All the Rage (DI Fawley)

by Cara Hunter

  It’s only when I get to the door that I turn round. ‘What infamous interviewing technique?’

  Her laughter follows me all the way down the drive.

  * * *

  At 10.45 Somer is still stuck in a queue on the A33. She’d meant to come back from Hampshire last night but somehow the walk along the coast had turned into dinner, and dinner had turned into just one glass too many, and at half ten they’d agreed it definitely wasn’t a good idea for her to drive. So the new plan was to get up at 5.00 to beat the Monday-morning rush, only somehow that didn’t happen either and it was gone 9.00 by the time she left. Not that she’s complaining. She smiles to herself; her skin is still tingling despite the hot shower and the cold car. Even though it means she has no change of clothes for the office and no time to go home and get any. Her phone pings and she glances down. It’s a text from Giles. She smiles again as she reads it, itching to reply with some arch remark about what his superintendent would say if he got sent that by mistake, but the car ahead of her is finally moving; Giles – for once – is going to have to wait.

  * * *

  When the minicab driver first spotted the girl, he thought she was drunk. Yet another bloody student, he thought, getting pissed on cheap cider and staggering home at all hours. She was a good hundred yards ahead of him, but he could see she was lurching unsteadily from side to side. It wasn’t till the car got closer that he realized she was actually limping. One strappy shoe was still on but the other had lost its heel. That’s what made him slow down. That and where she was. Out on the Marston Ferry Road, miles from anywhere. Or as close to it as Oxford ever gets. Though as he signalled and pulled over alongside her, he still thought she must just be drunk.

  But that was before he saw her face.

  * * *

  The office is all but empty when the call comes through. Quinn’s AWOL somewhere, Fawley’s not due in till lunchtime and Gislingham’s off on a training course. Something to do with people management, Baxter tells Ev. Before smiling wryly and observing that he can’t see why the Sarge is bothering: there’s nothing about that particular subject Gis couldn’t learn from his own wife.

  Somer has just got back with a salad and a round of coffees when the phone rings. She watches Everett pick it up and wedge the handset against her shoulder while she answers an email.

  ‘Sorry?’ she says suddenly, gripping the phone now, the email forgotten. ‘Can you say that again? You’re sure? And when did this happen?’ She grabs a pen and scribbles something down. ‘Tell them we’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

  Somer looks up; something tells her the salad is going to have to wait. Again. She doesn’t even bother buying hot lunches any more.

  Everett puts the phone down. ‘A girl’s been found on the Marston Ferry Road.’

  ‘Found? What do you mean “found”?’

  ‘In a state of extreme distress, and with marks on her wrists where her hands were tied.’

  ‘Tied? She’d been tied up?’

  Everett’s face is grim. ‘I’m afraid it sounds a lot worse than that.’

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  1 April 2018

  12.35

  I’m still on the ring road when I get the call from Everett.

  ‘Sir? I’m with Somer on our way to the Lakes. We had a call about ten minutes ago – a girl’s been found in a distraught state on the Marston Ferry Road. It looks like she may have been attacked.’

  I signal to pull over into a lay-by and pick up the phone. ‘Sexual assault?’

  ‘We don’t actually know that. But to be honest, right now, we don’t know much at all.’

  I can tell something’s off, just from her voice. And if there’s one thing I know about Ev, it’s that she has good antennae. Good antennae, and not enough confidence in them. Or herself. Something for Gislingham to pick up when he gets back from that HR course of his.

  ‘There’s something bothering you, isn’t there?’

  ‘She was found with her clothes torn and muddy and evidence that her hands had been tied –’

  ‘Jesus –’

  ‘I know. She was apparently in a terrible state but the point is she refused to go to either the police or the doctor. She made the minicab driver who found her take her straight home and told him she didn’t want it reported. Which, thankfully, he ignored.’

  I poke about in the glovebox for some paper and ask her to repeat the address in the Lakes. And if you’re wondering how you missed all that standing water when you did the Oxford tourist tour, there isn’t anything larger than a pond for miles. The Lakes is a 1930s housing development in Marston. People call it that because there are so many roads there named after them: Derwent, Coniston, Grasmere, Rydal. I like to think some long-ago town planner was homesick for the fells, but Alex tells me I’m just being Romantic.

