All the Rage (DI Fawley)

by Cara Hunter

  Please

  No

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  5 April 2018

  17.22

  I’m not the first on-site; I can see Colin Boddie’s car, and the CSI van is already parked up. But the two technicians are still sitting inside. They know I’ll want to see the scene for myself before it’s touched. Before it’s disturbed.

  I turn up my collar before I get out, hoping rain this heavy will give me some sort of anonymity, but the hacks have already worked out something is up. There are too many of us here now: however casually we play this, it’s only a matter of time.

  The uniform at the tape sends me in the right direction without (thankfully) being witless enough to stand there and actually point, and soon I’m over my boots in mud and slurry and struggling to keep vertical. We’re in enough shit, frankly, without the literal version. Up ahead I can see a white tent, a scattering of search party members, and Ian Barnetson, standing unmoving, watching me approach. His face is bleak.

  ‘Are we sure it’s her?’ I say as I draw level.

  He nods. ‘As sure as we can be right now, sir, based on what she was wearing.’

  ‘Have we found anything else?’

  ‘No weapon in the immediate vicinity, but we don’t know where she went into the water, so it could be anywhere. Likewise there’s no handbag and no phone.’ He holds my gaze. ‘And no underwear either. The state of the body – I don’t think there’s much doubt about what he did to her.’

  I swallow hard. Force myself to put up some professional protection. And then I think about Sasha’s mother, who won’t have that luxury. About her father, who’s only just found her again. I wonder what I’d do, how I’d feel if it was me – if I had a daughter. And then I think – and it comes almost as a wonder – perhaps I already do.

  In the gloom inside the CSI tent the only thing I can see at first is Colin Boddie crouched on the ground, his paper suit slightly luminous in the failing light. I say his name and he stands up and turns towards me and gestures to what they found.

  There’s no blood, because the river has seen to that, but there is damage. A cruel, relentless, again-and-again damage that would have taken time and intent to inflict. Dozens of cuts and contusions on her bare legs, and the washed-out stains of the same violence on her clothes. The flesh around her wrists sliced and swollen by the cable ties where she tried desperately to get free. And worse – worse than all this – the plastic bag, knotted hard behind her neck, clinging half transparent to the mess of brain and bone and hair.

  A plastic bag. Cable ties. I can’t pretend I wasn’t expecting this. But it’s a kick in the gut all the same.

  ‘She took one hell of a beating,’ says Boddie quietly. ‘But you don’t need a pathologist to tell you that.’

  ‘Please tell me at least some of those injuries are post-mortem.’

  He makes a face. ‘Some of them, yes. But the way that bag is tied, it’s possible she blacked out from lack of oxygen. We’ll just have to hope so, won’t we. At least before he started on her face.’

  * * *

  * * *

  ‘He must be the one who found her,’ observes Nina Mukerjee as a tall uniformed officer passes by where she and Clive Conway are unloading their equipment from the back of the CSI van.

  Conway glances across. The man is up to his waist in mud. ‘That’s Barnetson. Poor sod. It doesn’t get any shittier than that.’

  There’s a group of CID officers gathered a few yards away and Nina watches Barnetson go up and join them.

  ‘Fawley doesn’t look too happy either,’ she says.

  ‘Well, are you surprised?’ replies Clive, not bothering to look. ‘That’s one pair of Hugo Boss brogues I wouldn’t want to be in right now.’

  ‘It’s not his fault the press are shits. Or that people have ridiculous expectations about clear-up times based on the crap they see on telly.’

  ‘It’s not just that,’ he says, glancing up. ‘Word is there’s another case – someone Fawley put away years ago. Apparently the similarities were already starting to look embarrassing. And now this.’

  He gives Nina a meaningful look, then turns to lift out the last case, banging the doors shut.

  ‘You don’t seriously think Fawley would fabricate evidence?’

  Nina wouldn’t say she knew the DI very well – not personally anyway. But she’s never had the slightest doubt about his professionalism. Or his integrity.

