‘Swan uppers’ to sail into Abingdon
The annual pageant of ‘swan upping’ will be coming to Oxfordshire on July 20th … /more
* * *
Adam Fawley
11 July 2018
10.04
‘Alex.’
She’s lying on our bed, the windows open, the curtains barely moving.
There must be something in my voice because she opens her eyes and starts to sit up. ‘What is it? Are you OK?’
I take a step forward. ‘Look, this is going to sound insane – it is insane – but Ruth Gallagher is downstairs.’
She frowns. ‘Ruth? But why –’
‘They’ve arrested me.’
‘What do you mean, arrested? Arrested for what?’
‘For murder.’
Her eyes widen. ‘They think you killed someone? But –’
‘Not “someone”. Emma. They think I killed Emma.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
Her voice is very small and very far away.
There’s a noise outside and the door opens. King, in that trendy bloody suit of his, looking as chipper as I’ve ever seen him. And when he stares at my wife, pregnant, vulnerable, beautiful, there’s no mistaking the sneer on his face and I have to work very, very hard not to land my fist right in the middle of it.
I move forward quickly and crouch down beside her. ‘You have to believe me – I did not do this.’
I can hear King making impatient noises behind me, but I cling on to her hands, force her to look at me. Because this is the moment. The moment she decides. She’s a lawyer; she’s married to a detective. She knows people don’t get arrested on a whim, especially not police officers.
‘Look,’ I say quickly, dropping my voice. ‘I went to see Emma –’
She frowns. ‘What? When?’
I swallow. ‘That night.’ She opens her mouth to say something but I don’t let her. There isn’t time. ‘She wanted some advice, that’s all. She thought she was being stalked. That must be why they think – there must be DNA at the flat –’
King’s hand is on my shoulder now. ‘That’s enough. Time to go.’
I shake him off. ‘There’ll be a search team here soon. Don’t panic – it’s just routine – just let them do what they need to do. But when they’ve finished, I want you to go to your sister’s –’
‘No,’ she says quickly, ‘I want to be here – for you –’
I’m shaking my head. ‘It’ll make no difference – they won’t let you see me. This is going to be shitty enough – I don’t want to be worrying about you. I want to know you’re safe, OK? With them. So will you do that – for me?’
She bites her lip, then nods.
‘I’ll call as soon as I can and let you know where they’ve taken me.’
Because it won’t be St Aldate’s, that I do know.
She nods again. Her eyes are filling with tears. I put my hand gently to her cheek, and then quickly, out of that bastard’s line of sight, to her belly. And then I stand up.
‘OK, King,’ I say.
* * *
The atmosphere in CID had been pretty glacial first thing, and when Ev goes out for a coffee, it takes a certain amount of determination to force herself out of the sunshine and back into an overheated and airless St Aldate’s. But it only takes a glance round the office to see that something’s changed. When she left, people were staring resolutely at their screens, pretending to be busy, avoiding each other’s eyes. But not now. The room is silent, but it’s the silence after a meteor hit. The silence of shared catastrophe.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Somer looks up and sees her. Her face is pale.
‘Fawley’s been arrested.’
‘What?’
Ev holds her breath, waiting for someone to start laughing, tell her it’s just a joke – ‘Ha, got you, sucker’ – but all she sees is Asante’s bleak stare, Baxter’s scowl.
‘Arrested – for what, for Christ’s sake?’
‘For murder,’ says Somer quietly. ‘For murdering Emma Smith.’
Ev looks across at Quinn. Quinn, who said there was something off about the whole case, who said Fawley had something to hide. He meets her eye, shrugs, but says nothing. Seems this time even he doesn’t think he needs to rub it in.
‘Christ,’ breathes Ev. ‘But then surely –’
She never gets the chance to finish. Behind her, the door opens and a moment later she finds herself face to face with Gislingham. He has a tan and a big wide holiday smile.
Then he stops in his tracks and stares around.
‘Jesus – did somebody die?’
* * *
Adam Fawley
11 July 2018
11.35
It’s the Newbury station they opt for. Close enough for convenience; far enough for there to be a reasonable chance no one will recognize me. More than reasonable since, to be honest, I can’t even remember the last time I set foot in here. We usually try to process fellow officers with some degree of discretion, but King must have trumpeted our arrival because I can’t believe it’s usually this crowded on a hot summer afternoon. There’s a ripple of ‘casual’ glances as we parade in, King’s hand gripped around my upper arm just so no one’s in any doubt who’s in charge here, and a low-level buzz starts up as we stand at the desk. But I guess it’s no surprise there are rubberneckers; a DI in detention makes for one hell of a car crash.
The sergeant on duty is playing to the crowd too, labouring over the custody record like it’s the first time he’s ever seen one of the bloody things.
He glances up. ‘I’ll be needing your mobile too.’
‘Not till after I’ve called my wife.’
‘You won’t be doing it from that phone, matey. It’s police property.’
‘I promised I’d tell her where I am. She’s pregnant – this is the last thing she needs –’
He raises an eyebrow. He might as well have said it out loud: Well, whose bloody fault is that?
He holds out his hand. I drag the mobile out of my jacket and slide it across the counter.
It’s starting to hit home, just how much power I’m losing. Over my life, my movements, even my damn phone. Right now, I can’t even take a piss without asking permission. You get used to being in control in this job, and the higher up you go the worse it gets. You lose the knack for subservience too, assuming you ever had it. It strikes me suddenly that I’ve become a walking cliché. Getting a dose of my own medicine, seeing it from the other side of the fence, going a mile in someone else’s shoes. Only trouble is, these shoes are the sort that come with prison fatigues.
When I turn, King is three inches from my face. He’s smiling. I can see his teeth.
* * *
‘Mrs Fawley?’
The man holds out his warrant card. She doesn’t recognize him. Definitely not one of Adam’s. He’s thin, tentative, slightly embarrassed.
‘DC Farrow,’ he says, holding the card out a little further. ‘Can we come in?’
There’s a van parked further down the street.
A white one.
She feels a cold surge of fear. Only this time, it’s different.