I nod, remembering. ‘Jill Murphy said something similar back in 2015.’ She was the DS on the case, and a bloody good one too. ‘She always thought Beth had a thing for Rob.’
‘Yeah, well,’ says Baxter, ‘I reckon she still does. Which could, of course, mean she’s making all this up just to get back at him. It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Even so, we still need to take another look at Rob Gardiner. On the face of it the case for him as the killer is much stronger – that’s by far the easiest explanation for the lack of other DNA in the car.’
Occam’s razor. Always believe the simplest of all available explanations. We used to call it Osbourne’s razor when he was still at Thames Valley, he said it so often. It’s one reason we ended up so fixated with Shore: he was the easiest answer too.
‘We discounted Gardiner in 2015 because we had sightings of Hannah at Wittenham, and the timings didn’t add up. But now we know she never left Oxford so we’re going to have to tear up that timeline and start again.’
I walk over and point to the timings Baxter pinned on the board. ‘Gardiner has a rock-solid alibi from here, 7.57, when his train left Oxford, but what about before that? What about the previous day?’
‘Hang on a minute,’ says Quinn, pointing at the first entry on the timeline. ‘Hannah was definitely alive at 6.50 that morning, when she left that voicemail message –’
‘Have you listened to it?’
‘Well, no –’
‘I did. At the time. Over and over. And we played it to her friends too. The quality isn’t great but they all thought it was her. But what if it wasn’t? Is it possible it was someone else? Could Beth Dyer have been right all along – could there have been a mystery woman in the picture – someone we never knew about who gave Gardiner an alibi?’
I can tell they’re sceptical, but I push the point home. ‘All I’m saying is let’s get it analysed again. Speech recognition software has improved massively, even in two years. And let’s get Pippa Walker back in here too. Just in case there was anything odd about that call that didn’t occur to her at the time.’
‘Worth a shot,’ says Gislingham. ‘Especially now she’s had that falling-out with Gardiner.’
I look at him with a question and he gestures towards Quinn, who’s momentarily wrong-footed. ‘I saw her at Gardiner’s flat this afternoon,’ he says, after a pause, glancing at Gislingham. ‘She and Gardiner have had some sort of row and he’s chucked her out. She had a bruise on her wrist. She said he did it.’
‘Right, let’s bring her in and get her to make a statement. I’m assuming you know where to find her?’
Quinn opens his mouth, then closes it again.
‘And while we’re at it, let’s check Gardiner’s past for any other suggestions of violence – talk to his ex-wife –’
‘I tried,’ says Baxter. ‘She isn’t returning my calls. And when uniform went round there no one answered.’
‘So track down his old girlfriends, people he knew at university. Come on, you know the drill.’
I turn again to the timeline. ‘If you take away the call at 6.50, Gardiner’s whole alibi falls apart. He could easily have killed Hannah on the 23rd, buried her that night, then taken the car out to Wittenham early enough the following morning to make that train.’
‘But in that case, how did he get back?’ asks Quinn.
‘He has a bike,’ says Somer, not looking at him. ‘One of those folding ones – he has it with him on the CCTV at Reading station. And Wittenham’s only ten miles. He could do that in, what? Forty minutes?’
‘What about the boy?’ someone asks. ‘Are you saying Gardiner just dumped him up there on the off-chance someone would find him? Could he really have done that to his own kid?’
It’s a good question. ‘I agree it’s not likely – not on the face of it. But remember, Hannah’s interview at Wittenham was originally scheduled for much earlier that morning. Rob couldn’t have known Jervis had been delayed. He might have assumed the boy would be found much quicker than he actually was.’
‘But that assumes he didn’t have her mobile – that he’d already got rid of it by then.’
‘Fair enough, but that’s not impossible.’
‘You’d still have to be a fucking psycho,’ mutters Gislingham. ‘To do that to a little kiddie.’
‘That’s the point,’ I say. ‘Perhaps that’s exactly what he wants us to think – that only a psychopath could have done that to his own child. Either way, we can’t afford to close down any line of enquiry until we’re sure it doesn’t lead anywhere. And if that sounds like a cliché, remember how a cliché gets to be a cliché.’
‘Because it’s true,’ they mutter, sing-song. They’ve heard that one before. All except Somer, who grins suddenly, then hides it by pretending to make a note on her pad. She has a great smile; it changes her whole face.
‘But what about the body, sir?’ Baxter again. ‘If Rob killed her, how did she end up in Harper’s shed?’
‘The two gardens back on to one another – Harper’s and Gardiner’s. And the fence at the bottom is pretty rickety – it wouldn’t be that hard to get through it.’
‘It’s a bit of a stretch though, isn’t it, boss?’ interrupts Everett. ‘I mean, Rob Gardiner burying his wife’s body in the garden of exactly the same house where we found a girl in the cellar? I mean, what are the odds against that?’
I shoot a look at Baxter, who pretends I haven’t.
‘It’s a good point, Ev. And you’re right, I don’t believe in coincidences. Usually. But if we reject the possibility of coincidence entirely there’s a risk we bend the evidence to make it all fit. And I don’t know about you, but the more we find out about these two crimes the more dissimilar they seem. So let’s investigate them that way. At least for now.’
People start to stand up, shuffle papers, and I beckon Everett.
‘Can you look into what Vicky says about herself in her journal – see if that helps us with an ID?’
‘There isn’t much, boss –’
‘She talks about looking for a new flat and not being in the city for very long. So ask the job centre about girls called Vicky who were on their books two or three years ago and then suddenly stopped signing on without any explanation. And try the letting agents too.’
She’s not convinced, but she’s a pro. ‘OK, boss. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘What is it?’ I ask. Because there’s something. Something she wanted to add, and didn’t.
‘I was just remembering how badly she reacted when you wanted to put her picture in the paper. Have you any idea why?’
I shake my head. ‘Right now, none at all.’
***
Janet Gislingham is asleep on the sofa when her husband gets back from work, and it’s only when she rouses herself and goes to check on her son that she realizes he’s home. Billy is dozing, nestled in his blue and white blankets, in his blue and white nursery, surrounded by soft toys and piles of clothes in a year’s worth of sizes all still in their plastic packaging. There’s no item of babyware Janet hasn’t thought of, bought already or borrowed just in case. And above the cradle, a mobile Gislingham’s equally football-mad brother made for his first nephew, hung with cut-outs of famous Chelsea football players. Drogba, Ballack, Terry, Lampard, rotating slowly in the warm air.
Gislingham is standing at the cradle, and Janet watches as he reaches down and gently strokes their baby’s silky hair. Billy shifts slightly under his father’s hand, making tiny dreaming noises, his little hands curling and uncurling. The love on the man’s face is as painful as loss.
‘Chris?’ she says, her hand still on the door. ‘Is everything OK?’