Кара Хантер - In the Dark

‘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 –’