scared. And as for the sex, I mean, you know how much I wish it had never happened, but it just did – she never forced me – she was just upset –’
‘Well, she forced Caleb,’ says Freya quickly, glaring at him. ‘Remember?’
She stares at him, holding his gaze. After a moment he drops his eyes. ‘I still don’t know why you needed to drag me in.’
‘Because no one would have believed us otherwise,’ she insists. ‘It would just have been her word against Caleb’s. There had to be another victim to make them take us seriously. Especially after she got that bloody kid to lie for her.’
Zoe shakes her head. ‘Jesus, Freya, I’m so sorry – I never thought she’d dare do that again.’
‘And we agreed, remember,’ says Freya, still staring at Sebastian, ‘that night, after it happened? All four of us: you, me, Zo, Caleb. We had to do something, right? Once was bad enough – but twice? You can’t do that – you can’t just go around screwing other people’s boyfriends and expect there to be no comeback. She had to be stopped.’
Zoe reaches out and touches Sebastian on the arm. ‘She was a class-one bitch over that NDA, babe. She practically drove us out of Oxford. Why should she get away with that?’
‘And what if it was the other way round?’ says Freya quickly. ‘What if it’d been Zo and a male tutor – what would you say then – would you think that was OK?’
Sebastian is still staring down at his wine.
‘Because it’s no bloody different,’ says Freya. ‘She’s in a position of power and that means that what she did was abuse. Abuse of Caleb and abuse of you – whether you think she “forced” you or not. The only person who’s done anything wrong here is her and she’s finally going to get what she deserves.’
She raises her glass and the other girl follows, and then, after a moment, Sebastian does too.
‘To revenge,’ says Zoe.
‘To justice,’ says Freya.
* * *
It’s obvious why Alex didn’t answer Nell’s knock. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed in her pyjamas, earphones in, staring at her laptop, making notes on a counsel’s pad. Her hair is straggly and she clearly hasn’t showered.
‘Alex,’ cries Nell, ‘for God’s sake, you’re not working? This is crazy – after everything the doctor said –’
Alex looks up. Her cheeks are flushed, but she doesn’t look unwell – she looks excited, wired.
‘Nell,’ she says, pulling out one earphone. But only one. ‘Sorry. I didn’t hear you.’
Her sister takes a step forward, her face grave. ‘What are you doing?’ She gestures at the laptop, the paper. ‘You’re on leave – you shouldn’t even be thinking about this stuff, never mind –’
Alex cuts across her. ‘I’m fine, Nell, really. And it’s not work. I promise.’
Nell frowns. ‘You should be taking it easy – resting. Remember what the doctor said?’
Alex smiles, placatory. ‘I know – and I’m fine. Really.’ Her hand is already poised to put her earphone back.
‘OK,’ says Nell with a sigh. She knows better than to argue with Alex when she gets in this mood. And at least there’s some colour in her cheeks now. ‘I’m popping out to the shops. I’ll only be half an hour. Ben’s downstairs if you need anything. And Gerry won’t be long.’
But Alex has already gone back to her programme.
Nell stands there for a few more moments, but her sister doesn’t even seem to register her presence. She’s paused the audio and is making another note, underlining something.
Nell reaches for the door and pulls it quietly closed.
* * *
9 July 2018, 9.25 p.m.
62a Shrivenham Close, Headington, Oxford
Despite the heat, she has the doors and windows closed, but it’s not making her feel safe, just even more paranoid. She’s scared all the time now. At home, in the street, on her own, near other people. All the time.
No wonder Amanda dumped her – it must have been like dating a double agent. If they’d known each other better, perhaps she could have told her, but she was too afraid of the look in her eyes, of what she’d say – what everyone would say if they knew. Her friends, her parents, Beth at work. They’d want to be sympathetic, they’d want to believe – of course they would – but the more she said, the more they’d wonder. The more she’d see the doubt in their eyes. Because, yes, something like this happened once before, and she was wrong about it then, and the guy she accused got no end of shit he didn’t deserve. And no, she can’t be totally sure this time either. She’s never seen his face, never really seen him, not properly. Just an impression, a quick movement, a silhouette, always just out of sight, always just out of reach. It’s all shadows and glimpses and bad vibes. Just like last time.
Only this time it’s different. Because this time it’s true.
If only she could believe it was Hugh Cleland. At least that would be logical, something she could explain. But she knows she would be kidding herself. This man – whoever he is – is thinner, slighter, nimbler. And in any case, he’s been stalking her for weeks. Long before it all blew up with the Clelands.
The ring on the doorbell makes her jump. She holds a hand to her chest for a moment, feeling the beat against the bone. For God’s sake, pull yourself together. Just see who it is, OK? You don’t have to open the door. Not unless you want to. Not unless you know them.
She takes a deep breath and goes down the hall, telling herself to walk with purpose, to get a grip. There’s a peephole in the panelling and she puts her hand to the wood, squinting into the glass. Then she straightens up and smiles a little see-you’re-just-overreacting-again smile.
She takes off the chain and opens the door.
