by Cara Hunter
I nod, remembering. ‘Jill Murphy said something similar back in 2015.’ She was the DS on the case, and a bloody good one too. ‘She always thought Beth had a thing for Rob.’
‘Yeah, well,’ says Baxter, ‘I reckon she still does. Which could, of course, mean she’s making all this up just to get back at him. It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Even so, we still need to take another look at Rob Gardiner. On the face of it the case for him as the killer is much stronger – that’s by far the easiest explanation for the lack of other DNA in the car.’
Occam’s razor. Always believe the simplest of all available explanations. We used to call it Osbourne’s razor when he was still at Thames Valley, he said it so often. It’s one reason we ended up so fixated with Shore: he was the easiest answer too.
‘We discounted Gardiner in 2015 because we had sightings of Hannah at Wittenham, and the timings didn’t add up. But now we know she never left Oxford so we’re going to have to tear up that timeline and start again.’
I walk over and point to the timings Baxter pinned on the board. ‘Gardiner has a rock-solid alibi from here, 7.57, when his train left Oxford, but what about before that? What about the previous day?’
‘Hang on a minute,’ says Quinn, pointing at the first entry on the timeline. ‘Hannah was definitely alive at 6.50 that morning, when she left that voicemail message –’
‘Have you listened to it?’
‘Well, no –’
‘I did. At the time. Over and over. And we played it to her friends too. The quality isn’t great but they all thought it was her. But what if it wasn’t? Is it possible it was someone else? Could Beth Dyer have been right all along – could there have been a mystery woman in the picture – someone we never knew about who gave Gardiner an alibi?’
I can tell they’re sceptical, but I push the point home. ‘All I’m saying is let’s get it analysed again. Speech recognition software has improved massively, even in two years. And let’s get Pippa Walker back in here too. Just in case there was anything odd about that call that didn’t occur to her at the time.’
‘Worth a shot,’ says Gislingham. ‘Especially now she’s had that falling-out with Gardiner.’
I look at him with a question and he gestures towards Quinn, who’s momentarily wrong-footed. ‘I saw her at Gardiner’s flat this afternoon,’ he says, after a pause, glancing at Gislingham. ‘She and Gardiner have had some sort of row and he’s chucked her out. She had a bruise on her wrist. She said he did it.’
‘Right, let’s bring her in and get her to make a statement. I’m assuming you know where to find her?’
Quinn opens his mouth, then closes it again.
‘And while we’re at it, let’s check Gardiner’s past for any other suggestions of violence – talk to his ex-wife –’
‘I tried,’ says Baxter. ‘She isn’t returning my calls. And when uniform went round there no one answered.’
‘So track down his old girlfriends, people he knew at university. Come on, you know the drill.’
I turn again to the timeline. ‘If you take away the call at 6.50, Gardiner’s whole alibi falls apart. He could easily have killed Hannah on the 23rd, buried her that night, then taken the car out to Wittenham early enough the following morning to make that train.’
‘But in that case, how did he get back?’ asks Quinn.
‘He has a bike,’ says Somer, not looking at him. ‘One of those folding ones – he has it with him on the CCTV at Reading station. And Wittenham’s only ten miles. He could do that in, what? Forty minutes?’
‘What about the boy?’ someone asks. ‘Are you saying Gardiner just dumped him up there on the off-chance someone would find him? Could he really have done that to his own kid?’
It’s a good question. ‘I agree it’s not likely – not on the face of it. But remember, Hannah’s interview at Wittenham was originally scheduled for much earlier that morning. Rob couldn’t have known Jervis had been delayed. He might have assumed the boy would be found much quicker than he actually was.’
‘But that assumes he didn’t have her mobile – that he’d already got rid of it by then.’
‘Fair enough, but that’s not impossible.’
‘You’d still have to be a fucking psycho,’ mutters Gislingham. ‘To do that to a little kiddie.’
‘That’s the point,’ I say. ‘Perhaps that’s exactly what he wants us to think – that only a psychopath could have done that to his own child. Either way, we can’t afford to close down any line of enquiry until we’re sure it doesn’t lead anywhere. And if that sounds like a cliché, remember how a cliché gets to be a cliché.’
‘Because it’s true,’ they mutter, sing-song. They’ve heard that one before. All except Somer, who grins suddenly, then hides it by pretending to make a note on her pad. She has a great smile; it changes her whole face.
‘But what about the body, sir?’ Baxter again. ‘If Rob killed her, how did she end up in Harper’s shed?’
‘The two gardens back on to one another – Harper’s and Gardiner’s. And the fence at the bottom is pretty rickety – it wouldn’t be that hard to get through it.’
‘It’s a bit of a stretch though, isn’t it, boss?’ interrupts Everett. ‘I mean, Rob Gardiner burying his wife’s body in the garden of exactly the same house where we found a girl in the cellar? I mean, what are the odds against that?’
I shoot a look at Baxter, who pretends I haven’t.
