by Cara Hunter
‘How are you, Vicky?’
Half a nod.
‘There are some questions I’d like to ask, and some things I need to tell you. Is that OK?’
She hesitates, then lifts her hand towards the chair.
I move forward slowly and sit down. She shrinks back in the bed, but only a little.
‘Are you able to tell us what happened to you?’
She looks away from me and shakes her head.
‘OK, that’s fine. I understand. But if you remember anything, you can just write it down for me like you did last night. OK?’
She looks at me again.
‘The other thing I wanted to tell you is that we’re going to put a picture of you in the newspapers. There must be someone out there who knows you – someone who loves you and has probably been looking for you all this time. There’s been stories about you all over the papers and the internet –’
I stop because I have to – because her eyes are wide and she’s shaking her head, and then as Jackson starts forward she seizes the paper I brought and gouges it in huge violent straggling letters.
No No No
* * *
* * *
BBC News
Thursday 4 May 2017 | Last updated at 11:34
BREAKING: New appeal for witnesses in Hannah Gardiner disappearance
Thames Valley Police have issued a new appeal for witnesses in relation to the disappearance of Hannah Gardiner in June 2015. Hannah was previously thought to have disappeared on Wittenham Clumps on the morning of 24 June, but police are now asking for anyone who saw her in Oxford that morning to come forward, especially anyone who saw her near her flat in Crescent Square, or talking to anyone in that area. This would appear to corroborate local reports that Hannah’s body was found in the garden of a Frampton Road house yesterday morning. They have also asked any young women who were walking with a child in a buggy at Wittenham Clumps that morning to make themselves known to the police, if they have not done so already.
Thames Valley has still not released the identity of the young woman and small boy found in the cellar at the same Frampton Road property. A press conference is scheduled for later today.
Anyone with information about either case should contact the Thames Valley Police incident room on 01865 0966552.
* * *
* * *
‘All ready, then?’
I’m really hating the sound of my own voice. The false brightness. It’s that tone nurses use when they ask you to ‘pop on’ a hospital gown or ‘slip off’ your trousers. I can’t believe Alex isn’t giving me one of her looks but it’s the measure of her absorption in the child that she doesn’t appear to notice.
The boy is standing between us, his arm round her leg, and in the other hand, the grimy toy they said he had with him in the cellar. The one he won’t let go. He’s wearing clothes I recognize. Clothes Alex must have kept, all these years. I don’t really want to think about that. He twists his head to look up at her and she reaches down a hand to caress his hair.
‘We’ve got everything we need, so yes, I think we’re ready.’ Her voice sounds as strained as mine. But for a different reason. She is brittle with happiness.
I reach out a hand to the boy, but he shrinks back and Alex says quickly, ‘It’s OK. He just needs a bit of space.’
She crouches down. ‘I’m going to carry you – is that OK?’
Apparently it is, because he offers no resistance, and the three of us make our way out to the car, where she straps him into the car seat I didn’t think we still had.
I was expecting him to react to the sound of the engine, but he seems remarkably unperturbed. As we pull out into the traffic I try to think of something to say. But Alex gets there first.
‘I wish I knew what to call him,’ she says. ‘We can’t call him “boy” or “child” all week.’
I shrug. ‘Hopefully Vicky will be able to speak to us in the next day or two. She’ll tell us his name.’
‘If she actually gave him one,’ says Alex, turning to look at the boy in the back. ‘If she’s so traumatized that she’s blocking the whole thing out, she may never have bonded with him at all. Giving a child a name, it’s all part of that – it’s how you signal your relationship. I think she’s in deep denial that he’s even hers. And, frankly, who can blame her – it must be tough, trying to love the child of your rapist –’
‘We don’t know that’s what happened, Alex. Not definitively. You’re a lawyer. You know better than to jump to those sorts of conclusions.’
It wasn’t meant to sound patronizing, but it does. Her eyes lock with mine a moment, but she’s the first to look away.
We grind to a halt as the traffic narrows to one lane. The roadworks on this stretch seem to have been going on for months.
‘You said “all week”.’
‘Sorry?’ she says.
‘Just now, you said we couldn’t call him “boy” all week. I thought it was just going to be for a few days.’
She’s not looking at me. ‘It will be. Probably. But with your parents coming –’
‘That’s next month –’
‘I think we should warn them, just in case.’
‘Warn?’
‘Don’t be difficult, Adam. You know very well what I mean.’
I do. I just wish I didn’t.
* * *
* * *
‘In the case of the young woman and child found in the cellar, all I can say at this stage is that enquiries are progressing.’
The press conference is packed and my general level of stress and irritation hasn’t been helped by the fact that I forgot we were holding this at the Kidlington media centre and only got here with ten minutes to spare. I look down the rows of faces and see a lot I don’t recognize. The nationals, no doubt; we haven’t had this much media interest since the Daisy Mason case. That was hardly surprising – an eight-year-old girl abducted from her own garden. But right now, the wheels are going round but I’ve run out of road. One of the hacks in the front row is muttering that he doesn’t know why we bothered getting them in here at all if that’s all we’ve got to tell them.
