by Cara Hunter
‘OK, Joshua,’ says Walsh, with perhaps a little too much gusto. ‘It seems an unexpected deus ex machina has released you prematurely from the purgatory that is the repeal of the Corn Laws.’
He holds open the door and gestures to the boy. ‘Off you go. But I shall want to see that prep first thing in the morning.’
The boy pauses in the doorway and looks back at Gislingham, and then he’s gone. They can hear his feet clattering down the stairs.
‘So,’ says Walsh, moving round behind his desk in a power play that’s not lost on any of them. ‘What can I help you with?’
‘I imagine you probably know why we’re here,’ begins Gislingham.
Walsh looks at him, then at Somer. ‘To be perfectly honest, no.’
‘It’s about your uncle, or strictly speaking, your aunt’s husband. William Harper.’
‘Oh,’ says Walsh. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Though I don’t know why they felt they needed to send you.’
‘It’s a serious matter, Mr Walsh.’
‘Of course. I wasn’t meaning to imply – well, you know. Just have them get in touch with me and I’ll sort things out. I suppose there isn’t anyone else. Not now.’
Gislingham stares at him. ‘Who are you talking about, Mr Walsh?’
‘The solicitors. I assume he had some. Oxford firm, is it?’
‘I’m not following you.’
‘About the will,’ says Walsh. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Bill’s dead?’
Somer and Gislingham exchange a glance.
‘You haven’t seen the news? The press?’
Walsh smiles, faux-helpless. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have time to read newspapers. Have you any idea how much is involved in this job?’
Somer knows very well, in fact. But she’s not about to tell him so.
‘Look,’ she says, ‘I think you’d better sit down.’
* * *
* * *
‘As a colleague of mine observed only this week, sometimes we just get lucky.’
I’m at the lab, standing next to Challow, looking down at a metal table spread with sheets of paper covered with lines of handwriting. Some are intact, others streaked with damp, a few reduced to pulp and completely illegible.
‘What is it – some sort of journal?’
Challow nods. ‘Nina found it when she went through the boxes that were in the cellar. It was stuffed down the side, presumably so the old man didn’t find it. There were some old books in there and the girl’s torn out the blank pages. There were a couple of old biros in the boxes too. Those orange Bic things. Looks like Harper’s the sort who can never bear to throw anything away.’ He gestures at the sheets. ‘We’ve saved what we can but I think the bog on the floor above must have overflowed recently. In fact, I’m surprised that girl didn’t have raging pneumonia, trapped in that bloody awful place all that time.’
He turns on an overhead lamp and brings it down so we can see more clearly.
‘I’ve transcribed the sheets that are still intact and sent them to you as scans, and I’ll do what I can to decipher the rest. You never know – it’s amazing what technology can do these days.’
‘Thanks, Alan.’
‘Happy reading. Though on second thought, that’s probably just a figure of speech too.’
* * *
* * *
Quinn’s just about to give up when the door finally opens. Though it doesn’t open very far. Enough, all the same, to register bare feet, long blonde hair, even longer legs, and a camisole that clearly doesn’t have anything underneath it. A shit day is suddenly not looking quite so shit after all.
‘Is Mr Gardiner in?’
She shakes her head. She has one of those faces that always look slightly bruised. Either that or she’s been crying.
Quinn whips out his warrant card and his suavest smile. ‘Detective Sergeant Gareth Quinn. When do you expect him back?’
‘He’s at work. Late, I should think.’
She’s about to close the door but he takes a step forward. ‘Perhaps I could come in – leave him a message? We just wanted to apologize about how the news came out about his wife.’
She shrugs. ‘Suit yourself.’
She turns and walks away and as he pushes the door open wider to follow her he realizes she has a glass of wine in one hand. A large glass.
The girl has already disappeared and Quinn finds himself alone in the sitting room. There’s a handbag decorated with a clutch of different-coloured pom-poms on the sofa, and a wine bottle on a low table. It’s almost empty. Quinn starts to check out the room; if she catches him he can always claim he was looking for paper and a pen, even though he has both in his inside pocket. A fairly expensive TV, a few books, mainly medical textbooks, framed prints in black and white. Quinn’s never let a woman move in, but it does strike him that there’s not much of the girl’s stuff here. He goes back to the hall.
‘Are you OK?’ he calls.
There’s a silence, and then the girl comes out of the bedroom carrying a suitcase gaping with clothes and dumps it on the sitting-room floor. She has jeans on now and a pair of very high-heeled ankle boots. There’s an inch of pale skin between the top of her boots and the hem of her jeans. She perches on the sofa and tries to close the lid of the bag, her long hair falling across her face.
‘Here,’ says Quinn, rushing forward. ‘Let me help you with that.’
She looks up at him, struggles with the zip for a few moments more, then gives up. ‘Whatever.’ She slumps back on the sofa and turns her face away, and it takes him a few moments to realize she is, really, crying.
He pulls the zip the last couple of inches and stands the case upright. ‘Are you OK?’
