In the Dark

by Cara Hunter

  ‘So what are the odds, do you think? That those prints are the plumber’s?’

  His face changes. He’s not embarrassed now, he’s calculating.

  ‘Twenty-five to one. And that’s a gift.’

  * * *

  * * *

  ‘DC Gislingham? It’s Louise Foley.’

  It takes him a moment to remember who she is. Which doesn’t go unnoticed.

  ‘Birmingham University?’ she says drily. ‘Remember? You asked me about disclosing Dr Harper’s file?’

  ‘Ah, right, yes. Hold on, let me grab a pen. OK, shoot.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the head of department and he’s authorized me to send you a copy of the relevant papers. I’ll be emailing them to you today.’

  ‘Can you give me the headlines? You know – the basics?’

  She sighs, unnecessarily loudly. ‘It’s nothing like as salacious as you appear to be hoping. There was a relationship with a student, but she never made a complaint. There was no – coercion involved. Indeed, some of the girl’s friends suggested that it was more a case of her pursuing him, than the other way round. But nonetheless Dr Harper was married at the time, and such relationships are prohibited under university regulations, so it was agreed that it was in everyone’s best interests if he took early retirement. You’ll find all this in the file.’

  ‘OK,’ says Gislingham, tossing his pen back on the desk. ‘Just one more question – what was the girl’s name?’

  ‘Cunningham. Priscilla Cunningham.’

  * * *

  * * *

  All the windows are open in the flat at Crescent Square. The breeze lifts the long white nets and there’s the sound of children playing in a garden a few doors away. The thud of a trampoline, squeals, a ball bouncing. All the children seem to be boys.

  Pippa Walker goes to the door of the study and stands there a moment, watching. It’s the third time she’s done it in the last hour. Rob Gardiner is at the desk, staring at a laptop. The floor is covered with old notebooks, Post-its, piles of paper. He looks up at the girl, irritated.

  ‘Haven’t you got something to do? Play with Toby or something?’

  ‘He’s asleep. You’ve been in here hours. Surely you must have been through all that stuff before.’

  ‘Well, I’m going through it again. OK?’

  She shifts her position slightly. ‘I thought you were working today.’

  ‘I was. I changed my mind. Not that it’s any business of yours.’

  ‘I’m just worried about you, Rob. It’s not a good idea – digging all this up again –’

  She bites her lip, but it’s too late.

  He looks at her heavily. ‘My wife was missing for two years. Her body has just been found in the most bloody awful circumstances, and the police have asked me to look through her notes again, in case there’s anything in them that might help convict the bastard who did it. So I’m very sorry if digging all this up again doesn’t meet with your approval, but I for one want to see that shit rot in jail. And if you don’t like it, then go and do something else. Read a bloody book for a change.’

  Her face is scarlet. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean – you know I didn’t –’

  ‘Frankly, I don’t give a toss what you meant. Just leave me alone.’

  And he gets up and slams the door.

  * * *

  * * *

  The team meeting is at 5.00 p.m. It doesn’t take long. To sum up:

  The student Harper had an affair with ended up as his second wife. And yes, he was married at the time, but all that makes him is an adulterous shit, not a psychopath.

  The fingerprints in the cellar could suggest the involvement of another as yet unknown perpetrator. Absolutely sod all leads on who that might be.

  No forensic evidence at the house allowing us to identify a murder scene, so there’s still a possibility she was killed somewhere else, and by someone else.

  DNA results: still waiting. To quote Challow, ‘I’m not a bloody miracle worker.’

  The girl: still sedated and/or not talking. The boy: ditto.

  Press conference: put off till tomorrow because I haven’t got a bloody clue what to tell them.

  If I sound pissed off, that’s because I am. Keep calm and carry on. Yeah, right.

  * * *

  * * *

  Elspeth Gibson drinks a lot of tea. Erica Somer has already had two cups and they’re no way near done yet. She’s already spotted the forensic artist checking his watch. The cat is sitting on the arm of the chair staring at them, its paws folded like a fishwife. It’s clearly severely miffed at this outrageous usurpation of its usual seating arrangements.

  ‘So you think the man you saw talking to Dr Harper was definitely in his fifties?’

  ‘Oh yes, dear. The way he dressed, for one thing. No one wears clothes like that any more.’

  ‘Like what, exactly?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Neckties. Tweed jackets. Young people wouldn’t be seen dead in that sort of thing, would they? It’s all T-shirts and those jeans with the crotch around their knees. And tattoos.’ She shudders and reaches for the teapot again.

  The forensic artist quickly covers his cup. ‘No more for me, thanks.’

  Somer leans over and looks at the e-fit on the tablet. The clothes may be their best bet, in the end, because otherwise this could be a picture of just about any late-middle-aged man in Oxford. Tallish, greyish hair, heavyish build. More ‘ish’ than anything else, in fact.

  ‘Was there something that stood out about him? No scars or anything like that? Perhaps the way he walked?’

  Mrs Gibson considers. ‘No,’ she says eventually. ‘Can’t say that there was.’

  ‘And his voice – anything different about that?’

