by Cara Hunter
Cara Hunter
* * *
ALL THE RAGE
Contents
Prologue
Adam Fawley: 1 April 2018: 09.15
Adam Fawley: 1 April 2018: 10.25
Adam Fawley: 1 April 2018: 12.35
Adam Fawley: 1 April 2018: 14.15
Adam Fawley: 1 April 2018: 23.07
Adam Fawley: 2 April 2018: 09.15
Adam Fawley: 2 April 2018: 11.24
Adam Fawley: 2 April 2018: 12.17
Adam Fawley: 2 April 2018: 14.05
Adam Fawley: 2 April 2018: 14.35
Adam Fawley: 2 April 2018: 14.43
Adam Fawley: 2 April 2018: 17.25
Adam Fawley: 2 April 2018: 19.10
Adam Fawley: 3 April 2018: 08.15
Adam Fawley: 3 April 2018: 09.15
Adam Fawley: 3 April 2018: 10.46
Adam Fawley: 3 April 2018: 12.30
Adam Fawley: 3 April 2018: 13.39
Adam Fawley: 3 April 2018: 14.55
Adam Fawley: 3 April 2018: 19.25
Adam Fawley: 4 April 2018: 07.50
Adam Fawley: 4 April 2018: 08.55
Adam Fawley: 4 April 2018: 12.32
Adam Fawley: 4 April 2018: 13.45
Adam Fawley: 4 April 2018: 13.56
Adam Fawley: 4 April 2018: 14.09
Adam Fawley: 4 April 2018: 14.55
Adam Fawley: 4 April 2018: 15.45
Adam Fawley: 4 April 2018: 16.25
Adam Fawley: 4 April 2018: 17.32
Adam Fawley: 4 April 2018: 18.27
Adam Fawley: 5 April 2018: 09.19
Adam Fawley: 5 April 2018: 11.48
Adam Fawley: 5 April 2018: 12.58
Adam Fawley: 5 April 2018: 14.09
Adam Fawley: 5 April 2018: 16.16
Adam Fawley: 5 April 2018: 17.22
Adam Fawley: 5 April 2018: 17.50
Adam Fawley: 5 April 2018: 18.54
Adam Fawley: 5 April 2018: 19.05
Adam Fawley: 6 April 2018: 09.52
Adam Fawley: 6 April 2018: 14.49
Adam Fawley: 6 April 2018: 16.52
Adam Fawley: 6 April 2018: 20.55
Adam Fawley: 8 April 2018: 11.46
Adam Fawley: 8 April 2018: 13.10
Adam Fawley: 9 April 2018: 08.25
Adam Fawley: 9 April 2018: 10.05
Adam Fawley: 9 April 2018: 10.26
Adam Fawley: 9 April 2018: 12.17
Adam Fawley: 9 April 2018: 12.56
Adam Fawley: 9 April 2018: 13.13
Adam Fawley: 9 April 2018: 14.37
Adam Fawley: 9 April 2018: 15.45
Adam Fawley: 9 April 2018: 17.18
Adam Fawley: 9 April 2018: 19.15
Adam Fawley: 9 April 2018: 20.25
Adam Fawley: 9 April 2018: 21.35
Adam Fawley: 9 April 2018: 22.09
Adam Fawley: 10 April 2018: 10.15
Adam Fawley: 10 April 2018: 12.18
Adam Fawley: 10 April 2018: 17.05
Adam Fawley: 11 April 2018: 10.08
Adam Fawley: 11 April 2018: 12.19
Adam Fawley: 11 April 2018: 12.25
Adam Fawley: 11 April 2018: 13.35
Adam Fawley: 11 April 2018: 15.15
Adam Fawley: 11 April 2018: 15.40
Adam Fawley: 11 April 2018: 15.45
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Cara Hunter is the author of the Sunday Times bestselling crime novels Close to Home, In the Dark and No Way Out, all featuring DI Adam Fawley and his Oxford-based police team. Close to Home was a Richard and Judy Book Club pick, was shortlisted for Crime Book of the Year in the British Book Awards 2019 and No Way Out was selected by the Sunday Times as one of the 100 best crime novels since 1945. Cara’s novels have sold more than three quarters of a million copies worldwide. Cara Hunter lives in Oxford, on a street not unlike those featured in her books.
