by Cara Hunter
‘Do we know the name of the old man who lives here?’ asks Quinn.
‘A Mr William Harper, Sarge,’ says Somer. ‘We’ve called the paramedics, just in case there really is a girl there.’
‘I know what I bloody well saw.’
Quinn turns. A man in the sort of suit Quinn would buy if he had the money. Slim cut, silk weave, and a claret satin lining that glares with a purple check shirt and a pink spotted tie. He has ‘City’ written all over him. As well as ‘Very Pissed Off’.
‘Look,’ the man says, ‘how long is all this going to take? I have a meeting with my lawyer at three and if the traffic’s as bad getting back –’
‘Sorry, sir, and you are?’
‘Mark Sexton. Next door – I own it.’
‘So you were the one who called us?’
‘Yeah, that was me. I was down in the cellar with my architect and part of the wall gave way. There’s a girl in there. I know what I saw and, unlike this rabble, I’m not half-cut. Ask Knight – he saw it too.’
‘Right,’ says Quinn, gesturing the officer with the battering ram up to the door. ‘Let’s get on with it. And get that lot on the pavement under control too, will you? It’s like something out of the fucking Wicker Man out here.’
As Quinn moves away Sexton calls him back. ‘Hey – what about my bloody builders – when can they get back in?’
Quinn ignores him, but as Gislingham passes he taps him on the shoulder. ‘Sorry, mate,’ Gislingham says cheerily, ‘that posh refurb is just going to have to wait.’
On the front step, Quinn pounds on the door. ‘Mr Harper! Thames Valley Police. If you’re in there, please open the door or we will be forced to break it down.’
Silence.
‘OK,’ says Quinn, nodding to the uniformed officer. ‘Do it.’
The door is tougher than it looks, considering the state of the rest of the house, but the hinges splinter at the third blow. Someone in the crowd cheers tipsily; the rest press forward, straining to see.
Quinn and Gislingham go in, and pull the door to behind them.
Inside the house, all is still. They can still hear the bells of the Morris dancers, and flies are buzzing somewhere in the stale air. The place clearly hasn’t been decorated for decades; paper is peeling off the walls and the ceilings are sagging and blotched with brown stains. There are newspapers scattered across the floor.
Quinn moves slowly down the hall, the old boards creaking, his shoes scuffing against the paper. ‘Is there anyone here? Mr Harper? It’s the police.’
And then he hears it. A whimpering noise. Close. He stands a moment, trying to work out where it’s coming from, then darts forward and throws open a door under the stairs.
There’s an old man sitting on the toilet dressed only in a vest. Tufts of wiry black hair cling to his scalp and shoulders. His underpants are round his ankles and his penis and testicles hang limply between his legs. He cowers away from Quinn, still mumbling, his bony fingers gripping the toilet seat. He’s filthy, and there’s shit on the floor.
Somer calls from the doorstep. ‘DS Quinn? The medics have arrived if you need them.’
‘Thank Christ for that – get them in here, will you?’
Somer stands back to let two men in green overalls come through the door. One squats down in front of the old man. ‘Mr Harper? There’s no need to be anxious. Let’s just take a look at you.’
Quinn motions to Gislingham and they back off towards the kitchen.
Gislingham whistles as the door swings open. ‘Someone call the V&A.’
An ancient gas cooker, 1970s brown-and-orange tiling, a metal sink. A Formica table with four unmatched chairs. And every single surface piled with dirty crockery and empty beer bottles and half-finished food cans alive with flies. All the windows are shut and the lino under their feet sticks to their shoes. There’s a glass door with a beaded curtain leading to a conservatory, and another door which must lead down to the cellar. It’s locked but there’s a bunch of keys on a nail. Gislingham seizes them, his fingers fumbling, and it takes three attempts to find the one that fits, but even though the key is rusted it turns without jamming. He pulls the door open and flicks on the light, then stands aside, letting Quinn go first. They make their way down slowly, step by step, the neon strip hissing over their heads.
