by Cara Hunter
DW: I can’t believe you arrested her – you can’t seriously think –
ES: We don’t ‘think’ anything, Mrs Webb. We just want the truth. Which is why I’d like Patsie to tell us what happened that night one more time.
PW: What again?
ES: Yes, again. You say you left Leah in Summertown at about 9.45, when the three of you got on the bus.
PW: I told you that – Iz gave you her bloody ticket, didn’t she?
ES: Yes, that’s right, she did.
VE: And then you got off on the Marston Ferry Road, and Sasha stayed on till Cherwell Drive, and the last time Isabel saw her she was standing at the bus stop, waiting for someone?
PW: Right.
VE: And Isabel stayed on the bus till Headington.
PW: Right.
VE: And she spoke to the bus driver. To ask him the time.
ES: You see, that’s always struck me as odd. I mean, that she spoke to him at all.
PW: Don’t see why.
ES: Young people like you – you don’t bother with watches any more. You check the time on your phones. Why did she need to ask the driver?
PW: Dunno. Perhaps her phone was off.
VE: Good guess. You’re right, it was. We checked. In fact, we’ve now established that all your phones were off between 9.00 and just after 10.30. Yours and Leah’s and Isabel’s. And that’s odd too.
PW: [shrugs]
ES: So we started asking ourselves why. Could it be, perhaps, that Isabel wanted an excuse to talk to that bus driver – that she wanted him to remember her? After all, she looks pretty distinctive, doesn’t she, with that bright-pink dip-dye of hers? He wasn’t likely to forget that.
VE: When did she dye it, Patsie?
PW: [shrugs]
Can’t remember.
VE: It must have been pretty recent because she didn’t have it when she met her mother on Walton Street.
PW: Whatever.
ES: And that was just a coincidence, was it? That she happened to dye it just before what happened to your friend?
PW: I don’t know what you’re getting at. Look – what difference does it make? We were on that bus, you know that. Iz gave you her ticket.
ES: Precisely. We know Isabel was on the bus. There’s proof of that. But what about you, Patsie? Where’s your ticket? Or don’t you have one?
* * *
‘What have we got?’ asks Quinn.
The contents of the evidence bag are spread out on the lab table. A satchel. Soft leather, deep pink, with dark discoloured patches where it’s been out in the open and the wet for days. A pen with a bedraggled feather attached to the end. A purse. A make-up bag. A tampon wrapped in orange plastic. A packet of mints.
‘It’s definitely Sasha’s bag,’ says Nina Mukerjee, opening the purse and taking out a series of plastic identity cards. She’s wearing thick latex gloves. ‘These are all hers.’
Most people use the same passport picture for everything, but not Sasha. A slightly different her stares out from each card. More and less of a smile, more and less of a playfulness.
‘There was definitely no phone?’ asks Quinn.
‘Sorry. No notebook either.’
‘What about a bus ticket?’
‘Not that I could find.’
‘So do you think we’ll get any forensics?’
Nina nods. ‘There may still be some prints on the outside, and there are at least two here,’ she says, opening the bag out to reveal the inside. ‘This area under the flap was protected from the rain. We got lucky.’
‘But they’re most likely Sasha’s, though, surely?’
She shakes her head. ‘Actually, I don’t think so. Not these, anyway. I think there are traces of blood here as well. And if that’s the case, the prints are almost certainly not hers.’
Quinn frowns. ‘Because –?’
‘Because the person who made these prints had Sasha’s blood on their hands.’
* * *
ES: Of course, there is another explanation. For why all your phones were off that night.
PW: No comment.
[turning to Mr Beck]
You said I could say that, right?
ES: You knew we’d be able to use them to track where you were. You knew the only way to be sure you couldn’t be traced would be to turn them all off.
DW: Where are you getting all this from? My daughter is not a criminal –
ES: And as far as I can see, there’s no good reason why you’d want to do that, Patsie. Only a very, very bad one.
