by Cara Hunter
He’s pissing me off now. ‘Look, Quinn, forget it. Trust me, if he’d found anything we’d have known about it. He’s a nasty piece of work, and if we talk to him now he’ll find some way to use that against us. Understood?’
He’s staring at his list again and I force him to look at me. ‘Quinn? Did you hear me?’
Quinn glances up, then back at the tablet. ‘Sure. No problem. So that just leaves Harper. His lawyer’s just arrived and I’ve asked the custody sergeant to bring him up to Interview One.’
I finish my coffee and make a face; whatever they do to that machine, the output doesn’t get any better. ‘Find Gis and get him to sit in with me.’
Quinn steals a look at me as I pick up my jacket from the back of the chair. I’m not punishing him, but I don’t mind him worrying I might be. For a day or two.
* * *
* * *
Interview with Dr William Harper, conducted at St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford
3 May 2017, 9.30 a.m.
In attendance, DI A. Fawley, DC C. Gislingham, Mrs J. Reid (solicitor), Ms K. Eddings (Mental Health team)
AF: Dr Harper, I am Detective Inspector Adam Fawley. I’m leading the investigation relating to the young woman and child we found in your cellar on Monday morning. Ms Eddings is from the Mental Health team and Mrs Reid is here as your lawyer. They’re here to protect your interests. Do you understand?
WH: Haven’t a fucking clue what you’re talking about.
AF: You’re confused about Mrs Reid’s role?
WH: Do I look like a moron? I know what a bloody solicitor is.
AF: So it was the other things I said – about the girl and the child?
WH: How many more times? I don’t know what you’re crapping on about.
AF: You’re saying there was no young woman or child in your cellar?
WH: If there was, I never saw ’em.
AF: So how do you imagine they came to be there?
WH: Haven’t got a fucking clue. Probably pikeys. They live like pigs. Cellar would be a fucking luxury.
AF: Dr Harper, there is no evidence the young woman came from the Roma community. And even if she did, how could she have got into your cellar without you knowing?
WH: Search me. You seem to be the one with all the bloody answers.
AF: The door to the cellar room was locked from the outside.
WH: Bit of a poser for you, then, isn’t it? Smartarse git.
[pause]
AF: Dr Harper, yesterday afternoon, members of the Thames Valley forensics team conducted a detailed search of your house and discovered a body concealed under the floor of the shed. An adult female. Can you tell me how it got there?
WH: No bloody idea, ask me another.
JR: [intervening]
This is serious, Dr Harper. You need to answer the inspector’s questions.
WH: Fuck off, you ugly cow.
[pause]
AF: So let’s be clear – you’re telling us that you can’t explain either why a corpse was found buried under the floor in your shed or how a young woman and a child came to be locked in the cellar? That’s what you’re asking us to believe?
WH: Why do you keep repeating yourself? Are you mentally subnormal or what?
CG: [passing across a photograph]
Dr Harper, this is a picture of a young woman called Hannah Gardiner. She disappeared two years ago. Have you ever seen her before?
WH: [pushing away the picture]
No.
CG: [passing across a second picture]
What about this girl? This is the girl we found in your cellar. It’s the picture I showed you yesterday.
WH: They’re all the same. Evil cows.
CG: Sorry, are you saying that you recognize her or that you don’t?
WH: Frigid cows making you beg for it. That slut Priscilla. I told her – sod off back where you came from, you evil cow.
KE: I’m sorry, Inspector, but I think he’s getting confused again. Priscilla is his dead wife.
AF: Please look at the pictures, Dr Harper. Have you ever seen either of these young women?
WH: [rocking backwards and forwards]
Evil cows. Spiteful little tarts.
KE: I think we’d better stop now.
* * *
* * *
Sent: Weds 03/05/2017, 11.35 Importance: High
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected], [email protected]
CC: [email protected]
Subject: Case no JG2114/14R Gardiner, H
This is to confirm the dental records have come through. The body at Frampton Road is definitely Hannah Gardiner.
* * *
* * *
‘Adam? It’s Alastair Osbourne. I saw the news.’
Even though I called him first, I’ve still been dreading him phoning me back.
‘It’s her, isn’t it? Hannah Gardiner?’
‘Yes, it’s her. I’m sorry, sir.’
Some habits die hard. Like respect.
‘I assume that man Harper is the prime suspect?’ he continues. ‘UAU?’
UAU. Unless And Until. Unless and until we rule him out. Unless and until we find another suspect. Or that accomplice we still don’t know exists.
‘For now, yes.’
‘How’s Rob Gardiner holding up?’
‘As well as you’d expect. I mean, he must have been expecting this, but it will still be a shock.’
There’s a pause at the other end of the line.
‘I owe you an apology, Adam.’
‘No –’
‘I do,’ he says emphatically. ‘You were never convinced about Shore, and you wanted to widen the search beyond Wittenham. I overruled you on both. I was wrong. And now it looks like this monster has done it again –’
‘If it’s any consolation, sir, that girl could have been in Harper’s cellar long before Hannah died.’