To my brother, Mark
Get exclusive offers, Cara’s recommendations for the best crime books around and insider information on her new novels before anyone else.
Use the following link to receive regular emails from Cara:
https://www.penguin.co.uk/newsletters/carahunter/
Prologue
The night is so warm she has her window open; the net curtain lifts lazily in the bare breath of late-summer heat. There’s a light on inside the flat, but only in the living room: that’s how he knows she’s alone. There’s music playing, too. Not loud, but he’s close enough to hear it. He used to worry about that, at the beginning – about getting too near and giving himself away. But he knows better now; even in daylight vans like this are everywhere. People don’t even see them any more. Not even observant people. Like her.
He winds down the window a little further. She must be going out, because the music is fast, energetic, upbeat; not the lazy jazzy stuff she usually prefers. He closes his eyes a moment and tries to visualize what she’s going to wear, what she’s pulling over her skin right now – skin still damp from the shower he just heard her take. Not the black dress with the beading that fits so tightly he can map her body in his mind: if it was dinner with her tosser of a boyfriend she wouldn’t be listening to crap music like that. It’s not her parents either: if they were in Oxford he’d have seen the car. No, it must be a night out with the girls. Which means she’ll go for something less suggestive – something understated that signals polite inaccessibility. The blue one, perhaps, with the wide sleeves. Tiffany blue, they call it. He never knew that before. It’s a nice dress. Neutral. And it’s one of her favourites.
She didn’t tell him any of this. He found it out. It wasn’t even that hard. All you have to do is watch. Watch and wait and deduce. Sometimes all it takes is a few days; but those are rarely the most satisfying. This one has already cost him more than three weeks, but he likes taking his time. And something tells him she’s going to be worth it. Like the ads for that shampoo she buys keep on telling her. And in any case, he’s learnt to his cost that these things can’t be rushed. That’s when you make mistakes. That’s when it all goes wrong.
There’s someone coming now. He can hear the clack of shoes against the pavement. High heels. Giggling. He shifts slightly to get a better look, the plastic of the seat sticking and crackling under him. Across the road, two girls come into view. Nothing understated about that pair, that’s for sure. Sequins, red gash mouths, tottering about on their tarty shoes; the silly bitches are already half-cut. He hasn’t seen either of these two before but they must be friends of hers because they stop outside the flat and start rummaging in their handbags. One of them pulls something free with a flourish and a loud ‘Ta-da!’ A shiny pink sash, with something written on it in glitter he can’t quite read. But he doesn’t need to. His eyes narrow; he’s seen shit like that before. It’s a hen party. A fucking hen party. Since when did she bother with crap like that? The two girls have their heads together now and something about the way they’re laughing and whispering sends a trickle of unease inching up his spine. It can’t be her party, surely. She can’t have – not without him knowing – she’s not wearing a ring – he’d have seen –
He leans forward, trying to get a better look. One of the girls is ringing the doorbell to the flat, leaning on the entryphone until the window upstairs shoots up.
‘Do you really have to make quite so much noise?’
She’s trying to sound disapproving but there’s laughter in her voice. She leans out and a twist of long dark hair slips over her shoulder. It’s still wet from the shower. His throat tightens.
One of the girls looks up and lifts her arms, triumphant. She has a plastic coronet in one hand and the pink sash in the other. ‘H
ey! Look what we got!’
The girl in the window shakes her head. ‘You promised, Chlo – absolutely no tat and no tiaras.’
The two below burst out laughing. ‘This extremely tasteful piece of decorative headwear happens to be mine, not yours,’ says the second girl, her words slurring slightly. ‘We got this little number for you …’
She digs into her handbag and holds something up, and as it catches the light of the street lamp he can see it clearly: a bright-pink hairslide, with the word TAKEN spelt out in diamanté.
The girl in the window shakes her head again. ‘What did I do to deserve you two, eh?’
She ducks back inside and a moment later there’s the sound of the entryphone buzzing, and the two girls stumble over the step into the house, still giggling.