* * *
It’s more like forty-five minutes in the end. The storm broke like Niagara while Nell was in the store and the months-dry roads are awash. Even at twenty miles an hour she can barely see where she’s going – the windscreen wipers just can’t work fast enough and the car’s steaming up inside. The sheer effort of driving in a straight line is making her eyes ache. When she finally turns into their road there’s a blur of red and blue lights up ahead. Up ahead, where they live. She frowns. Don’t be stupid, she tells herself sternly. It’s not us, of course it’s not us –
But it is. The ambulance is outside their house, it’s their front door that’s open.
There’s iron in her chest now – not one of the boys – please don’t let it be one of the boys –
She puts her foot down, loses control for a moment, slides sideways, and the car crunches metal.
Shit
Shit shit shit
She stops the car, throws open the door. Two paramedics are manoeuvring a stretcher down the path.
Not one of the boys. Not Gerry –
Alex.
She splashes down the pavement, soaked in seconds, rain running down her face.
The paramedics are lifting the stretcher now, sliding it into position. Alex’s face is white against the pillow, her eyes closed, an oxygen mask pushed over her nose and mouth.
One of the medics turns and sees her, frowns a little. ‘Are you the sister? She was asking for you.’
‘What happened?’ gasps Nell. ‘Is she OK?’
‘Her waters broke. All happened very suddenly apparently. Your son called us. Just as well he did. Bit of a responsibility though, for such a young kid.’
&nb
sp; The frown explains itself now. Nell swallows. Oh my God, this is all my fault. What sort of mother leaves a heavily pregnant woman alone with an eleven-year-old child?
‘My husband was on his way,’ she stammers. ‘Isn’t he here?’
The man shrugs. ‘Got held up. So your son said.’
The other paramedic steps down and nods to her colleague. Nell darts forward and peers up into the back through the rain.
‘Alex? It’s me – everything’s going to be fine, OK? I’ll follow as soon as I can.’
Alex opens her eyes and tries to sit up, reaching out desperate hands, trying to say something, but the second medic is already closing the doors.
‘We need to get moving,’ says the woman. ‘I’m worried about her heart rate – the baby could be in distress.’ And then, to Nell, ‘She asked you to get a message to her husband.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Nell says as they walk back round to the cab. ‘Tell her I will –’
The engine starts up and she takes a step back, blinking away tears. This baby, this longed-for baby, is finally coming and her sister is going to the hospital alone. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
* * *
9 July 2018, 9.26 p.m.
He smiles at her. She has no interest in men, but she can see why other women might go for him. The dark hair, the hazel eyes. She finds herself thinking – irrelevantly – that he’d probably look pretty good in a suit; he doesn’t look that bad even in an old trackie top and joggers.
‘Hi,’ he says.
* * *
Ben is standing white-faced on the doorstep, watching as the ambulance pulls away.
‘Is she going to be OK?’ he asks in a small voice.
Nell reaches out and puts an arm around his shoulders, faking a confidence she doesn’t feel.
‘Of course she is. And apparently I have a hero for a son – phoning for the ambulance like that. Well done, you.’
His lip is trembling a little. ‘She just asked me to phone 999. I didn’t really do anything.’
She squeezes his shoulder. ‘Yes, you did. And she’ll be really grateful. Just you wait.’
He hangs his head. ‘It was horrible, Mum. She was breathing funny, and it really hurt, I could tell, and the bed was all wet –’
She grasps him to her, stroking his back. ‘It’s OK, darling,’ she whispers. ‘I know it looks frightening if you haven’t seen it before, but that’s just what happens when a baby is coming.’
He’s trying not to cry. She kisses the top of his head. ‘You were very brave and I am very proud of you. And I’m so so sorry I wasn’t here.’
He sniffs, pulls away. ‘It’s OK.’ He smiles, a little wobbly. ‘It was my fault, wanting the Cheerios.’
She puts her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh Lord, I left the car running.’ She glances down the street – the car’s door is open and the lights on, but at least someone hasn’t nicked it. Gerry’s going to be pissed off enough about the prang. It would have to be the Wilders’ SUV, now wouldn’t it.
‘I’m just going to get the shopping –’
She’s turning to go when Ben grabs her sleeve. ‘She wanted you to phone someone called Gislingham. She wrote down his number.’
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she says, turning her collar up against the rain. ‘I’ll do it as soon as I’ve sorted the car.’
‘No,’ he says, surprisingly insistent. ‘She said it was urgent – it’s about Uncle Adam being arrested.’
She starts; the children weren’t supposed to know about that. Not yet, anyway. Not while there’s still some hope it’s all just some ghastly misunderstanding.
‘She made me promise,’ Ben’s saying. ‘She said she’s found something out.’
She stares at him. ‘What are you talking about? Found out? Found out what?’
He looks down, shrugs. ‘I don’t know. She said it was too difficult to explain. But it was all on her notepad. That you should look at that. And tell this person Gislingham. She said he’d know what to do.’
She frowns. ‘OK. So you really do think it’s important?’
He looks up at her, his brown eyes serious. ‘Yeah. I think it is.’
