by Cara Hunter
GS: No. I was doing marking. I have a ton of it to get through. You have no idea.
GQ: Did you call anyone? Get any calls?
GS: Not that I can recall.
ES: What about the morning of the 1st? Where were you then?
GS: I’m sorry – I thought we were talking about Sasha?
ES: Just for our records, Mr Scott.
GS: That was last Monday, right? I was in class.
GQ: Really? Because Summertown High told us you have two free periods first thing on Mondays, and often don’t get in till after eleven.
GS: [flushes]
Yeah, well, I go away a lot at weekends. I have a cottage in the Brecon Beacons. It makes sense to drive back Monday morning. Less traffic.
ES: Were you at the cottage last weekend?
GS: No. I wasn’t.
GQ: So you were at home on Monday morning? You didn’t take the opportunity to go in early – catch up on all that marking you were talking about?
GS: Look, if you must know, I didn’t go in till after twelve that day. For obvious reasons.
ES: I’m sorry, Mr Scott, I’m not with you.
GS: It was bloody April Fool’s, wasn’t it? And, believe me, I’ve been through enough puerile pranks to last me a lifetime. Last year the little shits covered the bloody car in shaving foam – it took me an hour to get it all off – in front of the whole sodding school. I told her – if you’ve damaged the bloody paintwork I’ll have you up before the head quicker than you can say fixed-period exclusion.
ES: I see. So who did that? Who sprayed the car?
GS: [pause]
Some of the Year Tens.
ES: And this was last year? So that must have been Sasha’s year group?
GS: [pause]
Yes.
ES: You said ‘her’ – ‘I told her’. Was it Sasha you were referring to?
GS: If you must know, it was that Patsie. I’d just given her 52 for a piece of work that frankly barely deserved 35 and she was getting her own back. She’s a nasty vindictive little cow, always has been. She was egging on the lads, her and that Isabel and Leah. Sasha had nothing to do with it. I mean, she was there, but I could tell she was embarrassed. Not like the other three. They’re just complete airheads. You wouldn’t catch any of them at MOMA.
ES: The Museum of Modern Art – in Pembroke Street?
GS: [pause]
Yes, I go there a lot. I’m a Friend.
ES: And you’ve seen Sasha there?
GS: [flushes]
Once or twice.
ES: I see.
GS: No, you don’t ‘see’. It’s not what you’re thinking –
GQ: Which is what, precisely?
GS: I wasn’t stalking her or anything. I just happened to be there a couple of times. I’d recommended a couple of their shows to her. Things I thought she’d like. Look, have we finished now?
ES: Yes, I think that’s all for now, Mr Scott. Interview terminated at 20.17.
* * *
‘I didn’t believe a word that came out of his mouth.’
It’s Gislingham. Quinn and Somer have joined him and the rest of the team in the adjoining room, where they’ve been watching on the video feed.
Baxter shrugs. ‘Just came over as a sad git to me. I mean, I can’t see him abducting anyone. I just don’t think he has the balls.’
‘I bet he likes looking, though,’ says Ev grimly. ‘I bet that house of his is stacked with porn.’
‘Perhaps that’s why he went into art,’ replies Quinn. ‘All those tits and fannies.’
‘He doesn’t want us to search the car though, does he,’ says Gislingham. ‘Can’t see any good reason why not – not if he’s really got nothing to hide.’
Ev considers. ‘What if he gave Sasha a lift sometime? Perhaps that’s what he’s worried about – that we’d find her DNA in the car, even though it was actually completely innocent.’
‘If it was on the seat, yes,’ says Quinn. ‘But not if it’s in the bloody back.’
There’s a silence. They’re all remembering what happened to Faith. Whether it’s her DNA they might find in the back of that car.
‘I’m wondering,’ says Somer slowly. ‘It’s a bit of a long shot, but –’
‘Go on,’ says Gislingham.
‘Well, we still haven’t found any connection between Sasha and Faith, have we? And no connection between Graeme Scott and Faith at all, beyond the fact that they live quite close to one another.’
