All the Rage (DI Fawley)

by Cara Hunter

  Quinn makes a face. ‘What’s the bloody point? Right now, we have absolutely sod all to say.’

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  4 April 2018

  12.32

  ‘We checked with the crematorium on our way back,’ says Ev, looking round the room. ‘Ashley Brotherton was definitely where he said he was at the time Faith was attacked. He was one of the coffin bearers – there must have been fifty people who saw him there.’

  It’s probably just as well I’m letting Gis run this meeting, because I’m struggling to keep my temper. If it was any other case would I really be expecting a major breakthrough by now? Perhaps I just need to be more realistic. More patient. Trouble is, there probably isn’t a single person I know who would use that particular adjective to describe me. Least of all my wife.

  Gis turns to Somer. ‘Did you ask Faith about the plaster?’

  She glances up. ‘Yes, Sarge, but it didn’t ring any bells.’

  ‘What about the other building firms? Did we turn up anything there?’

  Somer looks down at her notes. ‘I spoke to both Razniaks and Rathbone & Sons. Rathbone’s vans are green, not white, and Razniak only use transits, so the one on the CCTV isn’t either of theirs. But we’re basing all this on the ladder on the roof – it might not be a builder at all. It could just as easily be a decorator or a window cleaner or even someone who fits satellite dishes –’

  ‘Wouldn’t get plaster dust doing that though, would they,’ says Baxter stolidly.

  ‘It could still be a builder,’ observes Asante, ‘just one from further out of town –’

  The door swings open – suddenly and fast. It’s the desk officer, wide-eyed and out of breath.

  ‘DI Fawley? We’ve just had a call transferred across from 999. A woman called Fiona Blake. It’s her daughter. She’s fifteen. And she’s gone missing.’

  * * *

  THE CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT

  The Old Bailey

  London EC4M 7EH

  BEFORE:

  THE HONOURABLE MR. JUSTICE HEALEY

  R E G I N A

  v.

  GAVIN FRANCIS PARRIE

  * * *

  MR. R. BARNES Q.C. and MISS S. GREY

  appeared on behalf of the prosecution.

  MRS. B. JENKINS Q.C. and MR. T. CUTHBERT

  appeared on behalf of the defendant.

  * * *

  Friday, 29th October, 1999

  [Day 11]

  GERRY BUTLER, sworn

  Examined by MR. BARNES

  Q. Is your full name Gerald Terence Butler?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Mr. Butler, I would like to ask you some questions about the events of the evening of 4th September 1998. Could you tell the court, in your own words, what you saw?

  A. I was on my way home from work, walking along Latimer Road. There’s a stretch along there where there are some bushes and stuff. It was getting dark so I didn’t realise what was happening until I got quite close.

  Q. And what was happening?

  A. There was a girl – a young woman – I could hear noises, like she was trying to call out. Then I realised there was a bloke there too. He was on top of her.

  Q. On top of her, how?

  A. She was on her front – you know, face down – and he was straddling her. She had a bag over her head and he was tying her hands.

  Q. Tying her hands in what way?

  A. I couldn’t see then, but I realised later it was cable ties.

  Q. What happened next?

  A. I started shouting and he realised I was there and scarpered.

  Q. Did you see his face?

  A. Not really – he looked up and saw me but he had a hoodie on so I didn’t really see what he looked like. And then he pushed through the bushes and ran out the other side.

  Q. What is your profession, Mr. Butler?

  A. I’m in Security. Used to be in the army, but I’ve been in Security ever since I came out.

  Q. You are, in fact, a bouncer at one of the Oxford nightclubs. Kubla, on the High Street, isn’t that right?

  A. Yeah, been there four years. I do the odd shift behind the bar sometimes, when they’re short-staffed, but mostly it’s on the door.

  Q. Could you confirm your height and weight for the court?

  A. Six two, 220 pounds.

  Q. And you keep fit?

  A. I work out, I keep in shape. I have to, in my job.

  Q. And the man you saw, what would you estimate his height and weight to be – approximately?

  A. About five eight, but quite skinny. Say 160 pounds?

  Q. So in his eyes, you would have been quite intimidating?

  A. I guess so.

  Q. What happened next?

  A. I went over to the girl and asked if she was OK. She was in a pretty bad way – her face was all scratched and he’d pulled out some of her hair. But he hadn’t – well, you know.