* * *
* * *
Everett can hear the noise halfway down the corridor. It’s the play area at the children’s ward; toys and games and pictures in happy primary colours of elephants and giraffes and monkeys, but now the walls are running with something that for one wild and appalling moment looks like blood. The boy is in the middle of the room, screaming. One of the toy trains is in pieces and three other children are cowering behind the chairs, crying. A little girl has a cut on her cheek. A nursing assistant is on her hands and knees trying to mop up a dark red stain on the lino.
The nursing assistant looks up. ‘It’s just Ribena, honest. And I swear I only left them alone for five minutes – Jane didn’t come in today and we’re run off our feet –’
‘I suppose he’s never encountered other children before,’ says Everett. ‘He literally doesn’t know what to do with them.’
Nurse Kingsley hurries over to the girl. ‘How did Amy get this cut?’
‘I ran back in here as soon as I heard the screaming. Amy was on the floor and the boy was on top of her.’
The boy is silent now, but his face is flushed and his cheeks are covered with tears. Kingsley makes a tentative move towards him but he backs away.
‘It was a nightmare on the ward last night,’ says the nursing assistant wearily. ‘He screamed the place down for almost an hour till he got so exhausted he curled up under the bed. We tried to coax him out but he wasn’t having it. We just left him there in the end.’
Jenny shakes her head, at a loss. ‘I’ll speak to Social Services again. My heart goes out to him, it really does, but sick children need their sleep.’
The boy stares at her for a moment, then drops suddenly on to all fours and crawls away into the corner. The three women w
atch in silence as he smears his hand along the wall and starts to suck the congealing juice from his fingers.
‘Christ,’ says Everett after a moment. ‘Do you think that’s what he had to do?’
Jenny Kingsley glances across at her. ‘You mean, in the cellar?’
‘Think about it. The water’s running low, the walls are damp –’
The nursing assistant puts her hand to her mouth. And then, in the silence, Everett’s phone goes.
It’s a text. From Fawley.
Ask the doctors to check the boy again. Need to rule out possible sexual abuse.
* * *
* * *
THAMES VALLEY POLICE
Statement of Witness
Date: 25 June 2015
Name: Sarah Wall D.O.B. 13/11/66
Address: 32 Northmoor Close, Dorchester-on-Thames
Occupation: Freelance accountant
I was walking my dog on Wittenham Clumps on Wednesday morning. I go most days so I recognise most of the regulars. There were more people about than usual on a Wednesday – it was Midsummer Eve the night before so a lot of the travellers from the camp were still about. And there were quite a few other people too. Students. Some families with children. Grandparents. I remember several buggies. I headed up towards Castle Hill past a couple of joggers I recognised and another person who walks a dog like mine. We stopped for a chat. That must have been just before 9 am. Then I got a call and had to turn back so I could deal with something for a client. It was when I was going down to the road that I saw the young woman with the buggy. She was quite a long way away, with her back to me, but she had dark hair in a ponytail and a jacket that was either black or dark blue. And some sort of backpack. I didn’t see which direction she took after that. But when I walked past the car park there was definitely an orange Mini Clubman there. It was quite distinctive – the colour, I mean.
Signed: Sarah Wall
THAMES VALLEY POLICE
Statement of Witness
Date: 25 June 2015
Name: Martina Brownlee D.O.B. 9/10/95
Address: Oxford Brookes, student halls
Occupation: Student
We were up all night and I was still a bit pissed tbh but I definitely saw her. She was on the path. The kid was asleep and she was bent over him. I didn’t get close enough to talk to her, but I’m deffo sure it was her. I clocked the jacket – it’s from Zara. One of my mates has one. Not sure what time it was. Maybe 8.45?
Signed: Martina Brownlee
THAMES VALLEY POLICE
Statement of Witness
Date: 25 June 2015
Name: Henry Nash D.O.B. 22/12/51
Address: Yew Cottage, Wittenham Road, Appleford
Occupation: Teacher (retired)
I walk on Wittenham Clumps most mornings. I got there about 9.25 yesterday. There was definitely an orange Mini Clubman in the car park by then but I didn’t see it arrive. I made my way up to Castle Hill, and went round by the Poem Tree – what’s left of it. A bit further on I noticed something brightly coloured in the area they call the Money Pit. It was a child’s buggy. Green. Just sitting there, as if the parents had parked it for a moment. I waited for a few minutes but there was no one around so I came back down. I knocked at the visitor centre place and let them know what I’d seen. I only wish I’d thought to look around a bit more. I might have found that poor little boy if I had. As I was passing the car park I saw a black Jaguar had arrived and there was a man I now know to be Malcolm Jervis sitting in the back seat with the door open. He was on his mobile, shouting at someone. I kept well clear.
