by Cara Hunter
* * *
* * *
In Interview Room Two, Donald Walsh is being formally charged. He’s trying very hard to conceal it, but he’s an angry man. Everett’s drawn the short straw on this one, but she’s grown a fairly thick skin for heavy irony. Which is probably just as well.
‘Mr Walsh, you are being charged in relation to the theft of certain artefacts from Dr William Harper of thirty-three Frampton Road, Oxford. I believe your solicitor has explained your rights to you and what’s going to happen next? Do you understand?’
‘Given that it was in words of one syllable, I think I can just about manage it.’
‘You have been given a date to appear at the magistrates’ court as we have just discussed –’
‘Yes, yes, you don’t need to reel it all out again, Constable. I’m not retarded.’
Everett finishes filling in the form and hands it to Walsh, who snatches it away and makes a great show of signing it without reading a word.
‘I still don’t know what all the fuss is about,’ he says tetchily. ‘I was just looking after the collection. Any reasonable person would see at once that Bill’s in no fit state to do so. Last time I was there one of the prize pieces had already gone AWOL. He could have flushed it down the bloody bog for all I know. And they’ll come to me when he dies anyway – he has no children, who else is there? In fact it’s a bloody miracle more of them weren’t stolen long ago – anyone could have got into that place – the security was non-existent.’
‘I believe my colleagues had to break the door down to get in.’
‘Yes, well, if they’d used their brains and tried round the back they’d have found that the conservatory didn’t even have a functioning lock. Half the windows were broken – even that bloody cat had got in – that Siamese thing – I heard it upstairs. No wonder items have been stolen. Something I will be insisting that you investigate, incidentally.’
Which, Everett thinks, is actually pretty rich, considering. But she has too much nous to say so.
Walsh tosses the form back at Everett. It slips across the table and falls on to the floor. ‘Right, I assume I can go home now, if that’s all right with you?’
* * *
* * *
It’s 4.30 and Alex still hasn’t done any work. It’s raining hard and she’s sitting in the kitchen with the boy at her feet. It was a nightmare, getting this extension built, but it’s changed the whole house. Given it elbow room. And light. Even in cloud, light streams down from the roof lantern. She edges off the chair and on to the floor next to the child.
‘Shall we play a game?’
He looks at her warily. He has a teddy bear in one hand. Jake’s teddy bear. The one Adam bought for him before he was even born.
‘It’s easy,’ she says. ‘Look.’
She lies down flat and looks up, into the sky. Needles of golden rain catch the light before splintering in stars against the lantern glass.
‘See? You can watch the rain coming down. It’s like magic.’
The boy looks up, craning his neck. Then he raises his hands towards the light, laughing with a bubble of pure childlike joy.
* * *
* * *
Telephone interview with Terry Hurst, bus driver, Oxford Bus Company
6 May 2017, 5.21 p.m.
On the call, DS G. Quinn
GQ: Mr Hurst, we’re trying to track down a young woman who got on your bus at Queen’s Lane at 4.35 yesterday afternoon.
TH: Oh yes, what’s all this about then?
GQ: It’s a police inquiry, Mr Hurst. That’s all that should concern you.
TH: So what did she look like, this girl?
GQ: About 5' 8" long fair hair. Green eyes. She was wearing a pair of denim shorts, a crochet-type top and sandals. And sunglasses.
TH: Oh yes, I remember her all right.
GQ: Do you remember where she got off? We think it may have been at the business park.
TH: Nope, definitely wasn’t there. She was standing because we was pretty full, and I remember looking round to make sure everyone was getting off OK. She’d already got off by then.
GQ: You don’t have CCTV in the bus?
TH: Not in that one, no.
GQ: So you have absolutely no idea where she got off?
TH: I didn’t say that. As a matter of fact I think it was probably by the Tesco in the Cowley Road. Will that do you?
GQ: I suppose it’s a start. If it’s the best you can do.
TH: You’re welcome.
[mutters]
Tosser.
* * *
* * *
It must be two or three in the morning when I wake. The sky is the deep blue never-quite-dark of early summer. The curtain is slightly open and I can feel a whisper of cool air.
I lever myself up on my elbows, blinking into the darkness. As I walk into his room he’s standing there. In the cot. In the silence. The sheen of his eyes catching a sliver of light from the window. He has a finger in his mouth, and in his other hand, Jake’s teddy bear.
‘What is it? Did you have a bad dream?’
He stares at me, rocking slightly, then shakes his head.
‘Would you like some milk?’
A nod this time.
I move closer. ‘Do you mind if I pick you up?’
He looks up at me, then lifts his arms. I reach down and gather him up. It’s the first time I’ve done it since he came here, and because of that, because it’s dark and my senses are sharpened, I’m aware of him – of his physical presence – more acutely than I’ve been before. I know I’ve been keeping him at a distance, not just mentally but emotionally, and I know that this has kept me physically distant too. But now, for the first time, I have his skin against my skin, and his smell in my nostrils. Bath soap, milk, piss, that sweet biscuit scent little children always seem to have. He leans against my chest and I feel his heaviness shift in my arms. Alex always says there’s a reason why women who have no kids have cats. Something warm and living that’s just the weight of a baby – something you can lift and hold against you just as you would a child; there’s a deep physiological pleasure in that, which goes beyond conscious love. And standing here, holding this boy against me, I feel it too.