  Q. He hadn’t?

  A. Raped her. Assaulted her.

  Q. Because you turned up just in time.

  MRS. JENKINS: My apologies, my Lord, but Mr. Butler cannot possibly know the assailant’s intentions.

  MR. JUSTICE HEALEY: Mr. Barnes, perhaps you might rephrase your question?

  MR. BARNES: Did you see any evidence that there had been an attempted sexual assault, Mr. Butler?

  A. He’d yanked up her skirt – I could see where he’d pulled at her knickers. So, yeah, I’d say I did.

  Q. You proceeded to call 999?

  A. That’s right. I hung around with her till the police arrived. She was crying and that.

  Q. And this is the young woman who has been identified to the court as Ms. Sheldon?

  A. Yeah, that’s her.

  MR. BARNES: I have no further questions, thank you.

  * * *

  Gis pulls the sheet off the printer and pins it up on the whiteboard. Behind him, the room is silent. It’s a picture of Sasha Blake. Pale clear skin, blue eyes, a swing of dark ponytail.

  She looks just like Faith.

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  4 April 2018

  13.45

  Windermere Avenue can’t be more than half a mile from the Appleford house, and when Somer and I draw up outside the resemblance is even more pronounced. Even the net curtains are the same.

  The door opens long before we get to the gate. A tall black woman with her hair in elaborate braids.

  ‘I’m Yasmin,’ she says, coming towards me, her hand extended. ‘Fiona’s neighbour. She’s inside.’

  There are two more women in the small sitting room, one either side of Fiona Blake. She’s rocking slightly. Her face is tight with anxiety.

  ‘Mrs Blake? I’m Detective Inspector Adam Fawley. This is DC Erica Somer.’

  The two other women get to their feet. They have that look we see so often in this job – half genuine concern and half immense relief that this particular nightmare hasn’t descended on them. They can’t get out of the place quick enough. ‘We’ll give you some space, Fiona,’ one of them says, backing towards the door. ‘We’ll pop back later. You know, just in case there’s anything we can do.’

  When they’re gone, we take our seats; me on the sofa, Somer on the only chair. Judging from how she looks – how she smells – I don’t think Fiona Blake has even bothered to shower this morning. One of the uniforms must have asked her for a recent photo of her daughter because there’s a slew of snaps on the coffee table in front of us. Sasha as a toddler, her hair in jaunty bunches; in school uniform grinning from ear to ear; wearing a leotard, as skinny as a rake, holding up some sort of medal; and older, more contemporary shots on beaches, in the back garden, her arm round her mum. Smiling, relaxed. Happy.

  ‘Can you take us through what happened?’ says Somer softly. ‘When did you last see Sasha?’

  The woman takes a breath that buckles into a sob. ‘Yesterday afternoon. When she got back from school. I made her a cup of tea and then I went
to work.’

  ‘But you were expecting her to stay at home last night?’

  She wipes her eyes and shakes her head. ‘No. She was going out with three of her friends. Just for an hour or so – it was a school night. But she’s very sensible. She wouldn’t stay out late.’

  Somer takes out her notebook. ‘Can you tell me her friends’ names?’

  ‘Patsie Webb, Isabel Parker and Leah Waddell. Patsie’s here – in the kitchen – I asked her to come, after I called you. I knew you’d want to talk to her.’

  ‘When did you get home last night?’

  ‘Just after twelve. I work at a restaurant in town. We were really busy. There was a group in. Americans. One of those coach tour things.’

  Somer makes a note. ‘And did you check Sasha’s room when you got back?’

  Fiona puts her hand to her mouth; she has a tissue gripped in her fist but it’s starting to come apart and fragments of damp paper are shredding on to her clothes. ‘Yes, I did. But she said she might sleep over at Patsie’s so I didn’t worry. She’s done that for years. But she always comes home first thing. You know, to change and that before she goes to school.’

  ‘So it wasn’t till this morning you realized there was something wrong?’

