by Cara Hunter
Quinn frowns, but it’s a thinking frown, not a dismissive one. ‘So you’re saying they covered each other’s tracks? Mutual assured destruction?’
Somer’s got the bit between her teeth now and around the room I can see the thought taking hold. ‘Think about it – the very last thing Vicky would want is the police sniffing round. Both those girls needed to do everything they could to divert attention away from the Frampton Road house. So they make a deal – Pippa agrees to keep quiet for Vicky, if Vicky helps cover up for Pippa. It’s Vicky who helped move the body, hide the car cover, clean up the mess –’
‘Whoa, whoa,’ says Gislingham, leaping to his feet as he rifles through a pile of papers. ‘Shit. Why the fuck didn’t I think of it before.’
He finds the page and looks up, his face pale. ‘That flatmate who gave Pippa her alibi in 2015? The one who said Pippa’d been throwing up that whole morning? Her name was Nicki Veale.’ He looks around, drilling every word. ‘Vicky Neale and Pippa’s flatmate – they’re the same person.’
* * *
* * *
An hour later Everett is looking for a parking place off the Iffley Road. When they divvied up the jobs she persuaded Quinn to let her do a recce of where Pippa was living in 2015. He thought it was the arse-end of the tasks and said so, but Everett has a hunch that it could be the best chance they have to find out the girl’s real name. But she wasn’t about to say that in public, especially in front of Fawley. Or Somer. She’s not envious of Somer, not exactly, but she is getting just a bit too much air time, especially for a uniform PC in a CID inquiry. And what with that and the way she looks, well, you’d be a sack of potatoes not to feel a bit out-shone. Everett tries not to remember her father describing her in exactly those terms when she was a child, and focuses on manoeuvring the Fiat expertly into a space that’s only just longer than the car. Two years living in Summertown has some advantages.
She locks the car and walks up to the letting agent’s. The young man inside is just shutting up shop, but relents and opens the door when she shows him her warrant card. He’s wearing a Manchester United shirt and loose white cotton trousers.
‘You were here last week, weren’t you?’ he says. ‘You still looking for that girl? Vicky something, wasn’t it?’
‘It’s a different girl this time. Do you have the records for the summer of 2015 – for twenty-seven Arundel Street?’
The young man flips open his laptop and scrolls down some files. ‘Yup, what do you want to know?’
‘Did you have a Pippa Walker as a tenant then?’
He scans a list, then, ‘Yes, we have a Walker. Stayed until that October.’
‘Pippa Walker?’
He makes a face. ‘I dunno. My father was running the place then and he only used surnames. That’s why we didn’t have any luck when you were here last time – there wasn’t enough to go on.’
‘But people have to give you ID, when they take a tenancy?’
He flashes her a huge smile. ‘Of course, Constable. We do things properly here.’
‘You don’t by any marvellous chance have copies of what she gave you?’
He makes a rueful face. ‘Probably not. Not this long after. I can have a look, though it may take a while – my father wasn’t exactly an early adopter when it comes to technology. Him and the scanner were in a state of perpetual armed stand-off.’
She smiles. ‘No worries, I can wait.’
He gestures. ‘We have a coffee machine.’
Everett glances at it then shakes her head quickly. ‘I’m fine.’
He grins at her. ‘Good choice. In my opinion, the coffee is rubbish.’
As he goes back through his files, Everett wanders around the office, looking at the sheets of property particulars pinned on the walls and marvelling at the prices even tiny bedsits in this part of town are now commanding. Commanding and getting too, by the looks of it – most have large red stickers saying ‘LET’. A moment later she stops in front of one of them, then gets out her notebook and flips back through the pages. Quinn may have a tablet but humble DCs are still paper-powered. It pisses Gislingham off, all the time.
‘This house here,’ she says suddenly, swinging round. ‘Fifty-two Clifton Street. That’s one of yours too?’ It’s where Vicky told them she had been living when she claimed she was abducted.
He glances up and nods. ‘Yup.’
‘Can you look that one up for me?’
‘2015 again?’
‘No. The year before. Spring 2014 – before July.’
‘OK,’ he says. Then, ‘Here we go. Who are you interested in?’
‘Is there a Neale on the list?’
The lad nods. ‘Yes.’
So Vicky was telling the truth about that, at least.
But then the lad glances up from the screen. ‘You might want to see this, officer.’
Everett goes round the desk to stand next to him. He points at the computer screen. At the list of the other tenants in 52 Clifton Street when Vicky Neale was there.
Anwar, Bailey, Drajewicz, Kowalczyk.
And Walker.
‘Forget the other ID,’ Everett says quickly. ‘That’s the one I want to see.’
* * *
* * *
‘I had a message to come here.’
The desk sergeant at St Aldate’s looks up to see a woman in a denim jacket and skinny jeans. She has highlighted blonde hair and a strappy handbag with a pale pink monkey charm hanging from it. From the way she’s dressed, she must look no more than twenty from behind. But face on, she’s at least double that.
‘Sorry, madam, you are?’