‘What about DNA?’ asks a woman at the back. ‘I can’t believe you still haven’t established who the father of that child is. I thought you could get results in a few hours these days?’
‘Testing has improved, certainly, but it still takes time. And DNA will only be able to tell us so much. We need to talk to the young woman herself, and she’s still not able to speak to us. I’m sure you can appreciate that she’s in a very distressed state.’
‘Have you got a pic yet?’ asks the man from the Oxford Mail. ‘The neighbours said you had one – that you were showing it to people and asking if anyone recognized her.’
‘We’re not releasing a photo at this time.’
‘Well, what about a bleeding name then? A shot of the kid? Something – anything?’
‘The investigation is at a critical stage. I’m sure you can appreciate –’
‘Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.’
‘OK,’ says the woman at the back. ‘What about this new appeal for witnesses in the Hannah Gardiner case? That means you’re linking the two, right?’
I open my mouth then close it again. What bloody appeal for witnesses?
‘If it’s slipped your mind, Inspector,’ she says, ‘I have the statement here.’ She smiles at me then scrolls down her tablet. ‘“Thames Valley Police are appealing for anyone who saw Hannah Gardiner on the morning of 24 June 2015, in the vicinity of Crescent Square, Oxford, to contact the incident room at St Aldate’s police station, especially if they saw her talking to anyone in the area.” Etc., etc., etc.’ She holds the tablet up. ‘This is from your team, I take it?’
‘Yes –’
�
�So you are linking the cases. That means the body you found in that garden must be Hannah’s and that man Harper must be suspected of killing her. That’s right, isn’t it? I mean, I’m not missing something blindingly obvious here?’
‘I’m not in a position to comment –’
‘I read somewhere,’ says the old lag at the front, ‘that there was a dead raven buried with the body – some sort of pagan ritual thing. Care to comment, Inspector? Or is that something else you’re “not releasing”?’
‘Yes, I will happily comment on that. There has never been any connection whatsoever between satanism or paganism and the Hannah Gardiner case, and there isn’t one now.’
‘So was there a sodding bird or wasn’t there?’
The woman interrupts him. ‘So you are reopening the case,’ she says quickly. ‘We can quote you on that?’
‘We’re not reopening it because it was never closed –’
‘I’ll take that as a yes then.’
‘– and at this stage of the investigation we are not able to say any more than I’ve told you already. We owe it to the families of the victims –’
‘What about the family of the wrongly accused? What do you owe them, Detective Inspector Fawley?’
The voice comes from somewhere at the back. People turn to look as he gets to his feet, and a buzz starts as they recognize him.
Matthew Shore.
How the hell did he get in here?
‘So, do you have an answer for me? I mean, you were on the Hannah Gardiner case, weren’t you?’
‘This is a press conference, Mr Shore.’
‘And I’m a member of the press.’ He holds up a pass. ‘Look, it says so, right here. So I say again – and I think that’s the third time, incidentally – what about my father? What about a man you victimized and harassed, even though you had no evidence –’
I can feel Harrison’s stress levels rising; this is going out live on the BBC news channel, and the bloke from Sky has his phone out videoing it.
‘Look, Mr Shore, this is neither the time nor the place.’
‘So when exactly is the right bloody time and place? I’ve been trying to talk to Thames Valley Police for months – all I get is the brush-off.’
‘We never charged your father in relation to the Hannah Gardiner case. The sentence he served was for an entirely different offence.’
‘Yeah, but he’d never have even been convicted if his face hadn’t been all over the bloody papers for months, never mind getting three sodding years – there’s no way that was a fair trial –’
Harrison clears his throat. ‘That’s not something we can comment on, Mr Shore. You will have to take it up with the Crown Prosecution Service.’
‘And you think I haven’t?’ he says, sardonic. ‘They’re no better than you. There’s no justice in this bloody country – no bloody accountability. You all just clear up each other’s mess –’
Harrison gets to his feet. ‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. Further statements will be issued as appropriate. Good afternoon.’
* * *
*
The first person I see outside is Quinn. He must have been at the back. He makes a face. ‘I’d like to know how Shore got in. I’ll get Gis on it.’
‘What I’d like to know is who the fuck issued that appeal for witnesses? Was it you?’
He hesitates, clearly trying to decide whether to balls it out or fess up.
‘The hacks were going to link the cases whatever we did so I thought it was worth seeing if all this new publicity jogged someone’s memory –’
Which is actually a very good point. Not that I’m in the mood to say so.
‘Even though you know I promised Gardiner he would have time to warn Hannah’s parents? Even though you know damn well you should check something like that with me first?’
‘But you said –’
‘I said to keep an eye on things –’
‘You actually said “pick things up” –’
‘– I did not say make significant decisions without asking me. I was only at the John Rad, for fuck’s sake, not the bloody moon – you could have called – texted.’