  ‘Do we know the girl’s name?’

  ‘We think it could be Faith. The cab driver said she was wearing a necklace with that on it. Though it might just be one of those “Live Love Life” sort of things. You must have seen them.’

  I have. But not on Ev, that’s for sure. As for the cabbie, it seems he wasn’t just public-spirited but observant too. Wonders will never cease.

  ‘According to the electoral roll there’s a woman called Diane Appleford resident at the address,’ she continues. ‘She moved there about a year ago, and there’s no criminal record, nothing flagging anywhere. But there’s no Mr Appleford – or not one living with her, at any rate.’

  ‘OK, I’m only about ten minutes away.’

  ‘We’re just turning into Rydal Way now, but we’ll hold off going in till you get here.’

  The Appleford home is a neat bow-fronted semi, with a paved front garden and a low wall made of those square white bricks that look like stencils. Our next-door neighbours had exactly the same when I was a kid. What with that and the frilly nets in the window the house looks landlocked in 1976.

  I see Somer and Everett get out of their car and come down the road towards me. Everett is in her standard combo of white shirt, dark skirt and sensible mac, though the bright-red scarf is definitely her little rebellion. Somer, by contrast, is in black jeans, a leather jacket and high-heeled ankle boots with fringy bits around the back. She doesn’t usually dress like that at work, so I’m guessing she was at the boyfriend’s this weekend and hasn’t been home. She flushes slightly when she sees me, which makes me even more convinced I’m right. She met him when we were working on the Michael Esmond case. The boyfriend, I mean. Giles Saumarez. He’s in the job too. I can never quite decide if that’s a good thing.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ says Everett, hoisting her bag a bit higher on her shoulder.

  I reach into my pocket for a mint. I carry handfuls of the bloody things now. Stopping smoking is a bastard, but it’s non-negotiable. And by that, I mean between me and myself; I didn’t wait for Alex to ask.

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ says Somer, eyeing the sweet. ‘With the teeth, I mean.’

  I frown for a moment and then remember that’s where I told them I was this morning. The dentist’s. The universal white lie of choice. It’s not that the baby is a secret – people will have to know eventually. It’s just – you know – not right now.

  ‘It was OK,’ I say. ‘I didn’t need anything doing.’

  I turn to Ev. ‘So anything more before we go crashing in?’

  She shakes her head. ‘You know as much as we do.’

  The woman who opens the door has dried-out blonde hair, white sweatpants and a white sweatshirt with Slummy Mummy written on it. She must be mid-forties. She looks tired. Tired and immediately defensive.

  ‘Mrs Appleford?’

  She eyes me and then the women. ‘Yes. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Adam Fawley. This is DC Everett and DC Somer.’

  She grips the door a little tighter. ‘Faith was quite clear – she doesn’t want the police involved. You have no business –’
/>
  ‘Faith is your daughter?’

  She hesitates a moment, as if divulging even so bare a fact is some sort of betrayal. ‘Yes. Faith is my daughter.’

  ‘The passer-by who found her was extremely concerned for her well-being. As, of course, are we.’

  Somer touches my shoulder and gestures back behind her. I don’t even need to turn round. I can almost hear the sound of curtains twitching.

  ‘Could we come in, Mrs Appleford? Just for a moment? We can talk more easily inside.’

  The woman glances across the road; she’s spotted the nosy neighbours, too.

  ‘OK. But only for a couple of minutes, all right?’

  The sitting room is painted pale mauve, with a sofa and armchairs which are obviously supposed to match but the colour’s just far enough off to mess with your head. And they’re much too big for the space. It never ceases to baffle me why people don’t measure their rooms before they buy their furniture. There’s a strong smell of artificial air freshener. Lavender. As if you had to ask.

  She doesn’t invite us to sit down, so we stand awkwardly on the narrow strip of carpet between the seats and the glass-topped coffee table.

  ‘Was your daughter here last night, Mrs Appleford?’

