by Cara Hunter
‘For fuck’s sake, Vicky,’ hisses Tricia.
Vicky tightens her grip and Harper’s eyes widen. ‘Priscilla?’ he whispers, cowering back. ‘Don’t hurt me. I didn’t do anything. Please don’t hurt me.’
Vicky drops his cock. ‘I can’t do this.’
Tricia comes forward and pushes her roughly aside. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, do I have to do every sodding thing myself?’
Vicky retreats to the door as Tricia climbs on to the bed, straddling Harper’s knees. She has a plastic bag in one hand.
‘Right,’ she says, ‘you nasty old paedo. Let’s see what you’re made of.’
Vicky turns and goes out into the hall.
She can hear the old man crying out all the way up the stairs.
* * *
* * *
AF: OK, Vicky. Let’s move on to June 2015. You’re living in the house in Frampton Road, you’re pregnant, and Tricia is working as Toby’s childminder. Tell us about Hannah. How Hannah Gardiner ended up dead.
VN: It wasn’t supposed to happen. None of it.
GQ: Don’t try and bullshit us that it was some sort of accident because I’m not buying it – there were still bits of her brain on that sodding car cover –
MG: That’s quite unnecessary, Sergeant – my client is being exceptionally helpful.
VN: I’m not bullshitting you. I’m telling the truth.
AF: OK, so what was the plan? Because you did have a plan, didn’t you - you and Tricia? Hannah didn’t stumble into that house by chance.
VN: Tricia had sex with Rob one night when his wife was away and she started saying that he’d be with her if his wife was out of the way but he was too decent to dump her. Stuff like that. I didn’t know what to do – I was worried what would happen –
AF: What do you mean?
VN: I know what she’s like. If she wants something, she gets it. It doesn’t matter who she hurts.
AF: You were concerned enough to try to warn Hannah?
VN: [nods]
But I was terrified what Tricia would do if she found out. To me, I mean.
GQ: Hang on a minute – that call Hannah got the day before she died – the one from the mobile. That was from you, wasn’t it?
VN: [nods]
I didn’t say who I was. I didn’t tell her my name.
AF: So – what? What did you say?
VN: I didn’t say anything about Rob. I just said that Pippa wasn’t really called Pippa. I told her that she’d been living in Clifton Street – that there’d be people there who knew her real name, and she should check up on her. I was hoping she’d find out what Tricia did to that girl at school and they’d fire her.
AF: So that’s why Hannah went to the Cowley Road that afternoon. To find ‘Pippa’.
VN: [nods]
But I don’t think she found anyone to talk to. She can’t have.
AF: So what happened the following day? What was your plan?
VN: I told you, there wasn’t any plan. I didn’t know anything about it. I was upstairs and I heard a noise and came down. And then – and then –
* * *
* * *
‘Jesus Christ, Tricia, what have you done?’
Tricia is standing by the conservatory window. There’s a hammer in her hand, and at her feet, a young woman lying face down on the floor. Blood is thickening her dark hair and she’s making a terrible raw gasping sound. Her hands are moving – clawing at the air – and she’s trying to get up.
Vicky moves a step closer. ‘Oh my God – that’s Hannah –’
‘I know that, you stupid cow – who else would it be?’
‘But what’s she doing here – what the hell happened?’
Tricia looks at her sister witheringly. ‘I told you, you idiot. Remember?’
‘You told me you wanted to get together with Rob – not that you were going to kill her.’
‘Well, you know what blokes are like. They always say they’ll leave their wives and they never do. This way, she’s out of the picture. End of.’
She turns to the shelf behind her and picks up a pair of plastic gloves. There’s a second pair of gloves, a roll of duct tape, a canister of industrial bleach, a dark wig. None of it was there yesterday.
‘Jesus, Tricia, you planned all this?’
‘Of course I fucking planned it. We won’t get away with it otherwise.’
‘What do you mean – we? I’ve got nothing to do with this – you can’t make me –’
‘Oh yes I can. Because if you don’t help me I’ll tell everyone about your nasty little scheme. That brat you’re carrying – how you scammed that poor defenceless old tosser – you’ll get three or four years at least.’
Tears come to Vicky’s eyes. ‘But that was all your idea –’
‘Yeah,’ she says, sardonic. ‘But they don’t know that, do they? So just stop fucking snivelling and help me.’
The woman on the floor groans suddenly and tries to raise her hand. Tricia bends down quickly and yanks her head up hard by the hair. There’s blood coming from her mouth and she’s staring – staring straight at Vicky.
‘Right,’ says Tricia, dropping her hold. ‘She’s seen you now, so you don’t have a choice. So just fucking grow some, will you?’
‘What do you want me to do?’ says Vicky, her voice catching in her throat. Hannah is moaning softly. Calling her son’s name.
Tricia reaches for the second pair of gloves and throws them across. ‘Go out to the car and get the blanket out of the back. And bring the kid in with you.’
‘He’s out there? On his own? What if he starts screaming? What if the old man hears?’
Tricia laughs. ‘The old bastard’s dead to the world. As per fucking usual. I put more sleeping pills in his lager. I’ll give the kid one too just in case.’
