In the Dark

by Cara Hunter

  5 May 2017, 10.32 a.m.

  On the call, DC A. Baxter

  AB: Mrs Grantham, we’re talking to a number of people who were at Bristol University in the early 2000s. I think you were there then, is that right?

  CG: I was, yes.

  AB: And I think you were also a friend of Robert Gardiner?

  CG: So that’s what this is about. I did wonder.

  AB: You were his girlfriend, I think?

  CG: For a while, yes.

  AB: What was he like?

  CG: That’s not the real question, though, is it? You’ve found his wife’s body and suddenly you’re asking me about him. That can’t be a coincidence.

  AB: We’re just trying to get a full picture, Mrs Grantham. Fill in the gaps.

  CG: Well, ‘gaps’ is the word, really. When it came to Rob. I always got the feeling he was holding something back. He was a very private person – probably still is.

  AB: Did he ever do anything that made you feel uneasy?

  CG: Are you asking if he hit me? Because if you are, the answer is no. He’s a caring person. And yes, he has strong views and he doesn’t suffer fools gladly, and that can make him sound a bit abrasive sometimes. But to be honest, I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it a lot of the time.

  AB: What did you know about his background?

  CG: He comes from somewhere in Norfolk, I think. Not a wealthy family, though. He had to work hard to get where he had. I always thought that explained a lot about him. The intensity, you know.

  AB: Did you ever meet Hannah?

  CG: No. We didn’t keep in touch.

  AB: And why was it that your relationship ended?

  CG: [pause]

  I’m not sure that’s something I’m happy telling you.

  AB: This is a murder inquiry, Mrs Grantham –

  CG: [pause]

  Look, I wanted a family –

  AB: And he didn’t?

  CG: No, that wasn’t it. He definitely did want children. He just couldn’t have them himself.

  * * *

  * * *

  ‘So you don’t recognize her?’

  Everett is in the job centre in the middle of town. Sofas, computer terminals, desks that are trying hard not to look like desks. There are bright hanging panels in yellow and green; shots of smiling models with great teeth and chirpy messages about being ‘Here to help’ and ‘Ready for work’. In rather painful contrast to the people milling listlessly about the place, who don’t look ready for very much at all. The woman sitting in front of Everett looks all but defeated.

  She stares again at the picture on Everett’s phone, then passes it back to her, shaking her head. ‘There are so many – and they come and go so much. I probably wouldn’t recognize her if she’d been in here three weeks ago, never mind three years.’

  ‘What about your records – can you do a search for girls called Vicky or Victoria who were signing on here then? Say, January 2014 onwards?’

  ‘OK. I can do that.’

  She turns to her computer. There’s a tired piece of cardboard stuck to the screen with Blu-Tack. You don’t have to work to be mad here, but it helps. There’s also a plastic troll with beady eyes and bright blue acrylic hair. Everett hasn’t seen one of those since she was at school.

  The woman taps the keyboard then sits forward.

  ‘I have one Vicky and three Victorias on file here in January 2014. The Vicky is still signing on now and the three Victorias have got jobs, one with Nando’s, one at Oxford Brookes and one with a cleaning firm. Though that probably won’t last. Too much like hard work for most of them.’

  ‘Is there any way our Vicky could have been claiming without being on that database?’

  The woman shakes her head. ‘No. She’d be in here somewhere.’

  ‘Perhaps by another name?’

  ‘Doubt it. She’d have had to show us two forms of ID. Passport, driving licence – you know the sort of thing.’

  Everett sighs. How is it possible, in a digital world, to leave no trace at all?

  * * *

  * * *

  Quinn clatters up the final few stairs to the flat and opens the door.

  ‘Pippa? Are you there?’

  But all he hears is the sound of his own voice. The congealing remains of last night’s dinner are still on the table, but the bags that had been stacked in the corner are gone. The only sign she was ever there is a pair of black lacy knickers, draped over one corner of the widescreen TV.

  ‘Shit,’ he says out loud. ‘Shit shit shit.’

  * * *

  * * *

  When I look up at Baxter’s face my first thought is that I’ve never seen him look so animated.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, boss, but I’ve just come off the phone with Christine Grantham. Used to go out with Rob Gardiner when they were at university.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘There’s something he hasn’t been telling us. Something big.’

  * * *

  * * *

  In Banbury, the local forensics team are in Lingfield Road. It takes them over an hour, but eventually they find the missing netsuke rolled up in a towel and hidden under a loose floorboard. The officer bagging them up looks at one more closely as she labels it. An otter, a tiny fish gripped between its teeth. You can almost feel the water on its coat. ‘Are these funny little things really worth all that trouble?’ she asks Somer.

  ‘Oh yes, I suspect these are worth a good deal. Walsh probably hid them after he saw the news about Harper – he knew it was only a matter of time before we tracked him down.’

  The woman raises her eyebrows. ‘Just shows you. Looks like a load of old plastic tat to me. The sort of thing you used to get in cornflakes boxes.’ She grins, sealing the bag. ‘Showing my age. You probably don’t remember that.’

  Somer smiles. ‘Actually, I do.’