She nods, pushing the tears away with her fingers. She still isn’t looking at him.
‘Do you need a lift or anything?’
A little gasp that might be a sob, then a nod of the head. ‘Thanks,’ she whispers.
* * *
*
Ten minutes later he’s putting the case in the back of his car, and they’re heading down the Banbury Road.
He glances across at her.
‘Can’t be easy for him. You know, all that –’
She turns to look at him. ‘Yeah, right,’ she says. ‘All that finding your wife under the floorboards thing. But it was two years ago.’
Which is nothing, of course. But perhaps not at her age.
‘Where will you go?’ he says, after a while.
She shrugs. ‘Dunno. Not home, that’s for sure.’
‘Why not?’
She shoots him a glance and he decides not to push it.
‘The last few days – it can’t have been easy on you either.’
‘No shit,’ she mutters, staring out of the window. But there are tears in her eyes again.
* * *
*
At the bus station he parks up and goes round to the boot to get the case. It’s only when she reaches to hitch her handbag over her shoulder that he sees what he probably should have noticed before.
‘How did you get that?’ he asks quietly.
She flushes and pulls down her sleeve. ‘It’s nothing. I banged my arm on a door.’
He holds out a hand and she doesn’t resist. The bruise is ugly, still red. The imprint of fingers dug into the delicate skin.
‘Did he do this?’
She isn’t meeting his gaze, but she nods.
‘You could report him, you know.’
She shakes her head vehemently; she’s struggling not to cry again.
‘He didn’t mean it,’ she says, her voice so low he has to stoop to hear her. A London coach grinds past and Quinn can see people eyeing them curiously.
‘Look, let me buy you a coffee.’
She
shakes her head again. ‘I have to find somewhere to stay.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’m sure we can find you somewhere.’
Then he picks up the case and pushes it back in the boot.
* * *
* * *
The woman at reception at St Aldate’s looks harassed. She checks her mobile three times in the five minutes it takes for the desk sergeant to haul himself out of the back office and down to the front.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’
‘My name is Lynda Pearson. Dr Lynda Pearson. I’m here to see William Harper. He’s one of my patients.’
‘Ah yes, we’re expecting you. Can you take a seat? It shouldn’t be too long.’
She sighs; she’s heard that one before. She goes over to the line of chairs, then takes her phone out of her canvas bag. At least she can do something useful while she’s stuck here.
‘Dr Pearson?’
She looks up to see a solid man in a suit that’s a bit too small for him. The buttons on his shirt gape slightly. Balding, a little out of breath. Halfway to high blood pressure. He looks forty but he’s probably at least five years younger.
‘DC Andrew Baxter,’ he says. ‘I can take you down to the custody suite.’
She gathers up her things and follows him down the stairs. ‘How’s Bill been?’
‘As far as I know, he’s OK. We’ve been doing our best not to put him in any stressful situations. Made sure he’s getting food he likes, that sort of thing.’
‘He’s probably eating better here than he was at home. He’s lost a lot of weight in the last few months. Has Derek Ross seen him?’
‘Not since he was first brought in. Ross was the one who suggested we called you.’
They’ve reached the custody suite and Baxter nods to the sergeant at the desk. ‘Dr Pearson to see William Harper.’
As they walk towards Harper’s cell Lynda Pearson has a horrible sudden premonition that they’re going to find the old man hanging from the window bars by a twisted shirt. But it must just be her tired brain overplaying all the TV cop shows she’s seen over the years, because when the door opens Harper is sitting docilely on his bed, both feet on the floor. He looks thin but there’s some colour in his cheeks that wasn’t there before. The plate and cup on the tray by the bed are both empty.
‘How are you, Bill?’ she says, taking a seat on the only chair.
He looks at her narrowly. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘The police asked me to come. They wanted me to check you over. Make sure you’re OK.’
‘When can I go home?’
Pearson glances up at Baxter. ‘Not yet, I’m afraid, Bill. The police have more questions they need to ask. You may be here a while longer.’
‘In that case,’ he says, in sudden clear tones, ‘I want to see the officer in charge. I want to make a statement.’
* * *
* * *
‘Is that really necessary?’
Walsh has gone from disbelief to irritation in the space of about three sentences. The former in response to the news, the latter to Gislingham’s request that he accompany them to St Aldate’s.
‘Why on earth do you need me to do that? I have commitments – classes, marking, extracurricular activities to supervise – it’s incredibly inconvenient.’
‘I appreciate that, sir, but we need to take samples. DNA, fingerprints –’
He stares at them. ‘What the hell for? I haven’t been to that house in years.’
‘Really?’ says Somer. ‘You weren’t on good terms with your uncle?’
‘My good woman, as your colleague quite rightly observed only a few minutes ago, we weren’t actually related.’
Gislingham’s eyes widen; if that was an attempt to get in Somer’s good books it’s a miscalculation of spectacular proportions.