* * *
Adam Fawley
9 April 2018
19.15
The news has got round before we get to the incident room. One look at their faces tells me that. Quinn is at the front, an unusual flush to his face; and believe me, Quinn doesn’t get that excited very often.
‘So the bag was definitely Sasha’s?’ asks Gallagher.
He nods. ‘No question. And there’s at least two fingerprints on the underside of the flap.’ He pauses; he knows how to work an audience. ‘The prints were in blood. And we all know what that means.’ He looks round the room. ‘Forensics are running them against Patsie Webb’s right now. Mukerjee said she’d call me within the hour.’
Gallagher turns to me. The blood, the bag, the prints. Her face says it all.
We’ve got her.
* * *
VE: Interview resumed at 19.25.
ES: Why were you so keen to make us suspect Mr Scott, Patsie? You went to a lot of trouble to direct our attention his way.
PW: Because he’s a pervert – because he was following her –
ES: But he didn’t kill her, did he? You knew that, and yet you went out of your way to make us think so. Why was that?
PW: What are you talking about? How the fuck would I know what he did? I wasn’t there –
VE: I think you were, Patsie. I think you know exactly what happened. So why don’t you tell us. Tell us the truth about how Sasha died –
PW: What are you talking about – Mum – they can’t accuse me of stuff like this, can they?
JB: What actual evidence do you have to support this outrageous theory, Officer?
[DS Gislingham enters the room, confers with DC Somer]
PW: [breaking down in tears]
I didn’t do it, Mum, I didn’t do it – Sasha was my best friend –
DW: I know you didn’t, darling, I know you didn’t. You couldn’t do something like that, not in a million years.
* * *
Adam Fawley
9 April 2018
20.25
No one’s quite opening champagne but the incident room feels like a surprise party awaiting the arrival of the guest of honour. There’s some laughter, a sense of release; some of the blokes have loosened their ties.
When Mukerjee rings through Quinn puts her on speaker: we all want to hear this.
‘So, do we have a match?’
The line is crackling a little, but her voice is clear. ‘Yes, we do.’
There’s some air-punching, some muted cheers; Gallagher is smiling. Someone claps Quinn on the back as if he waded into the ditch and found that sodding handbag himself.
‘That’s the good news,’ continues Mukerjee. ‘But I’m afraid it’s not as straightforward as you were hoping.’
The room falls quiet.
Gallagher moves closer to the phone. ‘Nina – it’s DI Gallagher. Could you explain what you mean?’
‘I did find some fingerprints from Patsie Webb on the handbag. The trouble is, there was no blood anywhere near those prints. They could have been made at any time.’
And the girls were friends – Patsie could easily have handled that bag, even borrowed it. It’s not enough. Nothing like enough.
‘The prints with the traces of blood were only partials,’ continues Mukerjee. ‘It won’t be good enough to stand up in court.’
Gallagher moves a little closer. ‘But if they’re partials for Patsie –’
The line crackles again. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t making myself clear. They are a partial match, just not for Patsie Webb.’
‘So who – for Isabel?’
‘No – we checked hers against ones on the bus ticket. It’s not Isabel either.’
Gallagher frowns – this isn’t making any sense. ‘Then who –’
‘Nadine,’ says Mukerjee, her voice clearer now. ‘The prints are a partial match for Nadine Appleford.’
* * *
‘You should be fucking ashamed of yourselves. And if you think you’re getting away with this you’ve got another think coming.’
Denise Webb is so angry she can barely speak without spitting. Everett’s had her fair share of self-righteous abuse over the years, but this is up there with the most unpleasant. Patsie is a few yards away, her head down, hair falling about her face. It’s impossible to see her expression. She hasn’t spoken since they left the interview room.
‘Keeping us here for hours on end,’ says Denise, ‘accusing a fifteen-year-old girl of something so – so – it’s disgusting, that’s what it is.’
The desk sergeant hands Everett the bail paperwork for Denise Webb to sign. It’s clear from his face that he’s keeping well out of it. Ev’s on her own on this one.