‘That may be all we need.’
‘I know, Sarge. But what Scott said about seeing Sasha at MOMA – I’d have to double-check but I’m pretty sure there was a postcard from there on Faith’s pinboard as well. An exhibition she must have been to. On Manolo Blahnik.’
Most of the men in the room look at her blankly.
‘Shoes,’ says Everett. ‘Extremely posh and expensive shoes. Though I bet Quinn knew that already, didn’t you?’
And evidently he did, though he’s clearly not about to admit it.
‘So you reckon Scott could have seen Faith there?’ asks Gislingham, coming to Quinn’s rescue.
Somer nods. ‘It has to be possible, doesn’t it? And if he did, it would have been easy enough to follow her home. Then once he knew where she lived –’
Gislingham nods grimly. ‘All the bastard had to do was wait.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
6 April 2018
20.55
She’s not the person I was expecting when I opened the door. She doesn’t have a pizza box for a start. It’s raining again and Ruth Gallagher looks half drowned, her hair stuck to her head.
‘Should have taken my umbrella,’ she says with a wry smile. ‘I never learn.’
I step back and open the door wider. ‘Come in. I’ve got a takeaway arriving any minute if you want to join me.’
She shakes her head quickly. ‘No – thank you, but no. I need to get back. There was just something I wanted to check and I thought it would be better done in person.’
‘It’s through there,’ I say, gesturing towards the living room.
She shrugs off her mac and takes off her shoes, then pads after me in her stockinged feet.
The living room is empty, which I knew but she clearly wasn’t expecting.
‘My wife’s having an early night,’ I say, sitting down. ‘She needs to take it easy right now.’
She looks suddenly anxious, as if she’s worried there’s something she doesn’t know.
‘She’s pregnant,’ I say. ‘Twenty-three weeks.’
I’ve heard the phrase ‘face lit up’ a thousand times but never seen it so suddenly and powerfully as I see it now. She is radiant with reflected happiness.
‘Oh, I am so pleased – what utterly wonderful news.’
‘Thanks. It’s been difficult, what with the Parrie case being dredged up again.’
She’s concerned now. ‘Oh, of course. What terrible timing.’
I pour her a glass of wine, though she only accepts a small one.
‘What did you want to ask me?’
She fishes in her pocket for her phone then scrolls down until she finds what she’s looking for.
‘This man,’ she says, handing me the phone. ‘His name is Graeme Scott. Do you recognize him by any chance?’
I frown. ‘No. Not at all. Who is he?’
Her sparkle has gone again and she just looks tired. Tired and dispirited. ‘One of Sasha Blake’s teachers. And quite possibly her stalker.’
‘You think he may have killed her?’
She makes a face. ‘Let’s just say he fits that psych profile Gow gave you after the Appleford attack. Almost too well, in fact.’
And if he fits that, he fits the Roadside Rapist profile too. I don’t need her to draw me a bloody diagram: she thinks this man could be in the frame.
‘How old is he?’ I say, looking up at her.
‘Old enough. But we don’t yet know where he was living twe
nty years ago.’
‘Well, his name never came up at the time. That I do know.’
She sighs. ‘I thought you’d probably say that, but I had to ask.’
She finishes her glass and gets ready to get up. ‘I must be going. Science homework awaits.’ She smiles quickly. ‘My son’s, not mine. But of course you have all that to look forward to.’
Most people wouldn’t say that. Most people would be too scared they might evoke the memory of Jake. I’ve seen that look on too many faces, these last two years. But not, perhaps, any more. Perhaps things really are going to be different now. The thought comes like a sudden rush of fresh sea air.
* * *
It’s gone 11.00 but there’s still a light under the door to Sasha’s room when Fiona Blake goes up to bed. She hesitates, then knocks softly, but there’s no reply. Patsie’s fallen asleep with the light on, she thinks, but it’s bound to wake her later. It was the same with Sasha – she loved reading in bed but was always dozing off over her book.