‘Mr Walsh,’ she says coolly, ‘we have already established that very few people have visited that house in recent years and you are clearly one of them. We need to eliminate you from our enquiries –’
His eyes narrow. ‘Enquiries? You don’t seriously think I could be involved in what he was doing? I can assure you that I had no idea what he was up to – I was as shocked as anyone else.’
Somer eyes him for a moment. ‘Was?’
He looks irritated. ‘What?’
‘You just said, “I was as shocked”. That means you knew – you knew before we got here. You saw the news just like everyone else.’
‘Look,’ he says, taking a deep breath, ‘I work in a school. A very expensive school. Do you know how much people pay every year to send their children to a place like this?’
She can guess. And it’s probably more than she gets paid.
‘The last thing I need in my position is to be associated with something like – like that.’
I bet you don’t, thinks Somer, and all the more since you’re clearly so far down the pecking order that you’re stuck in a room in the overflow block with a grandstand view of the bins.
‘We’ll do our best to be discreet,’ she says, ‘but the fact remains that we need you to accompany us back to Oxford. Even if you haven’t been to Frampton Road for a while we have fingerprints that are so far unidentified, and could have been there quite some time. And in any case, I’m sure a “school like this” would expect you to do everything in your power to assist the police.’ She has him there, and he knows it.
‘Very well,’ he says heavily. ‘I trust I can drive myself?’
* * *
*
Out in the car Gislingham turns to her. ‘Blimey, you got him by the short and curlies and no mistake.’
‘You know,’ she says thoughtfully, ‘I’m sure there are guidelines in the state sector these days about teachers being alone with pupils. I think you’re advised to leave the door open.’
‘What, are you suggesting something was going on with him and that kid?’
‘No, not necessarily. But I think we should make a few enquiries. From what I remember this is the third school he’s taught at in the last ten years. Might suggest something. Or nothing.’
‘Worth checking though.’
She nods. ‘Though we really do need to be careful how we go about it. If you’re a teacher, a rumour like that can wreck your career. Even if it proves to be completely untrue.’
It happened to someone she knew. A quiet, inoffensive and – as it turned out – hopelessly naive man who got hounded out of his job after one of his Year 10s claimed he’d hit him. The last she heard, he was behind the till in Lidl.
Gislingham starts the engine and a few moments later they see Walsh’s silver Mondeo emerging from the staff car park.
‘By the way,’ says Gislingham as Walsh comes towards them, ‘what was that he was talking about – the sex mashing thing?’
For a moment she’s completely nonplussed. ‘Oh, you mean the deus ex machina? It’s from Greek tragedy – it’s when a writer gets his plot into such a complete horlicks the only way to fix it is to send in a god.’
Gislingham grins. ‘Sounds like a great idea. We could do with one of those ourselves.’
‘I thought we already had one,’ she says drily. ‘Under deep cover as Detective Inspector Adam Fawley.’
Gislingham laughs out loud this time, then puts the car in gear. The back of his hand brushes hers.
Just for a moment.
* * *
* * *
I’m writing this because I want everyone to know. If I die down here – if I never get out – I want people to know what he did to me.
I was on my way to look at a bedsit. One of the students had dropped out so they had a room free for a few months and it had to be better than where I was before. Only I’d managed to break my heel crossing the road so I was sitting there, on the wall, trying to fix it, whe
n he came out. I thought he was going to ask me to get off his wall but he just looked at my shoe and said he had some glue that could fix it. It would only take a minute, he said. And I looked at him and he smiled. He had a tie on, I remember that. He didn’t look like a psycho. He looked nice. Kind. Like someone’s uncle. So I said OK and I followed him into the house.
He said he had to fetch the glue from the shed, and he’d just made some tea and would I like some. That’s how he must have done it. The tea.
I thought it tasted a bit weird [material illegible]
. . . lying face down on the floor. I started yelling but no one came. He never came. And eventually I needed to pee and I started crying because I could feel my jeans getting soaked and it was so horrible. I don’t know how long it was before I worked out I could crawl on my knees. I kept banging into things in the dark but I found the bed and the toilet and the boxes of junk. It all smells of old people. I think this room must be underground because it’s so cold all . . .
[one sheet illegible]
. . . heard him outside. There was the sound of a key and then footsteps on the stairs and then a light went on. I could see it under the door. And then I heard him out there, breathing. Breathing and listening. I stayed really still and in the end he went away. But the light under the door is still there.
He’s going to come down again, isn’t he.
I don’t want him to rape me. I’ve never done it before and I don’t want it to be him that’s the first.
Why doesn’t anyone come?
[two sheets illegible]
. . . here again. He had water and he let me drink some, but most of it went down my top. I said I was hungry too but he said I have to be nice to him first. I tried to hit him and he slapped me. He said I would play nice in the end because I wouldn’t eat until I did. I spat out the water at him and he said suit yourself. You can drink out of the toilet for all I care. You’ll come round, you vicious little bitch. You all do.
