by Cara Hunter
Somer’s head goes up. ‘She doesn’t really have one, sir. She’s very private. She doesn’t seem to have many friends.’
‘There must be somebody – someone she’s pissed off – someone with a problem with the whole transgender issue –’
Somer looks bleak. ‘We have been looking, sir, honestly we have. But she really does keep herself to herself. The picture we’ve been getting is of someone who goes out of her way to be anonymous, who is careful to the point of paranoia about not upsetting anyone.’
‘So who have you actually spoken to?’
Her turn to flush. ‘Her teachers, mainly. We’ve been circumspect about saying much to other students because she’s so concerned about keeping her status a secret –’
‘You know as well as I do that her status may be the very reason she was attacked – how the hell can we rule that out if we can’t even bloody mention it?’
Somer glances at Everett. I’m starting to lose patience now.
‘Look, I’m not about to out anyone for the sake of it, but that’s not what we’re talking about here –’
‘I promised her, sir,’ says Somer, cutting across me, bright red now, but holding my eye, standing her ground. ‘I promised her we’d respect her privacy.’
I try to count to ten, but only get to five. ‘And what if it happens again, what then? What if some other poor kid like her gets attacked? And what if next time the bastard who did it doesn’t get interrupted? How are you going to explain that to the family? How do you think they’ll react when you tell them that we knew there was someone targeting trans kids but did sod all about it because we were too frightened we might upset someone? But it won’t be you telling them that, will it? No. It’ll be me. As per bloody usual. Well, I’m sorry, Somer, but in future you’re going to have to be a lot more careful what promises you make.’
I force myself to stop; I’m overreacting, I know I am. I’m pushing this too hard because I’m off-balance. Because I want hatred to be the answer. Because bad as that is, it’s better than –
‘I could do some work on anti-trans groups, sir,’ says Asante evenly. ‘See if there’s anything local – anything on social media.’
‘I’ve already looked,’ says Baxter quickly, giving him a stare that says Get off my lawn. ‘Nothing doing.’
I flash a glare at him. ‘Then look harder.’
I turn to Everett and Somer. ‘And talk to her friends. And that’s not a request. It’s an order.’
* * *
Sent: Weds 03/04/2018, 08.35 Importance: High
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: URGENT
Not tagging this email with a case number for reasons that will become obvious. I just heard back from the lab – they found calcium sulphate on Faith Appleford’s shoes, presumably picked up from the back of that van. There wasn’t much, but it was there.
Call me as soon as you get this.
* * *
‘What the fuck happened there?’ says Quinn, keeping his voice low. He’s just joined Everett and Gislingham at the coffee machine. Somer is nowhere to be seen. Asante is a few yards away, apparently reading something on the noticeboard.
‘Has Fawley lost it or what?’
Gis shrugs. ‘Search me. I’ve never seen him like that before, that’s for sure.’
‘How come he’s still flogging the bloody hate crime angle when he knows damn well we can’t find shit-all evidence for it?’
Ev makes a face; she’s never seen Fawley like that before either, and especially not with Somer. He’s always gone out of his way to encourage her – to respect her judgement. So much so that at one time they all thought –
‘Could be more trouble with the wife?’ says Quinn, a little louder now. ‘It was only a few months ago that we all thought she’d left him – what do you reckon? More shit in that quarter?’
Gis gives him a warning look and a meaningful glance towards Asante, who’s well within earshot. But he still seems completely absorbed in the proposed changes to the Police Service Pension Scheme.
Ev shakes her head. ‘I don’t think it’s that – not this time. I saw them last weekend at the Summertown farmers’ market. She had her back to me but they looked pretty loved-up.’
‘So what then – has he got Harrison chewing his ear?’
Gis considers. ‘Hasn’t he always? But whatever it is, I say we just keep our heads down and avoid pissing him off, eh?’ He reaches for a plastic cup and presses the button for cappuccino. ‘Which in your case, Quinn, means tracking down those hire vans. And pronto.’
Quinn gives him a sardonic look Gis pretends not to see, and the three of them make their way back to their desks. A few moments later Somer emerges from the Ladies. Her hair is smooth and her face calm, but there’s a slight redness about her eyes that only someone observant would see. As she draws close to Asante he turns from the noticeboard.
‘Everything OK?’
He says it pleasantly enough but there’s something about him that always makes her unsettled.
‘Of course,’ she says, quickening her step. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
* * *
Adam Fawley
3 April 2018
09.15
You don’t need to tell me I didn’t handle that very well. I was just a bit wrong-footed, that’s all. It’s been years – years when I’ve done my damnedest to lock it away, and now, out of nowhere –
My phone rings. It’s Challow. He hasn’t bothered waiting for me to call him. And he doesn’t bother with informalities either.
‘You got the email?’
‘Are you absolutely sure – it couldn’t be anything else?’
‘Unlike human beings, chemistry doesn’t lie. It’s one reason why I like this job.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yes,’ he says heavily. ‘I suspect that’s probably the most appropriate response. In the circumstances.’
There’s a silence. Then, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
I hear him draw breath. ‘You need to tell your team – it’s not fair to keep them in the dark –’
‘I know. I just need some time to think this through.’