  She nods.

  ‘All night?’

  ‘Yes. She didn’t go out.’

  ‘So you saw her at breakfast?’

  Another nod.

  ‘What time was that?’ asks Somer, slipping her notebook discreetly from her jacket.

  The woman wraps her arms about herself. I’m trying not to draw conclusions from her body language, but she’s not making it easy. ‘About 7.45, I think. I left with Nadine just before 8.00, but Faith had a later start today. She’d have left around 9.00 to get the bus.’

  So she doesn’t actually know what her daughter did this morning. Just because something always happens, doesn’t mean it always will.

  ‘Nadine’s your daughter too?’ asks Somer.

  The woman nods. ‘I drop her off at school on my way to work. I’m a receptionist at the doctor’s in Summertown.’

  ‘And Faith?’

  ‘She goes to the FE college in Headington. That’s why she gets the bus. It’s in the opposite direction.’

  ‘Did you have any contact with Faith during the day today?’

  ‘I texted her about tennish but she didn’t reply. It was just a link to an article about Meghan Markle. You know, the wedding. The dress. Faith’s interested in all that. She’s doing Fashion. She has real talent.’

  ‘And that was unusual – that she didn’t reply, I mean?’

  The woman considers then shrugs. ‘I suppose so, yes.’

  My turn again. ‘Does she have a boyfriend?’

  Her eyes narrow a little. ‘No. Not at the moment.’

  ‘But she would tell you – if she did?’

  She gives me a sharp look. ‘She doesn’t keep secrets from me, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  ‘I’m sure she doesn’t,’ says Somer, placatory. ‘We’re just trying to work out who might have done this – if it could have been someone she knew –’

  ‘She doesn’t have a boyfriend. She doesn’t want a boyfriend.’

  There’s a silence.

  Somer glances across at Ev. Why don’t you have a try.

  ‘Were you here,’ Ev says, ‘when the cabbie brought her back?’

  The woman looks at her then nods. ‘I wouldn’t be, normally. But I’d forgotten my reading glasses so I popped back.’

  Ev and Somer exchange another glance. I suspect I know what they’re thinking: if Mrs Appleford hadn’t chanced to be at home the girl might well have tried to hide what happened from her as well. As for me, I’m more and more convinced Ev is right: there’s definitely something off here.

  I take a step closer. ‘Do you know why Faith has decided not to talk to us, Mrs Appleford?’

  She bridles. ‘She doesn’t want to. That should be enough, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘But if she was raped –’

  ‘She wasn’t raped.’ Her tone is unequivocal. Absolute.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  Her face hardens. ‘She told me. Faith told me. And my daughter is not a liar.’

  ‘I’m not saying that. Not at all.’ She’s not looking at me now. ‘Look, I know rape investigations can be traumatic – I wouldn’t blame anyone for being daunted by that prospect – but it’s not like it used to be. We have properly trained officers – DC Everett –’

  ‘It wasn’t rape.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it – but we may still be looking at a serious crime. Assault, Actual Bodily Harm –’

  ‘How many more times? There was no crime and she is not going to press charges. So please, will you people just leave us alone?’

  She looks round at us, one after the other. She wants us to start leaving, to say Faith can contact us if she changes her mind. But we don’t. I don’t.

  ‘Your daughter was missing for over two hours,’ says Ev gently. ‘From 9.00 to just after 11.00, when Mr Mullins saw her wandering along the Marston Ferry Road in a terrible state – crying, her clothes all muddy, her shoe broken. Something must have happened.’

  Mrs Appleford flushes. ‘I gather it was an April Fool. Just a silly joke that got a bit out of hand.’

  But no one in the room believes that. Not even her.

  ‘If it really was just a prank,’ I say eventually, ‘then I would like Faith herself to confirm that, please. But if it wasn’t, the person who did this to Faith may do it again. Another girl could suffer the same trauma your daughter has just been through. I can’t believe you’d want that. Either of you.’

  Mrs Appleford holds my gaze. It’s not exactly checkmate, but I want to make it damn hard for her to refuse.

