All the Rage (DI Fawley)

by Cara Hunter

  I do not consider Mr Parrie to be suffering either from mental illness or any psychiatric condition such as schizoaffective disorder, within the meaning of the Mental Health Act 1983 (amended 2007).

  Dr Simeon Ware

  MBBS FRCPsych

  Consultant Forensic Psychiatrist

  ‘I don’t believe a bloody word of it. Model prisoner, my arse. It’s all just a bloody act.’

  Osbourne takes the report from me and slips it back in the envelope; he’s going out on a limb, letting me see it at all.

  ‘And he’s still telling anyone who’ll listen that he’s innocent.’

  Even now, all these years later. I should have expected it, knowing what I do, but it infuriates me all the same.

  Osbourne is watching my face. ‘At least he seems to have backed off about being fitted up.’

  ‘It’s not just that, though, is it? This new attack – it’s too similar – it’s all going to start up all over again –’

  ‘But that’s the point, Adam. It’s similar. It’s not the same. From what you’ve said, the attack on the Appleford girl is far more likely to be a hate crime. And even if it isn’t, there are umpteen ways you could explain any superficial parallels. It could be a copycat, for starters. Someone who read about the Parrie case in the papers. It wouldn’t be the first time, now would it?’

  I want to believe it. Part of why I came here was to hear him say it. But the unease is still there, snaking round my gut.

  ‘Is that something you’re looking into?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not yet. Not officially.’

  He knows what I’m getting at: looking for a copycat would mean going public. At least internally.

  ‘Might be worth checking who’s been visiting Parrie, though,’ he says carefully.

  I nod. That, at least, I can probably do without making too many waves.

  ‘I just think it would be worth ruling it out,’ he continues. ‘But I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.’

  I put down the mug and manage a thin smile.

  ‘Thanks for the tea. And the reassurance.’

  His smile is a lot more convincing than mine. ‘Any time. Though the press are bound to pick up on the Parrie thing sooner or later so best be prepared, eh?’

  I get the message. ‘I’m seeing Harrison first thing.’

  ‘Good. And Alex? How’s she coping with all this?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ I say quickly. ‘Busy at work, you know.’

  He must sense something, because he frowns slightly but he doesn’t push it, and then I make a big show of getting out my car keys and we’re going in to say goodbye to Viv and shaking hands on the doorstep and I’m trying my best to avoid his eye.

  Because I’m not sure which is worse; the lie of omission or the lie I just told.

  * * *

  ‘So what do you think – do we still want pizza?’

  Patsie is sitting behind Sasha on the top deck of the bus going towards Summertown, her backpack wedged between her feet. She’s wearing her red leather jacket, like she always does. Isabel’s next to Sasha, listening to music on her phone and fiddling about with her hair. She’s dyed the ends pink. Sasha half wishes she had the courage to do that, but only half. It’s not just that her mother would flip (to which Iz just shrugged and said it would grow out eventually so no need to get your knickers in a twist); Sasha’s always been rather proud of her hair, and her mum never stops reminding her that as soon as you start dyeing it you’ll never get the real colour back.

  Patsie leans forward and digs Isabel in the ribs. ‘Earth to Parker. Where. Do. We. Want. To. Go?’

  Iz turns round and pretends to swipe her. ‘I heard you honking the first time, you noisy cow. I don’t care as long as I don’t have to eat my weight in pizza – I am getting SO fat!’

  Sasha gives her a sidelong look. ‘Yeah, right. You’re a size six, for God’s sake.’

  Iz blows her a kiss and Patsie makes a puking gesture and they all collapse in giggles. On the other side of the aisle Leah reaches into her bag and pulls out a bottle with a straw in and passes it round. It says Diet Coke on the side, but there’s a good glug of her father’s Scotch in there too. Not the malt – he’d notice that – just the stuff he keeps for when the neighbours come round. Sasha takes as small a sip as she can get away with then hands it back, feeling the alcohol burn down her throat. She’s taught herself not to gag, but really, whisky is truly disgusting. And as for those bright-green shot things – they just taste like mouthwash –

  ‘So, you going to tell us or what?’

