In the Dark

by Cara Hunter

  So what is all this about ravens, I hear you say. Well, the fearsome Irish goddess Morrígan is closely associated with crows and ravens, especially in her role as prophet of doom and violent death (read my post on her here, and you can see her here in her other incarnation, as ‘the three Morrígna’ – the three terrifying sisters Badb (‘crow’), Macha and Nemain). Anyone who knows anything about Celtic religion will also know that ravens had a central role in ritual practice. Raven calls were thought to bring messages from the underworld, and they were often killed as propitiatory offerings to the gods, especially to ensure fertility. Ravens have also been found in Dark Age human burial pits – there were bird skeletons in those graves at Wittenham too. So who knows what old gods Hannah Gardiner disturbed when she was up there in the weeks before she died, and the sacrificial graves were desecrated. Who knows what she might have seen and why she needed to be silenced. Only her son can tell us and, to this day, his father has never allowed him to be interviewed.

  I suspect we’ll hear more of this story in the next few days. Watch this space, guys . . .

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  * * *

  * * *

  ‘It would only be for a few days.’

  ‘No. Absolutely not. It’s an insane idea, Alex – you know it is. I don’t know why you’re even considering it.’

  But I do, of course I do. She looks at me, caught between fury and pleading.

  ‘Adam, he’s just a little boy. A terrified, lonely, overwhelmed little boy. He’s been through the most appalling experience which we don’t even know the worst of yet, and his own mother’s rejecting him. Is it any wonder he’s not coping – years in the dark and now’ – she gestures around, at the ward, the trolleys, the people – ‘all this. He just needs a couple of days of peace and quiet in a safe place. Away from all this sensory overload.’

  ‘That’s what Social Services are for – it’s not up to us, for God’s sake. For all you know, they’ve already got somewhere lined up.’

  ‘They haven’t. The nurses told me. They’re really struggling because there are too many children and not enough people willing to take them. And it’s only an emergency placement – just a few days –’

  ‘Even if that’s true they’re not going to hand him over to any Tom, Dick or Harry who happens to be passing – there are regulations – rules – you need to be approved. That sort of thing can take months –’

  She raises a hand. ‘I spoke to Emma. She says it’s not exactly by the book, but she could make an exception for us. With you being a police officer and her knowing me for so long, she could log it as what they call a “private placement” – because it would just be for a couple of days. And I know your parents are coming over soon but he probably won’t even be there by then and even if he is they would understand – I know they would.’

  She’s pleading now, and she knows I won’t be able to bear that. Any more than she can bear to do it.

  ‘What about work – I’d have to get it cleared for a start and I can’t see Harrison agreeing. And even if he did, I can’t take time off – not at the moment – you know I can’t –’

  ‘I can,’ she says quickly. ‘I haven’t got much on and I can work from home. Just like I used to before.’

  When we had Jake.

  The words boom silently in the air.

  ‘We have that lovely room,’ she says quietly, not looking at me. ‘Everything he could need.’

  But that just makes it worse. The thought of another child in Jake’s bed. With Jake’s things.

  I swallow hard.

  ‘I don’t want to. I’m sorry, but I just don’t want to. Please don’t push this.’

  She puts her hand on my arm and forces me to turn and look at the child. He’s sitting under the table in the corner of the playroom, staring at me, his thumb in his mouth. Just like Jake did. It’s unbearable.

  Alex comes closer. I can feel the heat from her body. ‘Please, Adam,’ she whispers. ‘If not for him, for me?’

  * * *

  * * *

  Quinn opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, then rolls over and slides his hand down Erica Somer’s naked back. He always did think she had a great arse. She twists her head to look at him and he smiles. She looks fantastically dishevelled and he starts to feel horny all over again. It’s something about the contrast between how controlled she is in uniform and how uninhibited out of it. Not to mention the immense pleasure in getting her from the one state to the other . . .

  ‘I meant to ask,’ she says, propping herself up on one elbow. ‘Was it you or Gislingham who talked to that academic in Birmingham?’

  Quinn runs a finger down her spine. Right now, frankly, the case can go fuck itself. He tries to roll her over but she pushes him away.

  ‘No, seriously, I meant to ask you earlier but it slipped my mind.’

  ‘Really, it can wait –’

  ‘No – it’s important – was it you or Gis?’

  Quinn gives up and flops on his back.

  ‘It was Gis. Said the bloke was a real arsehole.’

  ‘But wasn’t there something about Harper’s first wife coming from Birmingham?’

  ‘Yeah, that rings a bell. Why?’

  ‘Mrs Gibson – at number seven. She said she thought the bloke who visited Harper had a bit of a Birmingham accent. So I was wondering – even if she’s wrong about him being Harper’s son, perhaps he was still related. But to the wife, rather than Harper? A nephew, perhaps, something like that?’

  Quinn levers himself up. ‘Actually, you might have a point there. Have a look first thing – if she had any male relatives the right age it won’t take that long to find them.’

  ‘You want me to do it? You don’t want to get Gis on it instead?’