  She nods. ‘That’s when I tried to call her but her phone was off. And then I rang Patsie and Isabel but they said they hadn’t seen her since the night before.’

  She starts to rock again. ‘I should have called Sash last night to make sure – I shouldn’t just have assumed –’

  Somer reaches over and takes her gently by the hand. ‘It was gone midnight. Her phone would probably have been off even if you had called. You mustn’t blame yourself.’

  I get to my feet and walk through to the back. In the kitchen, Yasmin has her arms round a teenage girl, holding her tight against her body. The girl’s narrow shoulders are heaving in sobs.

  ‘Patsie?’

  The girl looks round and stares at me, pushing her hair away from her face. Her eyes are red.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Fawley,’ says Yasmin, touching her gently on the shoulder. ‘He’s the policeman looking for Sasha.’

  The girl’s eyes widen and Yasmin gives her an encouraging squeeze. ‘He just wants to ask you some questions, love. It’s nothing to be scared about.’

  I pull out a chair and sit down. Make myself smaller. Less intimidating. ‘I’m sure you understand, Patsie. We need all the information we can get, right now.’

  Patsie glances up at Yasmin, who gives her a reassuring nod.

  ‘OK,’ she says, sniffing and wiping her nose.

  ‘I’ll make some tea,’ says Yasmin.

  * * *

  Somer sits forward a little on the chair. ‘Has there been anything worrying Sasha lately, Mrs Blake? Has anything unusual happened you can think of?’

  She wants to ask if they’ve noticed anyone hanging around – if Sasha might have thought she was being stalked – but the woman is spooked enough already without hearing that.

  ‘She’s been fine,’ Fiona says quickly. ‘Happy. Busy. Everything’s been completely and totally normal. And if there had been anything worrying her she’d have told me. She tells me everything – there’s just her and me. We’re really close.’

  Somer wonders if any teenage girl ever tells her mother absolutely everything. But perhaps that’s just her own experience talking. And the photos spread out on the table tell their own tale.

  ‘There’s no one you can think of she might have gone to see – grandparents perhaps?’

  Fiona shakes her head. ‘My parents are in Portugal and Jonathan’s mother lives in Huddersfield. I can’t see Sasha going there. She doesn’t even like her.’

  Somer hesitates. ‘What about a boyfriend?’

  Fiona shakes her head. ‘No. I mean, there are boys she likes, of course. At school. But she’s only fifteen. You know what girls are like at that age. They giggle a lot but it’s no more than that.’

  ‘I see. And she’d definitely tell you? If there was someone?’

  Fiona shoots her a look. ‘I just told you. She doesn’t keep secrets from me. She’s not that type of girl.’

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  4 April 2018

  13.56

  ‘Yeah, she’s deffo had boyfriends,’ says Patsie. There’s a mug of tea on the table in front of her but she’s barely touched it. She has her hands in her lap, and she must be fiddling about with something because I can sense the movement.

  ‘Is she seeing anyone at the moment?’

  ‘I think so. But I don’t know his name. Me and Iz – we thought he might be older than her.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  She’s still staring at her lap. ‘Just that she was, like, really cagey about him.’

  ‘Do you know where this boy lives? What he looks like?’

  She shakes her head. It’s like drawing teeth. Yasmin catches my eye and shrugs silently as if to say Teenagers – what did you expect?

  ‘And she’s definitely had boyfriends before?’

  Patsie looks up. ‘But she didn’t tell her mum because she thought she’d be angry. You know – that she’s had sex. She thinks Sash’s still,’ she blushes a little and avoids my eye, ‘you know, a virgin.’

  ‘OK, let’s leave that for now. Let’s go back to last night. You said you went to Summertown to have a pizza and then Leah walked home down the Banbury Road and the rest of you got the bus back towards Headington together?’

  A nod.

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Nine forty-five? I don’t really remember.’

  ‘Then you got off first, and Sasha and Isabel stayed on the bus.’

  Another nod.

  ‘And that was about 10.00 p.m.?’

  ‘Round then, yeah.’

  ‘And Sasha would have got off on Cherwell Drive.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But you don’t know where she was planning to go when she got off the bus?’