  ‘Well, I only spoke to him once or twice and it was some time ago, but he definitely sounded educated, if you know what I mean. Certainly not common.’

  ‘No accent at all?’

  ‘Now you come to mention it there may have been a bit of a Brummie twang. Though my guess is he’d tried to get rid of it. But when people are angry something like that often slips out –’

  ‘Angry? I’m sorry, Mrs Gibson, I don’t follow.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? It was that time I heard them arguing. He was obviously very upset.’

  ‘You heard them arguing? You never mentioned that before – when was this?’

  Mrs Gibson stops, pot in hand. ‘Lord, it must have been at least three years ago. Perhaps more. Time gets so treacherous when you get to my age – things you think were a few months ago turn out to be years –’

  Somer sits forward a little. ‘What exactly were they arguing about? Do you remember?’

  Mrs Gibson looks perplexed. ‘I’m not sure I can tell you. I only heard them because I happened to be walking past at the time and they were on the doorstep. I remember this man John saying something about the old man’s will. That’s why I thought he was his son. But it was then I heard the twang. It was only one or two words, but I suppose I was a bit more attuned to it than most, with my husband coming from there. Funny – I never thought about that before.’

  ‘And you definitely think his name was John?’

  ‘Oh yes, dear. No doubt about that. Now, more tea?’

  * * *

  * * *

  Even though I said I’d pick Alex up she still looks surprised to actually see me. She works in that building you can see from the ring road. The one with the spiky thing on the roof. One of the wags in the station calls it Minas Morgul. Leering down the Botley Road in mockery of the spires. It has a great view, though. And an extensive car park. Which is where I’m sat, watching the door.

  She comes out with two other people I don’t recognize. A woman in her thirties in a green suit,
and a man, closer to Alex’s age. Tall. Dark. Not unlike me. The woman in green talks to them a moment then heads off to her car. Alex and the man linger. It’s not chit-chat, I can tell that. Her face is earnest, his thoughtful. Their heads are a tiny bit closer together than they need to be. He gestures with his hands a lot. He’s establishing himself – his status, his expertise. In this job, you get good at body language. At assessing people with the sound on mute.

  I watch as they part. He doesn’t touch her. But, then again, she knows I’m watching. Perhaps he does too.

  ‘Who was that?’ I say as she opens the car door and gets in.

  She glances across at me, then turns to find her seat belt. ‘David Jenkins. He’s in the Family team.’

  ‘It looked pretty intense, whatever it was.’

  She gives me that ‘don’t tell me you’re jealous’ look. ‘I was just asking his advice, that’s all.’

  I’m not sure that’s any better. But like Gis, I know when to stop digging.

  We pull out into the traffic and I head for the ring road.

  ‘Do you mind if we stop off at the John Rad? I want to look in on the girl.’

  ‘OK, no problem. I didn’t think you’d be here this early anyway.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be, if we’d made any progress. If there was something useful I could be doing instead.’

  She looks across, then away again at the fields.

  ‘Sorry. That didn’t come out the way I meant.’

  She waves her hand in dismissal, but she doesn’t turn her head. She knows when to drop it, too.

  * * *

  *

  When we get to the hospital, she surprises me by deciding to come in.

  ‘Are you sure? I know how much you hate hospitals.’

  ‘It’s still better than twiddling my thumbs out here.’

  On the third floor, I’m met by Everett and a doctor who looks like he’s straight out of Casualty. Or whatever they call that thing these days.

  ‘Titus Jackson,’ he says, shaking my hand. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than I’ve already told DC Everett. The young woman has definitely given birth but shows no signs of recent sexual violence – no vaginal or other bruising.’

  ‘Is she still sedated?’

  ‘No. But she hasn’t yet said anything.’

  ‘Can I see her?’

  He hesitates. ‘Only for a few minutes, and only one at a time, please. She’s in a very fragile state, mentally. She becomes extremely distressed when anyone gets too close, especially men, so please bear that in mind.’

  ‘I have dealt with rape victims before.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you have, but this is rather more than just that.’

  I nod; I know he’s right. ‘And the child?’

  ‘My colleagues in Paediatrics carried out another examination as you requested and there’s nothing to suggest sexual abuse. But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that some of the things those people do to children don’t leave physical signs.’

  ‘You’re right. You don’t need to tell me.’

  I turn to Alex.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she says, anticipating me. ‘I’ll wait here.’

  ‘I can show you the waiting room,’ says Everett. ‘It’s just along the corridor.’

  * * *

  *

  When I get to the girl’s room I do what everyone else must have done. I stop at the window and I look at her. And then I feel ashamed. Like a voyeur. And I wonder how she feels about being here. Whether these four walls are just another type of prison – it’s caring, this time, but it’s still confinement. Her eyes are open, but though the room looks out on trees and grass and green things she can’t have seen for God knows how long, she’s staring at the ceiling. At the blank repeating tiles.

  I knock on the door and she starts, sitting up quickly in the bed. I open the door slowly and step inside, but I take care not to move any closer. All the while her eyes follow me.

  ‘I’m a police officer. My name is Adam.’

