The Whole Truth

by Hunter, Cara

  Gallagher looks up at Gislingham. ‘She may have been listening to the podcast, but it’s not the Roadside Rapes she’s interested in. This is the Smith case.’

  Alex Fawley is looking for a way to get her husband off. Gallagher sighs; not all that again. Just when she thought everybody had moved on. Though judging from the look on Gislingham’s face, that’s everybody minus at least one.

  ‘I’m not sure what she thought she could achieve,’ she says heavily. ‘I’m sure she’s a very good lawyer, but she can’t possibly know the case in enough detail to draw any conclusions.’

  Gis shrugs. ‘I don’t know, it looks to me like she’s going about it pretty much the same way we’ve done.’ He points. ‘Transport, tag, DNA – the logic’s there.’

  ‘As far as it goes,’ says Gallagher drily. ‘Though she doesn’t appear to be aware that we found one of her husband’s pubic hairs in the victim’s vagina.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ mutters Gislingham, staring at the floor, ‘she wouldn’t, would she.’

  But Gallagher doesn’t seem to have heard him. When he lifts his head she’s looking at the paper, her forehead puckering into a frown. She glances up at him, a question in her eyes. ‘Ryan? Who’s Ryan?’

  ‘Parrie’s son. Must be twenty-odd now.’

  The frown deepens. ‘Looks like there’s something relating to him at the end of episode six?’

  They exchange a glance, then Gis gets out his phone. He finds the right page, swipes forward to the last five minutes and puts it on speaker.

  ‘Gavin was released from Wandsworth prison on May 23rd 2018. But that’s not the same as being exonerated. His conviction still stands. He has to wear an electronic tag and observe strict licence conditions, which effectively prevent him leading anything like a normal life. And that includes having the sort of ordinary social contact that other people take for granted. He had a girlfriend when he left prison, but the relationship wasn’t strong enough to withstand the difficult process of adjustment post-release, and now, once again, he’s on his own.

  But with luck and perseverance this won’t be the end of Gavin’s story. We’re still supporting Gavin and his lawyers, with a view to making a second application to the Criminal Cases Review Commission early next year.

  In the meantime, Gavin’s determined to make the years he still has left count for something. He’s spending a lot of time with young offenders and rebuilding his relationship with his children. And, of course, they’re not kids any more. Ryan is working in the leisure and wellness sector, and Dawn now has a family of her own …’

  ‘A gym,’ says Gislingham. ‘Ryan Powell is working at a bloody gym. Jesus, why didn’t I think of that? How much DNA do you think gets left behind on a bloody gym towel? You just dump the damn things in those bins and don’t give it a second thought. That’s how they framed Fawley –’

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ says Gallagher. Though she seems to have gone very pale. ‘You’re jumping to vast conclusions –’

  Gislingham’s stabbing at his phone, breathing heavily now. ‘Look,’ he says after a moment, holding it towards her, his hand trembling with purpose. ‘Look – Headington Health and Leisure – HHL – it’s the boss’s gym –’

  A line of PT instructors smile out of the screen, neat and tidy in branded polo shirts, by a row of gleaming exercise machines. Rhona Hammond, Daryl Jones, Polly Lewis, Jad Muhammad, Ryan Powell.

  A bright, open face, fair hair. He looks clean-cut, honest, genuine. But Gallagher is not fooled.

  Gislingham is watching her. ‘That pubic hair you mentioned? The one thing the boss has never been able to explain?’

  She looks up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you were trying to filch one of those from someone without them knowing, I can’t think of many better sources than a used gym towel. Can you?’

  She opens her mouth, closes it again. Shit, she thinks. Shit.

  * * *

  Alex watches the doctor standing over the foetal heart monitor. Even with the oxygen, her own pulse is beating so fast she feels light-headed. The midwife has her by the hand, trying to calm her, telling her it’s all going to be fine, but they wouldn’t have called the obstetrician if there wasn’t a problem – they wouldn’t have brought in that machine if they weren’t concerned –

  The doctor looks up. ‘The heart rate’s tachycardic,’ she says crisply. ‘Prep for caesarean, please, and notify Theatre Two. We need to get this baby out.’

