by Cara Hunter
‘As you can see, there’s been partial mummification of the remains,’ says Boddie evenly. ‘Not that surprising given that the body was well wrapped, and there’d have been ventilation under this floor. Though it looks like the bottom of the blanket wasn’t very well sealed as we’re missing most of the smaller bones in the feet and ankles. That’s probably down to rats. There are clear signs of rodent infestation all over this area.’
I glance up to see Quinn making a face.
‘The cadaver is definitely female,’ continues Boddie. ‘And a fair amount of the hair remains as well, as you can see.’ He bends down and looks closer, parting the matted strands with a plastic pen. ‘As for cause of death, I can see what appears to be significant blunt force trauma to the parietal bone. Though I’ll have to get her on the table to be sure.’
‘Could she have survived something like that?’ asks Gislingham, his face pale.
Boddie considers. ‘She’d have been knocked unconscious, without question. But possibly not killed outright. Look.’ He crouches down again and points at something caught about the withered wrists. ‘I think you’ll find that’s a cable tie. That could suggest she died some time after the initial blow.’
I remember what Everett said; about Harper tying her up and leaving her there while he went to dump her child and her car. Because he’d have wanted her alive, for when he got back. For what he wanted to do to her.
‘Is there any way of knowing how long she survived?’
Boddie shakes his head. ‘I doubt it. Could have been hours. Days, even.’
‘Jesus,’ says Gislingham under his breath.
Boddie straightens up. ‘There’s a lot of decomp underneath, but all the same I’m pretty sure she didn’t die here. On this blanket, I mean. There’d have been an absolute slew of blood and brain tissue.’
I sometimes wish Boddie wasn’t quite so good with words.
‘And she was naked, by the way. Wrapped up like this, some of the clothes would have survived, but there’s nothing here.’
Gislingham isn’t the only one who’s gone pale now. We’re all playing versions of the same scene in our heads. Waking up with your hands tied. Stripped. In pain. Knowing that it was only a matter of time.
‘Why would the killer do that – was it sexual?’
‘Either that or they wanted to humiliate her. Either way you’re looking at a very nasty piece of work.’
As if we didn’t know.
‘Right,’ says Challow briskly. ‘If you lot can clear the area, we’ll bring the photographer back in and start packing up all this stuff.’
* * *
* * *
BBC News
Tuesday 2 May 2017 | Last updated at 15:23
BREAKING: Body found in Oxford cellar case
The BBC has learned that a body has been found at the house in North Oxford where a girl and a small boy were discovered yesterday morning. Forensics personnel have been seen removing human remains from the garden, which are believed to be those of a woman. Speculation is mounting that officers could have discovered the body of the BBC journalist Hannah Gardiner, 27, who disappeared at Wittenham on Midsummer’s Day two years ago, and whose 2-year-old son, Toby, was subsequently found nearby.
Hannah was last seen by her husband, Rob, at their flat in Crescent Square on the morning of 24 June 2015, on her way to cover a story at the Wittenham Clumps protest camp. The fact that her Mini Clubman was in the adjacent car park, along with several apparent sightings and the discovery of Toby Gardiner, led police to believe she had disappeared in the Wittenham area.
Reginald Shore, a protester at the site who was subsequently jailed for a sexual assault in Warwick, was questioned extensively about Hannah’s disappearance, but no charges were ever brought. His son, Matthew, is now writing a book about the case, and said this morning, ‘My father was the victim of a witch-hunt by Thames Valley Police, spearheaded by Detective Superintendent Alastair Osbourne. We will now be renewing our calls for my father’s conviction to be overturned and for the Independent Police Complaints Commission to investigate the handling of the Hannah Gardiner case. Her family deserve to know the truth, and I will be doing everything I can personally to make sure that happens.’
Thames Valley Police have declined to comment, but confirmed that a statement will be issued ‘in due course’. Detective Superintendent Osbourne retired from the force in December 2015.
* * *
* * *
Boddie calls me at 8.00 p.m. I was half thinking of going home, half thinking of just ordering Chinese at the desk. But I end up in the mortuary. That’s how this job goes sometimes. I call Alex on the way to let her know, and then remember she’s out with some old college friends tonight. So it looks like it was Chinese, either way.
It’s 8.45 when I park at the hospital and the day is darkening. Clouds are rolling in from the west and as I walk across to the entrance I feel the first spots of rain.
In the morgue, the body is laid out carefully on a metal table.
‘I’ve sent some of the bones for DNA,’ says Boddie, rinsing his hands in the sink. ‘And forensics have taken the blanket for analysis.’
‘Anything more on cause of death?’
Boddie goes over to the body and points out the indentations on the skull. ‘There were definitely two separate blows. The first struck her here, and probably knocked her unconscious. Then here – can you see? – the damage is much more extensive. That’s what actually killed her, and the weapon definitely had some sort of edge to it. The first blow probably wouldn’t have bled very much, but the second certainly would have.’
You know, I think I’ll pass on that Chinese, after all.
He straightens up. ‘I believe you’ve already requested Hannah Gardiner’s dental records?’