  She shrugs. ‘Up to her house? I mean, where else would she go?’

  That, of course, is the whole point of asking. But there’s no use getting tetchy with this girl.

  ‘Does Sasha have any other friends who live near that bus stop, Patsie? Someone she could have gone to see after she got off the bus?’

  A slow shake of the head. ‘I don’t think so. Nobody we like, anyway.’

  ‘So you can’t think of anywhere she’d have gone, apart from straight home?’

  Another shake of the head. She glances up at me briefly, almost shyly, and then stares at her lap again. It occurs to me – as it should have before – that she’s been texting on her phone this whole time.

  Time for a different tack. ‘Do you know anything about Sasha’s dad?’

  She looks up for real this time. ‘Why?’

  ‘I just need to get the full picture. Do you know if she still sees him?’

  Patsie hesitates, then bites her lip.

  * * *

  ‘She hasn’t seen her father for thirteen years. Not since the bastard walked out on the both of us.’

  Fiona Blake’s tone has hardened and Somer can’t honestly blame her. Abandoning a toddler isn’t exactly her idea of doing the right thing either.

  ‘Do you know where he’s living now?’

  Fiona shrugs. ‘Last I heard he’d shacked up with someone up north somewhere. But that was at least two years ago.’

  ‘And he’s never attempted to get in touch with Sasha?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No. Not once.’

  ‘So if he approached her in the street, she wouldn’t be likely to go off with him?’

  Fiona stares at her, and Somer can see the hope flare for a moment then die in her eyes. She shakes her head sadly. ‘She was three when he left. I doubt she’d even recognize him.’

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  4 April 2018

  14.09

  ‘He foun
d her on Facebook,’ says Patsie. ‘They messaged for a bit and then she bunked off school and met up with him about a month ago. But don’t tell her mum – she’d go mental.’

  ‘How did the meeting go?’

  Patsie shrugs. ‘OK. Dunno really. She said he was all right. They went to Nando’s.’

  As if that’s important. As if it makes any difference at all.

  ‘He told her he’s living in Leeds now,’ she says suddenly. ‘That she could go up there to see him.’

  ‘And is she going to do that?’

  Patsie shakes her head. ‘She said her mum would never let her.’

  I hold my breath, try not to look too eager. ‘But if he’d turned up – last night, say, as a surprise – would she have gone with him?’

  Patsie stares at me, as if this has only just occurred to her. ‘I guess,’ she says eventually. ‘I mean, she’d never get into a car with a weirdo or anything. But if it was her dad, that’d be different.’

  * * *

  ‘Could I see her room?’ asks Somer. ‘Would that be OK?’

  Fiona flashes her a look. ‘Shouldn’t you be out there looking for her? If some paedophile has abducted her what difference will looking at her room make? It’s a complete waste of time –’

  ‘We don’t know it’s a paedophile,’ says Somer gently. ‘She may be with someone she knows. That’s why we need to find out as much about her as we can.’

  Fiona looks at her and then away; the flash of temper evaporates as quickly as it came. She starts to cry again.

  Somer puts her hand on the woman’s shoulder. ‘And please believe me that we’re doing everything possible to find her. We already have a team out searching the entire surrounding area.’

  Fiona nods, and Somer tightens her grip a little. And when the woman looks up, she asks the question again, silently this time.

  ‘OK,’ Fiona says at last. ‘It’s upstairs. On the left.’

  It’s like staring at her teenage self. The boy bands may have changed but pretty much everything else about Sasha Blake’s room is uncannily like the one Somer left behind in Guildford more than a decade ago. When she helped her parents move house last year, it was all still there, like a time capsule, clean and tidy and dusted just as she left it. And now it’s as if she’s back there all over again. The mirror draped with pink fairy lights, the dreamcatcher over the bed, the box poking out underneath stuffed with shoes and scarves and bits of cheap jewellery, and the row of paperbacks on the shelf by the window. Pride and Prejudice, The Wings of the Dove, Look Back in Anger, Poems by John Keats. There’s a laptop on the desk, with a pile of National Geographic beside it and a book called 1,000 Things to Do Before You Die. There are yellow Post-its purfling the pages.