  There’s some sort of reaction to that, but I’m not sure I could define what.

  ‘I think you saw my colleague. DC Everett. Verity.’

  Definitely a reaction now.

  ‘We’re all really concerned about you. You’ve had a terrible time.’

  Her lip trembles and she clutches at the blanket.

  I reach into my jacket and pull out a piece of paper.

  ‘I know you haven’t said anything about it, and perhaps you can’t. That’s OK. I understand. But I was wondering if perhaps you could write it down? Anything you remember – anything that might help us?’

  She’s staring at me, but she’s not frightened. At least I don’t think so. I take a pen from my pocket and move slowly towards the bed, ready to retreat if she reacts. But she doesn’t flinch, she just watches.

  I place the paper and pen slowly on the bedside table, perhaps a foot from her hand, then back off to the door.

  It’s another five minutes before she touches them. Five minutes of silent patience on my part, which is not a talent of mine, but I can do it if the stakes are high enough. And this time, they are.

  She puts out a hand and pulls the paper towards her. Then the pen. And then, as if it’s a task she doesn’t do often and has lost the knack for, she takes it in her hand and writes. It’s slow but it can’t be much more than a word. Then she holds out the paper to me, and I can see the strain in her eyes. The tears only just suppressed.

  Five letters.

  Vicky

  When I go back down the corridor, Everett is waiting. I can see her react to the look on my face.

  ‘Did she say something?’

  ‘No,’ I reply, showing her the paper. ‘But we have a name.’

  ‘Is that all – nothing else?’

  I’m about to say that it’s still a bloody sight more than she’s managed to get so far. But I stop myself just in time, and then I’m irritated that I’m irritated. It’s hardly Ev’s fault, after all.

  ‘Afraid not. I asked, but she was starting to get distressed. And then that doctor friend of yours arrived and kicked me out. Nicely, of course.’

  I might be mistaken, but I think she’s actually blushing.

  ‘Look, I’m on my way home, but can you get on to Baxter and ask him to check Missing Persons for girls called Vicky?’ I look around. ‘And do you happen to know where my wife is?’

  ‘She went downstairs. She wanted to see the little boy.’

  * * *

  *

  It’s not just Alex who hates hospitals. I remember bringing Jake here when he fell off a swing in the playground and got a bump on his forehead the size of an egg. He must have been three. Perhaps four. We sat in A&E for an hour while every conceivable catastrophic brain-damage scenario spun through my head, and then a brisk, overworked nurse took one look at him, gave him some Calpol and sent us home. The bump went pretty quickly; the memory of the panic didn’t. And later, much later, after he started hurting himself, we came here again. When we had to. Enduring the sideways glances from nurses, and the doctors taking us aside, and the explanations, and the calls to the GP to check that we weren’t lying – that she knew all about it and it was under control. As if something so terrible could ever be ‘under control’. And all the time, Jake’s white face, his anxious eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Alex would whisper, rocking him gently, kissing his hair, ‘it’s OK.’

  I think, afterwards, that this explains it. That memory in my head as I push open the door to the children’s ward and round the corner into the room.

  The way she’s holding him.

  The dark hair.

  His body curled into hers.

  The tenderness.

  I don’t know h
ow long it is I stand there. Long enough for the nurse to join me, in silence, and watch.

  ‘It’s like a miracle,’ she says softly, after a long moment.

  I turn to her. I know it’s not Jake. Of course it isn’t. I know that. But for a moment – just a moment –

  ‘He just went to her, straight away. With everyone else, he screams and fights like you wouldn’t believe. But with your wife – well, you can see for yourself.’

  My eyes meet Alex’s and she smiles, her hand slowly stroking the boy’s long dark curls.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she whispers, ‘it’s OK.’

  And I don’t know if it’s the boy she’s talking to. Or me.

  * * *

  * * *

  The world of wyrd

  (from the Anglo-Saxon ‘wyrd’ meaning fate or doom)

  A Blog about the spooky, the paranormal and the unexplained

  POSTED 03/05/17

  Death and the raven – the Wittenham riddle deepens

  Many of you will remember the strange case of the disappearance of Hannah Gardiner, back in 2015. If not you can read my original post here. It struck me at the time, because Hannah had broken the news of the discovery of sacrificial remains at Wittenham only a few months before. And then she disappears herself, and her little boy and his stuffed bird (note that) were discovered in the Money Pit, where legend has it that a huge raven guards a mysterious treasure (note that too – I’ll come back to it). For those of you who haven’t been there, Wittenham is an amazing place – criss-crossed by ley lines, and you can almost feel the presence of ancestral voices. So personally I’m not surprised at all that human sacrifice took place there, including women who had been tied up and thrown into the pit, and then had the backs of their skulls beaten in.

  The reason to bring all this up again now is that my sources tell me there are some truly spooky similarities between those ancient corpses, and the position Hannah’s own body was found in. Word is that Hannah was tied up too, and died of a head wound to the back of the skull. Creepy, eh? There was even a dead black bird near the corpse. Coincidence? Don’t you believe it. The police aren’t confirming anything, but well, they wouldn’t would they?