‘Hello? Is there anyone down here?’
The light is drab, but it’s enough for them to see. The cellar is empty. Cardboard boxes, black plastic sacks, an old lampstand, a tin bath filled with junk. But apart from that, nothing.
They stand there, staring at each other, their hearts pounding so loudly they can barely hear. Then, ‘What was that?’ whispers Gislingham. ‘Sounds like scratching. Rats?’
Quinn starts involuntarily, scanning the ground at his feet; if there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s bloody rats.
Gislingham looks around again, his eyes adjusting, wishing he’d brought the torch from the car. ‘What’s that over there?’
He pushes his way through the boxes and realizes suddenly that the cellar is much bigger than they thought.
‘Quinn – there’s another door here. Can you give me a hand?’
He tries the door but it won’t move. There’s a bolt at the top and Quinn eventually manages to yank it across, but the bloody door still won’t budge.
‘It must be locked,’ says Gislingham. ‘Do you still have those keys?’
It’s even worse finding the right one in the half-light, but they do it. Then they put their shoulders to the door and it slowly shunts forward until a wave of foul air hits them and they have to put their hands to their mouths to face the stench.
A young woman is lying on the concrete floor at their feet, wearing a pair of jeans ripped at the knees and a ragged cardigan that was probably yellow once. Her mouth is open and her eyes closed. Her skin is dead white in the sallow glare.
But there’s something else. Something nothing prepared them for.
Sitting by her, pulling at her hair.
A child.
* * *
* * *
And where was I when all this happened? I’d love to say it was something gritty and impressive like Special Branch liaison or anti-terrorism, but the dreary truth was a training course in Warwick. ‘Community Policing in the 21st Century’. Inspectors and above; aren’t we the lucky ones. What with the death by PowerPoint and the stupid o’clock early start, I was beginning to think the uniforms on the May Morning stint had decidedly the better deal. But then I got the call. Followed swiftly by an exasperated frown from the officious organizer person who’d insisted we turn our phones off, and an audible sigh when I duck out into the corridor. She’s probably worrying I’ll never come back.
‘They’ve taken the girl to the John Rad,’ says Quinn. ‘She’s in a pretty bad way – she’s obviously not eaten for some time and she’s severely dehydrated. There was one bottle of water left in the room, but I suspect she’s been giving most of it to the kid. The medics will be able to tell us more after they’ve done a proper examination.’
‘And the boy?’
‘Still not saying anything. But, Christ, he can’t be much more than two – what’s he going to be able to tell us anyway? Poor little sod wouldn’t let Gis or me anywhere near him, so Somer went in the ambulance. We arrested Harper at the scene, but when we tried to get him out of the house he started kicking and being abusive. Alzheimer’s, I’m guessing.’
‘Look, I know I don’t need to say this, but if Harper is a vulnerable adult we’ll have to play this one by the book.’
‘I know. We have it covered. I called Social Services. And not just for him. That kid’s going to need help too.’
There’s a silence and I suspect we’re both thinking the same thing.
It’s quite possible we’re dealing with a child who’s kno
wn nothing else – who was born down there. In the dark.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’m leaving now. I’ll be there by noon.’
* * *
* * *
BBC Midlands Today
Monday 1 May 2017 | Last updated at 11:21
BREAKING: Girl and toddler found in cellar in North Oxford
Reports are coming through of the discovery of a young woman and a small child, thought to be her son, in the basement of a house on Frampton Road, North Oxford. Building work is underway next door, which led this morning to the discovery of the girl, apparently locked in the cellar. The girl has not been named, and Thames Valley Police have not as yet issued a statement.
More news on this as we get it.