  * * *

  ‘But even if you’re right about the hair,’ says Gallagher, ‘we still need to check if you can actually transfer viable DNA from a towel –’

  Gislingham cuts across her. ‘But it fits, doesn’t it? It all fits.’ He points at the ‘RP’ ringed at the bottom of the page. ‘And it looks like Alex thinks so too.’

  ‘Do we know if Ryan’s been in contact with his father?’

  Gis shakes his head. ‘I don’t, no, but we can easily check. Though from what I know of Parrie, he’ll have found a way to do it that doesn’t leave a trace. Snail mail would be my bet.’

  Gallagher looks back at the paper. ‘This point she makes here, about him watching their house –’

  Gislingham makes a face. ‘According to Nell, Alex’s been convinced there was someone watching the house for weeks, but everyone kept telling her she was imagining it – that Parrie had a tag so there was no way it could be him.’

  Gallagher nods slowly. ‘And they were right. He wasn’t.’

  ‘No, he wasn’t. But we were all reckoning without his son, weren’t we? He was completely under the radar. Especially if he’s been calling himself Ryan Powell. And if he’s been watching the Fawleys, he’d know a shitload about both of them – where they shop, who their friends are, the fact that the boss goes to Headington Health and Leisure –’

  Gallagher takes a deep breath. ‘So he gets himself hired at the same gym – is that what you’re thinking?’

  Gis shrugs. ‘Why not? Places like that are always looking for staff. And Alex is right about the car too. It’d be easy enough to rent a Ford Mondeo – there must be hundreds of the bloody things.’

  ‘And poor Emma Smith just happened to do the wrong thing at the wrong time.’

  Gislingham is nodding. ‘Going round to see the Fawleys when Ryan was sat outside, right.’ He sits back again; he looks troubled now. ‘He must have worked out pretty smartish that she was just what they were looking for: a single woman who lived alone and had hardly any friends. The ideal victim.’

  Gallagher sighs. That poor woman, she thinks. She was sure someone was stalking her, she just didn’t know why.

  Or who.

  Gislingham is watching her face. ‘Smith never saw enough to ID him, but Ryan made bloody sure she knew he was there – he wanted her to know.’

  Gallagher stares. ‘But why –?’

  ‘Think about it, ma’am – if you’re scared you’re being stalked and you know a DI, who are you going to ask for advice?’

  ‘She could have just spoken to him on the phone. There was no guarantee he’d actually go round there.’ She’s saying the words, but it’s just the devil’s advocate kicking in. She knows he’s right.

  ‘Parrie’s had nigh on twenty years to plan this. He’d have found a way to get Fawley round to that flat sooner or later. Staged a break-in – something.’ He shrugs. ‘And the minute he did turn up – bingo – game on.’

  ‘So it was Ryan who killed her – is that what you’re saying?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Nah. After all those years inside, Parrie’s not going to pass up the chance to do another girl, is he? What was done to Emma, that has him written all over it. Even down to that tiny bit of hair he just couldn’t stop himself taking.’

  She gives him a dry look. ‘There’s still the not-so-small matter of the electronic tag. Despite what Alex Fawley says, they really don’t malfunction that often. And as for some sort of conspiracy with his PO, that’s just absurd –’

  But Gis
is shaking his head. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the bloody tag. Parrie didn’t come to Oxford to kill Emma Smith, because he didn’t need to. He had his evil little shit of a son deliver her straight to his door.’

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  16 July 2018

  18.17

  ‘Put the bloody siren on, can’t you?’

  It’s thirty miles from Newbury nick to the JR – forty minutes on a good day, but it’s not a good day. Rain coming down like iron rods, lorries, vans, tourist buses, bloody people everywhere.

  We’ve been stuck at this set of lights for over five minutes now, inching forward, staring an HGV up the arse.

  I lean forward. ‘My wife is in labour –’

  The two PCs exchange a look and the one in the driving seat reaches for the switch.