  He reaches out and takes a lock of her hair in his fingers, twirling it round, gently at first, then gradually tighter, pulling her face towards him.

  ‘No,’ he says, his voice dropping. ‘It’s your idea – why shouldn’t you get the credit. But there is something I would like you to do for me. And this is definitely not one for bloody Gislingham.’

  ‘Well,’ she says archly as she slips her hand under the sheets, ‘if that’s an order from a superior officer . . .’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he says gruffly, feeling her tongue on his skin, ‘abso-fucking-lutely.’

  * * *

  * * *

  Midnight. A pool of yellow light and the low murmur of voices at the nurses’ station.

  Vicky is curled up tight in her bed. She is sobbing her heart out, her fist clenched against her mouth so that she makes no noise. And all the while, her eyes never leave the picture one of the nurses has propped on the bedside cupboard.

  It’s a photo of her son.

  * * *

  * * *

  I get in early on Thursday morning, but when I get to the incident room Quinn’s already there, pinning up the task list. And whistling. I look daggers at him until he stops.

  ‘Sorry, boss. Just in a good mood, that’s all.’

  I haven’t worked with him all these months without knowing what that means. But at least he isn’t in yesterday’s shirt. Whoever she is, this one’s getting invited back to his place.

  ‘The press conference is at noon,’ I say, ‘so if there’s anything I can tell them beyond fatuous remarks about enquiries progressing then I want to know about it, pronto. Especially the DNA. What about Harper?’

  ‘Being monitored every fifteen minutes. Custody sergeant says he sleeps most of the time. Or he just sits there, mumbling to himself. We spoke to his doctor and she’s offered to come in this afternoon, just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Right. Good. I’m heading back to the hospital again to talk to the girl. If we’re lucky, she may be up to telling us what happened
. Or at the very least identifying Harper. And then we’ll be able to charge him. Has Baxter found anything in Missing Persons?’

  ‘Not yet. But it all depends whether she was ever –’

  ‘– reported missing. Yes. I do know that, Quinn. Anything else?’

  ‘A couple of possibilities but nothing concrete. I’ll let you know. You’ll be back here, will you, after you’ve seen the girl?’

  ‘Actually, no. I may have to go home briefly.’

  He’s looking at me; he knows there’s something.

  ‘The boy – he may be staying with us for a while. Just until Vicky’s back on her feet. Social Services are struggling to find him a placement.’

  Back on her feet? What sort of crap phrase is that?

  Quinn is staring at me. ‘And your wife, she’s OK with that?’

  ‘Actually, she suggested it. She was with me last night at the John Rad, and the boy really took to her. I cleared it with Harrison – he thinks it might be useful. If the boy starts to trust Alex, perhaps he might talk to her. Assuming he can.’

  Fawley’s first law of policing? Liars overkill. And I just gave Quinn three reasons why I think this is a good idea.

  Shit.

  ‘Right,’ says Quinn, deciding – for once – that discretion is the better course.

  ‘Assuming it all goes ahead I’ll go back to the house and get him settled in, and then I’ll be back by twelve. So you pick things up in the meantime, OK?’

  He nods. ‘Right, boss. No problem.’

  * * *

  * * *

  Phone interview with Sergeant Jim Nicholls (retired)

  4 May 2017, 9.12 a.m.

  On the call, DS G. Quinn

  JN: I was after Adam Fawley, but the switchboard said he isn’t in?

  GQ: Don’t worry, you can talk to me – I know what it’s about.

  JN: Something about those call-outs in Frampton Road, wasn’t it – about ten years back?

  GQ: Actually one in 2002, and one in 2004.

  JN: Christ, is it really that long? Suppose it must be. I’ve been retired at least five now. Can’t remember the last time I spoke to anyone at Thames Valley.

  GQ: What do you remember about the call-outs? There isn’t much in the notes. Certainly no mention of charges.

  JN: There never were any. Neither of them wanted that. And yes, I do remember it – it wasn’t your usual domestic. Not by a long way.

  GQ: Go on.

  JN: Well, it was the address for a start. Frampton Road. I mean, it’s not exactly Blackbird Leys, is it? Don’t think I can remember anyone being called to a domestic round there, the whole time I was on the force.

  GQ: I don’t know, that sort are probably just a bit subtler about it, that’s all.

  JN: But it wasn’t just that. It was what we found when we got there. The neighbour who called said they’d been yelling on and off all evening but once it got past midnight she finally rang us.

  GQ: And?

  JN: It was the wife who opened the door. I don’t know about you but when I was on the job it was usually the blokes did that – most of them tried to get rid of us without letting us in. Pretended it was all a fuss about nothing. You know the drill. Anyway, not this time. She looked a bit flushed but otherwise OK. Had this silky negligee thing on. Quite a looker actually.

  GQ: So what did she say?

  JN: Well, she came over all embarrassed and said it must be that she and her husband had been a bit more ‘exuberant’ than usual in the bedroom department. Said the old lady next door was a bit of a prude and easily shocked. Batted her eyelashes a bit.

  GQ: What did the husband say?