I can almost hear him shrug. ‘Well, that’s your call, though it wouldn’t be mine. But either way, you have to speak to Harrison. And without wishing to sound like a shit, if you don’t, I will.’
* * *
Everett and Somer have opted to hang out in the canteen at the FE college in an attempt to keep things casual, but even without uniforms they stand out like grannies in Doc Martens. The students buy coffee and Danish and gather chattering at adjacent tables, but all the while you can sense the tension, see the glances thrown in the officers’ direction. It’s not unease exactly, but disquiet, an awareness that something’s up.
‘So what do we do?’ asks Everett in an undertone. ‘Pull on our size elevenses and start gatecrashing?’
Somer gestures towards a girl who’s just joined the coffee queue; she has a large portfolio on the floor by her feet, a pixie haircut and wide brown eyes. ‘That may be as good a place to start as any.’
‘OK,’ says Everett. ‘I’ll start the other side.’
‘You’re doing Art, are you?’ says Somer as she takes her place in the queue behind the girl with the portfolio.
The girl turns and smiles. ‘Fashion and Design actually. But the bloody sketchbooks are no smaller.’
‘We’ve been talking to some of your classmates, but I don’t think I remember you?’
The girl gives her order and turns back to Somer. ‘Yeah, I heard about that. You’re from the police, right?’
Somer makes a rueful gesture. ‘Rumbled.’
But the girl seems unfazed. ‘I had that bug over the weekend, that’s why I wasn’t around on Monday. I’m Jess, Jess Beardsley. You were asking about Faith?’
‘You know her?’
The girl makes a face. ‘Not exactly know, but I don’t think anyone here does really.’
Somer buys a bottle of water and follows the girl towards an empty table.
‘So you’re on the same course, the two of you?’ she asks as they sit down.
Jess nods. ‘But she’s out of my league. Seriously shit hot. No one else is even close.’
‘And that doesn’t make other people jealous? No one likes a swot, do they?’
The girl laughs. ‘Faith’s not like that. She doesn’t mind helping you out. You know, making suggestions and stuff. She isn’t up herself.’
‘Does she have a boyfriend?’
Jess shakes her head. ‘No one here, anyway. Not for want of trying by some of them. But she doesn’t seem that interested. Though, frankly, I can see her point.’
She glances across at the lads at the next table; they’re laughing at something and digging each other in the ribs. ‘Bunch of overgrown kids, most of them.’
Somer returns the ironic look. ‘How about girlfriends?’
Jess picks up her spoon and starts to stir, a small smile on the edge of her mouth. ‘You mean girlfriends or girlfriends?’
Somer keeps her voice neutral. ‘Either.’
‘Neither, in fact.’ She licks the spoon then puts it down. ‘And that’s not for want of trying, too.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
3 April 2018
10.46
Harrison must have done some sort of a deal with Facilities because his office is actually warm. He isn’t even wearing his jacket, which is on a hanger on the coat stand in the far corner. A proper coat hanger. With satin padding. I suspect there’s a clothes brush in his drawer too though I’ve never actually seen it.
He looks up at me and gestures to the chair.
‘Your PA said you wanted a quick chat, sir. About the Appleford assault.’
He sits back. ‘On the hate crime angle specifically. The Area Commander wants an update.’
‘Enquiries are still ongoing, sir. We’ve turned up nothing conclusive so far.’
‘Which reminds me,’ he says, perking up a little, ‘I gather the new addition to your team has rather distinguished himself on this one.’
I feel my nerves prickling; he has no business knowing that.
‘It was good solid policework, sir. What I expect from all my team.’
He looks at me, and then away. For some reason, he wants Asante to do well. And not just because he was the one who hired him.
‘So,’ he says, ‘is there any progress on running down the perp?’
His bloody vocabulary gets more transatlantic by the day. If he starts talking about ‘unsubs’ I may actually have to kill him.
‘We’ve identified several vans that were on Cherwell Drive and the Marston Ferry Road at the right time, sir. We’re endeavouring to establish if the drivers have valid alibis, but beyond that we have very little to go on.’
Harrison frowns, picks up his pen and starts tapping it. I’m trying not to let it irritate me.
‘What about an appeal – asking the public for help?’
So that’s it. I wonder, for a tiny moment, if he’s been talking to Gis – whether that’s where Gis got it from. But he can’t have – Gis wouldn’t go behind my back –
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, sir. It could cause significant and completely unnecessary alarm –’
His frown deepens. ‘I’m not sure the quick wins might not outweigh any potential downside.’
Jesus. He’ll be talking about low-hanging fruit next.
‘We can certainly keep it as an option, sir.’
‘So you’ll have a word with the Press Office – tee them up, just in case?’
I get to my feet, glad of any excuse to get out of there – to make this conversation stop. And it’s not his turgid bloody lingo I’m talking about now. To paraphrase those immortal words, I do not have to say anything, but it’s quite another thing not mentioning it when questioned at point-blank range.
‘Absolutely, sir. I’ll get on to them right away.’
