‘No, seriously, I meant to ask you earlier but it slipped my mind.’
‘Really, it can wait –’
‘No – it’s important – was it you or Gis?’
Quinn gives up and flops on his back.
‘It was Gis. Said the bloke was a real arsehole.’
‘But wasn’t there something about Harper’s first wife coming from Birmingham?’
‘Yeah, that rings a bell. Why?’
‘Mrs Gibson – at number seven. She said she thought the bloke who visited Harper had a bit of a Birmingham accent. So I was wondering – even if she’s wrong about him being Harper’s son, perhaps he was still related. But to the wife, rather than Harper? A nephew, perhaps, something like that?’
Quinn levers himself up. ‘Actually, you might have a point there. Have a look first thing – if she had any male relatives the right age it won’t take that long to find them.’
‘You want me to do it? You don’t want to get Gis on it instead?’
He reaches out and takes a lock of her hair in his fingers, twirling it round, gently at first, then gradually tighter, pulling her face towards him.
‘No,’ he says, his voice dropping. ‘It’s your idea – why shouldn’t you get the credit. But there is something I would like you to do for me. And this is definitely not one for bloody Gislingham.’
‘Well,’ she says archly as she slips her hand under the sheets, ‘if that’s an order from a superior officer . . .’
‘Oh yes,’ he says gruffly, feeling her tongue on his skin, ‘abso-fucking-lutely.’
***
Midnight. A pool of yellow light and the low murmur of voices at the nurses’ station.
Vicky is curled up tight in her bed. She is sobbing her heart out, her fist clenched against her mouth so that she makes no noise. And all the while, her eyes never leave the picture one of the nurses has propped on the bedside cupboard.
It’s a photo of her son.
***
I get in early on Thursday morning, but when I get to the incident room Quinn’s already there, pinning up the task list. And whistling. I look daggers at him until he stops.
‘Sorry, boss. Just in a good mood, that’s all.’
I haven’t worked with him all these months without knowing what that means. But at least he isn’t in yesterday’s shirt. Whoever she is, this one’s getting invited back to his place.
‘The press conference is at noon,’ I say, ‘so if there’s anything I can tell them beyond fatuous remarks about enquiries progressing then I want to know about it, pronto. Especially the DNA. What about Harper?’
‘Being monitored every fifteen minutes. Custody sergeant says he sleeps most of the time. Or he just sits there, mumbling to himself. We spoke to his doctor and she’s offered to come in this afternoon, just to be on the safe side.’
‘Right. Good. I’m heading back to the hospital again to talk to the girl. If we’re lucky, she may be up to telling us what happened. Or at the very least identifying Harper. And then we’ll be able to charge him. Has Baxter found anything in Missing Persons?’
‘Not yet. But it all depends whether she was ever –’
‘– reported missing. Yes. I do know that, Quinn. Anything else?’
‘A couple of possibilities but nothing concrete. I’ll let you know. You’ll be back here, will you, after you’ve seen the girl?’
‘Actually, no. I may have to go home briefly.’
He’s looking at me; he knows there’s something.
‘The boy – he may be staying with us for a while. Just until Vicky’s back on her feet. Social Services are struggling to find him a placement.’
Back on her feet? What sort of crap phrase is that?
Quinn is staring at me. ‘And your wife, she’s OK with that?’
‘Actually, she suggested it. She was with me last night at the John Rad, and the boy really took to her. I cleared it with Harrison – he thinks it might be useful. If the boy starts to trust Alex, perhaps he might talk to her. Assuming he can.’
Fawley’s first law of policing? Liars overkill. And I just gave Quinn three reasons why I think this is a good idea.
Shit.
‘Right,’ says Quinn, deciding – for once – that discretion is the better course.
‘Assuming it all goes ahead I’ll go back to the house and get him settled in, and then I’ll be back by twelve. So you pick things up in the meantime, OK?’
He nods. ‘Right, boss. No problem.’
***
Phone interview with Sergeant Jim Nicholls (retired)
4 May 2017, 9.12 a.m.
On the call, DS G. Quinn
JN: I was after Adam Fawley, but the switchboard said he isn’t in?
GQ: Don’t worry, you can talk to me – I know what it’s about.
JN: Something about those call-outs in Frampton Road, wasn’t it – about ten years back?
GQ: Actually one in 2002, and one in 2004.
JN: Christ, is it really that long? Suppose it must be. I’ve been retired at least five now. Can’t remember the last time I spoke to anyone at Thames Valley.
GQ: What do you remember about the call-outs? There isn’t much in the notes. Certainly no mention of charges.
JN: There never were any. Neither of them wanted that. And yes, I do remember it – it wasn’t your usual domestic. Not by a long way.
GQ: Go on.
JN: Well, it was the address for a start. Frampton Road. I mean, it’s not exactly Blackbird Leys, is it? Don’t think I can remember anyone being called to a domestic round there, the whole time I was on the force.
GQ: I don’t know, that sort are probably just a bit subtler about it, that’s all.
JN: But it wasn’t just that. It was what we found when we got there. The neighbour who called said they’d been yelling on and off all evening but once it got past midnight she finally rang us.
GQ: And?
JN: It was the wife who opened the door. I don’t know about you but when I was on the job it was usually the blokes did that – most of them tried to get rid of us without letting us in. Pretended it was all a fuss about nothing. You know the drill. Anyway, not this time. She looked a bit flushed but otherwise OK. Had this silky negligee thing on. Quite a looker actually.
GQ: So what did she say?
JN: Well, she came over all embarrassed and said it must be that she and her husband had been a bit more ‘exuberant’ than usual in the bedroom department. Said the old lady next door was a bit of a prude and easily shocked. Batted her eyelashes a bit.
GQ: What did the husband say?
JN: That’s where it got interesting. I was all for letting it go at that but the WPC – or whatever we’re supposed to call them now – she insisted on seeing him as well. So Mrs Harper, she goes back in and then there’s a bit of a wait, and finally he appears. Face all bruised down one side and the beginnings of one hell of a black eye.
GQ: So she had been hitting him?
JN: He didn’t say so. In fact, he said he’d walked into a door that afternoon. As if we were going to believe that. And he claimed the noise was exactly what the wife said it was. Basically backed up her story 100 per cent. Even used some of the same words. That stuff about the neighbour being a bit of a prude.
GQ: But you didn’t believe him?
JN: Course not. I didn’t come down in the last shower of rain. I didn’t believe a word of it. Not then, and certainly not when the same thing happened a year or so later. Said he’d slipped on the stairs that time, but you don’t get the sort of bruises he had by doing that. I reckon she’d gone for him with something. A frying pan, maybe.