The Whole Truth

by Hunter, Cara

  She repeats it twice and he writes it down, and she tells him how grateful she is, and how Uncle Adam and Auntie Alex will be too, and by the time she puts the phone down she’s crying for real.

  * * *

  Headington Health and Leisure is behind the parade of shops on the London Road, not far from the ring road. A tired thirties building obviously chosen solely for the size of its car park. They’ve done their best to drag the exterior into the new millennium but it was always going to be a challenge. Inside, though, it’s a different story. The whole ground floor has been gutted, knocked through and fully sleeked-out with state-of-the-art lighting, funky graphics and a health-food café offering chai lattes and vegan quiche.

  Gislingham strides up to the reception desk (‘Ask us how we can help you achieve your personal goals’) and flashes his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Chris Gislingham, Thames Valley Police; this is DC Quinn. I believe you have a member of staff here called Ryan Powell?’

  The girl at the desk looks completely terrified. She opens her mouth to say something but no sound comes.

  Quinn leans on the counter and puts on his affable face. ‘According to your website, Powell has an abs class starting in fifteen minutes. So I reckon he’s probably around here somewhere, don’t you?’

  She swallows, shakes her head. ‘No.’

  Gislingham’s eyes narrow. ‘What do you mean “no”?’

  ‘He’s on holiday.’ She’s flushed red now. ‘Malaga. He’s been there two weeks.’

  The men exchange a glance, a glance that quickly turns into a frown as they do the math.

  ‘Two weeks?’ says Gislingham.

  She nods.

  ‘OK,’ says Quinn slowly. ‘So when exactly did he leave?’

  * * *

  The text pings in and Gallagher almost sends her mobile skittering on to the floor as she grabs at it. She’s just opening up the image when the phone starts to ring. She sticks it on speaker so she can still see the text.

  ‘Ma’am, it’s Gislingham.’

  She’s too distracted to register his tone. His defeat.

  She scrolls down, zooms in – it’s there – she’s right – it wasn’t just a random line, it was an arrow –

  Gis is still speaking. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. Ryan Powell didn’t abduct Emma. He had nothing to do with it – he’s been in Spain since July 3rd. We’ll double-check he definitely boarded the flight but he’s sent photos to some of his mates at the gym, so I reckon the alibi’s legit.’

  A sigh so loud she can hear it, even over the traffic noise.

  ‘Back to square one.’

  ‘No,’ she says, finally listening to him properly. ‘No – we’re not. I think you were right about Ryan. I reckon he may well have been the source of the DNA, but he didn’t take Emma to Leamington and he didn’t dispose of her body. Those initials in Alex’s notes? RP isn’t Ryan Powell. RP is someone else.’

  * * *

  9 July 2018, 10.55 p.m.

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  The new voice is different. Rougher. Crueller.

  ‘No. I was careful. I’ve got pretty good at this, you know.’

  ‘And you know what you have to do when you get back?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s all set up, just like you said. And I checked – they’re still doing the works on the line. It was going on all night last night.’

  ‘Nice one.’

  There are hands on Emma now, pulling her roughly up and out, scraping her skin against the metal.

  She’s upright but she can’t stand straight, she can’t breathe. The urine runs down her legs and she feels herself go hot with shame.

  The second man sneers, ‘Oh bless, I think she’s scared. You were right, she’s fucking perfect. I’m going to enjoy this.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I owed you one, didn’t I. For not letting on I was with you for that Donnelly bird.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t your fault I got framed. And no bloody use both of us getting banged up, either. At least that way you could keep an eye on the kids.’

  The click of a lighter, an intake of breath. ‘Talking of which, I got a text from your Ryan. He says Malaga’s even hotter than here.’

  ‘Blimey, he must be roasting his arse. But it was good timing, him being out of the way. Even Thames fucking Valley can’t fit him up for this if he’s in sodding Spain.’

  A long exhalation. ‘You’re overreacting, mate – they’ll never make the connection. No way.’

  ‘All the same, you don’t think Ryan cottoned on, do you? About the gym? I mean, I wouldn’t want him to think –’

  A quick laugh. ‘Nah, no risk of that, bless him. Right little goody-two-shoes, that one. It was as much as I could do to get him to sign me into that place on the QT. He was crapping himself just doing that.’ A laugh now. ‘Shitting hell, Gav, that Fawley is a tedious fucker. Takeaway Friday, shopping Saturday, gym four times a week, same time, same days, even the same fucking machines. Jesus.’