* * *
* * *
11.27 a.m. At the Kidlington witness suite, Gislingham is watching Harper on the video link. He’s got a shirt and trousers on now, and is sitting hunched over the sofa. There’s a social worker beside him on a hard-backed chair, talking to him intently, and a woman from the Mental Health team watching from a few feet away. Harper seems restless – he’s moving about, jigging one leg up and down – but they can tell, even without the sound on, that he’s coherent. At least for now. He’s eyeing the social worker tetchily, waving away what he says with a stiff and withered hand.
The door opens and Gislingham turns to see Quinn, who comes over, chucks a file on the table and leans against the desk. ‘Everett’s gone straight to the hospital, so she’ll interview the girl as soon as they let us. Eric –’ He flushes. ‘PC Somer’s gone back to Frampton Road to coordinate the house-to-house. And Challow’s gone in with the forensics team.’
He makes a note on the file then tucks his pen behind his ear. The way he does. Then he nods towards the video screen. ‘Anything?’
Gislingham shakes his head. ‘His social worker’s been in there half an hour. Name’s Ross, Derek Ross. I’m sure I’ve come across him before. Any news on when Fawley will be back?’
Quinn checks his watch. ‘About twelvish. But he said we should get started, if the doctor and Social Services are OK with that. There’s a lawyer on her way too. Social worker’s covering his arse. I suppose you can’t blame him.’
‘Belt and braces, eh,’ says Gislingham drily. ‘But they’re sure he’s OK to be interviewed?’
‘Apparently he has lucid intervals and we can question him then, but if he starts to lose it we’ll have to back off.’
Gislingham stares at the screen for a moment. There’s a line of spit hanging from the old man’s chin; it’s been there at least ten minutes but he hasn’t wiped it away. ‘You think he did it – that he was even up to it?’
Quinn’s face is grim. ‘If that kid really was born down there, then yes, absolutely. I know Harper looks pathetic now, but two or three years ago? He could have been completely different. And it was that man who committed this crime – not the sad old sod in there.’
Gislingham shivers, even though the room is stifling, and Quinn glances across. ‘What, someone walk on your grave?’
‘I was just thinking, he didn’t get like this overnight, did he? This has been going on for months. Years, even. And she wouldn’t have known. That he was starting to lose it, I mean. She’s trapped down there, out of sight – I bet he’d started forgetting she was even there. The food starts running out, then the water – she has the kid to think about – and even if she screams the old man can’t hear her –’
Quinn shakes his head. ‘Jesus. We got there just in time.’
* * *
*
On the screen, Derek Ross gets to his feet and moves out of shot. A moment later the door opens and he appears.
Gislingham gets up. ‘So you’re his social worker, then?’
Ross nods. ‘For the last couple of years or so.’
‘So you knew about the dementia?’
‘He was formally diagnosed a few months back but I suspect it’s been coming on for a lot longer than that. But you know as well as I do how unpredictable that is – how it goes in fits and starts. I’ve been worried lately that it might have started to accelerate. He’s had a few falls and he burned himself on the cooker a year or so back.’
‘And he’s drinking, isn’t he? I mean, you can smell it on him.’
Ross takes a deep breath. ‘Yes. That has become rather a problem of late. But I just can’t believe he could do anything like this – anything so terrible –’
Quinn’s not convinced. ‘None of us really knows what we’re capable of.’
‘But in the state he’s in –’
‘Look,’ says Quinn; there’s a hardness to his voice now. ‘The doctor says it’s OK to question him, and she should know. As for charges, well, that’s another matter, and the CPS will have their say as and when we get to that stage. But there was a girl and a child locked in that cellar, and we have to find out how they got there. You do see that, don’t you, Mr Ross?’
Ross hesitates, then nods. ‘Can I sit in? He does know me – it might help. He can be a bit – difficult. As you’re about to find out.’
‘Right,’ says Quinn, collecting his papers.
The three men move towards the door, but Ross stops suddenly and puts a hand on Quinn’s arm. ‘Go easy, won’t you?’
Quinn looks at him, then raises an eyebrow. ‘Like he did, on that girl?’