  Conway shrugs. ‘It doesn’t have to be a conspiracy. Could just be a good old-fashioned cock-up.’

  At the far end of the car park, three harassed uniforms are trying to keep the press corralled behind the police tape, but there’ll still be footage of Fawley on tonight’s news. And of us too, no doubt, thinks Nina. There’s always mileage in a white suit. Until, of course, the undertakers arrive.

  She drags herself back to the task in hand. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘One of the search teams has found what looks like drag marks on the bank. Could be where she went in.’

  Nina squints up at the sky. If it was dry, they’d be looking for footprints, blood, DNA, but now?

  Clive makes a face, reading her mind. ‘I know, but if we wanted a cushy life we’d never have gone into this bloody job in the first place, now would we.’

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  5 April 2018

  17.50

  I get in the car and dial Somer. She must be expecting something like this – at some level we all have – but fearing it and knowing it are still worlds apart, and no one’s going to feel that more than her.

  ‘Somer? I’m at the Marston Ferry Road. We found her.’

  A breath in. And then out. If Sasha was alive I’d have said so by now.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to land you with talking to Fiona.’

  This time, even I know I don’t have a choice: I have to talk to the Super, and fast. Because the time it takes for this news to get out is measuring in minutes, not hours, and when it does, it’s going to be open season on the Roadside Rapist case. Parrie’s lawyers will see to that.

  ‘I need to brief Harrison ASAP, so can you get over to Windermere Avenue? The press are all over us here and I’m worried Fiona will find out before I get back. Take Ev with you if you can.’

  ‘What do you want me to tell her?’

  Her voice sounds dry, half-choked.

  ‘Say we haven’t yet made a formal identification, but given the age of the victim and where she was found, it’s very unlikely it’s someone else.’

  ‘OK, I understand. I’ll make sure she’s prepared. But you’re certain, are you, sir? You don’t think there’s any doubt?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s any doubt at all. It’s definitely Sasha.’

  ‘OK, sir. Leave it with me.’ Her voice is stronger now. The police officer in her is winning. At least for now. ‘Will you want me to bring her in for the ID?’

  ‘Actually, I think –’

  Again I hear the intake of breath; she knows what that means.

  ‘Let’s just say dental records may be the best bet. For all our sakes.’

  * * *

  BBC News online

  5 April 2018 | Last updated at 18:24

  BREAKING: Body found in search for missing Oxford girl, 15

  Residents in the Marston area of Oxford have reported that the missing local teenager Sasha Blake may have been found in an area of open ground close to where she was last seen. In the last hour, a number of people have tweeted pictures of a white police tent being set up on a site alongside the river Cherwell. An undertaker’s van has also been spotted in the nearby car park, adding weight to speculation that it is indeed a body that has been found.

  Thames Valley Police have not issued a statement as yet.

  More news on this as we hear it.

  25 comments

  Sylvia_Meredith_245

  How truly terribl
e – such a tragic loss of a young life before it even began. My heart goes out to her family

  Shani_benet_151

  My daughter is at the same school as Sasha – her year group are just beside themselves. She was so popular and so talented. She even got some sort of internship with Vogue for next summer. They had 100s of applicants but they picked her

  Amber_Saffron_Rose

  They’ll probably have a memorial service, won’t they?

  Johnjoe_84_Wantage

  The mother was on the news on her own. So where’s the bloody dad, that’s what I want to know. He’ll have something to do with it. Just you wait

  Shani_benet_151

  How can you say something like that? Don’t you think her family and friends are going through enough without you chiming in – what if they’re reading this, have you thought about that? You have NO IDEA what you’re talking about so just zip it why don’t you

  Johnjoe_84_Wantage

  Just because you don’t like what Im saying doesn’t mean its not true. You see if Im not right

  * * *

  As soon as Everett and Somer turn into Windermere Avenue they know they’re too late. The press are three deep opposite the house already; cameras trained on the door, ready for the police, relatives, the Tesco delivery – they don’t care who it is as long as it gets Fiona Blake to the doorstep. Others are homing in on anything that might be Sasha’s – a bicycle just visible down the side return, a sticker in a bedroom window. There’s no sign of life inside: upstairs and down, the curtains are drawn, but there are still people crowded behind the officers on the pavement, and on the top floors of the adjacent houses the neighbours are straining for a better look.