‘It’s a good point, Ev. And you’re right, I don’t believe in coincidences. Usually. But if we reject the possibility of coincidence entirely there’s a risk we bend the evidence to make it all fit. And I don’t know about you, but the more we find out about these two crimes the more dissimilar they seem. So let’s investigate them that way. At least for now.’
People start to stand up, shuffle papers, and I beckon Everett.
‘Can you look into what Vicky says about herself in her journal – see if that helps us with an ID?’
‘There isn’t much, boss –’
‘She talks about looking for a new flat and not being in the city for very long. So ask the job centre about girls called Vicky who were on their books two or three years ago and then suddenly stopped signing on without any explanation. And try the letting agents too.’
She’s not convinced, but she’s a pro. ‘OK, boss. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘What is it?’ I ask. Because there’s something. Something she wanted to add, and didn’t.
‘I was just remembering how badly she reacted when you wanted to put her picture in the paper. Have you any idea why?’
I shake my head. ‘Right now, none at all.’
* * *
* * *
Janet Gislingham is asleep on the sofa when her husband gets back from work, and it’s only when she rouses herself and goes to check on her son that she realizes he’s home. Billy is dozing, nestled in his blue and white blankets, in his blue and white nursery, surrounded by soft toys and piles of clothes in a year’s worth of sizes all still in their plastic packaging. There’s no item of babyware Janet hasn’t thought of, bought already or borrowed just in case. And above the cradle, a mobile Gislingham’s equally football-mad brother made for his first nephew, hung with cut-outs of famous Chelsea football players. Drogba, Ballack, Terry, Lampard, rotating slowly in the warm air.
Gislingham is standing at the cradle, and Janet watches as he reaches down and gently strokes their baby’s silky hair. Billy shifts slightly under his father’s hand, making tiny dreaming noises, his little hands curling and uncurling. The love on the man’s face is as painful as loss.
‘Chris?’ she says, her hand still on the door. ‘Is everything OK?’
But he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move at all. All is still except for the baby’s tiny mews. She’s not even sure if her husband
knows that she’s there.
‘Chris?’ A little louder now. ‘Are you all right?’
Gislingham starts, and turns to face his wife.
‘Course I am,’ he says, with his usual smile. ‘How could I not be?’
But when he comes towards her and folds her in his arms, she can feel his tears wet against her face.
* * *
* * *
It’s gone nine when I get home. I spent over an hour with Walsh and his story never changed: he’s never been in the cellar, he knows nothing about either Hannah or the girl, and he didn’t steal anything from the house. His only explanation for the fingerprints is that he helped Harper sort out some junk years ago and it must be those boxes that got taken downstairs. Stalemate, in other words. We’ve put him in the custody suite overnight, but we’re going to have to bail him if we don’t get something a lot better than what we have right now.
In this job, you get good at the unexpected. Spotting when even very little things aren’t where they ought to be. But when I push open my front door at 9.15 I hardly need super-sensitive powers to realize something’s changed. Lilies in a tall glass vase I haven’t seen in months. Bryan Ferry on low. Even – and this really is a shock – the smell of cooking.
‘Hello?’ I call, dumping my bag in the hall.
Alex appears in the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Should be ready in ten minutes,’ she says, smiling.
‘You didn’t need to wait. I could have shoved a pizza in the microwave.’
‘I wanted to. I suddenly felt like making something for a change. Glass of wine?’
In the kitchen there’s a pot of casserole on the hob. A Spanish recipe she used to make a lot. Memories of a weekend in Valencia. She pours the Merlot and turns to me, cradling her own glass. One of the last of the wedding present set.
‘How was your day?’
That’s different too. Alex doesn’t really ‘do’ small talk.
I drink some wine and feel it go straight to my head. I think I forgot to have lunch.
‘Horrible. It looks like it was Harper’s nephew who imprisoned and abused that girl. We found a journal she wrote while she was down there. It’s horrific, what she went through.’
She nods. Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t be telling her any of this, but we don’t speak strictly in this house. Just like we don’t do small talk. ‘I feared as much,’ she says. ‘And Hannah?’
‘That’s not good either. Her best friend just told us Rob may have been hitting her. He’s right back in the frame.’
Her face is grim. Probably as grim as mine.
She turns back to the casserole. Garlic, oregano, a hint of anchovies. My stomach turns over. And I stand there, with my wine, trying to decide. Do I tell her what Vicky wrote about the boy? Do I tell my wife that she was right and I was wrong – that the boy’s own mother once hated him – perhaps still does? That he’s spent the whole of his short life imprisoned with someone who never wanted him? And if I do, will that only make it worse? Will it only make her even more determined to give him the love she thinks every child deserves – the love she still has but can no longer bestow?
‘There’s time,’ she says, still preoccupied with the pan, ‘if you want to go up.’
‘It’s OK, I won’t bother to change.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I meant if you wanted to check on him.’
I knew he was here. Of course I did. The food, the music, the smile, the flowers. They’re all because of him. But knowing that and going up there, seeing him –
‘It’s all right, he’s fast asleep,’ she says, mistaking my hesitation. Perhaps deliberately. ‘He went out like a light. I think he’s completely exhausted.’
