But he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move at all. All is still except for the baby’s tiny mews. She’s not even sure if her husband knows that she’s there.
‘Chris?’ A little louder now. ‘Are you all right?’
Gislingham starts, and turns to face his wife.
‘Course I am,’ he says, with his usual smile. ‘How could I not be?’
But when he comes towards her and folds her in his arms, she can feel his tears wet against her face.
***
It’s gone nine when I get home. I spent over an hour with Walsh and his story never changed: he’s never been in the cellar, he knows nothing about either Hannah or the girl, and he didn’t steal anything from the house. His only explanation for the fingerprints is that he helped Harper sort out some junk years ago and it must be those boxes that got taken downstairs. Stalemate, in other words. We’ve put him in the custody suite overnight, but we’re going to have to bail him if we don’t get something a lot better than what we have right now.
In this job, you get good at the unexpected. Spotting when even very little things aren’t where they ought to be. But when I push open my front door at 9.15 I hardly need super-sensitive powers to realize something’s changed. Lilies in a tall glass vase I haven’t seen in months. Bryan Ferry on low. Even – and this really is a shock – the smell of cooking.
‘Hello?’ I call, dumping my bag in the hall.
Alex appears in the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Should be ready in ten minutes,’ she says, smiling.
‘You didn’t need to wait. I could have shoved a pizza in the microwave.’
‘I wanted to. I suddenly felt like making something for a change. Glass of wine?’
In the kitchen there’s a pot of casserole on the hob. A Spanish recipe she used to make a lot. Memories of a weekend in Valencia. She pours the Merlot and turns to me, cradling her own glass. One of the last of the wedding present set.
‘How was your day?’
That’s different too. Alex doesn’t really ‘do’ small talk.
I drink some wine and feel it go straight to my head. I think I forgot to have lunch.
‘Horrible. It looks like it was Harper’s nephew who imprisoned and abused that girl. We found a journal she wrote while she was down there. It’s horrific, what she went through.’
She nods. Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t be telling her any of this, but we don’t speak strictly in this house. Just like we don’t do small talk. ‘I feared as much,’ she says. ‘And Hannah?’
‘That’s not good either. Her best friend just told us Rob may have been hitting her. He’s right back in the frame.’
Her face is grim. Probably as grim as mine.
She turns back to the casserole. Garlic, oregano, a hint of anchovies. My stomach turns over. And I stand there, with my wine, trying to decide. Do I tell her what Vicky wrote about the boy? Do I tell my wife that she was right and I was wrong – that the boy’s own mother once hated him – perhaps still does? That he’s spent the whole of his short life imprisoned with someone who never wanted him? And if I do, will that only make it worse? Will it only make her even more determined to give him the love she thinks every child deserves – the love she still has but can no longer bestow?
‘There’s time,’ she says, still preoccupied with the pan, ‘if you want to go up.’
‘It’s OK, I won’t bother to change.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I meant if you wanted to check on him.’
I knew he was here. Of course I did. The food, the music, the smile, the flowers. They’re all because of him. But knowing that and going up there, seeing him –
‘It’s all right, he’s fast asleep,’ she says, mistaking my hesitation. Perhaps deliberately. ‘He went out like a light. I think he’s completely exhausted.’
She looks round at me. It’s a test. And I’ve never been able to bear failing Alex.
*
The landing light is on, even though it’s not yet dark, and the door to the bedroom is ajar. I move forward slowly until I round the corner and see his head on the pillow. The dark curls, the teddy bear Jake loved when he was this age. The boy is curled up tight like a dormouse, the grimy toy still clutched in one hand. I listen to him breathing, like I used to listen to Jake, standing exactly where I am now.
***
The phone rings six times before Quinn picks it up.
‘It’s me,’ Somer says. ‘Are you in the car? I can hear the traffic.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To try to sort things out. To talk.’
‘Not sure there’s anything to talk about. It was OK while it lasted, but you know what they say about shitting on your own doorstep.’
‘I didn’t shit on you –’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘We have to be professional, at the very least,’ she says. ‘You’re still running a lot of this investigation – and I’m still part of it.’
‘Part of it? You seem to be doing a bloody good job of trying to take it over, as far as I can see.’
‘Oh come on, that’s not fair –’
‘You know something? I don’t give a fuck. All I care about is putting that bastard Walsh behind bars where he belongs. If you can help with that, fine. If all you’re interested in is building your own poxy career, then you can fuck off.’
He reaches across and jabs the phone off. Five minutes later he turns into the Lucy’s development and parks the Audi in the underground car park. His flat is on the top floor, with a view that would justify even an estate agent’s hyperbole. The sun is just sliding below the horizon and the air is milky rose. On the balcony, looking over the canal and across towards Port Meadow, is Pippa. She has a champagne flute in one hand. She turns at the sound of the door and comes towards him. She’s wearing his dressing gown and her hair is wet.
‘You didn’t manage to find anywhere, then?’ he says, trying not to sound as suspicious as he feels.
She shakes her head.
‘You tried all those numbers I gave you?’
She shrugs; it obviously didn’t feature very highly on her current list of priorities. ‘You know Oxford. The place is always chocka.’
‘Look, all I meant was you can’t stay here – regulations – you know –’
‘This place is amazing,’ she says, interrupting him. She sweeps an arm round. ‘This room – it’s so big.’
Quinn dumps his jacket on the back of the sofa. ‘Yeah, well, the rest of the flat is pretty small.’
And there isn’t a spare room. Though he doesn’t actually say that. But all the same, she’s clearly guessed what’s on his mind. ‘Look, there’s a couple of mates I could try later. I’m sure I’ll find somewhere. I don’t want to cause you a load of hassle. Not when you’ve been so nice to me.’ She skips over to the bottle of wine and pours him a glass, then brings it over. ‘It’s only cava – I got it at that funny little offy on Walton Street. But it’s still fizz, isn’t it?’ She’s back at the window again. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Oh, eighteen months or so.’
‘And all on your own?’
She hardly needed to ask that; she’s had hours to go through his bathroom, his drawers, his wardrobes.
Quinn puts his glass down on the coffee table. ‘Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll sort out dinner.’
Her eyes widen. ‘You’re going to cook?’
He grins. ‘No chance. I’m going to order a sodding takeaway.’
And suddenly, they’re laughing.
***
In the morning, I’m out of the house before Alex is awake. I’m not sure I’m ready for a shared breakfast. Or the bright new box of Cheerios that was on the worktop when I made my coffee. If that sounds craven, then that’s probably because it is.