Кара Хантер - In the Dark

AB: Detective Sergeant Quinn also saw a bruise on your childminder’s arm yesterday.

RG: Look, is she pressing charges or something?

AB: We will be bringing her in to make a statement. It’s possible she may wish to take it further.

RG: [ silence ]

I barely touched her. Really. She just pissed me off, that’s all.

[ silence ]

Look, she’d just told me she was pregnant. She said it was mine – denied ever having slept with anyone else. Well, even you lot can put two and two together and make four on that one.

AB: So Miss Walker is your girlfriend.

RG: She’s not my girlfriend.

[ silence ]

We slept together. Once . OK? Have you ever done anything really stupid when you were pissed and depressed and regretted it afterwards? No? Well, go figure.

AF: So when she tried to pass off the child as yours you lost your temper?

RG: I was angry. I don’t make a habit of it.

AF: Really? It strikes me you have an unusually short fuse.

AB: Is that what happened in 2015? Did Hannah ‘piss you off’?

RG: Don’t be bloody ridiculous.

AF: Or was it something else – did something happen to Toby – something you thought was her fault?

RG: [ silence ]

I’m going to say this now, and then I am going to go home to look after my son, and unless you arrest me I don’t think there’s anything you can do to stop me. The last time I saw my wife was 7.15 in the morning on June 24th 2015. She was alive and well. I never hit her, I have no idea who killed her and I don’t know how her body ended up in Frampton Road. Is that clear?

AF: Perfectly.

PR: Thank you, gentlemen, we’ll see ourselves out.

***

Quinn is waiting outside when I leave. He was watching on the video feed. He seems jumpy. Uncharacteristically so.

‘So what do you think?’ he asks as we watch Gardiner and Rose disappear down the corridor.

‘What do I think? I think he’s angry, defensive and unpredictable. But I’m still not sure he’s a murderer.’

Quinn nods. ‘I can see him killing the wife in a fit of rage, but dumping the kid? That’s a big stretch.’

‘I know. Walsh or Harper, yes, but not Gardiner. But Gardiner’s the only one who definitely knew where Hannah was going that day.’

‘Actually, boss,’ says Baxter, coming out and closing the door behind him, ‘I’m not so sure about that. I checked the spec of Hannah’s Mini. She had satnav. She could easily have loaded the directions to Wittenham into the system the night before. In which case –’

Quinn throws up his hands. ‘In which case any Tom, Dick or Harry who got into that car could have known where she was going. Jesus. Back to sodding square one.’

‘Though in that case, my money would be on Walsh rather than Harper,’ continues Baxter evenly. ‘Harper’s never even owned a PC as far as I can tell, never mind a car new enough to have satnav. He probably wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘OK,’ I say, ‘get on to Gislingham and ask him to check if Walsh has a satnav in his car. And ask him to cover off the Cowley Road angle when he gets back – see if anyone there recognizes Hannah. It’s a very long shot after all this time, but it’s a box we need to tick, all the same.’

‘Right,’ says Quinn, turning to go, but I hold him back and turn instead to Baxter.

‘Can you do that?’

Baxter nods and starts off down the corridor, though not without a quizzical glance back over his shoulder.

*

Once he’s out of earshot I turn to Quinn. ‘Two things. First, where the hell is Pippa Walker – I thought you were bringing her in?’

He blinks. ‘I’m on it.’

‘Well, get a move on. And second, sort out whatever it is you have going on with Erica Somer. I don’t particularly care what you do, Quinn, or who, for that matter, but I’m not having it getting in the way of this investigation. Don’t make me say it twice.’

‘Right,’ he says. And odd though it sounds, it’s almost as if he’s relieved.

***

At 4.00 p.m. the Cowley Road is just getting into its stride. Stacks of exotic fruit in boxes, someone sweeping the pavement outside the Polish grocer’s. Kids and bikes, mums and pushchairs, a couple of Rastas smoking cross-legged on the pavement, an old lady bent double over a floral shopping trolley, a mangy-looking terrier out on its own. Gislingham locates the number-plate recognition camera that picked up Hannah’s car and looks back down the parade. Three betting shops, a 24/7 convenience store and half a dozen restaurants – Slovak, vegan, Lebanese, Nepalese, Vietnamese. He’s prepared to bet most of them weren’t here two years ago. But there’s one place that was. The traditional family butcher that’s probably been there a generation, never mind a decade. Pies and sausages in the window, an old-fashioned scalloped canopy and an even more old-fashioned life-size plastic butcher standing cheerily outside, hands on hips. Gislingham edges his way to the front of the queue and asks for a quick word.

‘What’s the problem, mate?’ says the man, eyeing Gislingham’s credentials as he trims a joint of beef, expertly turning, cutting, turning, cutting.

‘No problem. No problem at all. I just wondered whether you’d seen this woman?’

He unfolds a picture of Hannah Gardiner. The one they’d used at the time. She’s standing with her back to a gate; her long dark hair is tied in a ponytail, she’s wearing a navy quilted jacket and there’s a view of fields and sheep and mountains. Somewhere in the Lake District.

‘I remember her – that’s the woman who went missing, right?’

‘You remember her – round here? When was that?’

The man looks apologetic. ‘No, sorry, mate. I meant I remember that picture. It was all over the papers.’

‘Do you think you ever saw her, though? Her car was picked up on the traffic cameras along here, the afternoon before she disappeared. The car was a bright orange Mini Clubman, but she may have come along here on foot as well.’

‘But that’s at least a year ago, isn’t it?’

‘Two, actually. June 23rd 2015.’

The man pushes the cuts of fat to one side and reaches for the string. ‘Sorry, but no chance. Not that long ago.’

‘Is there anywhere round here you can think of she might have been going? She was a journalist.’

The man shrugs. ‘Take your pick. Could be anything. Have you looked at the paper for that week? Oxford Mail? Might give you a clue.’

Now why the hell didn’t I think of that, Gislingham says to himself. ‘Cheers, mate – really helpful.’

The man looks up. ‘No worries. Always happy to help the police. Do you want some sausages before you go? On the house?’

*

Back out on the pavement, Gislingham tucks a packet of the house speciality into his jacket pocket and calls Quinn.

‘Yeah, what is it?’

‘I think I may have an idea on Hannah Gardiner. I’m coming back to the station to check it out.’

‘OK, whatever.’

Gislingham frowns. ‘You all right? You sound a bit off.’

There’s a silence, then, ‘Look, if you must know, I think I fucked up.’

So that’s what it is, thinks Gislingham. Not the Erica thing. Or perhaps not just the Erica thing. He waits. Wouldn’t do to sound too keen. Or too gloating.

‘That childminder of Gardiner’s,’ says Quinn. ‘Pippa Walker. You met her too, didn’t you?’

For one horrible moment Gislingham thinks he knows what Quinn’s about to say – but surely even he wouldn’t have –

‘You didn’t – tell me you didn’t.’

‘No, of course I bloody didn’t . It’s something else. I let her stay.’