  ‘Don’t knock it – made it easier to get hold of the stuff, didn’t it?’

  Another laugh. ‘Like shooting fish in a fucking barrel.’

  ‘Right,’ says the second man. Emma feels his grip tightening on her shoulder. ‘So, fancy joining the party? Once more for old times’ sake?’

  ‘Nah, mate, this one’s all yours. I’ll go for a fag – keep an eye out.’

  ‘Fair enough. But don’t hurry back. I’m planning to take my time. Reckon I deserve it, don’t you?’

  The sound of footsteps now, and then he’s shoving her forward and pushing her face into the hot, dry grass.

  * * *

  * * *

  ‘There were two of them?’

  Gislingham’s at Gallagher’s desk, staring at the screen on her phone, his sodden suit soaking the seat; behind him, Quinn’s obsessively smoothing his hair, rain still running down the back of his neck.

  Gallagher sits forward. ‘I listened to episode four of that podcast – the one Alex highlights. It was an interview with Alison Donnelly. She was very articulate, very clear. She said she was raped once, then her attacker came back a few minutes later and raped her again. She says he was different that time. More violent. More brutal.’ She sighs. ‘She had a plastic bag over her head. She couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear properly. And in any case, he never spoke. She had no way of knowing that the second time it was a completely different man.’

  ‘Jesus,’ breathes Gislingham. ‘Why the hell wasn’t this picked up in ’98?’

  Gallagher shrugs. ‘There was no DNA, nothing to suggest Parrie had an accomplice. And as far as I can tell, he didn’t – apart, that is, from that one time. And those questions Alex is asking? She’s bang on. I’ve had a look at the file. He was questioned, but they were more interested in establishing if he could provide Parrie with an alibi than whether he had one himself. Which, as it turned out, he did. At least for the last victim. He’d gone up to see his mum in Coventry, so there was CCTV at the railway station and a time-stamped ticket. There was no way he could have attacked that last girl, so he just got scrubbed from the list. No one even thought to ask where he was the night Alison Donnelly was raped. No one, that is, till now.’

  ‘Sorry,’ says Quinn, stopping mid-gesture. ‘Am I missing something? If RP isn’t Ryan Powell, who the hell are we talking about?’

  She looks up at him. ‘Robert Parrie. Known to his family as Bobby. Gavin Parrie’s little brother.’

  * * *

  ‘I don’t know what you think you’re going to find. I don’t do drugs and I’ve got no booze.’

  He’s leaning against the doorway, arms folded, elaborately casual, but there’s an edge to his energy and a wariness in his eyes.

  A uniformed officer is in the tiny bathroom, going through the pedestal cupboard, and a female sergeant is in the bedroom checking the chest of drawers. The bedding has been stripped and piled anyhow on the floor, along with the entire contents of the wardrobe. Which isn’t much. A couple
of pairs of jeans, some T-shirts, a hoodie. There’s a shelving unit on the other wall, but it’s empty; no books, no photos, no personal items. The room barely looks lived in.

  ‘Look at that bloody mess. Fucking invasion of privacy, that’s what this is.’

  The woman glances up. ‘You’re on licence, Parrie,’ she says briskly. ‘Random searches are part of the deal. And we don’t need to ask your permission. You know that.’

  She whisks the drawer shut and goes over to the bedside table. In the bathroom, the officer is on his hands and knees, squinting up into the pipework under the basin.

  Parrie’s eyes narrow.

  * * *

  They know there’s someone in because the windows are open and there’s music coming from inside. The Rolling Stones. Loud. Like so many other houses in this part of Cowley, the front garden is concreted over, thick now with the mud and litter washed in by the day’s floods. There’s a wheelie bin with the lid open, a crate of empty lager cans, a white van parked out front.

  RP Plastering – No Job Too Small

  * * *

  ‘Sarge? Think we may have something here.’

  The officer is gesturing up at the inside of the cupboard. The sergeant shoots Parrie a look, then goes over to the bathroom and crouches down to see for herself.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ she says. ‘What do we have here, then?’

  It’s so small, so watchfully hidden, that no casual observer would even see it. The small ziplock bag taped carefully to the back of the U-bend. But these are not casual observers. And they knew exactly what they were looking for.