* * *
9 July 2018, 9.27p.m.
‘I’m collecting for UNICEF,’ he says, holding out the card he’d held up at the peephole for her to see. ‘The Children of Syria Appeal. Would you consider making –’
‘But I know you, right?’ she says, interrupting him. ‘You run at Shotover, Saturday mornings?’
He starts, then recognition dawns. ‘You helped me out a couple of weeks ago – when that little kid fell over on the path and started screaming the place down? Poor little beggar, heaven only knows where his mum had got to.’
She smiles. ‘I remember – you were really good with him.’
He grins. ‘Had a lot of practice. Not with my own,’ he says quickly. ‘But I’ve had to take care of my brother’s kids. You know, when he couldn’t be around.’
His face had become serious, but he smiles again now. ‘How about that? Coincidence, eh?’
She holds out her hand for the charity envelope. ‘If you wait here a minute, I’ll go and get my purse.’
* * *
When Gislingham’s phone goes, he’s standing at the coffee machine, trying to work out the least-worst option. Needs must: it’s definitely not a day to be going outside. He stares at the screen, frowns. He doesn’t recognize the number.
‘DS Gislingham – hello?’
He can’t make out what she’s saying at first – it’s all in a rush, and breathless, and half panicked – but when he gets her to slow down, the first word that registers is a name.
Adam.
* * *
9 July 2018, 9.45 p.m.
RAGE
Rage and fear and frustration at her idiocy, her absolute and total stupidity
How could she have been so bloody naive?
She shouldn’t have had that wine
She shouldn’t have opened the door
He knew she wouldn’t let him in – not unless she recognized him, not unless she knew his face
He made her think he was harmless – he made her think he was like her – a runner – someone who cares about kids
The UNICEF envelope, Shotover, that charade with the boy – all of it – it was all deliberate
He wasn’t running there by accident all those weeks – he was there because she was
How long has he been planning this?
She struggles again, trying to dislodge the gag, loosen her wrists, her ankles. Whatever he’s tied her with is soft against her skin but wire underneath. It will not move.
She can hear him now, in the bathroom, in the bedroom. The jangle of hangers, the slide of drawers. Fingering her things with those horrible latex gloves. He was in here earlier, laughing to himself
Reading her diary – laughing at his own cleverness – seeing just how pathetic she is, how stupid, how scared
She has no idea who this man is, but he’s been three steps ahead of her right from the start
And now –
Now it’s too late
* * *
‘Ma’am, can I have a word?’
Ruth Gallagher looks up. Gislingham, at her office door. He looks agitated.
She waves him in. ‘What is it, Chris?’
She gestures at the chair but he doesn’t take it. He has a piece of paper in his hand.
‘I need to get a message to Fawley – they said you’d charged him?’
She sighs. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, I should have told you. We’ve had new evidence – CCTV from Walton Well.’
He frowns. ‘I didn’t think there were cameras on the bridge?’
‘There aren’t. But there are some on the flats on William Lucy Way. It was Asante who worked it out –’
He gapes. ‘Asante? You got the evidence to charge Fawley from Asante?’
She looks a little embarrassed. ‘Yes, it’s rather awkward – I don�
��t think that was what he hoped –’
But he’s moved on. ‘Forget it – this isn’t about that. I just had a call from Nell Heneghan – she’s Fawley’s sister-in-law. His wife has gone into labour.’
Gallagher looks concerned. ‘That’s a bit early, isn’t it?’
He makes a face. ‘Yeah, way too early.’
She sits forward and reaches for her phone. ‘Newbury custody suite, please. Hello – is that the Custody Sergeant? It’s DI Gallagher, Major Crimes. Can you arrange for a squad car to take DI Fawley to the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford. As soon as possible, please. Yes, the maternity suite. Tell him his wife is in labour, but that’s all the information I have at present.’
She puts the phone down.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ says Gislingham. But he isn’t moving.
‘Was there something else, Sergeant?’
‘Alex – Mrs Fawley – you probably know – she’s a lawyer.’
She nods. ‘Yes, I did know that.’
He looks half embarrassed now. ‘Well, according to her sister, Mrs Fawley thinks she found something. About the Parrie case.’
Gallagher frowns. ‘What, exactly?’
‘That’s just it. I’m not sure. And neither is Nell. Alex didn’t get a chance to tell her. Just left a message to look on her notepad.’
He puts the sheet of paper down on her desk.
‘Nell took a photo and WhatsApped it to me.’
The image is slightly off centre, as if taken in a hurry. Words and phrases, single letters, underlinings, circlings, arrows, question marks. Ruth looks up at Gislingham.
‘How on earth are we supposed to make head or tail of this? It’s just a load of random jottings.’
Gislingham pulls out a chair and sits down, pulling the paper round so they can both see.
‘Not all of it,’ he says. ‘See this here, Ep? That must mean “episode”. I think Alex has been listening to that podcast about Parrie. The Whole Truth one.’ He points, ‘TWT, see?’
‘Ye gods, I can’t imagine anything I’d want to avoid more. Especially if I was one of his victims.’
Gislingham nods. ‘Me too. But if that’s what she’s been doing, perhaps there’s something in it – something new? She wouldn’t have been in court for the whole trial – perhaps she’s found out something she didn’t know before? Maybe even something we didn’t know before?’