Кара Хантер - In the Dark

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.