  Parrie takes a step back towards the door but there’s an officer barring the way.

  An officer who wasn’t there five minutes before.

  The sergeant peels the bag away from the pipe and gets back to her feet. You can see now what’s inside. The piece of white tissue carefully folded, as if what it contains is precious and needs to be kept safe.

  She unzips the bag and slowly opens the paper out, hearing the gasp from her colleague when he realizes what it is.

  A silver hoop earring, the metal spotted here and there with dark stains.

  And coiled beside it, a single strand of long blonde hair.

  * * *

  ‘It took a while because he went all the way to Banbury to cover his tracks, but we’ve got it now, in black and white. Bobby Parrie picked up a dark-blue Ford Mondeo on Saturday 7th July and returned it, already valeted, three days later. Uniform are on their way to pick it up.’

  ‘So we’re good to go, ma’am?’

  There’s some crackling on the line now, but Gallagher’s voice is loud and clear. ‘You’re good to go.’

  The two men exchange a look and then, in silence, get out of the car and walk up the path.

  The man who answers the door has a beer bottle in one hand and a tea towel chucked over his shoulder. Dark hair, hazel eyes, a ready smile. A smile that quickly hardens.

  ‘Robert Craig Parrie?’ says the man on the step, holding out his warrant card. ‘DC Tony Asante, Thames Valley; this is DC Farrow. We’re here to arrest you.’

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  16 July 2018

  19.09

  I don’t know how I got my legs to move – that poor bloody PC was half carrying me by the end. The people we passed in the wards must have thought I was the one in danger – I was the one who needed medical attention. And perhaps I do, because by the time we get to the delivery room it feels like my chest is breaking open – all I can see is a blur of people in gowns and hairnets – all I can hear is the beating in my skull –

  Someone’s coming towards me now, getting hold of my arms.

  ‘Adam –’ says a voice. Low. Kind. Familiar.

  I know who this is – Nell – Nell –

  ‘She’s OK, Adam,’ she’s saying, shaking me, trying to make me listen. ‘Alex is OK –’

  And suddenly the green wall parts and I can see her. On the bed, her hair spread over the pillow, her skin grey with exhaustion.

  ‘Adam,’ she breathes, reaching out for me, her face wrung with concern, ‘my God – you look terrible –’

  Someone pushes me forward and I’m holding her hand, touching her cheek. ‘Alex, my darling, I’m so sorry – this is all my fault –’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ she whispers. ‘None of it. I know what happened – I know you didn’t do it.’ She reaches for my hand, squeezes my fingers. ‘I’ve told Gis everything – it’s going to be all right. It’s going to be all right.’

  I stare at her. ‘Gis? But how –?’

  I feel Nell’s hand on my shoulder. ‘That can wait,’ she whispers. ‘There’s something else much more important right now.’

  She pulls me gently round. There’s a nurse smiling into my dazzled face.

  ‘Mr Fawley,’ she says. ‘You missed all the excitement, I’m afraid. It seems this little one couldn’t wait to be born.’

  And as I take my baby in my arms for the first time, I feel the warmth and the weight of my real, breathing child, the little fists paddling the big new air, the soft mouth opening and closing like a tiny bird, and after all these last terrible days when I barricaded my emotions, put my heart in lockdown, the tears spill finally down my cheeks because she is here and she is perfect.

  My daughter.

  Perfect, and alive, and as beautiful as her name.

  Epilogue

  6 July 2018, 11.26 p.m.

  Monmouth House, St Luke Street, Oxford

  He’s down in the kitchen when he hears the front door slam and the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs.

  A moment later she swings into the room in a crackle of sequins and high heels. The scent she’s wearing is so dense in the hot night air he can taste it in his throat.

  She drops her evening bag on to the table, and tosses back her hair. Her face radiates into a smile. ‘I did it, Caleb,’ she says. ‘I did it. Two hundred bloody million. And all because of me – not that bunch of self-important old farts – me.’

  He gets up, moving towards her with a smile. ‘You are just fucking amazing – I bet they were eating out of your hand.’

  The smile falters for a moment and she seems about to say something but obviously changes her mind. ‘Christ,’ she says, looking at her watch. ‘Is it really that late? I’m exhausted.’