The man opens the glovebox. That bitch is lucky he isn’t going to do her right here and now; that’d put paid to their trashy little tart fest. But he won’t. He wants the exhilaration of waiting – still wants it, even now. The exquisite anticipation, the detail by detail: how she’ll smell, how she’ll taste, the feel of her hair. Just knowing he could have that whenever he chooses – that the only thing preventing him is his own restraint –
He sits a while, clenching and unclenching his fists, allowing his heart rate to slow. Then he puts the key in the ignition and starts the engine.
The alarm goes at seven but Faith Appleford has already been up for an hour. Hair, clothes, shoes, make-up, it all takes time. She’s sitting at her dressing table now, putting the finishing touches to her mascara, hearing her mother calling up the stairs from the kitchen.
‘Nadine – are you out of bed yet? If you want that lift you need to be down here in ten minutes.’
There’s a groan from next door and Faith imagines her sister turning over and pulling the pillow over her head. It’s always the same; Nadine is hopeless in the mornings. Unlike Faith. Faith is always ready in plenty of time. Always perfectly turned out. She turns back to the mirror and moves her head right and left, checking the angles, tweaking a lock of hair, straightening the neckline of her sweater. Beautiful. And it’s not just showing off. She really is. Quite beautiful.
She gets to her feet and selects a handbag from the cluster hanging on the back of the door. It’s suede. Well, not real suede but you have to get up really close to realize. The colour is just right though, especially with this jacket. The perfect shade of blue.
* * *
Adam Fawley
1 April 2018
09.15
‘Is that OK – not too cold?’
I felt Alex flinch as the probe touched her skin but she shakes her head quickly and smiles. ‘No, it’s fine.’
The nurse turns back to her monitor and taps her keyboard. Everything in the room is muted. The lights dimmed, the sound muffled, as if we’re underwater. Around us, the hospital is brisk with activity, but in here, right now, time has slowed to a heartbeat.
‘Here you are,’ says the nurse at last, swinging the monitor round and smiling at us. The image on the screen blooms into life. A head, a nose, a tiny fist, raised as if in celebration. Movement. Life. Alex’s hand gropes for mine but her eyes never leave her child.
‘This is the first time for you, isn’t it, Mr Fawley?’ continues the nurse. ‘I don’t think you were here for the first scan?’ She keeps her tone light but there’s judgement in there all the same.
‘It was complicated,’ says Alex quickly. ‘I was so terrified something would go wrong – I didn’t want to jinx it –’
I tighten my grip on her hand. We’ve been through this. Why she didn’t tell me, why she couldn’t even live with me until she knew for certain. Until she was sure.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘All that matters is that I’m here now. And that the baby is OK.’
‘Well, the heartbeat is good and strong,’ the nurse says, tapping at her keyboard again. ‘And the baby is growing normally, exactly as it should be at twenty-two weeks. There’s nothing here that gives me any cause for concern.’
I feel myself exhale – I didn’t even realize I’d stopped breathing. We’re older parents, we’ve read all the leaflets, had all the tests, but still –
‘You’re absolutely sure?’ says Alex. ‘Because I really don’t want to have an amnio –’
The nurse smiles again, a deeper, warmer smile. ‘It’s all absolutely fine, Mrs Fawley. You have nothing at all to worry about.’
Alex turns to me, tears in her eyes. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispers. ‘It really is going to be all right.’
On the screen the baby somersaults suddenly, a tiny dolphin in the silvery darkness.
‘So,’ says the nurse, adjusting the probe again, ‘do you want to know the sex?’
* * *
Fiona Blake puts a bowl of cereal down in front of her daughter, but Sasha doesn’t appear to notice. She’s been staring at her phone ever since she came downstairs, and Fiona is fighting the urge to say something. They don’t have phones at meals in their house. Not because Fiona laid down the law about it but because they agreed, the two of them, that it wasn’t how they wanted to do things. She turns away to fill the teapot but when she gets back to the table Sasha is still staring at the damn screen.
‘Problem?’ she says, trying not to sound irritated.