  Sasha looks up. Her three friends are staring at her, trying to suppress their knowing smiles. Sasha does her best to look Innocent And Baffled but she can’t be making a very good job of it because Leah gives her one of her yeah, yeah faces.

  ‘Don’t even try and pull that one – we know you’ve got a new bloke, don’t we, Pats? So – give. Who is he?’

  Sasha feels herself blushing. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  The girls give her theatrically incredulous looks. ‘You’ve been mega secretive for days,’ says Isabel. ‘What is it – is he married or something?’

  She has her head on one side now, scrutinizing Sasha for a reaction, which only makes her blush even more.

  ‘Well, wouldn’t you like to know,’ she says, trying to look playful and teasing. As if she’s sitting on a delicious secret. Which she tells herself she is – well, sort of, anyway.

  Iz looks archly at Patsie and passes Sasha the bottle again. ‘Don’t worry. Few more of these and we’ll get the truth out of her. We’ve got all night.’

  Patsie pokes Iz in the shoulder blades. ‘You, Isabel Rebecca Parker, are all talk. You were totally out of it last week on two Cactus Jacks.’

  She grins at Sasha, who gives her a relieved smile in return. She can rely on Patsie to back her up. She always has – ever since playgroup. The two only became four when they went to secondary school, where the class clever clogs started calling them the LIPS girls: Leah, Isabel, Patsie, Sasha. The others loved it – they even started using it for their WhatsApp group – but Sasha knows irony when she sees it. Especially given how much time the others spend pouting into their make-up mirrors. Either way, the name stuck. And they’re tight, the four of them; all the other girls want to be in with their group, but as Pats once joked, the LIPS are sealed. But even now, Sasha and Patsie have something special that Leah and Iz don’t share. Though Sasha’s realized, these last few weeks, that there are some things she’d rather not talk about to anyone, not even Patsie. Like Liam. Especially Liam –

  There’s a sudden burst of laughter from the group of lads in the front of the bus, and a man near the back looks up and frowns. He got on just after Sasha and the others, but unlike the boys, he isn’t even on their radar. He’s not the sort of man people notice, least of all teenage girls. He mutters something about the noise and turns to look out of the window. The boys, meanwhile, are now swivelling glances in the direction of the girls, but Iz has already declared them ‘like, totally skanky’ so talking to them is clearly out of the question.

  ‘What did you tell your mum?’ asks Leah. ‘About tonight?’

  Sasha shrugs. ‘Just that we were going for a pizza and I might stay over with Pats. She’s chill about it.’

  But her cheeks flush a little at the memory. Of her mum smiling and telling her to have a good time. Of the hug she got as she was leaving and the ‘I love you’ that still lays heavy on her heart. She hates lying to her mum; she always has, even when she was little, and she wishes she didn’t have to now. But she knows her mum wouldn’t understand. She’d be hurt and angry and it’s so much easier and kinder right now to let her think she’s crashing with Pats. Some day – soon – she’ll explain everything. She’s promised herself she’ll do that and she’ll hold to it. Just not quite yet.

  ‘Wish mine was more like yours,’ says Isabel, making a face. ‘She just will not get off my case. I mean, I cou
ld actually get married in four months.’

  Sasha’s turn to grimace. ‘God, imagine getting shackled at sixteen. I have so much I want to do before I get lumbered with all that crap.’

  Iz grins. ‘Yeah, yeah, we all know what you’re going to be doing this summer. That’s when you’re not walking the Inca Trail and bungee jumping off the Grand Canyon and swimming with dolphins in the Galapagos –’

  ‘It was Australia – I don’t think they even have dolphins in the Galapa–’

  She stops and laughs, seeing their faces. ‘OK, OK. Perhaps I do go on a bit.’

  Their mouths drop open, mock-aghast. ‘No, seriously?’

  ‘Anyway,’ says Patsie, popping a Haribo into her mouth and chewing loudly. ‘At least it’d be better than no one wanting to marry you at all. Like that creep Scott.’

  Isabel bursts out laughing. ‘No one’d shag him – imagine that pizza face rubbing all over your tits!’