  ‘Bloody vultures,’ says Somer, turning off the engine. ‘Can’t they see the damage they’re doing?’

  ‘They don’t care,’ says Ev, staring out of the window. ‘Why let tact get in the way of a good story?’

  The Sky reporter is talking live now, gesturing back towards the house with a practised one-quarter twist.

  ‘Thames Valley Police have yet to issue a statement, but speculation is growing that the body of fifteen-year-old Sasha may indeed have been found, less than two miles from this house, which she shares with her mother, Fiona Blake, forty-three.’

  Ev looks across at Somer, who’s gripping the steering wheel just a bit too hard.

  ‘Look, Erica, I know this is easy for me to say, but try not to take it too personally. Cases like this – they’ll break your heart if you let them. But that’s not what Fiona needs. She needs us to find this bastard. That’s all. Find him, lock him up and do our damnedest to lose the key.’

  Somer nods. ‘I know. Sorry. Didn’t mean to –’

  ‘It’s OK. You don’t need to apologize. Not to me, anyway.’ She loosens her seat belt and reaches for the door handle. ‘Right. Time for me to give those shits a piece of my mind.’

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  5 April 2018

  18.54

  ‘I don’t have any choice, Adam. You must see that.’

  I nod. Though part of me doesn’t see it at all. The angry, defensive, you-cannot-be-serious part.

  ‘So what do you propose, sir?’

  Harrison’s eyes narrow. He’s clearly picked up on my tone and he doesn’t like it. But I don’t care; if I sound pissed off it’s because I am.

  ‘I’ve asked the press office to prepare a statement confirming that there will now be an informal review of the Roadside Rapist case. That we believe it only prudent to assess the evidence again in the light of recent events, in order to ensure continued public confidence in the police. And if it becomes clear that a formal reference to the Criminal Cases Review Commission is appropriate –’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake –’

  ‘Come on, Adam. You know as well as I do that it’s better to get out in front of a story like this. It’s all over Twitter already.’

  ‘You can’t seriously think that Gavin Parrie is innocent? That it was someone else all along – someone completely under the radar – who’s started up again, all these years later –’

  ‘It’s not what I think that’s important, Adam. We have to be seen to be doing the right thing. And all the more so if –’

  ‘If? If what? If I got it wrong – if I fucked up. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’

  Harrison’s fiddling with something on his desk now. Anything to avoid looking me in the eye. ‘That sort of attitude isn’t going to help. It’s perfectly reasonable that the Chief Constable should ask us to demonstrate we’ve considered all the alternative theories of the crime.’

  If I wasn’t so furious I’d laugh out loud. In fact, I’m almost furious enough to laugh anyway. Which would really land me in the shit.

  There’s a silence. An angry, fizzing silence.

  Harrison sits back again. ‘In the meantime, I will, of course, have to bring in someone else.’

  ‘Someone else?’

  ‘You can’t possibly handle it any more, Adam. It’s a manifest conflict of interest, surely you can see that?’

  ‘Who? Who are you bringing in?’

  ‘Ruth Gallagher, from the Major Crimes unit. She’ll take on the Appleford/Blake inquiry, and liaise with whoever the Chief Constable selects to do the Parrie review.’

  It could be worse. In fact, it could be a lot worse. I’ve only met Gallagher at the odd police social thing, but I know of her. She’s shrewd and she’s uncompromising, but she’s good. And she’s fair. She’ll call it how she sees it.

  ‘And I will, of course, have to inform Parrie’s lawyers.’

