‘Yeah, whatever. I just want this over with.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
16.58
She has quite a presence, even in this large room. She’s not especially tall, but she has poise, no question, and she carries herself with confidence – enough confidence to get away with not just the mini-length sundress but a straw fedora and calf-high gladiator sandals, both of which would be getting some serious eye-rolling from Alex if she were here. The look is in stark contrast with the crisp professional images on the stairs, but evidently Fisher’s personal style is a good deal less buttoned-up when she’s not on public show. There are auburn streaks in the long blonde bob and her make-up is flawless, even in this heat. So much so that, from where I’m sitting, she looks scarcely twenty-five.
There was an edge to her voice, and I suppose it’s understandable. Two strangers – male strangers – alone in the house with her eight-year-old child and a cleaner who doesn’t speak English. And we’re not in uniform.
I get up and walk towards her, holding out my warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Adam Fawley. This is Detective Constable Asante.’
She puts her hand down to touch her son’s head; instinctively protective now. The boy is hiding behind her, clinging to her leg, his thumb in his mouth.
‘Perhaps the other lady we saw could look after the little boy while we talk? It might be best.’
She stares at me for a moment and then nods.
She bends down. ‘Tobin, could you go and find Beatriz and ask her to give you a glass of milk?’
‘Don’t want milk. Want Fanta.’
‘All right, then. Just this once.’
She straightens up and ushers him gently out on to the landing. ‘Good boy. I won’t be long.’
We all wait until his footsteps fade down the stairs and then she turns to me again. ‘So perhaps you could now explain to me what you’re doing here?’
‘We have some questions. About last night.’
She looks blank, perplexed, the ghost of the smile still hovering on her dark-red lips. As if this has to be some sort of mistake. As if she’ll be regaling her friends about it later over rhubarb and tamarind artisan gin. ‘Sounds like a bad teen flick.’
But we’re not laughing.
* * *
‘And as well as not changing your clothes, you also haven’t showered since the incident took place, is that right?’
She didn’t really need to ask – the air in the small room is stifling now, and it’s not just the heat.
Morgan shakes his head. ‘I was going to but Freya – my girlfriend – she said I shouldn’t.’
Ev’s ears prick up: it’s the first time he’s mentioned talking to anyone other than Reynolds. In cases like these, any sort of corroboration can end up being significant.
Channon is nodding. ‘Your girlfriend was absolutely right. But as soon as we’re done here there’s a shower cubicle next door. That’s bound to make you feel a lot more comfortable. Then you can have a cup of tea and DC Everett can take your evidential account. Which is really just a fancy term for a statement.’
‘There’s no rush,’ says Ev quickly. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’
The room is silent again as Channon goes calmly about her business, quietly explaining what she’s doing as she collects and bags forensic swabs from Morgan’s body. Face, neck, hands, chest, groin. You’d know he played a contact sport just from the old scars and Channon dutifully notes those too, but what she’s looking for are the unhealed. The scratch on his neck, the other, smaller ones high on his chest.
‘It’s my team,’ he says, seeing Everett looking at the tattoo on his forearm. He rubs it self-consciously. ‘The Ospreys.’
Channon asks him to stand, and he turns left, turns right, raises his arms, as requested, as biddable as a small child. He’s trying to tough this out and everyone is being impeccably sensitive and considerate and discreet, but it’s clear, all the same, that he’s finding it all horribly intrusive.
He briefly catches Ev’s eye and makes a sad wry face. ‘And to think I never used to get why so few women report being raped.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
17.04
‘Marina Fisher, I am arresting you on suspicion of sexual assault. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
She’s shaking her head, backing away from me. ‘Sexual assault? What are you talking about?’ Her voice falters, and she feels behind her for the sofa and sits down heavily. When she speaks again, her breath is ragged. ‘Who – who said this –’
‘I believe you know a student called Caleb Morgan?’
She frowns. ‘Caleb? Caleb says I raped him?’
‘Professor Fisher, we really need to have this conversation at St Aldate’s. Where it can be recorded.’
‘St Aldate’s – you mean the police station?’ Her eyes widen and for the first time she looks genuinely afraid.
I nod. ‘It’s better that way. Not just for us – for you too.’
She looks down, fighting for self-control, then nods. ‘I’ll need to call my lawyer.’
‘Of course. You can do that when we get there. Can Beatriz stay with the child or is there someone else you want us to call?’
She’s silent so long I’m not sure she’s heard.
‘Professor Fisher?’
She looks up, half startled. ‘What? Oh – yes, I’ll ask her.’
Asante takes a step towards her. ‘And we’ll need the clothes you were wearing last night. I assume you’ve taken a shower today?’
She stares at him. ‘Of course I have –’
Though perhaps she regrets answering so sharply because she bites her lip now. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be – it’s just this whole thing is –’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Yes, I have showered.’
‘We’ll need your clothes too. Everything you were wearing last night. Including your underwear.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s already been washed.
