Quinn’s face is grim. ‘If that kid really was born down there, then yes, absolutely. I know Harper looks pathetic now, but two or three years ago? He could have been completely different. And it was that man who committed this crime – not the sad old sod in there.’
Gislingham shivers, even though the room is stifling, and Quinn glances across. ‘What, someone walk on your grave?’
‘I was just thinking, he didn’t get like this overnight, did he? This has been going on for months. Years, even. And she wouldn’t have known. That he was starting to lose it, I mean. She’s trapped down there, out of sight – I bet he’d started forgetting she was even there. The food starts running out, then the water – she has the kid to think about – and even if she screams the old man can’t hear her –’
Quinn shakes his head. ‘Jesus. We got there just in time.’
*
On the screen, Derek Ross gets to his feet and moves out of shot. A moment later the door opens and he appears.
Gislingham gets up. ‘So you’re his social worker, then?’
Ross nods. ‘For the last couple of years or so.’
‘So you knew about the dementia?’
‘He was formally diagnosed a few months back but I suspect it’s been coming on for a lot longer than that. But you know as well as I do how unpredictable that is – how it goes in fits and starts. I’ve been worried lately that it might have started to accelerate. He’s had a few falls and he burned himself on the cooker a year or so back.’
‘And he’s drinking, isn’t he? I mean, you can smell it on him.’
Ross takes a deep breath. ‘Yes. That has become rather a problem of late. But I just can’t believe he could do anything like this – anything so terrible –’
Quinn’s not convinced. ‘None of us really knows what we’re capable of.’
‘But in the state he’s in –’
‘Look,’ says Quinn; there’s a hardness to his voice now. ‘The doctor says it’s OK to question him, and she should know. As for charges, well, that’s another matter, and the CPS will have their say as and when we get to that stage. But there was a girl and a child locked in that cellar, and we have to find out how they got there. You do see that, don’t you, Mr Ross?’
Ross hesitates, then nods. ‘Can I sit in? He does know me – it might help. He can be a bit – difficult. As you’re about to find out.’
‘Right,’ says Quinn, collecting his papers.
The three men move towards the door, but Ross stops suddenly and puts a hand on Quinn’s arm. ‘Go easy, won’t you?’
Quinn looks at him, then raises an eyebrow. ‘Like he did, on that girl?’
***
Interview with Isabel Fielding, conducted at 17 Frampton Road, Oxford
1 May 2017, 11.15 a.m.
In attendance, PC E. Somer
ES: How long have you lived here, Mrs Fielding?
IF: Only a couple of years. It’s a college house. My husband is a don at Wadham.
ES: So do you know Mr Harper – the gentleman at number 33?
IF: Well, not to speak to. Soon after we moved in he came over in a bit of a state and asked if we’d seen the cover for his car. Apparently it had gone missing. It was a bit odd since his car isn’t exactly going anywhere. But we thought he was just a bit, you know, eccentric. There’s a lot of it about. Around here, I mean. Lots of ‘characters’. Some of them used to be academics, so they’ve lived here for donkey’s years. I think a lot of them just get to the purple and cats stage and say to hell with it.
ES: ‘Purple and cats’?
IF: You know – that poem. ‘When I get old I’m going to wear purple’, or whatever it is. You know, when you get to the age when you just don’t care.
ES: And Mr Harper – he didn’t care?
IF: You see him wandering about. Talking to himself. Wearing odd clothes. Mittens in July. Pyjamas in the street. That sort of thing. But he’s basically harmless.
[pause]
I’m sorry, that came out wrong – I mean –
ES: It’s all right, Mrs Fielding. I know what you mean.
***
‘So, Mr Harper, my name is Detective Sergeant Gareth Quinn, and my colleague here is Detective Constable Chris Gislingham. You already know Derek Ross and this lady is going to act as your lawyer.’
The woman at the far end of the table looks up briefly, but Harper doesn’t react. He doesn’t appear to have registered her presence at all.
‘So, Mr Harper, you were arrested at 10.15 a.m. on suspicion of kidnap and false imprisonment. You were cautioned, and your rights were explained to you, which you said you understood. We are now going to conduct a formal interview, which is being recorded.’
‘That means they’re filming this, Bill,’ says Ross. ‘Do you understand?’
The old man’s eyes narrow. ‘Of course I understand. I’m not a bloody idiot. And it’s Dr Harper to you, boy.’
Quinn glances at Ross, who nods. ‘Dr Harper taught at Birmingham University until 1998. Sociology.’
Gislingham sees Quinn flush slightly; three times in one morning, must be some kind of record.
Quinn flips open his file. ‘I believe you’ve lived at your current address since 1976? Even though you were actually working in Birmingham?’
Harper looks at him as if he’s being deliberately dense. ‘Birmingham is a shithole.’
‘And you moved here in 1976?’
‘Bollocks. December 11th 1975,’ says Harper. ‘My wife’s birthday.’
‘Dr Harper’s first wife died in 1999,’ says Ross quickly. ‘He married again in 2001, but unfortunately the second Mrs Harper died in a car accident in 2010.’
‘Stupid cow,’ says Harper loudly. ‘Pissed. Pissed as a fart.’
Ross glances at the lawyer; he looks embarrassed. ‘The coroner found that Mrs Harper had raised levels of alcohol in her blood at the time of the accident.’
‘Does Dr Harper have any children?’
Harper reaches out and taps the table in front of Quinn. ‘Talk to me, boy. Talk to me. Not that idiot.’
Quinn turns to him. ‘Well, do you?’
Harper makes a face. ‘Annie. Fat cow.’
Quinn picks up his pen. ‘Your daughter is called Annie?’
‘No,’ interrupts Ross. ‘Bill gets a bit confused. Annie was his neighbour at number forty-eight. A very nice woman, apparently. She used to pop in and make sure Bill was OK, but she moved to Canada in 2014 to be closer to her son.’
‘She wants to scrape, the silly cow. Told her I wouldn’t have one of those things in the house.’
Quinn looks at Ross.
‘He means “Skype”. But he won’t use a computer so that was a non-starter.’
‘No other family?’
Ross looks blank. ‘Not that I know of.’
***
‘There’s definitely a son – blow me if I can remember his name.’
Somer is on the doorstep at number 7, and has been for the last fifteen minutes. She’s wishing, now, that she’d taken up the offer of tea, but if she had she might have been here all day – Mrs Gibson has scarcely yet drawn breath.
‘A son, you think?’ says Somer, flicking back through her notes. ‘No one else has mentioned him.’
‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me. People round here – don’t like to “get involved”. Not like when I was growing up. In those days you looked after each other – everyone knew who their neighbours were. I haven’t got a clue who half these yuppies are.’
‘But you’re sure there’s definitely a son?’
‘John – that’s it! I knew I’d remember eventually. Haven’t seen him around here in a while, though. Middle-aged chap. Grey hair.’