Signed: Henry Nash
* * *
*
At St Aldate’s, Quinn is going through the file on Hannah Gardiner. Uniform have spent all morning tracking down the witnesses who were at Wittenham that day, but so far they’ve turned up nothing. No one remembers an elderly man alone with a buggy, and no one has picked out William Harper from an array of similar digital images. What Quinn’s now looking for is any sighting of Hannah in Crescent Square or Frampton Road, after she left her flat and went to collect her car. If Harper did kill her he must have been out in the street, and in the middle of June, it would have been broad daylight at that time of the morning. Surely someone would have seen? A commuter – even an early school run? But according to the file, there’s nothing – absolutely nothing. He’s making a note to issue a new appeal for witnesses, when the phone rings. It’s Challow.
‘Fingerprint results, hot off the press.’
Quinn picks up his pen. ‘OK, hit me.’
‘Those in the kitchen and downstairs bog are mostly Harper’s, but there are several from Derek Ross, which tallies with what he told us. Also several other unidentified sets, none of which are in the national fingerprint database.’
‘And the cellar?’
‘Harper’s again, and some I assume are the girl’s. We’ll check that, obviously. None from Ross this time, though there are some which match one of the unidentified sets from the kitchen. But there were two very clear prints on the bolt to the inner door. Database says they belong to an extremely shady character name of Gareth Sebastian Quinn.’
‘Haha, very funny.’
‘Seriously, though, there weren’t any other prints on that bolt apart from yours, so it looks like it could have been wiped down. We also found a couple of partials in the shed that could be a match for the unidentified prints in the cellar room, though it’s only a five-point match at best, so don’t even bother asking the CPS to run with that.’
Quinn sits forward in his chair. ‘But it’s possible someone else was involved both times?’
‘Don’t get carried away. There’s no way of knowing how old those prints are. Could be some innocent plumber. The bloke who fitted the lav. Or unblocked the sink. We’ve started processing the rest of the house for a possible murder scene, but thus far we’ve come up empty.’
‘Nothing on the DNA?’
‘Not yet. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know.’
After Quinn puts the phone down he wonders for a moment about that last comment. Was it as pointed as it sounded or is he just getting paranoid? The trouble with Challow is that pointed is his default mode, so it’s hard to tell when he is, in fact, making a point. Fuck it, he thinks, picking up the phone and dialling Erica.
‘Fawley wants us to interview that woman at number seven again – what was her name? Gibson, yeah, that’s the one. See if we can get a better description of that bloke she thought was Harper’s son. Can you get that organized?’ He listens, then smiles. ‘And no, PC Somer, that wasn’t the only reason I was calling. I was wondering if you fancy a drink tonight? To discuss the case, of course.’ He smiles again, broader this time. ‘Yeah, and that too.’
* * *
* * *
‘I only found two similar cases. And I had to go back over fifteen years to find those.’
I’m leaning over Baxter’s shoulder, staring at the screen. The room is stifling. The temperature’s suddenly risen and the ancient HVAC system in the station isn’t designed to turn on a sixpence. All the computers crowded in here aren’t helping, either. Baxter mops the back of his neck with a handkerchief.
‘Here you are,’ he says, tapping the keyboard. ‘Bryony Evans, twenty-four, reported missing on 29th March 2001 along with her two-year-old son, Ewan. Last seen outside a supermarket near her home in Bristol.’
The picture is slightly blurred, probably taken at a party; there are Christmas decorations in the background. She looks younger than twenty-four. Hair in corkscrew curls. Smiling, but not with her eyes.
‘Apparently the family had been worried about her state of mind for several weeks before she disappeared. They said she was depressed – struggling to find a job and stuck
at home with the kid. They’d wanted her to go to the doctor but she kept refusing.’
‘So they thought it was suicide?’
‘Looks like Avon and Somerset agreed. There was a thorough inquiry – there are forty-odd statements on file – but no one ever found any evidence of an abduction. No suggestion of any sort of foul play. Inquest returned an open verdict.’
‘It’s pretty bloody rare for no body to be found – not after all this time. Not if it was suicide.’
Baxter considers. ‘Bristol’s on the coast. She could have just walked into the sea.’
‘With the kid in tow? Really?’
He shrugs. ‘It’s possible. OK, not likely. But possible.’
‘What about the other one?’
‘Ah, this one’s closer to home.’
He pulls up another file. 1999. Joanna Karim and her son, Mehdi. She was twenty-six, he was five. And they lived in Abingdon. Baxter sees my interest kindling and rushes to douse it.
‘Before you get too excited, this was one of those contested custody cases. The husband was Iranian. I spoke to the SIO who handled it and he said the kid was almost certainly smuggled back to Tehran by his father. They suspected he got rid of the wife too, but they never found enough evidence to bring charges, and by then the bastard had left the country. So yeah, it looks like a double disappearance, but I think it’s actually two entirely separate crimes.’
I sit down next to him. ‘OK. Even if these aren’t connected, we still have a set of unidentified fingerprints in that cellar.’
‘But like Challow said, it could just be the plumber.’
‘You’re a betting man, aren’t you, Baxter?’
He flushes; he didn’t realize I knew.
‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly say betting as such –’
‘You do the football – the horses – I hear you’re pretty good at it, too.’
‘Well, I’ve won a bit,’ he says guardedly. ‘Now and again.’