  ‘OK, that’s the lot. I’ll get them photographed for you.’

  ‘Thanks – I’ll need something to send the insurance company. So we can prove exactly where these things came from.’

  There’s the sound of feet on the stairs and Gislingham appears with one of the other forensics officers. Between them, they’re carrying a computer, swathed in plastic.

  ‘Any luck?’ asks Somer.

  Gislingham makes a face. ‘We’ve been through upstairs and the loft, and there’s nothing. The computer doesn’t even have a password on it, and deffo no dodgy images or porn sites in the browser history. If he’s a paedophile he’s got a funny way of showing it.’

  ‘And that’s definitely the only machine he has – no laptop or tablet?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Judging from the state of this thing our man is not exactly what I’d call a gadget geek. I mean look at it – it’s probably fifteen years old. These guys are going to rake it over just in case. But if you ask me, this is a dead end.’

  * * *

  *

  Two hours later, at the school, Somer is wondering whether that’s going to be the theme of the entire day. Though perhaps ‘brick wall’ is a better analogy this time round. As she sits in the school secretary’s office, watching her fiddle about with a computer that’s clearly beyond her, she wonders, as she has many times before, what it is about schools and doctors’ surgeries that makes their administrators such paradigms of the passive-aggressive. Is it the job that does it or is that sort of person attracted to the job in the first place? The secretary at the last school she worked at could be the clone of the woman she’s looking at now. The same rigid hair, the same blouse and skirt and cardigan in shades of blue that don’t quite match, the same glasses hanging on a chain.

  ‘What date was it again?’ asks the woman, poking at the keyboard.

  ‘June 24th, 2015,’ says Somer, for the t
hird time, with the same smile she had for the previous two, though her jaw is starting to ache with the effort.

  The woman looks over her glasses at the screen. ‘Ah, here we are. According to the timetable, Mr Walsh had a double period with the third form that morning.’

  ‘And what time would that have started?’

  ‘Ten thirty.’

  ‘Nothing before that?’

  The woman looks at her. ‘No. Like I said, he had the double period. Nothing else.’

  ‘And he was definitely here that day – he wasn’t off sick?’

  The woman sighs audibly. ‘I would have to check the absence records to tell you that.’

  Somer refreshes her smile. Again. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  More tapping at the keyboard, and then the phone rings. The woman picks it up. It’s clearly some immensely detailed query about the admissions process, and as Somer sits there, telling herself not to get pissed off, the door to the head’s office opens.

  Sometimes – just sometimes – the uniform is useful.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asks the man, coming towards her. ‘Richard Geare, I’m the head.’ And then, seeing her smile (a real one this time), he smiles in turn. ‘It’s not spelled the same way, before you ask. I guess my parents weren’t to know. I tell myself it helps my cred with the kids, but I’m not sure it does really. They probably don’t even know who he is. Now if it was Tom Hiddleston, that might be different, but I’m a good ten years too old to pull that off.’

  ‘PC Erica Somer,’ she says, shaking his hand. ‘Miss Chapman is helping me with some information.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘One of your teachers. Donald Walsh.’

  Geare looks curious. ‘And why, may I ask? Is there some sort of problem?’

  Somer glances at the secretary, who’s still talking on the phone but trying to signal to the head. ‘Perhaps we could go into your office?’

  The room is surprisingly modern for a school that takes so much care to look traditional. Smooth pale grey walls, a vase of white peonies, a desk in dark wood and steel.

  ‘You like it?’ he says, seeing her looking round. ‘My partner did it for me.’

  ‘She has good taste,’ says Somer, taking a seat. Geare does the same.

  ‘He, in fact. But yes. Hamish has great taste. So, how can I help you?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve seen the news. The girl and young child who were found in a cellar in Oxford?’

  Geare frowns. ‘What on earth can that possibly have to do with Donald Walsh, of all people?’

  ‘The house they were found in – it belongs to Mr Walsh’s uncle. His aunt’s husband, strictly speaking, they’re not actually related.’

  Geare puts his fingertips together. ‘And?’

  ‘We’ve been trying to establish who visited the house, and when. Miss Chapman was helping me with a particular date in 2015. Checking whether Mr Walsh was in school that day.’

  ‘So that girl had been down there as long as that?’

  Somer hesitates, just for a moment but long enough for Geare to register.

  ‘We’re not sure,’ she says.

  He frowns again. ‘I confess I’m confused. Why do you want to know about one specific day, unless you think that was the day the girl was abducted?’

  She flushes slightly. ‘Actually, it was the day Hannah Gardiner went missing. You may remember the case. We believe there may be a connection. And if there isn’t, we need to rule it out.’

  ‘And you think Donald Walsh could be that connection?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  There’s a silence. She can see him thinking.

  ‘Obviously we don’t want that information getting into the public domain.’

  He waves a hand. ‘Of course not. I understand that. I’m just trying to reconcile what you just said with the Donald Walsh I know.’

  ‘And who is that?’

  ‘Diligent, hard-working. A little tiresome if I’m honest. And a bit reactionary, which can make him seem hostile on occasion.’