  She makes to move past him but he grasps her, holding her upper arms. ‘Come on – tell me the details – what did they say?’

  His lips are inches from hers now and he can feel the heat coming off her body. The sheer excitement – the exhilaration of her success. She’s been giving him ‘Fuck Me’ signals for weeks, and as far as he’s concerned that’s a game you’ve no business playing unless you’re prepared to follow through. And in any case, what’s Seb got that he hasn’t? Because she screwed him – it’s supposed to be some big secret but of course Seb couldn’t resist rubbing his nose in it, the smug bastard.

  She frowns again now, pulls back.

  ‘No, Caleb – you know what I said –’

  He smiles. ‘Oh, come on, Marina – you know you want to – you know I want to – there’s no one like you – no one – the way you look, the way you smell, everything about you – you’re driving me fucking crazy –’

  She’s shaking her head, pushing him away. ‘How many more times – I told you. I like you, you know I do, but it would just make things too bloody complicated.’

  ‘If it’s Freya you’re worried about –’

  ‘No – it’s not that –’

  ‘– then honestly, it’s not an issue – I mean, she’s OK and I like her but it’s not serious. And look at you – Jesus, there isn’t a bloke in the world who’d choose her over you, given the choice.’ He smiles now, turning up the charm. ‘I mean, why have prosecco when you can have the real thing? And I mean the Real Thing.’

  But she’s shaking her head. ‘No, Caleb, I’m sorry, but no. You’re just not listening. You and me
– it’s never going to happen.’

  A darkness crosses his face and he turns away and leans heavily against the worktop. She feels a tiny pang of remorse. He’s very young, and he probably wouldn’t be that bad in bed. With a bit of coaching, he might even be quite passable. But she’s not the one who’s going to do it. Absolutely not. She made that mistake once before. She’s not risking all that again.

  She reaches across and touches him gently on the shoulder. ‘Friends?’

  He looks at her, then gives a rueful smile. ‘Course.’ He straightens up. ‘Right, I think we have something to celebrate.’ He goes over to the fridge. ‘Champagne?’

  She smiles. ‘Not for me. I’ve already had far too much and Tobin could wake up at any moment.’

  ‘He won’t,’ he says with a quick glance back at her. ‘I just went up to check. He won’t disturb us.’

  ‘Honestly, I really don’t want any more –’

  But it’s too late – the cork pops and the wine gushes down into the glasses, up over the rim, down on to the counter. She bridles a little, behind his back. For heaven’s sake, that’s Bollinger Grande Année.

  He’s fiddling with the champagne flutes now, wiping up the spill. She thinks he’s just being good-mannered – he’s well brought up, probably a bit embarrassed at his faux pas.

  But she’s wrong. He’s buying himself time. A few crucial seconds for the effervescence to do its job – for that little sachet of white powder to completely disappear. Because he knew there was always a risk she really was just a colossal prick-tease, and he came prepared. And he’s not stupid, either. No way Fisher’s going to fuck him around like she did to Seb. No fucking way. This is going to be on his terms, and with no blowback.

  He turns to her at last and hands over the glass.

  ‘To you,’ he says with a dazzling smile. ‘To your triumph. And to getting everything – and I mean everything – you deserve.’

  Acknowledgements

  This was the book that got finished during lockdown, in that strange period of half-life that should have made concentrating easier but somehow didn’t. It’s been a year of upheavals for everyone, including the publishing industry, but ‘Team Fawley’ has kept going throughout, adapting to circumstances, experimenting with new approaches, and basically just getting on with it and refusing to be defeated. So even though I thank them with every book, they deserve it more than ever this time. My fabulous editor Katy Loftus, and the whole Penguin Viking team – Jane Gentle, Olivia Mead, Ellie Hudson, Georgia Taylor and Vikki Moynes. My exceptional agent Anna Power, and Hélène Butler, also at Johnson & Alcock, who’s now taken the number of overseas editions to twenty-five. My copyeditor Karen Whitlock, and the whole production team at Penguin, led by Emma Brown. Jessica Barnfield and the team at Penguin audiobooks, as well – of course – as Lee Ingleby and Emma Cunniffe for doing such a fabulous job as narrators. Julia Connolly, who developed the new cover design, which has really taken the look of the books to the next level. And, last but not least, the dedicated crime-lovers at Dead Good for their support.