  I don’t reply. I don’t trust myself to say anything civil, but either way, the phone ringing saves me from myself.

  Harrison seizes the handset. ‘I said I didn’t want to be disturbed,’ he barks. Then he stops, glances at me, looks away. ‘Tell her that at this moment in time we have no statement to make, but one will be issued in due course.’

  He puts the handset down and gives me a heavy look.

  ‘That,’ he says, ‘was Jocelyn Naismith.’

  * * *

  Outside, the rain shows no sign of easing, but there’s no window on the weather in the morgue. Here, as always, the light is just a bit too bright, and the neon tubes hum beneath the low murmur of voices and the clatter of metal on metal. There are two CSIs and an exhibits officer in the room but Gislingham is the only one of the CID team present. He told the rest of them it’s his turn and they’re too busy to go mob-handed (which is true), but the real reason is because he doesn’t want the women seeing this. And yes, he knows he’d have got labelled a sexist throwback if he’d actually said so, but as far as he’s concerned, it’s just called ‘being considerate’.

  ‘Ah, just you, is it, Sergeant?’ says Colin Boddie from the other side of the room. His assistant is behind him tying his gown.

  ‘We’ve got a lot on.’

  Boddie gives him a wry look. ‘Likewise. So let’s get on with it, shall we?’

  * * *

  The room is silent.

  It has been, ever since Somer ran out of words.

  Fiona Blake has asked nothing, said nothing. She’s not hysterical, she’s not frantic. She’s just sitting there, in the cold and curtained room, her face running with tears she isn’t even bothering to wipe away. Somer’s never seen anyone so silent, and so still. She’s never seen anyone in so much pain.

  And as they sit there, in the deepening dark, from the pavement outside comes the drum of the rain and the low drone of the press; and from the kitchen, the sound of Everett doing her best to comfort Sasha’s sobbing and inconsolable friend.

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  5 April 2018

  19.05

  ‘I don’t know the name – who is she?’

  I’m in the car, on the phone. I got soaked running even the fifty yards across the car park, but I needed to talk to Alex and I wanted privacy more than I wanted to stay dry.
/>
  The woman I saw at the press conference; the woman I thought I recognized.

  ‘Jocelyn Naismith works for The Whole Truth.’

  With anyone else, I’d have to explain. Anyone outside the criminal justice system, anyway. But my wife is a lawyer. She knows all about The Whole Truth – about their campaigns for people convicted on erroneous evidence, their dogged persistence in overturning miscarriages of justice. She’s watched and applauded their work for the best part of a decade. But this is different: this time it’s close to home.

  ‘They’ve taken on the Parrie case – seriously?’ Her voice is a note or two higher than usual. The pitch of anxiety. And she’s breathing far too fast. This is not good.

  ‘Apparently his lawyers have approached them before but they’ve always turned him down.’

  ‘Until now,’ she says bitterly. ‘That means they’ll be looking at it all again – everything will be raked up and pored over. And then they’ll start looking at these new cases – all those similarities you keep going on about.’

  That isn’t exactly fair, but how can I blame her.

  ‘They don’t have access to that information, Alex. Not about live cases.’

  Which is true – for now.

  ‘And we don’t have post-mortem results yet on Sasha Blake,’ I continue quickly, before she has a chance to reply. ‘If we’re lucky, we’ll get something from that which will put paid to this Parrie crap once and for all.’

  And stop the case review in its tracks before it even gets started. But what if all the autopsy does is prove that I’m wrong? Not just wrong right now, about these latest attacks, but wrong before. Wrong right from the start, when all this began.

  What then?

  * * *

  Boddie cuts away the carrier bag and hands it to one of the CSI technicians to be tagged in evidence. She’s wearing a mask but Gislingham can see how shaken she is. As for Gis, he’s heard the phrase ‘beaten to a pulp’ a thousand times – he’s used it himself without even thinking. But he’s never seen it. Not really; not like this. From one side Sasha Blake looks almost normal, but from the other –