* * *
* * *
Adam Fawley
3 April 2018
12.30
I’m late to the doctor’s: Alex is already in the consulting room by the time I get there and the kindly receptionist bustles me through as soon as she spots me.
‘They’ve only just started,’ she says in a low voice. ‘Dr Robbins has had a very heavy morning.’
Alex looks up when the door opens and I see the relief wash over her face. She kept saying today is just routine – that I didn’t really need to come, not if I was busy – but I know she wanted me here. Just as I know how worried she is, and how much worse that anxiety is getting as her due date draws nearer. And how hard she’s working to keep any of that from me.
‘Ah, Mr Fawley,’ says the doctor, looking up at me over her glasses. She’s only been at the practice for a couple of years. Which is my way of saying she never knew Jake. She knows about him, of course. It’s in the file, for a start, but even if it wasn’t, everyone knows here. It’s why the receptionist is always so nice to me, why Alex is getting check-ups every three weeks: you get a special sort of compassion if you’re the parent of a dead child. A child who died at their own hand.
‘I’m sorry I’m late. Traffic.’ No one questions that excuse. Not in this town.
‘I’m glad you’re here.’ She smiles briefly, then looks back at her notes. ‘The health visitor asked Alexandra to come in today because she was concerned about her blood pressure. As am I. It’s rather higher than we’d ideally like.’ She looks over at Alex. ‘Are you under any particular stress at the moment?’
Alex opens her mouth then closes it again. ‘No,’ she says at last. ‘Not especially. I’m trying to take things easy. I even got a cab here so I didn’t have to drive –’
‘But you’re still working, I think?’
Alex nods. ‘Only from home. Well, mostly. I’m not going into the office unless I really have to. You know, for meetings. Sometimes clients insist. If it’s a big case.’
The doctor makes a disapproving face. ‘That sounds pretty stressful to me.’
‘I have an assistant – she’s doing most of the basics –’
But the doctor doesn’t appear to be listening. She takes off her glasses, as if to underline the point. ‘I’d like you to take at least a week off – completely off – and then we’ll check your blood pressure again and decide where we go from there.’
I look at Alex and then back at the doctor. ‘But there’s nothing actually wrong, is there? Alex isn’t at any risk –’
‘No, no,’ says the doctor briskly. ‘I’m just being cautious. Perhaps overcautious, but I’d rather err on the side of prudence. In the circumstances.’
Alex takes my arm as I walk her back to the car. Perhaps I’m getting paranoid too, but she seems to be leaning more heavily than usual.
‘You’re sure you feel OK? No dizziness, nothing like that?’
She smiles and squeezes my arm. ‘No, nothing like that. Stop worrying.’
‘I am worrying. That doctor just ordered bed rest.’
‘No, she didn’t, she just said not to go into work –’
‘Well, as far as I’m concerned, that means bed rest. And that’s exactly what you’re going to get.’
She laughs. ‘OK, you win. As long as it involves tea, chocolate and unlimited supplies of fruit toast.’
‘I’ll even throw in a hot-water bottle. Not literally, of course.’
We’re at the car now and I stop and turn her to me.
She looks as brittle as a porcelain doll.
* * *
Interview with Kenneth Ashwin, conducted at St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford
3 April 2018, 1.25 p.m.
In attendance, DC G. Quinn
GQ: Take a seat, Mr Ashwin. As I said, this is just routine.
KA: I’ve seen the
telly. I know what that means.
GQ: [passes across an image]
Last Monday morning, April 1st 2018, the minivan shown in this still was picked up on the CCTV camera outside the petrol station on the Cherwell Drive roundabout. It’s a hire vehicle, and when we spoke to the company they said you were driving it that day.
KA: That’s right, I was. My brother was moving house so I was giving him a hand.
GQ: So what were you doing there that morning?
KA: When was it again? Exactly?
GQ: [becoming impatient]
Last Monday. Two days ago. Like I just said.
KA: Nope. Don’t think that was me.
GQ: It’s the same reg number as the van you hired.
KA: I can’t help that.
GQ: [checks paperwork]
You live in Barton, don’t you?
KA: [warily]
Yeah, so?
GQ: So you might have been coming into the city?
KA: I suppose so. I did pick up some bits and pieces that morning –
GQ: So it could be you, after all – is that what you’re saying?
KA: It’s possible, yes. But I don’t remember.
GQ: OK, Mr Ashwin, I think that’s enough for now.
* * *
Adam Fawley
3 April 2018
13.39
‘Boss? It’s Quinn.’
It’s just started to rain, and the traffic is slowing to a haul. Beside me, Alex is hunched against the misted-up car window, staring out.
I pull the phone from its hands-free. Alex would normally bollock me for doing that while I’m driving but she barely seems to notice. She’s hardly spoken since we left the doctor’s.
‘Boss – you there?’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Sorry to bother you, but no one knew where you were.’
‘I had to go home briefly, that’s all. What do you want?’
‘Just thought you’d want to know. I tracked down the people who hired those self-drives. One was a woman of sixty who was moving some stuff for her church, which the vicar confirmed.’
God as alibi. Not bad. ‘And the other?’