‘I got a message about my daughter. From a woman, a Detective Constable Everton –’
‘Everett.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘If you say so. So, can I see her? Vicky? I mean, I assume she’s here.’
The sergeant picks up the phone. ‘Let me ring the incident room and ask someone to come down and collect you. If you could take a seat, Mrs Neale –’
‘It’s Moran these days. If you don’t mind.’
‘Mrs Moran. I’m sure it won’t be long.’
The woman looks him up and down. ‘I should hope not. Because I’ve come all the way from Chester for this.’
Then she turns on her kitten heels, parks herself on the furthest-away seat and gets out her mobile phone.
* * *
* * *
Interview with Pippa Walker, St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford
10 May 2017, 6.17 p.m.
In attendance, DI A. Fawley, DC C. Gislingham, Mrs T. York (solicitor)
TY: I asked you here, Inspector, to inform you that my client will be making a formal complaint relating to the conduct of Detective Sergeant Gareth Quinn.
AF: That is, of course, her right.
TY: I should also tell you that she has decided not to answer any further questions unless she is given some sort of immunity from prosecution.
AF: Immunity from prosecution for what, exactly? She’s already been charged with attempting to pervert the course of justice. That isn’t going to go away.
TY: My client fears she may be wrongly accused of involvement in the death of Mrs Hannah Gardiner.
AF: What makes her think that?
TY: Miss Walker has information pertinent to that inquiry, but she is not prepared to divulge it without the assurances I have mentioned. I have discussed the advisability of this position with her, and the likelihood of any such immunity being granted, but she is adamant.
AF: Investigations into Mrs Gardiner’s death are still ongoing. We are not yet in a position to prefer charges –
PW: That’s a load of crap. I’m not falling for that –
TY: [restraining her client]
I take it you haven’t found my cl
ient’s prints in the Frampton Road house?
AF: [hesitates]
No, we haven’t.
TY: Or any other forensic evidence linking her to the crime?
AF: [hesitates]
Full analysis of the crime scene has not yet been concluded –
TY: Well then.
PW: [pushing the lawyer’s hand away]
You want to know who killed her? Then give me my immunity. Because I’m not saying anything until you do.
* * *
* * *
‘She’s got balls, I’ll give her that,’ says Quinn, when I go back into the incident room. He was watching on the video feed. ‘Did you notice, by the way, how it’s not just the name that’s fake? That upper-middle accent of hers has slid a notch or two as well.’
He’s right. The mask has slipped. It’s the same girl, but another person. White birds by night, black birds by day.
The door swings open behind him and there’s a woman standing there with one of the DCs. Someone I don’t recognize but who seems, all the same, somehow familiar. Someone who walks forward towards me then stops. She stares at the pinboard and then at me.
‘What the hell’s going on? They said on the phone that this was about Vicky.’
The DC steps forward quickly. ‘This is Mrs Moran, sir. Vicky’s mother.’
She looks at him, and then at me. ‘Right,’ she says, walking over to the board and jabbing it with a bright fuchsia nail. ‘I’m Vicky’s mum. So could someone please explain to me what you’re doing with this picture of my Tricia?’
* * *
* * *
‘Tricia,’ says the Asian lad, looking up at Everett. ‘Tricia Walker, that was the tenant’s name. Here you are.’
He pulls up a scan of a passport page. The face, the expression – it’s clearly her, even if the hairstyle is very different. And not just the hair: make-up, expression, everything about her now is sleeker, more precise, more expensive.
‘Is that any use?’ he says.
She grins at him. ‘Absolutely bloody marvellous – can you print that?’
She gets out her phone and calls the incident room.
‘Quinn? It’s me. Everett. Listen, I know Pippa Walker’s real name. It’s Tricia. Her and Vicky, they didn’t meet at Frampton Road like we thought. They knew each other before. They shared a house in 2014. And it’s not just that – they gave the same previous address when they registered with the letting agency. Those two girls, I think they could be –’
‘Sisters. Yeah, Ev. We know.’
* * *
* * *
‘I’m not very happy about this, sir.’
The custody sergeant is looking uneasy; it can’t be very often he gets a DI in here at eight o’clock at night.
‘She should have her lawyer here – it should be taped –’
‘I know, and I’ll tell her all that and if she doesn’t want to speak to me then I’ll back off.’
He still looks unconvinced, but he gets up and collects his keys and we go down the passage to the cell. He opens the observation flap, checks inside, then unlocks the door and pushes it open.
‘I’ll be at the desk,’ he says.
* * *
*
She’s sitting on the narrow bed, her knees drawn up to her chest. She looks wan in the inadequate light.
‘What do you want?’ she says, wary.
‘I shouldn’t really be here.’
‘So why are you then?’
‘Because I want to talk to you. But you can have your lawyer here if you want.’
She stares at me for a moment. I can’t tell if she’s intrigued or just too tired to argue. ‘Whatever.’
‘They told me you didn’t want to see your mum.’
Her eyes flicker at that, and I move a little closer.
‘I expect you were surprised we tracked her down. She’s moved twice in the last couple of years. Not to mention getting married.’
