‘The last few days – it can’t have been easy on you either.’
‘No shit,’ she mutters, staring out of the window. But there are tears in her eyes again.
*
At the bus station he parks up and goes round to the boot to get the case. It’s only when she reaches to hitch her handbag over her shoulder that he sees what he probably should have noticed before.
‘How did you get that?’ he asks quietly.
She flushes and pulls down her sleeve. ‘It’s nothing. I banged my arm on a door.’
He holds out a hand and she doesn’t resist. The bruise is ugly, still red. The imprint of fingers dug into the delicate skin.
‘Did he do this?’
She isn’t meeting his gaze, but she nods.
‘You could report him, you know.’
She shakes her head vehemently; she’s struggling not to cry again.
‘He didn’t mean it,’ she says, her voice so low he has to stoop to hear her. A London coach grinds past and Quinn can see people eyeing them curiously.
‘Look, let me buy you a coffee.’
She shakes her head again. ‘I have to find somewhere to stay.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’m sure we can find you somewhere.’
Then he picks up the case and pushes it back in the boot.
***
The woman at reception at St Aldate’s looks harassed. She checks her mobile three times in the five minutes it takes for the desk sergeant to haul himself out of the back office and down to the front.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’
‘My name is Lynda Pearson. Dr Lynda Pearson. I’m here to see William Harper. He’s one of my patients.’
‘Ah yes, we’re expecting you. Can you take a seat? It shouldn’t be too long.’
She sighs; she’s heard that one before. She goes over to the line of chairs, then takes her phone out of her canvas bag. At least she can do something useful while she’s stuck here.
‘Dr Pearson?’
She looks up to see a solid man in a suit that’s a bit too small for him. The buttons on his shirt gape slightly. Balding, a little out of breath. Halfway to high blood pressure. He looks forty but he’s probably at least five years younger.
‘DC Andrew Baxter,’ he says. ‘I can take you down to the custody suite.’
She gathers up her things and follows him down the stairs. ‘How’s Bill been?’
‘As far as I know, he’s OK. We’ve been doing our best not to put him in any stressful situations. Made sure he’s getting food he likes, that sort of thing.’
‘He’s probably eating better here than he was at home. He’s lost a lot of weight in the last few months. Has Derek Ross seen him?’
‘Not since he was first brought in. Ross was the one who suggested we called you.’
They’ve reached the custody suite and Baxter nods to the sergeant at the desk. ‘Dr Pearson to see William Harper.’
As they walk towards Harper’s cell Lynda Pearson has a horrible sudden premonition that they’re going to find the old man hanging from the window bars by a twisted shirt. But it must just be her tired brain overplaying all the TV cop shows she’s seen over the years, because when the door opens Harper is sitting docilely on his bed, both feet on the floor. He looks thin but there’s some colour in his cheeks that wasn’t there before. The plate and cup on the tray by the bed are both empty.
‘How are you, Bill?’ she says, taking a seat on the only chair.
He looks at her narrowly. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘The police asked me to come. They wanted me to check you over. Make sure you’re OK.’
‘When can I go home?’
Pearson glances up at Baxter. ‘Not yet, I’m afraid, Bill. The police have more questions they need to ask. You may be here a while longer.’
‘In that case,’ he says, in sudden clear tones, ‘I want to see the officer in charge. I want to make a statement.’
***
‘Is that really necessary?’
Walsh has gone from disbelief to irritation in the space of about three sentences. The former in response to the news, the latter to Gislingham’s request that he accompany them to St Aldate’s.
‘Why on earth do you need me to do that? I have commitments – classes, marking, extracurricular activities to supervise – it’s incredibly inconvenient.’
‘I appreciate that, sir, but we need to take samples. DNA, fingerprints –’
He stares at them. ‘What the hell for? I haven’t been to that house in years.’
‘Really?’ says Somer. ‘You weren’t on good terms with your uncle?’
‘My good woman, as your colleague quite rightly observed only a few minutes ago, we weren’t actually related.’
Gislingham’s eyes widen; if that was an attempt to get in Somer’s good books it’s a miscalculation of spectacular proportions.
‘Mr Walsh,’ she says coolly, ‘we have already established that very few people have visited that house in recent years and you are clearly one of them. We need to eliminate you from our enquiries –’
His eyes narrow. ‘Enquiries? You don’t seriously think I could be involved in what he was doing? I can assure you that I had no idea what he was up to – I was as shocked as anyone else.’
Somer eyes him for a moment. ‘Was?’
He looks irritated. ‘What?’
‘You just said, “I was as shocked”. That means you knew – you knew before we got here. You saw the news just like everyone else.’
‘Look,’ he says, taking a deep breath, ‘I work in a school. A very expensive school. Do you know how much people pay every year to send their children to a place like this?’
She can guess. And it’s probably more than she gets paid.
‘The last thing I need in my position is to be associated with something like – like that.’
I bet you don’t, thinks Somer, and all the more since you’re clearly so far down the pecking order that you’re stuck in a room in the overflow block with a grandstand view of the bins.
‘We’ll do our best to be discreet,’ she says, ‘but the fact remains that we need you to accompany us back to Oxford. Even if you haven’t been to Frampton Road for a while we have fingerprints that are so far unidentified, and could have been there quite some time. And in any case, I’m sure a “school like this” would expect you to do everything in your power to assist the police.’ She has him there, and he knows it.
‘Very well,’ he says heavily. ‘I trust I can drive myself?’
*
Out in the car Gislingham turns to her. ‘Blimey, you got him by the short and curlies and no mistake.’
‘You know,’ she says thoughtfully, ‘I’m sure there are guidelines in the state sector these days about teachers being alone with pupils. I think you’re advised to leave the door open.’
‘What, are you suggesting something was going on with him and that kid?’
‘No, not necessarily. But I think we should make a few enquiries. From what I remember this is the third school he’s taught at in the last ten years. Might suggest something. Or nothing.’
‘Worth checking though.’
She nods. ‘Though we really do need to be careful how we go about it. If you’re a teacher, a rumour like that can wreck your career. Even if it proves to be completely untrue.’
It happened to someone she knew. A quiet, inoffensive and – as it turned out – hopelessly naive man who got hounded out of his job after one of his Year 10s claimed he’d hit him. The last she heard, he was behind the till in Lidl.
Gislingham starts the engine and a few moments later they see Walsh’s silver Mondeo emerging from the staff car park.
‘By the way,’ says Gislingham as Walsh comes towards them, ‘what was that he was talking about – the sex mashing thing?’