‘You can’t do that – he’s only little –’
‘Oh, stop bloody fussing, will you – I do it all the time. It’s the only way I can keep him quiet.’
‘But –’
Tricia stares at her. ‘So are you going or what?’
* * *
* * *
AF: And you gave Tricia an alibi as well, didn’t you? You rang Rob Gardiner and left a message saying she was ill. And later, when the police called you to confirm it, you gave your name as Nicki Veale.
VN: [bites her lip]
Tricia was really angry about that. She said I should have chosen something different – something that didn’t sound so much like my real name. That it was the only thing I’d had to do on my own and I couldn’t even get that right.
AF: But that’s the point, isn’t it, Vicky? Tricia is a much better liar than you are. So what happens when she tells us her version of how Hannah died and it’s much more convincing than yours – what then?
VN: I’m the one telling the truth. I didn’t have any reason to kill her, did I?
MG: That’s quite right, Inspector. My client didn’t have any reason to kill Mrs Gardiner. Unlike her sister.
AF: I’m not so sure, Mr Godden. Tricia is very resourceful. I’m sure she’ll come up with a very plausible story. I can hear it now: she’ll say Hannah came snooping around that day – that she’d seen something out of the window of her flat and when she came to investigate she found a young woman, seven or eight months pregnant, living in a house supposedly occupied only by an old man. Hannah was a journalist: as soon as Vicky went public with the cellar story Hannah would have recognized her. I’d say that’s more than enough motive for Vicky to kill her.
VN: But that’s not what happened –
AF: But how do we know that? You can’t possibly prove it. And all your sister’s barrister has to do is create reasonable doubt –
[interruption – custody sergeant reques
ts urgent discussion with DI Fawley]
GQ: Interview suspended at 9.42 p.m.
* * *
* * *
‘What the hell is it, Woods?’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
I follow him down to the custody suite, Quinn at my heels. The cell door is still open and there’s blood on the bedding and in the toilet bowl.
I turn to Woods. ‘So?’
He gestures to the bed. Among the tangled blankets there’s a small blister pack, just large enough for two pills. It’s empty.
‘Before you ask, she did not have those with her when we booked her in,’ says Woods, red in the face.
‘You definitely searched her?’
‘Of course I did. Anyone with medication, it’s the doc that administers it. I know the drill. I’ve been doing this bloody job long enough.’
And I believe him. But you’d be staggered at how devious people can be. At the things they’ve managed to smuggle in here, over the years. Two little pills would have been child’s play by comparison.
Woods picks up the pack and hands it to me. I turn it over and read the name on the foil, and take a deep breath. ‘The only way she can have got hold of this is on the internet. No legitimate doctor would have given it to her.’
‘What is it?’ asks Quinn.
I turn to look at him. ‘It’s misoprostol. To induce abortion.’
‘Shit,’ he says.
Woods’ face goes from red to white and he sits down heavily on the bed.
‘Get hold of Everett,’ I say to Quinn. ‘Tell her she can’t afford to let that girl out of her sight.’
But he’s anticipated me. He’s already dialling.
‘Ev? Quinn. Heads up – Pippa – whatever her name is –’ He looks up at me, listening, then makes a face. ‘OK, I’ll tell him. Phone me if you get anything.’
‘Too late,’ he says, closing the call. ‘She’s gone. She was in one of those cubicle things and she must have got out the back somehow –’
‘Jesus Christ, didn’t one of them stay with her?’
‘Apparently Somer was just outside. She thought the nurse was in there doing the examination, but she hadn’t arrived yet. It was just a cock-up. We’ve all done it.’
Of course we have. He certainly has; I have. Just not when it mattered so much.
‘Are they searching the hospital?’
Quinn nods. ‘But she had at least ten minutes’ head start. And you know what that place is like – it’s a sodding rabbit warren.’
‘Surely she won’t be able to get far – not in the state she’s in.’
Quinn makes a face. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her. After all, knowing her, she probably planned the whole bloody thing.’
I know. That’s what I’m afraid of.
* * *
* * *
BBC Midlands Today
Thursday 11 May 2017 | Last updated at 17:34
BREAKING: Cellar suspect released without charge
Thames Valley Police have released a statement confirming that the owner of a house in Frampton Road, Oxford, who was suspected of abducting and imprisoning a young girl, will not be facing any charges. The police have not revealed the identity of the suspected abductor, but he has been named locally as William Harper, a retired academic in his seventies. There is now speculation that Dr Harper, who suffers from Alzheimer’s, may have been the victim of a particularly callous scam.
Detective Inspector Adam Fawley declined to discuss rumours that the alleged abduction was connected in some way to the 2015 murder of Hannah Gardiner, and refused to be drawn on when charges might be brought in that case. ‘We have a suspect,’ he said. ‘But no arrest has yet been made.’
* * *
* * *
Everett turns off the news. It’s been wall to wall all day. TV, papers, online. ‘Fritzl fraud’: Girl faked false imprisonment for cash; Oxford case raises concerns about vulnerable elderly living alone. Journalists have been calling and doorstepping police officers, wanting a quote or access to the house or a picture of Vicky. Fawley turned them all down.