A shrug. ‘I told you. She only cares about her new bloke. She doesn’t care about me. Not any more.’
‘Having spoken to her myself, I’m afraid I’m inclined to agree with you.’
Definitely a reaction now, but not one she wants me to see.
‘I did explain to her that you’re the girl who’s been all over the newspapers for the last week, but I’m afraid it didn’t make much difference. She seems to think you only have yourself to blame.’
Vicky puts her chin on her knees. ‘I told you.’ But there’s a tremor in her voice now that wasn’t there before.
‘I also told her she has a new grandson, but I’m afraid that didn’t get me very far either. Do you want to know what she actually said?’
Silence.
‘She said, “If she thinks I’m being dumped with looking after it she’s got another think coming.”’
She still has her arms wrapped round her knees. But her knuckles are white.
‘To be fair, she does have a baby of her own to look after now.’ Vicky glances up. ‘Didn’t I say? It’s a girl. Megan. A sister for you. Or half-sister, to be strictly accurate.’
I sit down on the end of the bed and open the file I’ve been holding.
‘But you already have one of those, don’t you? Tricia Janine Walker, to be precise. Born 8th January 1995. Her birth certificate is in her father’s name, but your mother and Howard Walker never actually married, did they? And then within three years they’d split up and your mother married Arnold Neale. And had you.’
I let the silence lengthen. Thicken. And when I speak again I can hear my voice echo against the cold damp walls.
‘Why didn’t you tell us about Tricia, Vicky? Why didn’t you tell us you had a sister living in Oxford all this time?’
She shrugs but says nothing.
‘She could have come to see you in the hospital – you could have stayed with her instead of going to Vine Lodge.’
‘I didn’t know she was here,’ she says eventually.
‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you, Vicky. I think you knew exactly where she was. She was in Rob Gardiner’s flat. A flat you can actually see from William Harper’s house.’
I dip my head, trying to make her look at me. ‘Is that where she first saw him? From the top floor in Frampton Road? Because you were both there, weren’t you? At least at the beginning.’
Her eyes narrow. ‘You can’t prove that.’
‘We can, actually. Because Tricia stole one of Dr Harper’s ornaments. She’s wearing it in a photo of the Cowley Road carnival in August 2014, so we know she must have been inside that house by then. We didn’t find her fingerprints anywhere, because the two of you have clearly spent a hell of a lot of time cleaning up, but Tricia just couldn’t resist that netsuke, could she? Was it just by chance she chose that one or did she know how much it’s worth? Did she know she could get over twenty thousand pounds for it?’
Vicky flashes me a look.
‘I think she did know, Vicky. Because she’s clever, isn’t she? Much cleverer than she lets on. Cleverer than you, for a start. She uses sex to get what she wants from men who are too stupid to see they’re being played. Cash, security, attention, control – the sex is just a means to an end. And if sex doesn’t work, she’s not unduly concerned. Because she has plenty of other options. I know. I’ve watched her in action, and I have to admit, she’s good. She fooled Rob Gardiner and she fooled my sergeant. She even fooled me. But she fooled you and Hannah most of all.’
Women beware women.
Just like Alex said.
‘You planned it together, didn’t you? Moving into that house, having the child, getting Harper’s money. She was in on the whole scam right from the start. And it was all going so well, until one day she sees Rob Gardiner and he becomes the only thing that matters. Too bad
you were already pregnant with Harper’s child. Too bad that, unlike her, you were trapped in that house. How was it all supposed to pan out, Vicky? With you dossing in the cellar for a few days to make it look real, then staggering up the steps when you knew Derek Ross was in the house? How were you going to explain your escape – make up some story about the old man losing it? Say he’d left the door unlocked by mistake?’
Vicky sits up suddenly and leans back against the cell wall. ‘I’m not stupid, even though you seem to think I am. All of that you just said – it’s a load of crap. I’m not falling for that.’
I smile. ‘Funnily enough, your sister uses exactly the same phrase. If there’s one thing police work has taught me it’s that blood really is thicker than water.’
There’s a tap at the door and Woods puts his head round. ‘Just checking everything’s OK, sir.’
I look at the girl, but she says nothing.
‘We’re fine, Sergeant. Perhaps Vicky would like some tea though?’
She nods, and Woods shuts the door. We can hear him bang open the observation flap of another cell a few doors down, and then voices. His. A girl’s. Then his keys jingling all the way back down the corridor.
Vicky has stiffened. She recognized that voice. There’s a strange expression on her face that in any other circumstances I’d call fear.
‘Oh, didn’t I say? Tricia is here. Just along the corridor. She’s facing a criminal charge.’
Vicky’s face has closed in again. She wants to ask me what the charge is but she won’t give me the satisfaction. But that doesn’t bother me. I’m going to tell her anyway.
‘Three days ago she gave us a statement. About the death of Hannah Gardiner. She told us Rob Gardiner killed his wife during a furious row after Hannah found him and your sister in bed together.’
And there it is – in her eyes, that tiny quiver of doubt and surprise that I only see because I know what I’m looking for. That’s not what she was expecting me to say; that’s not what the two of them had agreed.