‘I’m taking my daughter home now, Constable, or whatever your damn title is. But this isn’t the end of it. Not by a long way.’
No, thinks Everett, as she watches the woman put her arm round her daughter and guide her to the door. I think you’re dead right about that.
* * *
Adam Fawley
9 April 2018
21.35
Gallagher pushes open the incident-room door and sits down heavily on the nearest chair. She’s just been briefing Harrison. I don’t need to ask how it went: I’ve seen the look on her face too many times before – in my own mirror.
‘Someone please explain to me how Nadine Appleford’s prints got on that handbag,’ she says wearily, ‘because I am all out of viable explanations.’
Gislingham shakes his head. ‘I don’t care what forensics said, Nadine couldn’t have killed Sasha – not on her own, anyway. She’d have struggled getting that body into the river on her own for a start, apart from anything else. Patsie could’ve, yes, but Nadine’s a good three or four inches shorter.’
‘Oh, I dunno,’ says Quinn, ‘she may be small but she looks pretty sturdy to me – and what with the slope of the bank, I reckon she could have just rolled it down.’
‘That it was a fifteen-year-old girl,’ says Somer curtly.
‘And Nadine is fifteen too,’ replies Gislingham. ‘And why would she attack Sasha anyway? They didn’t even know each other.’
Baxter looks up. ‘Actually, they might. I just checked. They were in the same year at Summertown High.’
Silence. More silence.
‘Oh fuck,’ says Gallagher.
‘So that’s it,’ sighs Gislingham. ‘That’s what we missed.’
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ says Gallagher quickly. ‘We all missed it. It’s been right under our noses all this time. We just never thought to ask.’
‘But even if they knew each other,’ says Somer, ‘they weren’t friends. They can’t have been. I went through Sasha’s room, remember. There were loads of pictures of her and her mates, but Nadine wasn’t in any of them. Not a single one. Why would Nadine kill someone she barely even knew?’
Everett shrugs. ‘Perhaps that’s the whole point. Sasha had everything Nadine doesn’t – friends, looks –’
‘What – seriously?’ says Quinn.
Ev shakes her head. ‘You were clearly never a teenage girl.’
Baxter wasn’t either, but he’s starting to buy the theory. ‘I’m with Ev. And remember what Gow said – that it was almost certainly the same person who attacked both girls? We’ve got evidence linking Nadine to the assault on her sister, so doesn’t she have to be the number-one suspect for Sasha too?’
‘So she’s a psychopath?’ says Somer. ‘A serial predator who suddenly, out of the blue, for no apparent reason, brutalizes one girl and kills another, all in the space of a single week? Not to mention doing everything she possibly can to make those assaults look like the work of a sexual predator – I just don’t think Nadine’s that devious –’
‘But Patsie is,’ I say quietly.
Gallagher holds up her hands. ‘Look, let’s remember the prints were only partials. We might be barking up completely the wrong tree – it might have nothing to do with Nadine at all. I, for one, am clinging to that hope, however flimsy it feels right now.’
Asante turns to her. ‘So what do we do now?’
Gallagher gets slowly to her feet. ‘There’s only one thing we can do. But we have a lot of work to do first.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
9 April 2018
22.09
It’s gone 10.00. Gallagher and I are the only ones left in the incident room. After the tasks for tomorrow were divvied up she sent the whole team home, and frankly, I’d have done exactly the same. Adrenaline is a strange thing – it can keep you going for as long as you have no choice, but the minute that burning need disappears you go over an abyss. We were all flat-lining this evening. No one was thinking straight.
Gallagher drains another cup of coffee. I keep reminding her about her kids, and she keeps reminding me about my wife, but somehow or other we’re both still here.
* * *
The following morning is bright and clear, with a slicing wind and thin high cloud.
They’d arranged to meet on-site rather than at the station, and when Gislingham arrives Quinn is already waiting for him in the car park.
‘They obviously got the message,’ he says as Gis joins him. ‘The secretary has been out here already, telling me she will personally turn my car into a pumpkin if I even think about parking in the deputy head’s space.’