She looks at her cat, curled on her lap.
‘I’m going to shift you now, Hector. I need to make some dinner.’
The big tabby blinks at her, clearly unconvinced that this is a good enough reason to upend him. But then there’s a knock at the door.
‘Off you go, Hector,’ she says, lifting him on to the seat next to her.
She gets up and goes over to the door.
‘Oh,’ she says when she sees who it is.
Erica Somer is smiling tentatively and holding a bottle of Prosecco. She’s in civvies: a pair of pale jeans, a black T-shirt, a ponytail.
‘Sorry to surprise you like this. Your neighbour was just going out so he let me in.’
Everett is still holding the door.
‘Look, I just thought that perhaps you and I – that we might not have got off on the right foot.’ She holds out the bottle. ‘Fancy a drink?’
Everett still hasn’t said anything, but then Somer gasps, ‘Oh, is that your cat?’
She crouches down and lifts the cat into her arms and starts to stroke him behind the ears. He closes his eyes and purrs loudly, cat-blissing.
‘Careful – he’ll be your friend for life if you keep doing that,’ says Everett with a wry smile.
Somer grins up at her. ‘I want a cat, but they don’t allow pets in my block.’
Everett laughs drily. ‘I only chose this place because it has a fire escape so he can have a flap. It was half the price again of the others I looked at. Everyone thought I was mad. And now the lazy bugger hardly ever uses it.’
The two women hold each other’s gaze for a moment, then Everett steps back and opens the door.
‘Didn’t you say something about a drink?’
* * *
* * *
Three weeks later.
The garden.
My parents dressed stiffly in what they think you ought to wear for Sunday lunch with your son and daughter-in-law. Clothes that probably go straight back in the wardrobe as soon as they get home. A table piled with food they’ll probably only pick at. Smoked chicken, rocket salad, figs, raspberries, pecorino. Alex is down at the bottom with my mother and the boy, talking to next-door’s cat, a friendly ginger-and-white thing with a big plumy tail. Every now and again the boy reaches out to try to clutch at it, and Alex pulls him gently back.
My father joins me at the table.
‘You always do a nice spread.’
I smile. ‘Alex, not me. I think she bought the shop.’
There’s a silence. Neither of us ever really knows what to say.
‘So did you find that girl you were looking for? The one who killed that poor young woman?’
I shake my head. ‘No, not yet. We’ve been monitoring the ports and airports, but it’s possible she’s managed to leave the country.’
‘And what about the boy?’ he says, pouring himself another low-alcohol beer.
‘Toby? He’s fine. His father’s protecting him from all the furore.’
‘No, I mean that boy,’ he says, gesturing down the garden. ‘Is it really a good idea – having him here?’
‘Look, Dad –’
‘I’m just worried about you – after what happened with Jake – it’s not been easy, has it? For Alex, I mean. And you, of course,’ he adds quickly.
‘We’re OK. Really.’
It’s what I say. What I always say.
‘What will happen to him?’ he continues. The boy has started crying and Alex sweeps him up in her arms. I can see my mother looking concerned.
‘I don’t know. Social Services will have to decide.’
Alex has sat down with the boy on the bench. He’s still crying and my mother
is hovering, not sure what to do.
‘It’s going to be tough for him, though,’ says my father, staring at the three of them. ‘Some day, someone’s going to have to tell that boy the truth. Who he is, I mean. Who his father is, what his mother did. It won’t be easy – living with that.’
I think about William Harper, who always wanted a son. Does he know yet, that he has one? Does he want to meet him? Or has the stress of the last few weeks pushed him further into the dark? Last time I drove down Frampton Road there was a For Sale sign outside. I try to tell myself he was on the point of going into a home anyway, but it’s an aspect of this case that’s never going to lie easy.
‘Sometimes it’s easier not to face something like that,’ I say, forcing myself back to the present. ‘Sometimes silence is kinder.’
He glances at me, and for a moment – just a moment – I think he’s going to say something. That the time has finally come when he will tell me the truth. About me. About them. About who I am.
But then my mother calls us from the garden and my father touches me gently on the shoulder and moves towards the door.
‘I’m sure you’re right, son,’ he says.
* * *
* * *
Late October. It’s pouring with rain; that thin, mean-tempered rain that gets right into your bones. Rivers, canal, marsh: this city is ringed by water. In winter, the stone soaks up the damp. Along Frampton Road, some of the houses have Hallowe’en decorations in the windows – the family houses, anyway. Leering ghouls, Draculas, green-haired witches. One or two steps have pumpkins cut out in eyes and teeth.
Mark Sexton is standing under a golf umbrella in the drive of 31, looking up at the roof. No bloody chance of getting done by Christmas now. But at least the builders are finally back in. Or should be. He looks at his watch, for perhaps the fourth time. Where the fuck are they?
Almost on cue a flat-bed truck turns into the street and comes to a halt in front of the house. Two men get out; one is Trevor Owens, the foreman. The younger lad goes round to the back and starts unloading tools.