* * *
*
In the morning, I’m up first, and when Alex comes down she finds us in the kitchen. The boy in the high chair with a bowl of mashed banana, and me at the dishwasher. I drive Alex mad re-stacking everything she puts in it, so I’m trying to finish before she comes down. The radio is on and I’m humming. Though I don’t realize that until Alex comes in. She’s in a pair of pale jeans and a white T-shirt, and her hair is down. With no make-up, she looks younger somehow. Perhaps I see too much of her in lawyer mode.
She smiles at me. ‘You sound happy.’
She’s staring at what I’m doing with the dishwasher, but she’s obviously decided not to mention it; she’s determined not to spoil the mood.
‘I shouldn’t. I’m likely to have a grim day.’
She moves closer to the boy and puts her hand gently against his hair. ‘Are you going to have to work all weekend?’ Her tone is light; lighter than it usually is in circumstances like these.
‘I’m sorry. You know how it is.’
She picks up the carton of juice and shakes it. ‘Pity. I was hoping we might do something. Go somewhere –’
She stops herself but I hear the words all the same. As a family.
I turn back to the dishwasher and start stacking again, moving cups, shifting plates. Displacement activity in every sense of the word. ‘Look, there’s something you need to know.’
She pours a cup of coffee. Carefully, with exaggerated calm. ‘Oh yes?’
‘We had the DNA back. The boy’s father. It isn’t Donald Walsh.’
She leans against the worktop and lifts the cup to her lips. ‘I see. So it was William Harper after all?’
‘Yes. Vicky identified him.’
Her eyes widen slightly, but that’s the only sign. ‘She’s talking?’
‘A little. A couple of words. We can’t afford to rush her.’
‘No,’ she says quickly. ‘Absolutely not. That could do untold damage.’
I straighten up, feeling the pain in my knees. ‘Look, Alex –’
‘I know what you’re going to say, Adam. That this is only for a few days – that I’m not his mother.’
I move a little closer, put my hand on her arm. ‘I just don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want you getting attached to him – or him getting attached to you, for that matter. It wouldn’t be fair. Or kind.’
Her lips tremble. ‘To him? Or to me?’ And as her eyes fill with tears I pull her towards me and we stand there, my arms round her, kissing her hair. The boy looks up from his bowl and stares at us, his huge eyes locked on mine.
* * *
* * *
At 7.15, Gislingham has already been up for three hours. He eventually gave up trying to get off again and slid out of the bed, leaving Janet buried in a sleep even Billy hadn’t broken. And now, his son nestling in the sling across his chest, he’s moving about the kitchen, tidying up, warming milk, singing Johnny Cash.
‘Who says men can’t multi-task, eh, Billy?’ he says, smiling down at the gurgling baby. ‘But it’s our secret, OK? Cos if Mum finds out she’ll have the both of us with a list of chores as long as your arm. Actually, make that as long as my arm. Oi,’ he says, seizing a chubby foot, ‘that’s some left kick you’re developing there, lad. We’ll have you playing at Stamford Bridge yet.’
‘Oh no you won’t,’ says Janet, trailing into the kitchen in her dressing gown and bare feet. ‘Not if I’ve got anything to do with it.’ She slides heavily on to one of the kitchen chairs.
‘You look done in,’ says Gislingham carefully. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed for a bit?’
She shakes her head. ‘Too much to do.’
Gislingham looks round the kitchen. ‘I think I’ve done most of it. Washing’s on, dishes are done, Billy’s fed.’
She sighs then hauls herself up again and comes over, reaching to extract Billy from the papoose. The little boy starts to kick and then to cry, his face puckering into a red wail.
‘He was fine,’ says Gislingham. ‘Really.’
‘He needs changing,’ she says over her shoulder as she bends to pick up a packet of nappies out of the carrier bag Gislingham brought home with him and then marches the still howling Billy out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
‘Well, I didn’t think he needed changing,’ announces Gislingham to no one in particular. He unstraps the papoose and goes over to pick up the empty carrier bag. He scrunches it up for recycling, and then stops. Sits down at the table and gets out his phone.
Just had a thought. That carrier bag Pippa had with her at the bus stop – I think it cd have been from Fridays Child. CCTV a bit fuzzy but I think I recog the logo. Its that place on Cornmarket
He presses ‘send’ and goes over to boil the kettle again. Upstairs, Billy is still wailing. He tips a teabag into a mug and hears the phone beep.
That’s only going to help if she paid by credit card
Gislingham makes a face at the phone and sighs. Do I have to do absolutely every bloody thing myself?
I bought J’s bd present there. They had a list at the till where you cd sign up for offers etc. You had to leave your name and number. Prob a long shot but worth a try?
This time the reply is almost immediate.
Genius. Thanks mate will let you know. I owe you a beer.
Gislingham makes another face at the phone, then tosses it across the table and gets up to make that tea.