He’s gone very red now, and I realize – too late – that Gislingham is standing a few yards away. I shouldn’t bollock Quinn in front of lower ranks. You just don’t.
‘I thought,’ says Quinn, lowering his voice, ‘that you’d prefer me not to disturb you. What with the kid and your wife and everything.’
And everything.
You’re already thinking ‘classic transference’, and you’re not wrong. But knowing it and doing something about it aren’t the same. And now – not for the first time – I wonder whether my real problem with Quinn is that he’s too much like me. Apart from the flashy dress sense and the serial shagging, of course.
‘OK,’ I say eventually. ‘Go and see Gardiner and apologize.’
‘Can’t I just call him?’
‘No. You can’t. And get Challow moving on those bloody DNA results.’ And then I take a deep breath and turn round. ‘What do you want, Gislingham?’
He looks embarrassed. ‘Sorry to barge in, boss, but the incident room has just taken a call after the news broadcast. It was from Beth Dyer.’
* * *
* * *
Quinn was right; it doesn’t take long. By lunchtime, Erica Somer has tracked down both a nephew and a niece of the first Mrs William Harper. But when she goes to the incident room to look for Quinn, what she finds is Fawley. He’s standing staring at the pinboard. The photos. The map. The images of the two young women and the two young boys. The living and the dead. He seems lost in thought. Absent.
‘Sorry, sir,’ she says, still slightly unsure around him. ‘I was looking for the DS –’
He turns to look at her, but it’s a few seconds, she can tell, before he actually registers who she is.
‘PC Somer.’
‘Yes, sir.’
It’s not something she could ever tell Quinn, but Fawley is far and away the best-looking man in the station. The fact that he seems entirely unaware of it only adds to the attraction. Quinn’s exactly the opposite – he operates with some sort of bat-like sex echo system, constantly sending out signals and seeing how they bounce back. Fawley, on the other hand, is entirely self-contained. She doesn’t have Quinn’s level of self-confidence but she usually gets some sort of reaction from men. Not from this one though.
‘I was thinking about Vicky,’ he says. ‘About what sort of family she must have come from that she doesn’t want them to know she’s OK.’
‘She may have run away from home. Which could be why no one reported her missing.’
He turns to stare at the girl’s photo again. ‘You’re probably right.’ Then he turns back. ‘Sorry, you didn’t come here to listen to me thinking aloud. What was it?’
She holds up a piece of paper. A print-out.
‘Last night,’ she says, ‘I suddenly had this hunch. If Harper’s first wife came from Birmingham then she might still have family there. And if the “John” Mrs Gibson thought was Harper’s son also had a Birmingham accent –’
He’s there already. ‘Then it might be a relative of the wife.’
‘Right, sir. So I checked and it could be.’ She hands him the paper. ‘Nancy Harper had a niece and a nephew. The niece, Noreen, is a doctor’s receptionist and lives in Berwick. But the nephew, Donald Walsh, teaches history at a small private school in Banbury. He’s fifty-three. I’m trying to get a picture but on the face of it he fits the description.’
Fawley looks at the print-out. ‘This is good work, Somer. So your theory is it wasn’t John, but Don?’
‘I think so, sir. It would be easy for Mrs Gibson to have heard the name wrong. I don’t think her hearing is all that great.’
‘So do you have an address for this Donald Walsh?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve tried calling, but no answer. I think someone should go up there – given it’s so close. Even if he’s away, we may find out something from the neighbours. How often he comes to Oxford. If he and Harper are in touch.’
‘And that’s why you were looking for DS Quinn? To get that arranged?’
She wills herself not to blush, but she’s not sure if it works. ‘Yes, sir. So he can organize someone.’
‘Well, he’s not going to be back for an hour or so. And DC Everett’s still at the hospital, so why don’t you find DC Gislingham and tell him I’ve OK’d it.’
‘What, you mean, I should go?’
He looks just a tiny bit irritated now. ‘With Gislingham, yes. There isn’t a problem, is there?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good. Let me know what you find out.’
* * *
* * *
Phone interview with Beth Dyer
4 May 2017, 2.12 p.m.
On the call, DC A. Baxter
AB: Miss Dyer, it’s DC Andrew Baxter, Thames Valley. I believe you called the station after the press conference?
BD: Oh yes. Thanks for getting back to me.
AB: Did you have something to tell us?
BD: Yes. It’s, well, it’s a bit difficult.
AB: If it helps, we’ll do our best to keep what you tell us confidential. But that rather depends on what it is you have to say.
BD: That policeman on the TV, Detective Inspector Fawley. He said that the body you found was Hannah.
AB: I don’t believe that’s yet been officially confirmed –
BD: But it’s her, isn’t it?
AB: [pause]
Yes, Miss Dyer. We believe so. Mr Gardiner has been informed.
BD: How did he take it?
AB: I’m not able to discuss that, Miss Dyer. Was there anything else?
BD: Sorry, that must have sounded awful. I’m a bit all over the place right now. It’s just that – well, that’s why I called. It was about Rob.