  The blue light’s blaring now and people are trying to get out of the way, but it’s still too slow, too fucking slow –

  I throw myself back in the seat, helpless with anxiety and fear and guilt – because this is all my fault – if Alex loses the baby – if my child dies – it will be all my fault –

  The traffic parts suddenly and we jolt forward –

  * * *

  Gallagher reaches for her keyboard and pulls up the Police National Computer, her heart hammering, trying to stifle the panic, the consequences, cursing King for his fixation with Fawley.

  ‘Ryan Sean Powell,’ she begins, ‘born 8/10/95 –’ Then her voice trails off. ‘There’s nothing here. He’s clean.’

  Gislingham frowns. ‘Nothing at all?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Not even a bloody speeding fine.’

  ‘But it has to be him – it all fits –’

  She looks up. ‘On paper, yes – but we have absolutely no evidence.’

  ‘Not enough for an arrest, but enough to at least talk to him, surely? That’s if he hasn’t bolted – he could be halfway to Florida by now.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, the panic surging back, only worse now, because he’s right: it may already be too late. ‘Yes, we can do that – get up to that gym – even if he’s not there, they’ll have an address. And I’ll call Warwickshire – get them over to that hostel.’

  Gislingham is almost at the door when she calls him back. ‘Chris?’

  He stops and turns.

  ‘Take someone with you – Asante –’

  He looks her straight in the eye. ‘No, ma’am. I’m sorry, but no. I’m taking Quinn.’

  * * *

  9 July 2018, 10.50 p.m.

  She can smell petrol and sweat and her own urine, and underneath it, a thick chemical waft of cleaning fluid. He blindfolded her but she knew where she was, even before the boot thudded shut and the engine started. Her knees bent double against her face, the hot plastic under her sticking to her skin. No room to straighten, to brace against the sides when the car rounds a bend. And he’s driving fast – that much she knows, though she’s lost sense now of how long they’ve been moving. She can’t see, can’t loosen her hands, but she’s trying to feel around behind her – for a tyre iron, a jack, anything she could use. But there’s nothing, nothing at all. The boot is empty. As if the car isn’t even his – as if he hired it – as if he hired it just for this –

  Oh God – oh God –

  They stop.

  The door.

  Footsteps.

  The boot opens.

  A rush of air, of sound. Wind. Trees?

  More footsteps.

  And a voice.

  But it’s not his.

  * * *

  Gallagher sits back in her chair. She’s still breathing far too fast. It can’t be good for you, this sort of stress. And now she’s stuck here, powerless, waiting for news. If that doesn’t sum up the female dilemma since the dawn of time, she doesn’t know what does. She reaches for the paper Gislingham left behind; anything to deflect some of this useless energy.

  Alex’s writing is more familiar now, so it’s easier to detect the clear, methodical thinking under all the apparently haphazard annotations. Gallagher remembers all at once that sudden, almost euphoric release of energy she felt just before her own children were born. The body preparing for labour. Perhaps she’s looking at the fruits of that here.

  She’s about to put it down again when something catches her eye. She holds the page a little closer, frowns and changes the angle. Hand-scrawl to photo to printout makes it third-hand imperfect at best, and she could be making something out of nothing. But all the same –

  She reaches for her phone.

  * * *

  Gislingham is stuck in traffic too, crawling yard by yard through the centre of town. Quinn’s drumming his fingers against the windowsill; he hates being driven, even at the best of times. And this is not the best of times.

  ‘Should have gone the other way,’ he mutters. ‘Rush hour – fucking monsoon – every sodding car in Oxford is on the road.’

  Thanks for that, thinks Gislingham, I’d never have worked it out if you hadn’t told me.

  His mobile goes and he puts it on speaker.

  ‘DS Gislingham.’

  ‘Chris – it’s DI Gallagher –’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re stuck in traffic, ma’am –’

  ‘It’s not that. I was just looking at these notes again. Did you print out the whole thing? There’s no chance part of the page could have got missed off?’

  Gis glances across at the phone. ‘Don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘Is there any way I can check?’

  Gislingham frowns; Quinn’s taking an interest now too.