She looks round at me. It’s a test. And I’ve never been able to bear failing Alex.
* * *
*
The landing light is on, even though it’s not yet dark, and the door to the bedroom is ajar. I move forward slowly until I round the corner and see his head on the pillow. The dark curls, the teddy bear Jake loved when he was this age. The boy is curled up tight like a dormouse, the grimy toy still clutched in one hand. I listen to him breathing, like I used to listen to Jake, standing exactly where I am now.
* * *
* * *
The phone rings six times before Quinn picks it up.
‘It’s me,’ Somer says. ‘Are you in the car? I can hear the traffic.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To try to sort things out. To talk.’
‘Not sure there’s anything to talk about. It was OK while it lasted, but you know what they say about shitting on your own doorstep.’
‘I didn’t shit on you –’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘We have to be professional, at the very least,’ she says. ‘You’re still running a lot of this investigation – and I’m still part of it.’
‘Part of it? You seem to be doing a bloody good job of trying to take it over, as far as I can see.’
‘Oh come on, that’s not fair –’
‘You know something? I don’t give a fuck. All I care about is putting that bastard Walsh behind bars where he belongs. If you can help with that, fine. If all you’re interested in is building your own poxy career, then you can fuck off.’
He reaches across and jabs the phone off. Five minutes later he turns into the Lucy’s development and parks the Audi in the underground car park. His flat is on the top floor, with a view that would justify even an estate agent’s hyperbole. The sun is just sliding below the horizon and the air is milky rose. On the balcony, looking over the canal and across towards Port Meadow, is Pippa. She has a champagne flute in one hand. She turns at the sound of the door and comes towards him. She’s wearing his dressing gown and her hair is wet.
‘You didn’t manage to find anywhere, then?’ he says, trying not to sound as suspicious as he feels.
She shakes her head.
‘You tried all those numbers I gave you?’
She shrugs; it obviously didn’t feature very highly on her current list of priorities. ‘You know Oxford. The place is always chocka.’
‘Look, all I meant was you can’t stay here – regulations – you know –’
‘This place is amazing,’ she says, interrupting him. She sweeps an arm round. ‘This room – it’s so big.’
Quinn dumps his jacket on the back of the sofa. ‘Yeah, well, the rest of the flat is pretty small.’
And there isn’t a spare room. Though he doesn’t actually say that. But all the same, she’s clearly guessed what’s on his mind. ‘Look, there’s a couple of mates I could try later. I’m sure I’ll find somewhere. I don’t want to cause you a load of hassle. Not when you’ve been so nice to me.’ She skips over to the bottle of wine and pours him a glass, then brings it over. ‘It’s only cava – I got it at that funny little offy on Walton Street. But it’s still fizz, isn’t it?’ She’s back at the window again. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Oh, eighteen months or so.’
‘And all on your own?’
She hardly needed to ask that; she’s had hours to go through his bathroom, his drawers, his wardrobes.
Quinn puts his glass down on the coffee table. ‘Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll sort out dinner.’
Her eyes widen. ‘You’re going to cook?’
He grins. ‘No chance. I’m going to order a sodding takeaway.’
And suddenly, they’re laughing.
* * *
* * *
In the morning, I’m out of the house before Alex is awake. I’m not sure I’m ready for a shared breakfast. Or the bright new box of Cheerios that was on the worktop when I made my coffee. If that sounds craven, then that’s probably because it is.
I’m walking across the car park when I get
the call from Challow.
‘My chance to redeem myself in the eyes of CID.’
‘The DNA?’
‘You’ll have it later today.’
‘Thank Christ for that.’
‘I’m sending over those extra fingerprint tests we took from Frampton Road too.’
‘And?’
‘Harper’s are in most of the rooms, no surprise there. Not much at all in the top floor but I guess it’s a while since anyone’s been up there. But we did find Walsh’s on the banisters on the first flight of stairs. Which may or may not be useful. From your point of view, I mean. And that display cupboard – it’s been wiped clean. Not a mark on it. There was one other interesting finding too.’
‘Which was?’
‘The cupboard wasn’t the only thing with no prints. There were none on the porn either. Harper’s prints are on the box, and Derek Ross’s too. But on the porn itself – nothing. And I don’t know about you but that strikes me as odd. Very odd indeed.’
* * *
* * *
When Quinn wakes he’s already late, and there’s a rick in his neck. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand and sits up, feeling the heavy ache in the front of his skull. Then he hauls on his dressing gown and goes out into the sitting room. A greasy box of pizza, a half-eaten slab of garlic bread, two empty bottles of wine. He can hear the sound of the shower. He goes up to the bathroom door and knocks. ‘I’ll need to leave in fifteen, but I’ll come back and pick you up later so you can make that statement.’
No reply. He goes over to the kitchen and starts the coffee machine. It looks like the girl has beaten him to it. There’s an empty mug on the counter, and next to it, her phone.
He stares at it for a moment. Then turns it on.
* * *
* * *
Phone interview with Christine Grantham