I nod. ‘And Challow is going through the house, but they haven’t found anything yet.’
‘Well, take it from me, if she died there, you’ll know about it.’
The wind is rising outside. The first whip of rain against the glass.
‘You said to come alone,’ I say, after a moment. ‘Why?’
‘I didn’t see it until we started to lift the bones.’ He reaches to a side table and picks up a metal tray. ‘I found this under the skull.’
A strip of desiccated grey plastic. Duct tape.
‘So she was gagged.’
He nods. ‘Bound and gagged. So you see why I thought you shouldn’t bring anyone else.’
He can see from my face that I don’t.
‘Come on, Fawley – hands tied, face down, a broken skull? You’re going to have to think carefully about how much of that you release to the press. Because the hacks are going to work out very quickly that it’s exactly like those bodies they found on Wittenham Clumps.’
‘Shit.’
‘Quite. And I don’t know about you, but what we’ve got here is horrific enough; we really don’t need more headlines screaming human sacrifice.’
* * *
* * *
Chris Gislingham pushes open his front door with his foot; he’d use his hands only he has three carrier bags in each one. Nappies, wipes, baby powder – how can such a small helpless creature need so much stuff?
‘I’m home,’ he calls.
‘We’re in here.’
Gislingham dumps the bags in the kitchen and goes through into the sitting room where his wife, Janet, is sitting cradling their son. She looks both exhausted and ecstatic – something Gislingham has got used to over the last few months: neither of them got much sleep last night. When he bends to kiss his son, Billy smells of baby powder and biscuits, and stares up wide-eyed at his father, who strokes his head gently, then sits down next to them on the sofa.
‘Good day?’ he says.
‘That nice health visitor came to see us, didn’t she, B
illy? And she said how well you’d grown.’ She drops a kiss on the baby’s brow, and he reaches out a chubby hand to catch her hair.
‘I thought you were going shopping with your sister? Wasn’t that today?’
‘Billy was a bit sniffly, so I decided not to. It wasn’t worth the risk. I can go another time.’
Gislingham tries to recall the last time his wife actually left the house. It’s been getting more pronounced lately, and he wonders if – or when – he should start to worry.
‘You need fresh air too, you know,’ he says, trying to keep his tone light. ‘Perhaps we can go and feed the ducks at the weekend? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Billy boy?’ He tickles his son under the chin and the little boy squeals with delight.
‘We’ll see,’ says Janet vaguely. ‘Depends what the weather’s like.’
‘Talking of which, it’s like bloody Barbados in here,’ says Gislingham, loosening his tie. ‘I thought we turned off the heating?’
‘It was a bit chilly this afternoon so I put it back on.’
It’s not worth the risk. She doesn’t need to say it. After ten years of trying, and a premature birth that nearly ended in tragedy, protecting Billy, keeping Billy warm, monitoring Billy’s weight and height and strength and every little development, is all she cares about. Her life barely has room for anything else, certainly not for much in the way of cooking.
‘Pizza again?’ says Gislingham eventually.
‘In the fridge,’ replies Janet distractedly, adjusting the baby’s position slightly. ‘Can you put a bottle in to warm too?’
Gislingham levers himself up and goes back out to the kitchen. Most of what’s in the fridge is pureed, mashed or milk, but he dislodges the box of pizza where it’s frozen against the back and puts it in the microwave, then switches on the bottle warmer. When he goes back into the sitting room five minutes later, Janet is leaning back against the sofa, her eyes closed.
Gislingham lifts his baby son gently from his wife’s arms and props him against his shoulder. ‘OK, Billy boy, what do you say you and me go and have a quiet bevvy.’
* * *
* * *
Alex gets in at midnight. She assumes I’m in bed, because the sitting-room lights are off, and so, for a few fleeting seconds, I can watch her when she thinks she’s alone. She drops her bag by the front door and stands a moment, looking at herself in the mirror. She’s beautiful, my wife; she always has been. She never enters a room without people noticing. The dark hair, those eyes that are violet in some light, and almost turquoise in others. And she’s taller than me in high heels and it doesn’t bother me, in case you were wondering. But her looks have never made her happy. And now, I watch as she puts her hands to her face, smooths the lines from her eyes, lifts her chinline, turning her head first one way then the other. And she must have glimpsed me in the mirror because she turns suddenly, a slight flush to her cheek.
‘Adam? You scared the life out of me. What are you doing sitting in the dark?’
I pick up my glass and finish what’s left of the Merlot. ‘Just thinking.’
She comes in and perches on the arm of the sofa opposite me. ‘Tough day?’
I nod. ‘I’m on the Frampton Road case.’
She nods slowly. ‘I saw the news. Is it as bad as it sounds?’
‘Worse. We found a body at the house this afternoon. We think it’s Hannah Gardiner. But the press don’t know that yet.’
‘Have you told her husband?’
‘Not yet. I’m waiting for a positive ID. I don’t want to open up all that for him again unless I’m sure.’
‘How’s the girl?’
‘Traumatized, according to Everett. Not speaking. Doesn’t appear to know her own name or even that she has a child. Started screaming just at the sight of him.’