  She nods, wondering if the real problem was Geare’s sexuality.

  ‘And in case you’re wondering,’ he says, ‘I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I’m gay. Either to the staff or the parents.’ He sits forward, suddenly earnest. ‘Look, PC Somer – Erica – I’ve only been in this job nine months and there are a lot of changes I want to make. This school may look like a museum piece but I have no intention of running it like one. This room,’ he says, gesturing, ‘is a better indication of the sort of school I want this to be than the crusty armchairs in the staff common room. Which is why I bring prospective parents here, long before I take them round the rest of the school.’

  ‘Perhaps you should change them as well.’

  ‘The staff?’

  She smiles. ‘The armchairs.’

  ‘It’s on the list. But yes –’ more serious now ‘– it wouldn’t surprise me if there were some changes in the staff too.’

  Somer can’t help herself glancing towards the door, and when she looks back Geare is smiling drily. ‘Miss Chapman was already planning to retire at the end of this term. Sometimes it’s best not to make too many changes all at once, don’t you find? But some of the teaching staff may choose to move on of their own accord. Not everyone shares my vision of where we need to go.’

  ‘And Walsh is one of them?’

  ‘Let’s put it this way, I suspect he’d probably have left already if he had another place to go. Or enough money not to care.’

  ‘I was going to ask you about that – well, indirectly. I believe Mr Walsh has had three different jobs in the last ten years. This one is the longest he’s had in that time. Is there anything you can tell me about that – about why he left the two previous schools?’

  He frowns. ‘I’m not sure how much I can say, what with data protection –’

  ‘That doesn’t apply in a murder inquiry, sir. But feel free to check if that would give you some reassurance. To be honest, it’s in Mr Walsh’s interests that we get as full a picture as possible. If it turns out he had nothing to do with any of this, the sooner we establish that, the better. I’m sure you know what I mean.’

  Geare is silent.

  ‘It would be especially important to know if there’d been any incidents with young women – any suggestion of sexual harassment. Or –’

  ‘Or interfering with the children?’ He’s shaking his head. ‘Absolutely not. The only reason I wasn’t saying anything was because I was wondering how best to put it, that’s all. Donald Walsh is a difficult man. A bit brusque on occasion. I often wonder why he went into teaching at all given that he clearly doesn’t like children. All that irony – he’d no doubt call it wit but the kids just think he’s being sarky. It makes them wary of him, so he struggles to build rapport. He’s not much good at being part of a team either. Not “collegiate”. That’s a Donald word by the way. Personally, I’d just say “friendly”.’

  There’s a knock on the door and the secretary puts her head round. ‘Mr Geare, your appointment has arrived.’

  Somer gets up and shakes his hand. ‘Thank you. If anything else occurs to you that you think we should know, please get in touch.’

  * * *

  *

  Down in the car park, Gislingham is waiting. The PC from Walsh’s office is being loaded into the forensic team’s van.

  ‘I spoke to some of the teachers as well,’ he says as she gets in the car and closes the door. ‘They don’t like him, but they don’t think he’s actually dodgy.’

  ‘Richard Geare said the same. Broadly.’

  Gislingham looks at her. ‘Richard Geare? Seriously?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Poor sod. It must be the first thing everyone says.’

  ‘So is he?’ asks Gislingham, pulling on hi
s seat belt.

  ‘Is he what?’

  He grins. ‘You know, An Officer and a Gentleman.’

  She smiles. ‘If only you knew.’

  * * *

  * * *

  The curtains are open on the first floor of 81 Crescent Square. Robert Gardiner can be seen moving about, talking on his mobile. At one point he stoops suddenly and lifts his son on to his shoulders. Quinn sits watching for a moment, then gets out of his car and walks across the street.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Quinn,’ he says, when Rob Gardiner opens the door.

  Gardiner frowns. ‘What do you want? Has something happened? Have you arrested someone?’

  ‘For the murder – no. Not yet. It’s your childminder. Pippa?’

  Gardiner’s eyes narrow. ‘What about her?’

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘No bloody idea.’

  ‘Can you give me her number then? You must have it on your phone –’

  ‘I did but I’ve deleted it. And no, I don’t have it off by heart, sorry.’

  ‘What about an address for her family?’

  ‘Nope, don’t have that either.’

  ‘Really?’ says Quinn, openly sceptical now. ‘She was looking after your child – didn’t you check her out, take references?’

  ‘Hannah hired her, not me. She met her at that Farmers’ Market on North Parade. At one of the stalls. Pottery or artisan coffee beans or some such. Anyway, they met up a few times after that and she told Hannah she’d been training to be a nanny but the money ran out. Hannah took pity on her and gave her a chance. She was like that. Always seeing the best in people.’ He stares at Quinn with undisguised hostility. ‘What do you want Pippa for, anyway?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Quinn. ‘It wasn’t that important.’

  * * *

  * * *

  Everett locks her car and walks back up to the Iffley Road; if Vicky was living in a bedsit, this is as good a place to start as any. She has a list of rented properties and the only way forward is to start knocking on doors. Though she has that sinking feeling of looking for a needle in a city-sized haystack.