He frowns. ‘What I want to know, DI Fawley, is why you have thus far failed to inform anyone, least of all me, that you had a pre-existing relationship with the victim.’
I stare at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Don’t piss me about, Adam. I’m not in the mood.’
‘Honestly, sir. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
His eyes narrow. ‘According to DC Quinn, the victim was identified at approximately 1.00 p.m. this afternoon, and he passed on that information to you, in person, at 1.15.’
I don’t know where this is going, but I don’t like it.
‘Yes, sir, but I still –’
Harrison leans back in his chair.
‘What’s the victim’s name?’
My turn to frown. ‘Emma Smith.’
‘And you’re still claiming you don’t know her?’ He looks palpably, mouth-openly incredulous.
‘Because I don’t. I don’t know her –’
‘In that case, perhaps you could explain to me what you were doing in her flat.’
I stare at him. What the –?
‘There are prints,’ says Harrison. ‘At Smith’s flat. Your prints.’
And then it hits me. Hard, and too late.
I swallow. ‘Unless –’
He raises an eyebrow, sardonic. ‘Unless?’
‘Unless it’s my wife’s friend –’ I falter, stop.
Christ.
‘Seriously, sir. I just didn’t make the connection. And I haven’t been into the incident room – I haven’t seen her picture so I –’
‘She’s your wife’s friend, and you didn’t recognize her name?’
His scepticism is brutal.
I can feel myself flushing. ‘Well, obviously I knew my wife’s friend was called Emma, but I’m not sure I ever did know her surname.’ I sit forward. ‘Sir, I know how it looks, but she was Alex’s friend, not mine. They were at university together – they see each other a few times a year. I see her even less than that.’
But he’s still not buying it. ‘Wasn’t it Emma Smith who sorted out that short-term foster placement for you last year – the one I signed off on?’
I swallow. ‘Yes, sir, but it was Alex who handled all that – I wasn’t really involved. Like I said, sir, Emma Smith and I weren’t friends – we were barely even acquaintances.’
‘So you keep saying,’ he says, ‘but you were in her flat all the same.’
I can feel my face reddening. ‘Ah, OK. I can explain that.’
‘I bloody well hope you can, because right now –’
‘I was there – at the flat. But it was at her request. She came to see me at the station. There was something she wanted to talk to me about.’
He frowns again. ‘So why not do it here? Surely that would have been more appropriate –’
‘Which is exactly what I said,’ I reply quickly. ‘And I tried to persuade her to do just that, but she didn’t want to make it official.’
‘And when was this?’
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
‘Yesterday, sir.’
‘Yesterday? You went to her flat yesterday?’
I try to meet his eye but don’t quite manage it. ‘Yes, sir.’
He takes a breath. Another. ‘So you went round to her flat. What time was this?’
‘Around nine. She asked me to pop in after work.’
Harrison opens his mouth to say something but I get there first.
‘She thought she was being stalked. There’d been someone opposite the house on a couple of occasions, hanging about in the dark for no apparent reason. At least one sighting in a vehicle –’
Harrison sits back, looks at me.
‘I went through the usual line of questioning, sir. I asked her about old boyfriends, colleagues, anyone who might have wanted to threaten or scare her. She couldn’t think of anyone. I knew – from my wife – that there’d been a recent relationship but she said it was over and she wasn’t the one who ended it. So in the end I told her that as things stood there wasn’t enough to open an official investigation but she should carry on keeping a diary – if she saw the stalker again she should try to take pictures, and call 999 if she ever felt remotely threatened physically. And then I left.’
I sit forward a little. ‘Obviously, with hindsight, I should have done something – and I deeply regret that I didn’t, and I know that’s going to look bad for the force, but there really wasn’t any suggestion that she was in imminent danger –’ I’m frantically recalibrating now, trying to think. ‘But from what DC Quinn said about this man Cleland, surely he’s the most obvious candidate –’
But for whatever reason, Harrison isn’t with me. I can feel the swell of his irritation and the effort he’s making to control it.
‘So, the victim found on the railway line is the same age as your wife’s friend, she has the same colouring, she has the same first name, and yet for the whole of the last – what is it, four hours? – it’s never once occurred to you that it might be the same person?’
I swallow. ‘Like I said, sir –’
But he’s not listening. ‘Your own team have spent the best part of the day looking for a man Emma Smith let into her flat last night – a man who fits your description – and you still never thought this might be more than just a coincidence?’
And I’m the one who doesn’t believe in coincidences, as I’m expecting him to remind me right about –
‘And how many times have I heard you say –’
I cut across him. ‘I’m sorry, sir. DC Quinn has been handling the initial enquiries and, as I said, I spent most of the afternoon with the CPS – I haven’t had time to look at the detail. But I can see now that –’
But I don’t get to suck up any more shit. Behind me, the door opens. I hadn’t been expecting anyone, but Harrison clearly has. He looks up and gives a quick affirmation. I turn round.
Detective Inspector Ruth Gallagher. Of Major Crimes.
She gives me a brief nod, her face impassive. ‘DI Fawley.’
DI Fawley. Not ‘Adam’, even though we worked the Faith Appleford abduction case together barely three months ago. Even though I thought we’d become the nearest thing this job ever gets to friends.
‘Ruth.’ I can hear the falter in my voice.
Gallagher takes the empty chair. Harrison gestures to her – the floor is evidently hers. My heart is skittering like a nervous horse.
‘I just spoke to Ms Smith’s parents, sir. They know nothing about any supposed stalker.’
‘Supposed’. Fuck.
I try to get her to look at me. ‘They must be in their seventies at least – she probably just didn’t want to worry them –’
She’s staring steadfastly ahead. ‘Ms Smith doesn’t seem to have had many friends outside work, but I’m in the process of drawing up a list.’
What does she mean, drawing up a list? This isn’t her case –
‘The first name on that list is Mrs Alexandra Fawley. I’m aiming to talk to her first thing.’
Wait a minute – she’s going to talk to my wife –?
‘Perhaps DI Fawley could help you with that, Ruth,’ says Harrison, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘After all, I’m sure Mrs Fawley must already be fully aware of the situation, given that Ms Smith approached her husband for advice.’
So that’s where we are, is it.
I take a deep breath. ‘I haven’t discussed any of this with my wife.’
He frowns, is about to speak, but I plough on.