  ‘You could phone Nell Heneghan?’ says Gislingham. ‘I’ll text you her mobile number. And if that’s off they’re probably in the book. His initial’s G and they live in Abingdon.’

  He can hear her writing it down. A bus goes past on the other side of the road, arcing water over the front of the car. Quinn swears as the water deluges down the windscreen and Gislingham stands on his brakes.

  ‘Anything I should know about, ma’am?’ he says, raising his voice slightly.

  ‘No, no,’ she replies quickly. ‘It may be nothing. But if it isn’t, I’ll let you know.’

  The line goes dead.

  * * *

  ‘Alex Fawley – she came in earlier – I’m her sister.’

  Nell’s lungs are ragged with running across the water-logged car park and up two sets of stairs. She leans heavily against the reception desk, her heart racing, her hair hanging in rat-tails.

  The nurse looks at her kindly. ‘Just catch your breath a minute, love – we don’t want you admitted as well, do we?’

  She scans down her screen then looks up. ‘She’s in Room 216 – down the corridor on the left.’

  Nell shoots her a thank-you smile and rounds the corner, muttering frenzied prayers to a God she’s never believed in that it will be OK, it will be OK, but Alex is already on a stretcher, being wheeled away, a drip and a mask and machines – too many machines –

  ‘Oh my God – Alex – Alex!’

  She races to catch up with the orderlies.

  ‘Alex – are you OK?’

  Her sister grabs at her hand, her eyes frantic, her voice muffled through the mask. ‘Did you speak to Gislingham?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I told him – I sent him a picture –’

  Alex drops her head back on the pillow and closes her eyes. ‘Gis – thank God –’

  ‘Are you coming to the delivery room?’ says the orderly. ‘Only we need to keep moving here.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ says Nell quickly. ‘I’m coming with her.’

  * * *

  ‘Hello?’

  It’s a man who answers. Gallagher can hear other voices in the background. It sounds like the radio. BBC news.

  ‘Hello – Mr Heneghan? You don’t know me – my name’s Ruth Gallagher – I’m an Inspector at Thames Valley.’

  ‘Oh yes? What’s this about?’

  ‘Is your wife there?’

  ‘Afraid
not. She’s at the JR with her sister.’

  Of course she is, thinks Gallagher. Of course she is. That’s why her mobile is off.

  ‘Well, you may be able to help me. Your wife sent a photo to one of our sergeants earlier – Chris Gislingham –’

  ‘Ah, right, yes, she said something about that. But it was all a bit rushed – I’m afraid she left as soon as I got here so I don’t really know much about it.’

  ‘The picture was of one of the pages in Mrs Fawley’s notebook. I was hoping to get another shot of it.’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ he says. ‘Ben may know more than I do.’

  There are scuffling noises the other end, the sound of Gerry calling Ben’s name, and then, eventually, another voice. Younger, softer.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello – Ben, is it? My name’s Ruth. I’m hoping you can help me with something. Your mum took a picture earlier –’

  ‘Auntie Alex’s notebook.’

  ‘Yes – exactly. That’s exactly what I mean. I think your mum may have been in a bit of a hurry when she did it and there may be something missing on the photo. At the bottom of the page?’

  ‘She was worried about Auntie Alex. The ambulance men took her away. They had the lights on.’

  You can tell how much that frightened him and Gallagher bites her lip – not the least of her many looming guilts is the effect all this has had on Fawley’s already stressed and vulnerable wife. And if something happens to that baby –

  She forces the thought down, tries to sound reassuring.

  ‘I’m sure everything will be OK. It’s a really good hospital. But it’s important I have another look at that notepad.’

  ‘Is it about Uncle Adam? I like Uncle Adam.’

  And from nowhere there are tears in her eyes. ‘I do too. I like him a lot. That’s why I’m trying to help him.’

  ‘OK,’ says Ben. Nonchalant now, in one of those on-a-sixpence mood changes children always wrong-foot you with. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Can you get your dad to help you take another picture of the same page? And make sure it includes the whole thing? And then could you please text it to this number?’