I just have to find out what it is.
There’s a knock at the door.
Quinn.
‘Sorry to barge in, boss, but there are some people downstairs to see you.’
I frown. ‘Can’t you deal with it?’
He shakes his head. ‘Tried that. They’re not having it.’
He hands me a couple of business cards. Thick, textured paper stock, a confident, understated logo. A City law firm so prestigious even I’ve heard of them. And these people are both partners. I was expecting a top-end Oxford outfit but Petra Newson has gone straight for SWAT.
‘OK,’ I say, ‘show them into the first-floor meeting room, will you?’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re putting them in the cheap seats?’
I give him a look. ‘We don’t want them getting too comfortable, do we?’
* * *
‘Anything interesting?’
Baxter looks up. Somer’s standing behind him, looking over his shoulder.
He gestures at the phone. ‘Ev was right about the prosecco. Marina Fisher buys her wine by the case from Berry Brothers & Rudd. She also spends at least a grand a month on clothes and has over ten thousand Twitter followers, how’s that for starters?’
Somer nods. ‘Doesn’t surprise me. Any of it.’ She seems distracted, fiddling with the end of her hair.
‘Apart from that,’ says Baxter, ‘I haven’t got much. Though as far as I can see there wasn’t anything going on between Morgan and Fisher before all this blew up.’
Somer moves round and stands in front of him. ‘What difference would that make?’
She’s staring at him, her fists clenched, and he blinks; where the hell has this come from? It’s not like her. ‘It’s just that –’
‘You think if you’re in a relationship with someone you don’t get to say no? Is that it?’
Baxter’s gone red now; he can sense Asante out of the corner of his eye. He’d been typing but he isn’t any more. He’s staring at them. The room is gradually falling silent.
‘Of course not. But it can make a difference – in court – you know that – look what happened with that Met case –’
‘I don’t believe this,’ she says, turning on her heel and walking away. ‘I don’t fucking believe it.’
Baxter stares after her then looks across at Asante. ‘Did I miss something?’
Asante shrugs. ‘Search me.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
9 July 2018
12.18
The woman is in a tailored dress, the man in an open-neck white shirt and one of those slim royal-blue suits that seem to be the thing these days. They rise as I enter and we shake hands.
‘Meredith Melia,’ says the woman as I take my seat, ‘and this is my colleague Patrick Dunn. We’re representing Caleb Morgan.’
‘Thank you for the information, but I’m not sure why you’re here. Mr Morgan is the victim of an alleged crime, he doesn’t need “representation”.’
She smiles. ‘I’m sure you can appreciate that Mr Morgan’s family are very concerned that he receive the best possible advice and support.’
‘He’s been offered the assistance of an Independent Sexual Violence Adviser, and he has a dedicated police point of contact. The whole team is working extremely hard on his behalf. I’m not sure what other sort of support Mr Morgan needs that his family can’t provide themselves.’
Another smile. ‘It’s not that simple, though, is it, Inspector? This is a very unusual situation and the issues are both complex and exceptionally sensitive. The family is particularly concerned that Mr Morgan’s privacy should be protected.’
‘You can rest assured that we will treat Mr Morgan with the same respect and consideration that we give everyone else in his position, male or female, and regardless of who their “family” are.’
The lawyers exchange a glance.
‘Perhaps you could take us through the evidence you have assembled thus far?’
‘No.’
‘You’re refusing to do that?’
I sit back. ‘I’m under no obligation to. And if, in due course, I reach a point where I do want to have that conversation, I will have it with Mr Morgan. Whether he wants any of you in the room at the time will be entirely up to him.’
The woman frowns. ‘We were assured of your cooperation –’
‘Really? By whom?’
She opens her mouth to reply but I hear Dunn clear his throat.
‘We’re all on the same side, Inspector. I appreciate you don’t particularly like a bunch of rogue tanks turning up on your lawn but we’re not here to trip you up, get under your feet or generally make your life any harder than it already is. But it strikes us – and we hope you agree – that a policy of full and open communication would minimize the possibility of anything untoward appearing in the press, and make a successful outcome a lot more likely.’
I’m tempted to ask whether their client has also been adhering to that ‘full and open policy’ of theirs, because right now, I wouldn’t bet on it.
Dunn looks at the woman. ‘I think our best course would be to let Detective Inspector Fawley return to his work. There’ll be time enough for a fuller briefing when the DNA results come back.’
I show them back to the front desk and stand there, watching them out through the door and down the street. That comment about the DNA wasn’t a throwaway remark or a lucky guess. It was a message, and not a very subtle one: these people have backchannels and they’re going to use them. They’re giving me a choice: I can do this the hard way or the easy way, but if I know what’s good for me I’ll shut up and play nice.
They’re getting into a car now, a black Merc with tinted windows that’s just stopped on the yellow line a few yards up. As it pulls away into the buses and the bikes, I realize suddenly that there’s someone else in the street. Someone I recognize.
I hesitate a moment, wondering if it’s just a coincidence. But you know by now what I think about coincidences. And as our eyes meet across the traffic, I know I’m right.
We have to wait for a bus to pass, but a few moments later we’re standing face to face on the crowded pavement.
‘Hello, Adam,’ she says.
* * *
Alex Fawley has reached the point in her pregnancy where her baby is a good deal more active than she is. She’s always so tired now, and it’s not just the heat. When Adam’s at work she spends most of the day lying on the bed with the blinds down. She can’t even summon the energy to read, just plugs in her headphones or has the TV on in the background, treating it like radio.
She pours herself a glass of iced water and wanders back into the sitting room. There’s no one parked outside. No one unfamiliar, anyway. Just the Hamiltons’ SUV and the grey Fiat Uno owned by that woman a bit further down whose name Alex still doesn’t know. The white van hasn’t been back. Or at least she doesn’t think it has. But would he really be stupid enough to use a vehicle he knew she’d be looking for? If it was her, she’d go to a rental place. Get something bland and forgettable. And a different one each time, just to make sure. This man isn’t stupid; if he’s using a white van it’s intentional. Because he wants her to know he’s there. To scare her – deliberately scare her –
Her heart quickens and the baby turns, uneasy. She sits down slowly, willing her pulse to slow. Adam keeps asking her if everything’s OK – if she’s seen the van again – and she keeps just smiling and saying no. She doesn’t want him worrying – or starting to think she’s losing her mind. Because it makes no sense, she knows that: Gavin Parrie is miles from here, tagged, monitored, curfewed. But her fear just won’t go away.