Gislingham raises an eyebrow. ‘Hardly. It’s a very special type of cupboard, designed to hold a very special type of ornament. A type of ornament Dr Harper just happens to own. We know that, because they’re right here –’ he points at a second sheet ‘– on his contents insurance. Only strangely enough, I don’t remember seeing any of them in that house. What I do remember, however, is seeing a cupboard just like this one in your front room.’
Gislingham is suddenly aware how hard Quinn is staring at him. And if there’s one thing Quinn hates, it’s being wrong-footed.
‘So, Mr Walsh,’ says Gislingham quickly, ‘why don’t you save us all a lot of time and tell us exactly what this thing is for?’
Walsh’s mouth has set in a thin, irritated little line. ‘My grandfather was a diplomat, and spent a number of years in Japan after the war. During that time he amassed a considerable collection of netsuke.’
Quinn puts down his pen and looks up. ‘Sorry?’
Walsh raises an eyebrow. ‘You haven’t got a clue what I’m talking about, have you?’ he says sardonically.
But sarcasm is rarely the best way to deal with Quinn. ‘Well, in that case,’ he replies, ‘why don’t you just go right ahead and enlighten me?’
‘Netsuke are miniature carvings.’ The voice is Somer’s. ‘They were part of traditional Japanese dress. A bit like toggles.’
Walsh smiles at Quinn. ‘Your colleague seems to be rather better informed than you are.’
Quinn looks at him venomously. ‘So this collection of your grandfather’s – how much was it worth?’
‘Oh, probably only a few hundred pounds,’ says Walsh airily. ‘It was more the principle of the thing – its sentimental value. My grandfather left them to Nancy, and when she died I thought they should revert to the family.’
‘But Dr Harper didn’t agree?’
A flicker of anger crosses Walsh’s face. ‘No. He didn’t. I talked to him about it but he said Priscilla was very fond of them. He made it very clear she wasn’t going to give them up.’
I bet she wasn’t, thinks Quinn.
‘I see,’ he says, ‘but after she died you thought, well, worth another shot?’
‘As you so eloquently put it, yes. I went to see him again.’
‘And he blew you off. Again. That’s what the two of you were arguing about.’
Gislingham smiles drily; as he always says, when it comes to crime, it’s love or it’s money. Or sometimes both.
Walsh is really hacked off now. ‘He had no right – those items were part of my family’s history – our legacy –’
‘So where are they now?’
Walsh stops abruptly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘As DC Gislingham just pointed out, there aren’t any of those netsky things in the house. You, on the other hand, appear to have a cupboard specially designed to display them.’
Walsh flushes. ‘I bought that when I thought Bill was going to be reasonable.’
‘So you’re saying that if we search your house we won’t find any of the items listed on this insurance form?’
‘Absolutely not,’ he snaps. ‘If they’re not at Frampton Road I have no idea where they are. And that being the case I would like to report them missing. Officially.’
Quinn turns a page in his file. ‘Duly noted. So, perhaps we could now turn to the issue of the fingerprints.’
‘What?’ Walsh looks at him blankly, distracted.
‘The fingerprints I mentioned. So far we’ve found them in several different parts of the house. Some are in the kitchen –’
‘That’s no surprise, I must have spent most of my time in there –’
‘And some are in the cellar.’
Walsh stares at him. Swallows. ‘What do you mean, the cellar?’
‘The cellar where the young woman and child were found. Perhaps you could explain how they got there?’
‘I have no idea. I don’t think I’ve ever been down there. And I want it noted that I absolutely and categorically do not know anything about that young woman. Or her child.’ He looks from one to the other. ‘Furthermore, I’m not prepared to answer any more questions until I see my lawyer.’
‘You do, of course, have the right to do that,’ says Quinn. ‘Just as we have the right to arrest you. Which, for the avoidance of doubt, I am now doing. Interview terminated at 6.12 p.m.’
He gets up to leave, so quickly that he is out of the door before Gislingham is even on his feet. And when Somer comes out into the corridor he takes her by the arm and pulls her to one side. Her smile chills when she sees the look on his face.
‘Don’t you ever fucking do that to me again,’ he hisses. ‘Do you understand?’
She pulls back from him. ‘Do what, exactly?’
‘Make me look like a bloody idiot in front of a suspect – in front of fucking Gislingham, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I’m sorry – I was trying to help –’
He brings his face closer to hers. ‘If that’s what you call helping, then forget it. In fact, forget it, full stop.’
‘Where’s all this come from?’
But he’s already gone.
***
The team meeting is at 6.30. And this time, I’m taking it. The room is packed and hot. But silent. Word has got around.
‘OK,’ I say, into the expectation. ‘You probably know that Challow’s team found something in one of the boxes in the cellar at Frampton Road. It’s a journal, written by Vicky during her captivity.’
I step forward and turn on the projector.
‘Some parts are missing or damaged but there’s still no doubt what happened to her. This is a transcript of the key pages. But I warn you, it’s painful reading.’
I’m silent as they read it. There are gasps, shakes of the head. Some of the women are really struggling, and I know the exact moment Gislingham gets to ‘Billy’. I won’t let myself look at him but I sense him stiffen, hear the intake of breath.
‘We’ll wait for the DNA,’ I say at last, ‘as formal proof, but I plan to charge William Harper with rape and false imprisonment by close of play today. We have enough now to make a case against him.’
There’s a silence.
‘Sir,’ says Somer tentatively, ‘I know I’m not CID and all that, but is it possible there’s another way to read this? I haven’t met Harper but I did meet Walsh, and I think he’s the one she’s talking about here. The man she talks about opening the door, that sounds more like Walsh to me.’
‘Actually, she’s got a point there,’ says Gislingham quickly. ‘The tie, the poncey way of talking. That’s Walsh bang to rights. Harper’s the one who goes out in the street in his vest.’
‘This was at least three years ago. Harper was a very different man then.’ But even as I’m saying it I’m starting to wonder.
‘Yes, sir, but look,’ says Somer, getting up and going to point at the transcript. ‘He calls her a “vicious bitch”. That’s exactly what Walsh called Priscilla. This afternoon, when we interviewed him.’
Harper called his wife an evil cow, but it’s Walsh who says vicious bitch. Words matter. Nuance matters. I walk towards the screen. Somer is standing in the light from the projector, Vicky’s words trailing eerily across her face.
‘This reference here,’ she says, still half apologetic, ‘to the doctor and Vicky being “in the right place”. Yes, that could be Harper talking about himself, but it could also be Walsh, talking about Harper. About him being a PhD doctor but not a real doctor.’
‘Either way, that’s a pretty sick joke,’ says Gislingham grimly. ‘To a girl about to give birth without medical help.’ He’s bound to feel it: a man whose son only survived because of state-of-the-art equipment and a whole team of neonatal specialists.