As soon as Everett and Somer turn into Windermere Avenue they know they're too late. The press are three deep opposite the house already; cameras trained on the door, ready for the police, relatives, the Tesco delivery `“ they don't care who it is as long as it gets Fiona Blake to the doorstep. Others are homing in on anything that might be Sasha's `“ a bicycle just visible down the side return, a sticker in a bedroom window. There's no sign of life inside: upstairs and down, the curtains are drawn, but there are still people crowded behind the officers on the pavement, and on the top floors of the adjacent houses the neighbours are straining for a better look.
`Bloody vultures,' says Somer, turning off the engine. `Can't they see the damage they're doing?'
`They don't care,' says Ev, staring out of the window. `Why let tact get in the way of a good story?'
The Sky reporter is talking live now, gesturing back towards the house with a practised one-quarter twist.
`Thames Valley Police have yet to issue a statement, but speculation is growing that the body of fifteen-year-old Sasha may indeed have been found, less than two miles from this house, which she shares with her mother, Fiona Blake, forty-three.'
Ev looks across at Somer, who's gripping the steering wheel just a bit too hard.
`Look, Erica, I know this is easy for me to say, but try not to take it too personally. Cases like this `“ they'll break your heart if you let them. But that's not what Fiona needs. She needs us to find this bastard. That's all. Find him, lock him up and do our damnedest to lose the key.'
Somer nods. `I know. Sorry. Didn't mean to `“'
`It's OK. You don't need to apologize. Not to me, anyway.' She loosens her seat belt and reaches for the door handle. `Right. Time for me to give those shits a piece of my mind.'
* * *
Adam Fawley
5 April 2018
18.54
`I don't have any choice, Adam. You must see that.'
I nod. Though part of me doesn't see it at all. The angry, defensive, you-cannot-be-serious part.
`So what do you propose, sir?'
Harrison's eyes narrow. He's clearly picked up on my tone and he doesn't like it. But I don't care; if I sound pissed off it's because I am.
`I've asked the press office to prepare a statement confirming that there will now be an informal review of the Roadside Rapist case. That we believe it only prudent to assess the evidence again in the light of recent events, in order to ensure continued public confidence in the police. And if it becomes clear that a formal reference to the Criminal Cases Review Commission is appropriate `“'
`Oh, for God's sake `“'
`Come on, Adam. You know as well as I do that it's better to get out in front of a story like this. It's all over Twitter already.'
`You can't seriously think that Gavin Parrie is innocent? That it was someone else all along `“ someone completely under the radar `“ who's started up again, all these years later `“'
`It's not what I think that's important, Adam. We have to be seen to be doing the right thing. And all the more so if `“'
`If? If what? If I got it wrong `“ if I fucked up. That's what you mean, isn't it?'
Harrison's fiddling with something on his desk now. Anything to avoid looking me in the eye. `That sort of attitude isn't going to help. It's perfectly reasonable that the Chief Constable should ask us to demonstrate we've considered all the alternative theories of the crime.'
If I wasn't so furious I'd laugh out loud. In fact, I'm almost furious enough to laugh anyway. Which would really land me in the shit.
There's a silence. An angry, fizzing silence.
Harrison sits back again. `In the meantime, I will, of course, have to bring in someone else.'
`Someone else?'
`You can't possibly handle it any more, Adam. It's a manifest conflict of interest, surely you can see that?'
`Who? Who are you bringing in?'
`Ruth Gallagher, from the Major Crimes unit. She'll take on the Appleford/Blake inquiry, and liaise with whoever the Chief Constable selects to do the Parrie review.'
It could be worse. In fact, it could be a lot worse. I've only met Gallagher at the odd police social thing, but I know of her. She's shrewd and she's uncompromising, but she's good. And she's fair. She'll call it how she sees it.
`And I will, of course, have to inform Parrie's lawyers.'
I don't reply. I don't trust myself to say anything civil, but either way, the phone ringing saves me from myself.
Harrison seizes the handset. `I said I didn't want to be disturbed,' he barks. Then he stops, glances at me, looks away. `Tell her that at this moment in time we have no statement to make, but one will be issued in due course.'
He puts the handset down and gives me a heavy look.
`That,' he says, `was Jocelyn Naismith.'
* * *
Outside, the rain shows no sign of easing, but there's no window on the weather in the morgue. Here, as always, the light is just a bit too bright, and the neon tubes hum beneath the low murmur of voices and the clatter of metal on metal. There are two CSIs and an exhibits officer in the room but Gislingham is the only one of the CID team present. He told the rest of them it's his turn and they're too busy to go mob-handed (which is true), but the real reason is because he doesn't want the women seeing this. And yes, he knows he'd have got labelled a sexist throwback if he'd actually said so, but as far as he's concerned, it's just called `being considerate'.
`Ah, just you, is it, Sergeant?' says Colin Boddie from the other side of the room. His assistant is behind him tying his gown.
`We've got a lot on.'
Boddie gives him a wry look. `Likewise. So let's get on with it, shall we?'
* * *
The room is silent.
It has been, ever since Somer ran out of words.
Fiona Blake has asked nothing, said nothing. She's not hysterical, she's not frantic. She's just sitting there, in the cold and curtained room, her face running with tears she isn't even bothering to wipe away. Somer's never seen anyone so silent, and so still. She's never seen anyone in so much pain.
And as they sit there, in the deepening dark, from the pavement outside comes the drum of the rain and the low drone of the press; and from the kitchen, the sound of Everett doing her best to comfort Sasha's sobbing and inconsolable friend.
* * *
Adam Fawley
5 April 2018
19.05
`I don't know the name `“ who is she?'
I'm in the car, on the phone. I got soaked running even the fifty yards across the car park, but I needed to talk to Alex and I wanted privacy more than I wanted to stay dry.