Sasha looks up and shakes her head. ‘Sorry – it’s just Pats saying she won’t be at school today. She’s been throwing up all night.’
Fiona makes a face. ‘That winter vomiting thing?’
Sasha nods, then pushes the phone away. ‘Sounds like it. She sounds really rough.’
Fiona scrutinizes her daughter; her eyes are bright and her cheeks look a little flushed. Come to think of it, she’s been rather like that all week. ‘You feeling all right, Sash? You look like you might be a bit feverish yourself.’
Sasha’s eyes widen. ‘Me? I’m fine. Seriously, Mum, I’m absolutely OK. And completely starving.’
She grins at her mother and reaches across the table for a spoon.
* * *
At St Aldate’s police station, DC Anthony Asante is trying to smile. Though the look on DS Gislingham’s face suggests he isn’t doing a very good job of it. It’s not that Asante doesn’t have a sense of humour, it’s just not the custard pie and banana skin variety. Which is why he’s struggling to find the upside-down glass of water on his desk very amusing. That and the fact that he’s furious with himself for forgetting what day it is and not being more bloody careful. He should have seen this coming a mile off: newest member of the team, graduate entry, fresh from the Met. He might as well have had ‘Fair Game’ tattooed across his forehead. And now they’re all standing there, watching him, waiting to see if he’s a ‘good sport’ or just ‘well up himself’ (which judging from the smirk DC Quinn isn’t bothering to hide is clearly his opinion – though Asante’s tempted to ask if Quinn’s playing the role of pot or kettle on that one). He takes a deep breath and cranks the smile up a notch. After all, it could have been worse. One of the shits at Brixton nick left a bunch of bananas on his desk the day he first started.
‘OK, guys,’ he says, looking round at the room, in what he hopes is the right combination of heavy irony and seen-it-all-before, ‘very funny.’
Gislingham grins at him, as much relieved as anything. After all, a joke’s a joke and in this job you have to be able to take it as well as dish it out, but he’s still a bit new to the whole sergeantship thing and he doesn’t want to be seen as picking on anyone. Least of all the only non-white member of the team. He cuffs Asante lightly on the arm, saying, ‘Nice one, Tone,’ then decides he’s probably best off leaving it at that and makes for the coffee machine.
* * *
Adam Fawley
1 April 2018
10.25
‘So how’s this going to work then?’
Alex settles herself slowly into the sofa and swings her feet up. I hand her the mug and she curls her hands around it. ‘How’s what going to
work?’ she says, though she’s already looking mischievous.
‘You know exactly what I mean – the small fact that I don’t know the sex, but you do.’
She blows on the tea and then looks up at me, all innocence. ‘Why should it be a problem?’
I shunt a cushion aside and sit down. ‘How are you going to keep a secret like that? You’re bound to let it slip eventually.’
She grins. ‘Well, as long as you don’t employ that infamous interviewing technique of yours, I think I’ll just about manage to keep it to myself.’ She laughs now, seeing my face. ‘Look, I promise to keep thinking of two lists of names –’
‘OK, but –’
‘And not buy everything in blue.’
Before I can even open my mouth she grins again and prods me with her foot. ‘Or pink.’
I shake my head, all faux-disapproval. ‘I give up.’
‘No, you don’t,’ she says, serious now. ‘You never give up. Not on anything.’
And we both know she’s not just talking about my job.
I get to my feet. ‘Take it easy the rest of the day, all right? No heavy lifting or anything insane like that.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘So that afternoon of lumberjacking I had planned is off, is it? Darn it.’
‘And email me if you need anything from the shops.’
She gives a joke salute then prods me again. ‘Go. You’re late already. And I have done all this before, remember. I wallpapered Jake’s nursery when I was twice the size I am now.’
As she smiles up at me, I realize I can’t even remember the last time she talked like this. All those months after Jake died, she saw motherhood only in terms of loss. Absence. Not just the want of him but the despair of having any other child. All this time, she could only speak of our son in pain. But now, perhaps, she can reclaim the joy of him too. This baby could never be a replacement, even if we wanted it to be, but perhaps he – or she – can still be a redemption.