She pushes the door open slowly. Patsie is sprawled sideways against the pillows, her face turned away. Sasha’s old teddy bear is clutched to her chest and even though she knows she’s not her daughter, Fiona feels her heart buckle at the resemblance. The same ponytail, the same pyjamas; Patsie must have bought an identical pair. It wouldn’t surprise her – the two of them were completely inseparable. She wonders for a moment whether Patsie would like some of Sasha’s things, to remember her by. The clothes would be too small, but there’s the make-up, the handbags, the shoes. After all, Sasha has no need for any of them now – surely it’d be a good thing if they could make someone else happy. Especially someone who loved her.
And if Patsie doesn’t want any of it she’ll give it all to charity. She doesn’t want this room turning into a shrine. Frozen in time, gathering dust, colder and bleaker and further away every time she opens the door. That’s why she likes having Patsie here. She keeps the place warm, lived-in. Alive.
She moves quickly towards the bed, turns out the light and tiptoes back to the door, closing it gently behind her.
* * *
‘No, that’s fine. If you were out of the country I can confirm it with the Border Agency.’
Everett puts the phone down and grimaces. She’s had two coffees this morning but she could already do with another.
‘Trouble?’ asks Somer.
‘Well, let’s just say Gavin Parrie’s family aren’t overly pleased at being asked to confirm their whereabouts by the people they blame for banging him up in the first place.’
Somer makes a face in return. ‘I bet they’re not.’
Everett sits back. ‘If you ask me, the idea of Parrie hiring a hitman is bloody ludicrous. Like The Sopranos in Aylesbury.’
Somer grins and turns back to her screen. She’s been liaising with the press office about the TV reconstruction. They’d been struggling to find a girl who looked enough like Sasha, but one of her classmates has just come forward. Or rather her mother has. On the basis – apparently – that it could be her little darling’s big break: little Jemima wants to be an actress. Human beings, thinks Somer, they never fail to live down to your expectations.
‘What do you think of her?’ she says eventually, glancing across at Everett. ‘Gallagher, I mean.’
‘Seems OK. Fair. Bright. I don’t think she’s out to dump on Fawley if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘No, I didn’t get that impression either. Poor sod – he doesn’t deserve this.’
Ev looks up. ‘Yeah, I know. And as for his wife – imagine what she’s going through. As if losing your child wasn’t bad enough, now all this shit is coming back to haunt her.’
Somer bites her lip. It’s what happened to Alex Fawley in the first place that haunts her. Even if it was only – even if that man didn’t actually –
‘And let’s face it,’ says Everett, breaking into her thoughts, ‘you can totally understand Fawley. Who wouldn’t want to keep that man inside, in his position.’
But that, of course, is the whole point.
* * *
Sent: Sun 07/04/2018, 11.15Importance: High
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected],
[email protected]
cc: [email protected]
Subject: Graeme Scott – URGENT
Just heard back from the local council in the Brecon Beacons – we’ve got an address for Scott’s cottage. It’s near some godforsaken place called Ffrwdgrech (and yes, that is how you spell it). He’s had it since 1995. The key point is that late last year he applied for planning permission for some fairly extensive renovations that include knocking down some interior walls. And according to the last Building Inspector’s report he’s doing the work himself.
We’re bringing him in again. I’ve also applied for warrants for the cottage and the Oxford house, and for the car. And I reckon we’re going to get them.
GQ
* * *
Interview with Graeme Scott, conducted at St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford
7 April 2018, 2.50 p.m.
In attendance, DS C. Gislingham, DC G. Quinn, Mrs D. Owen (solicitor)
CG: For the benefit of the tape, Mr Scott was arrested at 1.15 this afternoon on suspicion of involvement in the abduction and murder of Sasha Alice Blake. A full forensic search is underway at Mr Scott’s home in Oxford and on his car, and Dyfed-Powys Police are carrying out a similar search at his property in Wales. Mr Scott is accompanied for this interview by his solicitor, Mrs Deborah Owen.