  They’re squealing with laughter now, rolling in the seats and clutching their stomachs. The boys are looking round, wondering what’s going on and clearly worried the joke is on them, which just sets the girls off all over again.

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  3 April 2018

  19.25

  ‘I’m sorry, I should have said something before. But I didn’t want to worry you.’

  Alex turns back to the chopping board and reaches for another tomato. She’s trying to pretend everything is OK but she’s gripping the knife so tightly her knuckles are white.

  ‘Osbourne doesn’t think there’s anything to be concerned about. But there could be something in the press –’

  ‘There’s bound to be, isn’t there?’ Her voice trembles a little and I can see her willing herself to keep control. ‘It was all over the papers back then, you know it was. It was like – like – the Yorkshire Ripper.’

  They called Parrie the Roadside Rapist long before they knew his real name. He dragged his victims off the pavement and assaulted them in undergrowth and darkened alleyways and deserted car parks reeking of piss. But that was just the start; we never thought we would end up thinking the first women were the lucky ones. We didn’t know, then, what he was capable of.

  Alex puts the knife down now and leans against the counter.

  ‘Alex, leave that for a minute, please. You don’t need to pretend – not with me.’

  She turns to face me and my heart contracts at how pale she is. I pull out a chair for her and she sits down heavily.

  ‘We all knew he’d be released sometime. He’s done eighteen years.’

  ‘It’s not enough,’ she says quickly, her voice so harsh it’s as if she’s wrenching out the words. ‘After what he did. The threats –’

  I reach for her hand. ‘Well, let’s hope the parole board agree with you.’

  She pulls away from me and reaches a hand to her hair, pushing it away from her face. Her cheeks are flushed now and I can see a pulse flickering in her throat.

  ‘Try not to let it prey on your mind – it’s not good for you – or the baby.’

  She meets my gaze and smiles weakly. ‘Easier said than done, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I know, but I still had to say it.’

  ‘Did Osbourne say when it might happen? If they do let him out, when could it be?’

  ‘He thinks the hearing could be as early as next month.’

  She gasps. ‘Before the baby? He could get out before the baby?’

  ‘Look, even if he does – there’s no way they’ll allow him to come back to Oxford. And that’s still a very big “if” as far as I’m concerned.’

  I’m talking ballsier than I feel, but she knows me too well. ‘There’s something, isn’t there?’ she says, searching my face. ‘Something you’re not telling me.’

  I can lie to Osbourne; I can even lie to myself. But I have never managed to lie to my wife.

  ‘The case I’ve been working on. There are – similarities.’

  ‘What do you mean similarities?’

  ‘That girl who was abducted – the one I told you about. Faith Appleford. The man who did it ripped out some of her hair. But that’s not so unusual,’ I say, crashing on. ‘I’ve seen stuff like that before.’

  Once or twice, maybe, in twenty years, but that’s only a lie by omission. I can forgive myself that.

  ‘You said similarities. Plural.’

  There are reasons why my wife is an exceptional lawyer. Attention to detail is one of them.

  ‘He used cable ties.’ I pause. ‘And put a plastic bag over her head.’

  ‘Just like last time,’ she whispers.

  I reach again for her hand and her fingers grip mine. ‘But that doesn’t prove anything, you know it doesn’t.’

  But Alex isn’t buying it, and who can blame her. The plastic bag and the cable ties were key elements of the prosecution case.

  But not the main one.

  I should know.

  * * *

  Sent: Weds 03/04/2018, 20.35 Importance: High

  From: Sean.Cameron@hmps.gsi.gov.uk

  To: DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk

  Subject: Prisoner ZX05566 Parrie, G

  Dear DI Fawley,

  You were enquiring about visitors to the above inmate. In the last six months Parrie has received visits from the following:

  Ms Geraldine Hughes (partner)

  Mrs Ivy Parrie (mother)

  Mrs Hazel Cousins (sister)

  Mr David Chandler (solicitor)

  Parrie’s list of approved phone numbers includes all the above, with the addition of Mr Jeffrey Parrie (brother) and Mrs Sandra Parrie (former wife and mother of his three children).