* * *
* * *
‘The name is Walker. Pippa Walker. Are you sure there’s nothing?’
The girl at the till rolls her eyes. ‘I have looked, you know.’
The sign outside says FRIDAY’S CHILD . . . IS LOVING AND GIVING! but the girl at the till doesn’t seem very keen on the latter, not when it comes to information, at any rate. She’s chewing, her mouth slightly open, and there are studs through her nose and top lip. It’s all rather at odds with the displays of sparkly pink and gold jewellery and girly accessories. Quinn takes a deep breath. Normally he’s pretty good at dealing with women, but this one seems entirely immune. A dyke, he thinks. Just my bloody luck.
‘Can you look again – or better still, can you let me do it?’
She looks at him suspiciously. ‘Ain’t there supposed to be rules about that? Data protection or something?’
He smiles. ‘I am a police officer.’
Which is true. As far as it goes.
What goes a lot further, at least by way of distraction, is a group of Japanese schoolgirls, suddenly exclaiming over a rack of sequinned purses and flowery headbands.
Left alone at the counter, Quinn reaches across and swings the list round to face him. He scans down and finds ‘Walker’, only the initial looks more like a T than a P. But the number is very similar to the one she gave him – just with two digits transposed. Easy mistake to make. He gets out his phone and calls. Straight to voicemail. But it’s her – it’s Pippa’s voice. He waits for the tone: ‘It’s me – Gareth. That statement we talked about – can you come into St Aldate’s?’ He pauses. ‘Look, if you must know I’m really in the shit on this. So I’d really appreciate it, OK?’
* * *
* * *
At his PC, with a headache and a throat like gravel, Gislingham is scanning the pages of the Oxford Mail for June 2015, looking for some clue about what might have interested Hannah Gardiner on the Cowley Road. Everything and nothing, is the short answer. School fêtes, under-tens football, a new traffic scheme. All good and worthy but hardly riveting. Not in bulk, anyway. After twenty minutes he gives up and tries a different tack. He googles ‘Hannah Gardiner’ and ‘Cowley Road’, and comes up with a couple of stories she covered on the BBC and a smattering of photos. One of her reporting on a controversial planning application, and another a selfie at the Cowley Road carnival in 2014 that she posted on Facebook. There are dancers in feather plumes, a Chinese dragon, a man on stilts. And in the foreground, the family: Rob, Hannah, Toby.
He prints the picture then takes it along to the incident room, where Erica Somer is standing by the pinboard. She has a red marker pen and she’s putting a ring round some of the netsuke on the sheet of photos.
‘What’s so special about those?’ asks Gislingham, peering a little closer.
She turns and smiles briefly. ‘Mainly the fact that they’ve gone missing. Though there’s one that’s really rare, apparently – that one: Ivory netsuke in the shape of a nautilus shell,’ she says, reading from a print-out, ‘by Masanao, one of the great Masters of the Kyoto period. Height, five centimetres, length, six centimetres. Value, twenty thousand pounds.’
Gislingham whistles. ‘Who knew.’
Somer steps back from the board. ‘Uniform are circulating these pictures to art dealers and antique shops. You never know, someone may recognize them. What have you got?’ she says, looking at the paper in his hand.
‘This?’ he says. ‘It’s a picture Hannah Gardiner put on her Facebook page in August 2014. It’s her and Rob at the Cowley Road carnival. I was looking for connections she might have had down there and found this.’
There’s a noise behind them and Everett bangs through the door. She looks tired.
‘The Banbury Road is backed up all the way to Summertown. On a Sunday,’ she says, dumping her bag on a table. She turns to look at them, and at the picture Gislingham is pinning to the board. ‘What’s that?’
<
br /> ‘It’s a photo of Hannah,’ he says. ‘Look.’
He points and Everett comes over to join them.
‘I’m trying to decide if she’s really as happy as she looks or if it’s just for the camera,’ says Somer, turning to Everett. ‘What do you think?’
But Everett is looking at something else.
Or rather, someone else.
* * *
* * *
When Quinn gets down to reception the girl is standing at the window, looking out on to the street. She turns to see him and comes over but he takes her quickly back to the window, out of earshot of the desk.
‘Where the hell did you go?’
‘Got a text from my mate saying I could sleep on her sofa for a couple of days.’ She looks up at him, smiling, all blue eyes and come-on. ‘Did you bring my knickers?’
Quinn looks over his shoulder; the desk sergeant is looking in their direction, clearly intrigued. ‘You can’t say things like that,’ he hisses. ‘Not in here. You’ll get me bloody fired.’
She shrugs. ‘OK, I’ll go then.’
He grabs her by the arm. ‘No, don’t do that. We need you to make that witness statement – I need you to.’
She studies him, head on one side. ‘OK,’ she says eventually.
‘I’ll have to ask you other stuff too. Like what happened the day Hannah went missing. And before that as well. It’s important you tell the truth, OK?’
‘OK,’ she says, frowning slightly.
‘No, I mean it. All the truth. And there’s another thing.’ He swallows. ‘Give your address as that mate of yours’ place. Where you’re staying now. Don’t say anything about staying over at the flat.’