GS: I’ve already told you, I had absolutely nothing to do with any of this. I was at home Wednesday night, and I’ve never touched Sasha Blake. And as for that Faith Appleton girl, or whatever her name is, I told you before I’ve never even heard of her –
CG: [pushes across a photograph]
She lives less than a mile from you and uses the bus stop on Cherwell Drive. You’ve almost certainly seen her in the vicinity, even if you don’t know her name.
GS: [pushing the photo away]
I told you already – I’ve never seen her before in my life.
CG: The cottage in Wales – you’re renovating it, I believe.
GS: [warily]
Yes, so what?
CG: You’re doing the work yourself?
GS: It’s the only way I can afford it.
CG: Including specialist jobs like electrics and plasterwork?
GS: Yes, with the odd helping hand every now and again. But I still don’t see –
CG: When we did a forensic analysis of Faith Appleford’s clothes, we found minute traces of plaster dust. I suspect we will find exactly the same compound in the back of your car.
GS: I’m sure you will. But all that will prove is that I’ve done some sodding plastering. What you will not bloody well find is any DNA from that Faith girl, or from Sasha Blake for that matter. Not unless you plant it your bloody selves. Because they were never there –
CG: Faith told us there was some sort of loose covering on the floor of the vehicle. We’re assuming that her attacker laid down either plastic sheeting or a tarpaulin, to prevent the transfer of physical evidence. So even if we don’t find the girls’ DNA, it doesn’t mean they weren’t there.
DO: That’s not evidence, Sergeant.
CG: No. But this is.
[shows witness an evidence bag]
Do you recognize this, Mr Scott?
GS: [silence]
CG: Mr Scott?
GS: [silence]
CG: For the tape, the item is a girl’s hair elastic. It’s pink, with a small flower and a bit of diamanté in the middle. This struck us as a very odd thing for you to have, Mr Scott.
GS: [silence]
CG: Do you have a daughter? A niece?
GS: You know damn well I don’t.
CG: So how do you account for it?
DO: Where was this found, Sergeant?
/> GQ: In Mr Scott’s locker at Summertown High. The head gave us permission to search it.
GS: Look, I found it, OK?
DO: Has this item been conclusively identified as belonging to either of the two girls?
GQ: We’re awaiting DNA results, but Sasha’s mother says her daughter definitely had one just like this, which she can’t now find. So it’s looking pretty likely, if you ask me.
GS: Like I said, I found it. It was at school, after a class. That’s why it was in the locker.
CG: Did you know it was Sasha’s?
GS: [flustered]
I don’t know. I might have done.
CG: So why not give it back to her? Or at the very least hand it to Lost Property?
GS: I don’t know. Look, I must have just stuffed it in my pocket. I forgot all about the bloody thing.
GQ: Er, I don’t think so, mate.
GS: I’m not your ‘mate’ –
GQ: You took it out of your pocket and put it in your locker, where you’d see it half a dozen times a day. That doesn’t sound like ‘forgetting all about it’ to me.
DO: Either way, it doesn’t prove my client was involved in any way with Sasha Blake’s tragic death. The fact that he was in possession of the hair tie – assuming it is indeed ascertained to be hers – would be significant if and only if she was wearing it when she went missing. Do you have any evidence of that?
CG: [pause]
No, we don’t.
DO: But you must have a description of what she had on at the time? Does it include this hair tie?
CG: [pause]
No, it doesn’t.
DO: In that case, I venture to suggest you have precious little evidence at all. In fact, I can scarcely see adequate grounds for arrest, let alone –
CG: Given the seriousness of the crime, your client’s known association with Sasha Blake, and the physical proximity between his house and Faith Appleford’s, we will be holding your client in custody pending further enquiries.
GS: You’re actually saying I’m some sort of suspect?
GQ: We’re saying we’d like to confirm you aren’t one.
DO: May I have some time with my client?
CG: Absolutely. Interview terminated at 15.10.
* * *
‘What do you think, Bryan?’ says Gallagher.
They’re in the adjacent interview room, where the profiler has been scratching his observations into a Moleskine notebook.