  ‘Faith is here at the moment, I assume?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says at last. ‘She’s out in the garden.’ For fresh air? For a smoke? Just to get away from all this damn purple? Frankly, I’m with her on all three.

  Mrs Appleford takes a deep breath. ‘Look, I’ll go and ask if she wants to talk to you, but I’m not going to force it. If she says no, then that’s her decision.’

  It’s better than nothing.

  ‘Fair enough. We’ll wait here.’

  When the door’s closed behind her I start to wander around the room. The pictures are Impressionists’. Monet mostly. Ponds, water lilies, that sort of thing. Call me a cynic, but I suspect they were probably the only ones on offer in the right shade of mauve.

  ‘I’d love to go to that place,’ says Ev, gesturing towards one of the bridge at Giverny. ‘It’s on the bucket list if I win the lottery. And can find someone to go with.’ She makes a face. ‘Along with the Taj Mahal and Bora Bora, of course.’

  Somer looks up and smiles; she’s by the mantelpiece, scrutinizing the family photos. ‘Mine too. The Bora Bora bit, anyway.’

  I see Ev give Somer a meaningful look that leaves her smiling again and glancing away when she sees I’ve noticed.

  Ev turns to me. ‘I think it might be a good idea if I went looking for the loo. If you catch my drift.’

  I nod and she slips quickly out of the room, and almost at once there’s the sound of footsteps in the hall and Diane Appleford reappears.

  ‘She’s prepared to talk –’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But only to a woman,’ she continues. ‘Not to you.’

  I look towards Somer, who nods. ‘It’s fine with me, sir.’

  I return to the woman and adopt my most charming ‘only here to serve’ smile. ‘I quite understand, Mrs Appleford. I’ll wait for my colleagues in the car.’

  * * *

  Ev pauses at the top of the stairs. To her left, the bathroom door is open. White tiles, a heavy plastic shower curtain and a strong smell of bleach. The towels, she notices (neatly folded, unlike the ones in her own flat), are the same colour as the mauve downstairs. It’s starting to become a Thing. />
  Facing her are three more doors, two of them open. A master bedroom with a satin bedspread (no prizes for guessing the colour), and what Ev decides must be the younger daughter’s. A jumble of clothes and trainers left where they fell. A duvet carelessly dragged across, a scatter of soft toys, a make-up bag. She crosses as quietly as possible to the closed third door, giving silent thanks for the thickness of the carpet. She could never have anything like that in her flat – the cat would have it for breakfast. He loves ‘shreddies’.

  The room that opens before her is the polar opposite of the other sister’s. Cupboards neatly closed, nothing escaping from the chests of drawers. Even the pile of Grazias is neatly stacked. But that’s not what Ev is looking at; it’s not what anyone in this room would look at. The whole space is dominated by a pinboard stretching across the full length of the far wall, festooned from top to bottom with pictures cut from glossy magazines, little plastic bags of brightly coloured beads and buttons, hanks of yarn, swatches of material, bits of lace and fake fur, notes written in thick red pen on Post-its and, in among it all, a scatter of sketches which must be by Faith herself. Everett’s hardly the one to ask about clothes but even she can see the flair in some of these. How Faith has taken a small detail and made a whole outfit turn on it – the shape of a heel, the hang of a fabric, the fall of a sleeve.

  ‘Her mother’s right about one thing,’ she says softly, ‘she really does have talent.’

  ‘Who the hell,’ says a voice behind her, ‘are you?’

  * * *

  ‘This is Faith.’

  The girl moves forward past her mother, into the light. She is very lovely, Somer can see that at once. Even the tangled ponytail and the smeared mascara can’t hide how exquisite her features are. She’s as skinny as a rake too – the huge jumper she’s wrapped round herself like a security blanket only emphasizes how thin she is. She must have had the jumper for years: there are holes in the wool and the cuffs are fraying.

  Somer takes a step towards her. ‘Why don’t you sit down? Is there anything you’d like – tea? Water?’

  The girl hesitates a moment, then shakes her head. She moves slowly towards the sofa, feeling her way with one hand like an old woman.