* * *
* * *
Interview with Isabel Fielding, conducted at 17 Frampton Road, Oxford
1 May 2017, 11.15 a.m.
In attendance, PC E. Somer
ES: How long have you lived here, Mrs Fielding?
IF: Only a couple of years. It’s a college house. My husband is a don at Wadham.
ES: So do you know Mr Harper – the gentleman at number 33?
IF: Well, not to speak to. Soon after we moved in he came over in a bit of a state and asked if we’d seen the cover for his car. Apparently it had gone missing. It was a bit odd since his car isn’t exactly going anywhere. But we thought he was just a bit, you know, eccentric. There’s a lot of it about. Around here, I mean. Lots of ‘characters’. Some of them used to be academics, so they’ve lived here for donkey’s years. I think a lot of them just get to the purple and cats stage and say to hell with it.
ES: ‘Purple and cats’?
IF: You know – that poem. ‘When I get old I’m going to wear purple’, or whatever it is. You know, when you get to the age when you just don’t care.
ES: And Mr Harper – he didn’t care?
IF: You see him wandering about. Talking to himself. Wearing odd clothes. Mittens in July. Pyjamas in the street. That sort of thing. But he’s basically harmless.
[pause]
I’m sorry, that came out wrong – I mean –
ES: It’s all right, Mrs Fielding. I know what you mean.
* * *
* * *
‘So, Mr Harper, my name is Detective Sergeant Gareth Quinn, and my colleague here is Detective Constable Chris Gislingham. You already know Derek Ross and this lady is going to act as your lawyer.’
The woman at the far end of the table looks up briefly, but Harper doesn’t react. He doesn’t appear to have registered her presence at all.
‘So, Mr Harper, you were arrested at 10.15 a.m. on suspicion of kidnap and false imprisonment. You were cautioned, and your rights were explained to you, which you said you understood. We are now going to conduct a formal interview, which is being recorded.’
‘That means they’re filming this, Bill,’ says Ross. ‘Do you understand?’
The old man’s eyes narrow. ‘Of course I understand. I’m not a bloody idiot. And it’s Dr Harper to you, boy.’
Quinn glances at Ross, who nods. ‘Dr Harper taught at Birmingham University until 1998. Sociology.’
Gislingham sees Quin
n flush slightly; three times in one morning, must be some kind of record.
Quinn flips open his file. ‘I believe you’ve lived at your current address since 1976? Even though you were actually working in Birmingham?’
Harper looks at him as if he’s being deliberately dense. ‘Birmingham is a shithole.’
‘And you moved here in 1976?’
‘Bollocks. December 11th 1975,’ says Harper. ‘My wife’s birthday.’
‘Dr Harper’s first wife died in 1999,’ says Ross quickly. ‘He married again in 2001, but unfortunately the second Mrs Harper died in a car accident in 2010.’
‘Stupid cow,’ says Harper loudly. ‘Pissed. Pissed as a fart.’
Ross glances at the lawyer; he looks embarrassed. ‘The coroner found that Mrs Harper had raised levels of alcohol in her blood at the time of the accident.’
‘Does Dr Harper have any children?’
Harper reaches out and taps the table in front of Quinn. ‘Talk to me, boy. Talk to me. Not that idiot.’
Quinn turns to him. ‘Well, do you?’
Harper makes a face. ‘Annie. Fat cow.’
Quinn picks up his pen. ‘Your daughter is called Annie?’
‘No,’ interrupts Ross. ‘Bill gets a bit confused. Annie was his neighbour at number forty-eight. A very nice woman, apparently. She used to pop in and make sure Bill was OK, but she moved to Canada in 2014 to be closer to her son.’
‘She wants to scrape, the silly cow. Told her I wouldn’t have one of those things in the house.’
Quinn looks at Ross.
‘He means “Skype”. But he won’t use a computer so that was a non-starter.’
‘No other family?’
Ross looks blank. ‘Not that I know of.’
* * *
* * *
‘There’s definitely a son – blow me if I can remember his name.’
