Somer makes a note. ‘And when do you think you last saw him?’
There’s a noise in the hall behind and Mrs Gibson turns to make a shooing sound before pulling the door a bit closer. ‘Sorry, dear. Bloody cat, always tries to get out the front if I let her. She has a flap round the back, but you know what cats are like – always want to do what they’re not supposed to and Siamese are even worse –’
‘Mr Harper’s son, Mrs Gibson?’
‘Oh yes, well, now you come to mention it, I think it could have been a couple of years.’
‘And does Mr Harper have any other visitors that you know of?’
Mrs Gibson makes a face. ‘Well, there’s that social worker, I suppose. Fat lot of use he is.’
***
Quinn takes a deep breath. Harper looks at him. ‘What is it, boy? Spit it out, for fuck’s sake. Don’t just sit there looking like you’re trying to shit.’
Even the lawyer is looking embarrassed now.
‘Dr Harper, do you know why the police came to your house this morning?’
Harper sits back. ‘Haven’t a fucking clue. Probably that arsehole next door complaining about the bins. Wanker.’
‘Mr Sexton did call us, but it wasn’t about the bins. He was down in his cellar this morning and part of the wall gave way.’
Harper looks from Quinn to Gislingham, and then back again. ‘So bloody what? Wanker.’
Quinn and Gislingham exchange a glance. They’ve both been in enough interrogations to know that this is the moment. Very few guilty people – even the best and most practised liars – can control their bodies so well they give no sign. Whether a flicker in the eyes, a sudden twitch of the hands, there’s almost always something. But not now. Harper’s face is blank – no careful withdrawal, no attempt to brazen it out. Nothing.
‘And I don’t have a fucking TV.’
Quinn stares at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
Harper sits forward. ‘Moron. I don’t have a fucking TV.’
Ross glances at Quinn nervously. ‘I think what Dr Harper is trying to say is that he doesn’t need a TV licence. He thinks that’s why you’ve brought him here.’
Harper turns on Ross. ‘Don’t tell me what I think. Fucking moron. Don’t know your arse from your tits.’
‘Dr Harper,’ says Gislingham. ‘There was a young woman in your cellar. That’s why you’re here. It’s nothing to do with your TV licence.’
Harper lurches forward, poking his finger in Gislingham’s face. ‘I don’t have a fucking TV.’
Quinn sees the look of alarm in Ross’s eyes; this is starting to get out of hand. ‘Dr Harper,’ he says. ‘There was a girl in your cellar. What was she doing there?’
Harper sits back. He looks from one of the officers to the other. For the first time, he looks shifty. Gislingham opens his file and takes out the photo he took of the girl. He turns it to face Harper. ‘This is the girl. What’s her name?’
Harper leers at him. ‘Annie. Fat cow.’
Ross is shaking his head. ‘That’s not Annie, Bill. You know that’s not Annie.’
Harper isn’t looking at the photo.
‘Dr Harper,’ insists Gislingham. ‘We need you to look at the picture.’
‘Priscilla,’ says Harper, spitting saliva down his chin. ‘Always was a looker. Evil cow. Swanning about the house with her tits out.’
Ross looks desperate. ‘It’s not Priscilla either. You know it’s not.’
Harper reaches out a clawed hand, and without dropping his eyes from Gislingham’s face, sweeps the picture off the table, along with Gislingham’s phone, which clatters against the wall and falls in pieces on the floor.
‘What the hell did you do that for?’ shouts Gislingham, half out of his chair.
‘Dr Harper,’ says Quinn, his teeth clenched now, ‘this young woman is currently in the John Radcliffe hospital, where the doctors will be giving her a full medical examination. As soon as she is able to talk, we will find out who she is, and how she came to be locked in the basement of your house. This is your chance to tell us what happened. Do you get that? Do you get how serious this is?’
Harper leans forward and spits in his face. ‘Fuck you. Do you hear me, fuck you!’
There is a terrible pause. Gislingham dare not look at Quinn. Then he hears him get something out of his pocket and looks up to see him wiping his face.
‘I think we should stop now, officer,’ says the lawyer. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Interview terminated at 11.37,’ says Quinn, with icy calmness. ‘Dr Harper will now be taken to the custody suite and held in the cells –’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ says Ross, ‘surely you can see he’s in no fit state for that?’
‘Mr Harper,’ says Quinn coolly, collecting his papers and stacking them with exaggerated care, ‘may well present a danger to the public, as well as to himself. And in any case his house is now a crime scene. He can’t go back there.’
Quinn gets up and strides towards the door, but Ross is at his heels, following him out into the corridor.
‘I’ll find him somewhere to stay,’ he says, ‘a care home – somewhere we could keep an eye on him –’
Quinn turns so suddenly that the two of them are barely inches apart. ‘Keep an eye on him?’ he hisses. ‘Is that what you’ve been doing all these months – keeping an eye on him?’
Ross backs off, his face white. ‘Look –’
But Quinn isn’t letting up. ‘How long do you think she’s been down there, eh? Her and that kid? Two years, three? And all that time, you’ve been going to that house, keeping an eye on him, week in, week out. You’re the only sodding person who was going in there. Are you seriously telling me you didn’t know?’ He drills his finger into Ross’s chest. ‘If you ask me, it’s not just Harper we should be arresting. You have some very serious questions to answer, Mr Ross. This is way beyond professional negligence –’
Ross has his hands up, fending Quinn off. ‘Do you have any idea how many clients I have? How much paperwork I have to do? What with that and the traffic I’m lucky if I get fifteen minutes a visit. It’s as much as I can do to check he’s been eating and isn’t sitting in his own shit. If you think I get time to pop round doing a house inspection too then you’re in cloud bloody cuckoo land.’
‘You never heard anything – never saw anything?’
‘Quinn,’ says Gislingham, who’s now standing in the doorway.
‘I’ve never been in that sodding basement,’ insists Ross. ‘I never even knew he had one –’
Quinn’s red in the face now. ‘You’re seriously asking me to believe that?’
‘Quinn,’ says Gislingham, urgent. And when Quinn ignores him he reaches for his shoulder and forces him round. There’s someone coming along the corridor towards them.
It’s Fawley.
***
At Frampton Road, Alan Challow walks down the path to the front door and stops for a moment to let the uniformed officer lift the tape barring the entrance. It’s the hottest day of the year so far and he’s sweating in his protective suit. The crowd at the end of the drive is more than twice the size it was and its character has changed. Most of the May Morning stragglers have gone and the builders have called it a day, too. One or two neighbours still linger, but the majority of the onlookers now are either looking for a morbid thrill or a good story. Or both: at least half of them are hacks.