But Gis is in no mood for Quinn’s brand of humour. ‘Let’s just get this over with,’ he says.
* * *
Adam Fawley
10 April 2018
10.15
I’m in reception when Nadine and her mother arrive, though neither acknowledges me. But it’s quite possible they simply don’t remember. Nadine is in jeans and a jumper, so her mother evidently doesn’t expect her to be going anywhere near school today. She’s pulling at the jumper, twisting the wool in her fingers and starting at every sudden sound, as if she hasn’t slept in days. Whatever this girl did – or didn’t – do, she’s carrying something too heavy for her to bear.
Ten minutes later Bryan Gow joins the rest of us in the room next to Interview One. He looks as animated as I’ve ever seen him. He even has a tape recorder. Perhaps he feels a case study coming on.
On the screen Somer takes her seat next to Gallagher. The lawyer and the Appropriate Adult are women too, so there are no men in the room at all, which I have to admit is a good call on Gallagher’s part. When they show in Nadine and her mother, even I’m shocked at the change in Diane in such a few short minutes. Her hand trembles as she reaches for the chair and her face is haggard, the unforgiving overhead light hollowing out her flesh. That’s what it looks like to find out your daughter is suspected of murder.
* * *
Interview with Nadine Appleford, conducted at St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford
10 April 2018, 10.42 a.m.
In attendance, DI R. Gallagher, DC E. Somer, Mrs D. Appleford, Ms S. Rogers (designated Appropriate Adult), Mrs P. Marshall (solicitor)
ES: Interview commencing at 10.42. Nadine is accompanied by her mother, Mrs Diane Appleford, her lawyer, Mrs Pamela Marshall, and Ms Sally Rogers, who will again act as her Appropriate Adult.
RG: For the benefit of the tape, Nadine has now been arrested on suspicion of involvement in the death of Sasha Blake on the evening of April 3rd 2018. So, Nadine, I want to start by asking you where you were that evening – did you go out?
DA: Will someone
just please tell me what’s going on? What on earth makes you believe Nadine could possibly –
RG: We’ll come to that, Mrs Appleford. Nadine – could you answer the question for us, please?
NA: [silence]
I don’t remember.
DA: Both the girls were at home when I got back at 11.00, I can tell you that for nothing.
ES: Both of them? Faith and Nadine?
DA: Faith went out I think, but she was back by the time I got home. Like I said.
ES: And there was nothing unusual about that evening? Nothing that stuck in your mind?
PM: [preventing her from answering]
What evidence do you have linking Nadine to this crime, Inspector?
RG: Yesterday afternoon a member of the public discovered a pink handbag a short distance from where we found Sasha’s body. It has been positively identified as hers and carries traces of her blood.
PM: That doesn’t prove anything.
RG: I’m afraid there are also fingerprints in the blood. Prints we believe may be Nadine’s.
DA: But that’s impossible –
PM: You said may be Nadine’s. Are they a match or aren’t they?
RG: The prints are partials. Partial matches to Nadine’s.
PM: How many points?
RG: Five on one, four on the other.
PM: You know as well as I do that that won’t stand up in court. You’ll need a lot more than that if you want the CPS to take you even half seriously. In the meantime, I need to discuss this new evidence with my client. I’m sure the Appropriate Adult would agree with me that that’s entirely reasonable.
SR: Yes, I agree that would be a good idea.
ES: Interview suspended at 10.53.
* * *
It’s the middle of morning break so the head teacher allows them to use her office, rather than fight for space in a crowded staffroom. She has a room round the back. From the window, Gislingham can see across the fields to a line of distant trees. Beyond that, as he well knows, is where they found Sasha’s body. He just hopes the kids haven’t made the same connection.
The head of year is a man called Dennis Woodley, who has a bright ginger beard, a lot of sincere eye contact and a deeply earnest handshake that requires both hands. Gislingham has him down as a born-again Christian before he’s even let go. The other teacher is a small harassed-looking woman who gives the impression she’s running permanently late.