  If you require more details as to dates and times, please let me know.

  S. Cameron

  Custodial Manager, HMP Wandsworth

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  4 April 2018

  07.50

  Harrison is halfway out of his office when I get there. He looks distracted.

  ‘I don’t have much time,’ he says. ‘Meeting with Martin Dempster.’

  The Police Commissioner. Just my luck.

  ‘Can we go into your office for a moment, sir?’

  He gives me a look at that. I have his attention now.

  As the door closes behind us, he turns to me. ‘This is about Gavin Parrie, I take it?’

  Sometimes, just sometimes, I underestimate Harrison.

  * * *

  When the news comes on at 8.00 Fiona Blake switches on the kettle and gets two mugs out of the cupboard. She checks her watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. It’s not like Sasha to be this late back. If she sleeps over at Patsie’s she always comes home early, so she can change for school. Fiona reaches into the fridge for milk and pours granola into a bowl. Any minute now, she thinks, I’ll hear the key in the door. Any minute now she’ll be in here like a whirlwind, slurping her tea, downing her food far too fast, out of the door again before Fiona can draw breath.

  She’s worrying about nothing. Sash will be back.

  Any minute now.

  * * *

  It’s the morning meeting. Gislingham is leaning against the one functioning radiator (sergeant’s privilege). As for Fawley, he’s leading from the front – both literally and metaphorically. Just as he’s done ever since they started this bloody investigation. Gislingham isn’t about to complain, but this is supposed to be one of his jobs and, to be honest, it’s just a bit humiliating, especially in front of Asante. It’s not that he thinks Fawley doesn’t trust him, but for some reason he just can’t let this case rest. Quinn still reckons he’s in the middle of a domestic, and says so loudly to anyone who’ll listen, but Gis has his own reasons for discounting that one. His wife saw Alex Fawley in the mother-and-baby boutique in Summertown a couple of weekends ago and was convinced she looked pregnant. Which, with the Fawleys’ history, would account for any amount of anxiety displacement activity on the DI’s part. Not to
mention the stopping smoking and the endless Polo mints. He’s got through three in the last half-hour alone.

  ‘Did you ask this Kenneth Ashwin if he’d be prepared to give us his prints?’ Fawley asks.

  ‘Nothing doing,’ says Quinn. ‘Started getting bolshie about not being under arrest and infringing his right to privacy so I backed off.’

  ‘What about the other vans?’

  ‘So far I’ve managed to rule out the carpet cleaners and the locksmith. Both have solid alibis.’

  Fawley turns to Everett. He’s starting to look irritable. ‘Anything from the FE college?’

  Everett shakes her head. ‘As far as we can tell, no one else apart from the principal has any idea Faith is trans. And to be honest, I don’t think it would be an issue even if they did. One of the lecturers we spoke to was wearing blue lipstick and a dress.’

  ‘I take it you mean a bloke,’ says Quinn.

  ‘Yes, I do mean a bloke,’ she says, over the laughter. ‘But that’s the point. He didn’t give a toss and no one else was batting an eyelid either. This generation – they can’t see what all the bloody fuss is about. And as for what happened to Faith, I really can’t see anyone who knows her doing that. She’s just a really nice kid, trying to get on with her life.’

  ‘What about the Basingstoke angle?’ asks Fawley. Who wasn’t laughing.

  ‘I spoke to her old head teacher,’ says Ev, ‘and she clearly had absolutely no idea Daniel wasn’t still Daniel.’

  ‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it? Don’t trans kids have to live as their new gender for a while before they can be eligible for treatment?’

  Ev shrugs. ‘Perhaps she just didn’t want to start doing that until she could make a completely new start. Either way, I think Basingstoke is a dead end.’

  Baxter mutters something about ‘dead end’ being the nicest thing anyone’s probably ever said about Basingstoke, which raises more laughter.

  Meanwhile Fawley is trying to get eye contact with Somer but after the car crash between them yesterday she’s avoiding looking at him. Gis glances at Ev and she gives a tiny shrug: she clearly thinks the DI’s made his own bed on that one.