There’s a silence. Alex looks down at her hands. I know what she’s thinking – I know only too well. How could anyone who had a child possibly forget it? How could anyone who lost a child not yearn to have another? I wonder if she’ll raise it again. Her pain, her need, and what she thinks is the answer.
‘How was your evening?’ I ask into the unspoken words.
‘Fine. It was just me and Emma in the end.’
‘Not sure I know her.’
‘You don’t. I haven’t seen her in years. She works for the Council. In the Family Placement team.’
She’s not meeting my gaze now.
‘So, what, she finds homes for kids? Adoptions, fostering?’
‘Mmm.’
She’s still not looking at me.
I take a deep breath. ‘Alex, this wasn’t a college get-together at all, was it? It was only ever you and this Emma woman.’
She’s fiddling with the handle of her handbag now. ‘Look, I just wanted to get some more information. Find out what it involves.’
‘Even though you know what I think. Even though we agreed –’
She raises her eyes to my face. Eyes full of tears. ‘We didn’t agree. You agreed. I know how you feel about it, but what about how I feel? While we had Jake it didn’t matter so much that I didn’t have any more, but when we lost him –’ Her voice breaks and she struggles for composure. ‘When we lost him, it was – unbearable. And not just because he died but because part of me died too. The part that was a mother – that put someone else first. I want that back. Can’t you understand?’
‘Of course I can. What do you take me for?’
‘Then why are you refusing to even think about it? Emma was telling me about the kids she has to deal with – desperate for love – crying out for the sort of stability and support we could give them –’
I get up and pick up the glass and bottle and head into the kitchen, where I start to stack the dishwasher. When I look up five minutes later she’s standing in the doorway.
‘Are you afraid you might love another child more than Jake? Because if it’s that then I get it, I really do.’
I straighten up and lean against the worktop. ‘It’s not that. You know it’s not.’
She comes closer and puts her hand on my arm, tentatively, as if she fears rejection. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she says softly. ‘Just because he – because he died – it doesn’t mean we were bad parents.’
How many times have I said the same thing to her, this last year. I wonder how we ended up here, that she feels she needs to say it to me.
I turn towards her and take her in my arms, holding her tight against me so I can feel her breathing, her heart beating.
‘I love you.’
‘I know,’ she whispers.
‘No, I mean, I love you. It’s enough. I don’t need another child to – I don’t know, make me whole or give me a purpose in life. You, me, work, this. It’s enough.’
* * *
*
Later, in bed, listening to her breathing, looking through the curtains at the dark blue sky that still hasn’t lost its light, I wonder if I lied. Not by commission, perhaps, but omission. I don’t want to adopt a child, but not because the life I have is sufficient. It’s because the idea terrifies me. Like betting your whole existence on a gigantic lucky dip. Nurture is strong, but blood is stronger. My mother and father have never told me they’re not my biological parents, but I know, I’ve known for years. I found the papers in my father’s desk when I was ten. I had to look up some of the words, but I worked it out. And suddenly everything seemed to fit. Not looking like them, and as I got older, not thinking much like them either. Feeling like a misfit in my own life. And waiting, month after month and year after year until I knew it was never coming, for the moment when they’d tell me. If I said all this to Alex she’d say at once that we’d do it differently. That we’d be modern and open and truthful. That patterns don’t need to be repeated. That most adopted kids are happy and well-adjusted and make a success of their li
ves. Perhaps they do. Or perhaps, like me, they just don’t talk about it.
* * *
*
When I wake at 7.00 the bed is empty beside me. Alex is in the kitchen, fully dressed and about to leave.
‘You’re up early.’
‘I have to drop off my car,’ she says, pretending to be busy with the coffee machine. ‘It’s in for a service. Don’t you remember?’
‘Do you want me to pick you up tonight?’
‘Won’t you be too busy – the case and everything?’
‘Possibly. But let’s assume I can and I’ll email you if there’s a problem.’
‘OK.’ She smiles fleetingly, kisses me on the cheek and snatches up her keys. ‘See you later then.’
* * *
* * *
‘Still no ID on the body yet. Apparently there’s a hold-up with the dental records. There’s no blood visible on the boiler suit found in the shed though they’ll test it for DNA just in case. But it’s probably a long shot – if Harper did wear something like that to drive Hannah’s car he probably got rid of it years ago.’
Quinn’s in my office, updating me. Tablet in hand, as usual. I don’t know how he managed before he got that thing.
‘Ev’s back at the hospital. Nothing yet from Jim Nicholls. Looks like he’s probably on holiday but we’re still trying. And the Super’s been on twice already about when we can hold a press conference. I’ve said you’ll get back to him.’ There’s a pause, then, ‘Did you know Matthew Shore was writing a book?’
‘No. But he’s hardly likely to tell us, is he.’
‘Have you spoken to Osbourne?’
I shake my head. ‘I tried last night, but all I got was voicemail.’
‘Is it worth us trying to talk to Matthew Shore? I mean, if he’s been doing his own research he might have come up with something – he’s looked at all this more recently than we have –’
