Кара Хантер - In the Dark

‘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

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?’