  JN: That’s where it got interesting. I was all for letting it go at that but the WPC – or whatever we’re supposed to call them now – she insisted on seeing him as well. So Mrs Harper, she goes back in and then there’s a bit of a wait, and finally he appears. Face all bruised down one side and the beginnings of one hell of a black eye.

  GQ: So she had been hitting him?

  JN: He didn’t say so. In fact, he said he’d walked into a door that afternoon. As if we were going to believe that. And he claimed the noise was exactly what the wife said it was. Basically backed up her story 100 per cent. Even used some of the same words. That stuff about the neighbour being a bit of a prude.

  GQ: But you didn’t believe him?

  JN: Course not. I didn’t come down in the last shower of rain. I didn’t believe a word of it. Not then, and certainly not when the same thing happened a year or so later. Said he’d slipped on the stairs that time, but you don’t get the sort of bruises he had by doing that. I reckon she’d gone for him with something. A frying pan, maybe.

  GQ: Or a hammer?

  JN: It wasn’t the first thing that came to mind. What makes you say that?

  GQ: Nothing. Forget it. So he never explicitly said his wife was attacking him?

  JN: Nope. I made sure I got him on his own the second time, just to give him the chance to talk to me without her earwigging, but he just kept up all the same nonsense about it being over-vigorous rumpy-pumpy. He actually used that word. Rumpy-pumpy.

  GQ: Jesus.

  JN: To be honest I felt sorry for the poor old bastard. I mean, she was a sexy bit of stuff all right, but Christ, I wouldn’t have touched her with a barge pole. I think she was screwing around too. That car accident? I remember that happening – Priscilla’s not the sort of name you forget. And yes, she was way over the limit, but what you might not know is there was another bloke in the car and it was pretty obvious what they’d been doing. Her knickers were under the back seat. Still, the worm’s turned now.

  GQ: I’m sorry?

  JN: I saw the news. It’s the same Harper, isn’t it – the bloke with the girl in the cellar? Must be.

  GQ: Yes, it’s the same. We’re just trying to fill in the gaps.

  JN: Perhaps he just thinks it’s his turn.

  GQ: His turn?

  JN: You know. Revenge. He can’t take it out on his wife any more so he takes it out on women in general. Not that I want to interfere, of course.

  GQ: [pause]

  No. That’s been really useful. Thanks.

  JN: Always happy to help. Say hello to Fawley for me, won’t you? By the way, how’s that boy of his - Jake? Fawley used to spoil him rotten but you could hardly blame him – not when they’d been trying for one as long as they had. Gorgeous kid, too. Looked just like his mother.

  * * *

  * * *

  ‘How is Vicky this morning?’

  Titus Jackson tucks his pen into the pocket of his white coat.

  ‘Progress is slow, Inspector, but at least we’re not going backwards. I assume you want to see her again?’

  ‘There’s only so long we can hold William Harper before we charge him. I need to be sure what happened before I do that.’

  ‘I understand.’

  He walks with me down the corridor, and when we reach the door he stops and turns to me, something clearly on his mind.

  ‘Nurse Kingsley said you and your wife may be fostering the little boy?’

  ‘It’s not “fostering”.’

  I suspect I may have said that a bit too quickly, because I see his frown deepen a little.

  ‘Just giving him somewhere to sleep for a few days. Social Services are struggling.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you.’

  ‘It’s not me, it’s my –’ I stop, but it’s too late.

  He considers me. ‘You’re not so sure, yourself?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘No. If I’m really honest.’ I look him in the eyes. He has kind eyes. ‘Just over a year ago, we lost our own son. He was ten. He took his own life. He’d been suffering from depression. We did everything we could – but –
’

  There’s a stone in my throat.

  Jackson reaches out and touches my arm, just for a moment. ‘I am more sorry than I can say.’

  I force myself to speak. ‘It’s been really hard on my wife – well, both of us. But especially her. She wants another child but, you know, at her age –’

  He nods. ‘I see.’

  ‘She’s been pressuring me to think about adoption, but I’m just not sure. And now there’s this little boy who has nowhere to go –’

  He watches me, quietly. Not judging. ‘And you have discussed it all – you and your wife?’

  ‘Last night, when we got home, all she wanted to talk about was plans and arrangements. Every time I raised anything else all she kept on saying was it was just for a few days. That he’d be going back to his mother before we knew it.’

  ‘Let’s hope that’s true.’

  ‘Why, don’t you think so?’

  ‘Vicky is making progress, but it’s slow, and we have to think of the child as well. We brought him up to see her again yesterday but she just turned her face to the wall.’

  ‘The officers who found them said they thought she’d been giving the food and water to the boy rather than having it herself – surely that must mean something?’

  He shakes his head sadly. ‘Not wanting him to die is one thing; having normal maternal feelings for him is something else altogether. There’s a barrier between her and that child, Inspector. Not a bond. You don’t need to be a psychiatrist to work out why.’

  He reaches for the door handle. ‘Shall we go in?’

  * * *

  *

  This time, she definitely recognizes me. She sits up in the bed and there’s the shadow of a smile.