She smiles once more. She has her legs crossed and her fingers laced around one knee.
`The sighting, Miss Bowen?'
`I told you, Nicole,' she says, leaning on the name. And leaning forward. He can smell her hair.
`OK, Nicole. When was it that you saw Sasha?'
`I think it was about two weeks ago. She was with two other girls.'
Quinn looks up, sits back. `That was ten days before she went missing. What made you think it's relevant?'
She flushes. `Well, I just thought `“'
His eyes narrow. What's this woman playing at? Or perhaps it's him she's playing. `You didn't see her at all, did you?'
Her chin lifts. `No, I'm sure I did `“'
`Who are you, Miss Bowen? Assuming, of course, that really is your name.'
`I don't know what you mean `“'
He gets to his feet. `You're press, aren't you `“'
She's shaking her head. `No `“ I'm not `“ not in the way you think, anyway `“'
He's really angry now. `Don't you know what you just did is completely unethical? Not to mention wasting police time, which I could book you for if I could be bloody bothered. But I am going to report you to your bloody editor. Who is it `“ who do you work for?'
She gets up and pulls a lanyard from her pocket. The thick plastic card shows her face, her name. And along the bottom, ASSISTANT PRODUCER, POLYMUS STUDIOS.
That stops him in his tracks. `You're in film?'
She shakes her head. `TV, mainly.'
`I'm not with you. What's that got to do with Sasha Blake?'
She puts her ID away. `We've been commissioned to make a series about the work of The Whole Truth.'
Quinn makes a face. `Oh, for Christ's sake, that bunch of useless do-gooders?'
`Actually, they've put right some appalling miscarriages of justice `“'
`And ruined some damn good coppers' careers in the process. You people `“ you have no bloody idea what it's really like `“'
He starts to move away but she reaches for his arm. `Hear me out `“ please? Five minutes? I'll even buy you a beer.'
He hesitates. It occurs to him that it might actually be useful to know what these idiots are planning. You never know, Fawley might even thank him for it.
`Please?'
* * *
Baxter, meanwhile, is up to his neck in paperwork. It's the first time he's managed to get to the Roadside Rapist transcripts today, but he can get in an hour or so now before he goes home. His wife is at that Body Balance thing of hers, so she won't know if he gets back late. And the plate of quinoa and avocado salad waiting for him in the fridge is hardly enticing.
He opens the cardboard file and starts reading. Judging by what he's been through so far, Gis's theory is holding up pretty welclass="underline" there's more than enough detail for a potential copycat to fake Parrie's MO. Baxter starts to make notes, but the long day is catching up with him and he's soon stifling a yawn. Which makes him feel bad, because it's not as if what he's reading is boring; it's completely bloody awful. He sits up a little straighter and starts again. And that's when he spots it. He blinks, stares and reads it again. Then he crosses over to his PC and does a quick database search. He checks it against the transcript, then sits back and lets out a long slow breath.
He really didn't want to be right about this.
But he is.
* * *
He's technically off-duty, so having a beer is technically OK, but all the same Quinn opts for a pub where there's no danger of meeting anyone he knows. In fact, if he'd asked TripAdvisor for the seediest bar in a five-mile radius he couldn't have chosen much better: the one-arm bandit jangling in the corner, the packets of pork scratchings hanging by the bar, the ceiling still yellow with cigarette smoke more than ten years after the ban. And if this Bowen woman takes one look and concludes he's trying to tell her something, then so much the better.
Though to give her her due, she doesn't seem that fazed. So much so that she even braved the trio of builders' bottoms on the bar stools to get in a round. They're still eyeing her up as she comes back to the table and puts down the drinks.
`So,' he says, picking up the glass, `shoot. And I want the truth this time.'
`The Roadside Rapist case,' she says. `That's what we're focusing on. In the series. You know about that, right?'
Quinn gives her a heavy look. He's not rising to that one. Does she think he just fell off the Christmas tree?
Bowen is still speaking. `The plan is for a fly-on-the-wall following the entire Whole Truth investigation, including full reconstructions and some eminent talking heads. Ex-judges, CSIs, psychologists. You know the sort of thing. Jocelyn is completely up for it, and we might even be able to include Gavin Parrie himself `“ the Beeb were allowed to record a phone call from prison for something similar last year `“'
Quinn cuts across her. `The Parrie case is twenty years old. Why now?'
If she thinks he's being deliberately obtuse, her face doesn't show it. She has colour in her cheeks now `“ the flush of professional fervour.
`Well, obviously these latest cases put a whole new angle on it, don't they? And the timing really couldn't be better `“ what with Gavin Parrie coming up for another parole hearing. And, of course, he's always maintained he's innocent. He's never wavered from that. It makes for such an interesting angle.'
`I think you'll find they all say that,' says Quinn heavily.
Nicole Bowen raises an eyebrow. `They may all say it, but sometimes it's actually true.'
`Yeah, right,' replies Quinn. The beer has gone to his head already. He had no lunch and he's drinking rather more quickly than he should.
Perhaps she senses this, because she sits forward a little now. `This case review of the Roadside Rapist investigation `“ how's that going to work?'
He frowns; this is news to him. `Who told you about that?'
A shrug. `Oh, you know. The grapevine.' She leans closer. `When's it all happening, do you know? Cos if we could feature that in the series as well, it would be amazing.' She smiles. `Have you ever done any TV work? Because I can tell you now, the camera would really love you `“'
`Investigations like that `“ they're confidential. They're not entertainment.'
She's shaking her head. `It's not about that. Don't people have a right to know what's being done in their name? And with their taxes? And now there's new evidence `“'
`You don't know that. We don't even know that.'
She sits back again, eyes him, cooler now. `And then there's Adam Fawley.'
Quinn's eyes narrow. `What about Adam Fawley?'
`Well, he was on the case, wasn't he?'
Quinn tries to play dumb, and manages it rather better than he probably intended. `You tell me.'
There's a small sharp smile now, at the edge of her mouth. `As I'm sure you know, he was the DS on the original case. Same rank as you. Or rather, as you were.'
She picks up her glass of sparkling water. Quinn stares at her. This woman shouldn't know that `“ what else does she bloody well know? If she's found out he was demoted for sleeping with a suspect `“
Bowen is clearly finding his discomfiture distinctly amusing. A sly smile curls her lips. `I'm sure the public would like to know why Adam Fawley was assigned to the Sasha Blake inquiry, given it's such a clear conflict of interest.'
Quinn frowns. `I don't know what you're getting at.'
She looks at him disbelievingly. `Oh, come on. You aren't seriously telling me you don't know? About Fawley?'