* * *
Ev pulls up outside the B&B and turns off the engine. It’s the rather optimistically named Comfy Inn, a three-storey Victorian terrace just off the Cowley Road. She hasn’t been here for more than two years, but it hasn’t changed much. Though the general direction of travel is definitely down: a bit less paint on the window frames, a bit more rubbish bulging from the bins. The orange street light isn’t doing it many favours either. This was where she brought Sharon Mason and her son in July 2016, the night their house went up in flames. They were escaping an angry mob too. Perhaps that’s why the mere sight of this place has her stomach in knots. But this time, she tells herself firmly, things are different. Margaret Swann has a home to go back to, for a start. And even if – as Ev suspects – she was no better as a mother than Sharon Mason, there’s no question she’s a victim now.
She turns to Margaret, sitting huddled in the back. She’s been steeling herself for the old woman’s reaction the whole way here, waiting for the cutting remarks about the B&B being a dump and filthy and is this what she pays taxes for, but she’s just sitting there in silence, apparently not even aware that they’ve stopped. All the fight has gone out of her. Ev is reminded, suddenly, of her dad, the day she took him to the care home.
She gets out of the car and goes round to the boot for the bags, her throat tight with tears.
* * *
Adam Fawley
25 October
18.46
‘It doesn’t actually prove anything, though, does it?’
I’m on the phone, in the car. I’ve dropped off the DNA sample with CSI and I’m on my way home, about to hit the ring road, and (if I’m lucky) just in time to see my daughter before she goes to sleep.
‘Just because Nigel Ward wasn’t with his mum that night,’ says Quinn, ‘it doesn’t mean he had to be with Camilla. He could have been shagging someone else.’
Quinn’s always been a dab hand at devil’s advocate. But then again, he could pick a fight with the sky just for being blue.
‘I agree. But the one thing we do know is that someone took that child, and Ward was much more likely to know how to arrange an illegal adoption than Camilla. Added to which, South Mercia never found any evidence Ward was playing away with someone else, not as far as I know.’
I hear Quinn laugh. ‘Yeah, but by the time they started looking it was ten bloody years later.’
‘True, but if he really was with someone else that night he’d have had an alibi. Don’t you think he’d have mentioned that when people started accusing him of getting rid of a baby?’
‘But no one ever did accuse him of that, did they? That or anything else. Not officially. South Mercia accepted he’d been at his mum’s. End of. OK, maybe if they’d pushed harder Ward might have cracked –’
‘Or his brother –’
But even as I’m saying it I doubt it; the only reason Jeremy is talking now is that his brother is safely out of harm’s way.
‘But it didn’t happen, did it. Maybe because Nigel Ward was playing golf with half the South Mercia force. Or in the same bloody Lodge.’
There’s a silence. I can hear music in the background, the sound of a woman’s voice; Quinn must be at home.
‘So,’ he says, ‘what do you want us to do?’
‘Nothing yet. Let’s run the DNA and establish once and for all if Ward was the father, then I’ll do that damned interview and see what crawls out of the woodwork.’
‘And what if the lab says Nigel wasn’t the daddy?’
‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t arrange the adoption. If he’d “sorted it out” for her once before I can easily see Camilla turning to him again, even if he wasn’t the father.’
‘And she had one over on him too, didn’t she,’ says Quinn darkly. ‘He wouldn’t want all that coming out, now would he? I mean, a shagger’s one thing, a paedo’s quite another.’
* * *
When Ev gets back to the station almost everyone’s gone for the day. Bradley Carter’s still at his desk scanning CCTV footage, but other than that the office is empty. No Fawley, no Quinn, no Gis.
Bugger it, she thinks, I’m just going to call it quits on time for once. She dumps her paperwork on her desk and heads for the Ladies, only to half collide with Chloe Sargent coming out. She has trainers on and sports gear under her padded jacket.
‘Hi,’ she says, smiling, ‘I was wondering if you were coming back.’
Ev pulls a face. ‘I don’t know why I did. But I’m not going to hang around.’
‘Off out?’ asks Chloe.
‘No, just a hot date with Hector. My cat,’ she finishes quickly, seeing Chloe raise an eyebrow. ‘He’s marginally less trouble than a bloke. But only marginally.’
Chloe laughs. ‘I bet.’
‘What about you – gym?’
‘Ah, no,’ she says, gesturing at the racquet bag which Ev hadn’t spotted till now. ‘I’m playing tennis tonight. Better to take out my frustrations hitting a ball than anything – or anyone – else.’
She slides her eyes in Carter’s direction and they exchange a knowing smile.
‘So you play indoors? I mean – it’s dark already –’
‘Have to,’ says Chloe, ‘with this game.’
She sees Ev looking confused. ‘Sorry, I should have said – it’s real tennis.’
Ev’s eyes widen. ‘Blimey, I had no idea you could play that here.’
‘Yeah, I’m really lucky – there’s a court on Merton Street. I’ve been learning for about a year. It takes some getting used to – like a cross between ordinary tennis and squash.’ She hesitates. ‘Why don’t you come? It’s quite fun to watch, and we can walk to it easily from here.’
Ev’s turn to hesitate; she’d been wondering whether to go up to the JR to see Somer tonight, but you can hardly call that ‘fun’. She’s not even sure she’s doing any good – or if Somer actually wants people turning up and forcing her to make conversation.
‘We could have a drink at the Bear after?’ ventures Chloe. ‘Or Quod if you want to go fancy.’
Ev laughs. ‘Now you’re talking.’
* * *
When Ev gets to the office the following morning she’s one of the last there. She doesn’t usually go out on work nights and she’s paying for it now, but she had a bloody good time and she’s glad she went. The tennis was like nothing she’s ever seen before and, frankly, not for the faint-hearted. Chloe’s playing partner was a tall, striking-looking New Zealander with the face of a seraph and the devil of a backhand – the heavy little ball was flying everywhere, pinging off every hard surface, and (as Ev found out to her cost) sending it careering straight into the spectators’ gallery turned out to be one of the easier ways to rack up points, which made her wish she’d brought her riot shield. She got hopelessly lost trying to work out the rules, and had no idea who won in the end (Sarah, as it happens, though apparently it was close), but it didn’t matter, and afterwards the three of them went for fish and chips and a bottle of Prosecco, and all in all it was the best time Ev has had in ages.
Chloe’s already at her desk, and gives her a broad smile as Ev dumps her bag and starts to take off her coat. ‘OK?’
Ev grins. ‘Nothing a black coffee and a couple of paracetamol couldn’t fix.’
‘Has Hector forgiven you?’
Ev’s grin widens. ‘He’s reporting me to the RSPCA as we speak, but then again, he does that on a daily basis. In fact, pretty much every time I fail to give him prawns.’
Chloe laughs. ‘I’m coming back as a cat – no, correction, I’m coming back as your cat.’
Carter looks up and makes a face. ‘Christ, you haven’t got a cat, have you? I can’t stand the bloody things. They just look down their noses at me and scarper if I go anywhere near them.’