[JOCELYN]
And that really was the end of it. Or, at least, so Gavin thought.
Within a few months he and Sandra had split up, and Gavin had moved back to Cowley. Both his brothers had gravitated back to Oxford by then, so the move made sense, even if it meant he wouldn’t see as much of his kids as he’d have liked. He got a flat, started seeing a new girlfriend, tried to make a new start. Life seemed better than it had for a long time.
And then, on January 27th 1998, a 23-year-old woman called Erin Pope was dragged off the street in the outskirts of Oxford, on her way home from work. Her hands were bound with cable ties and a plastic bag pulled over her head. She was found, an hour later, badly beaten, her underwear missing and a clump of her hair ripped out.
The Roadside Rapes had begun.
[UNDER BED OF ‘SEX CRIME 1984’ – EURYTHMICS]
I’m Jocelyn Naismith and this is Righting the Wrongs. You can listen to this and other podcasts from The Whole Truth on Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts.
[FADE OUT]
* * *
The uniformed PC is on the doorstep when they arrive. One of the new intake at Cowley Road; Quinn vaguely remembers seeing him once or twice before.
‘Acting DS Quinn. What have we got here?’
The PC stands up a little taller. ‘I attended the address at 11.06 hours, sir, at the request of Ms Elizabeth Monroe. She was concerned for the occupant’s welfare, having been unable to reach her this morning after she failed to turn up at work. I found the door open, no evidence of forced entry, and the premises empty. Sir.’
Quinn smiles drily. ‘What’s your name?’
He flushes. ‘Webster, sir.’
‘OK, Webster, there’s no need to talk like a Speak Your Weight machine. Ordinary lingo’s fine, even in the presence of CID.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Quinn heads into the flat and Ev grins at Webster as she passes. ‘And no need to call him “sir”, either.’ She drops her voice to a whisper and winks. ‘It just gives him ideas.’
It’s a small flat on the ground floor of a converted 1930s semi. Kitchen, sitting room, bedroom, a shower room with no windows. Everything is tidied neatly away as if the owner was expecting people – guests, parents, potential buyers. If this place has been burgled someone’s gone to enormous lengths to cover it up. Ev pulls her gloves out of her pocket, then reaches for the handbag lying on the coffee table.
‘Purse, wallet and keys,’ she says after a moment. ‘But no phone.’
Quinn’s still working his way round the room. Picking things up, putting them down again.
‘Not very, you know, “girly”, is it?’
Ev gives him the side-eye. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’
But she knows what he means. There are books and the odd magazine, sponsor mailings from Barnardo’s and Save the Children, a charity envelope for UNICEF, but no trinkets, no ornaments; barely anything personal at all. Not even photographs.
Quinn stops and puts his hands on his hips. ‘There’s only one toothbrush so odds on she lives alone, but that’s about the only thing I get from this place. It’s like one of those short-term rentals.’
‘There’s that,’ says Ev, nodding at the copy of Women’s Running on the table. ‘And there are three pairs of trainers in the hall. So we know at least one thing she does in her spare time.’
‘Perhaps that’s it – something happened while she was out running?’
Ev frowns. ‘Having left the front door open when she left?’
‘Could have been mugged and had her keys stolen?’
Ev’s still frowning. ‘And the mugger came back here, decided not to bother nicking anything and put the keys back in her bag? And how did he know where she lived anyway?’
Quinn nods slowly. ‘Right. It doesn’t really add up.’
‘It doesn’t add up at all.’ She puts the handbag down. ‘Something’s wrong here, Quinn. I know it.’
* * *
* * *
‘So you don’t know her very well?’
The man shrugs and shakes his head, though Everett’s not sure whether that’s because he doesn’t actually know her or because he hasn’t really understood the question. The little girl holding on to his leg is chattering away in what sounds like Polish.
‘OK,’ she says, handing him her card. ‘Do give us a call if you think of anything.’
She goes back down the path and along to the next house. She can see Quinn two doors further on, and when he turns she catches his eye and shrugs. He shakes his head: seems he isn’t getting very far either.
This time the door is opened by a woman. Not much more than five feet high, in a bright-yellow sari.
Ev smiles. ‘Sorry to bother you. My name is Detective Constable Everett, Thames Valley Police. We’re making enquiries about the woman who lives in number 62a. Do you know her at all?’
The woman clasps her hands together. ‘Of course. A very nice lady. But I hope she is OK? Nothing bad has happened?’
Ev tries to look reassuring. ‘She hasn’t been seen since last night. We’re just trying to locate her. We’ve no reason to suspect anything untoward at present.’
The woman looks concerned. ‘I see. Oh dear.’
‘Did you happen to see her last night? Mrs –?’
‘Singh. I am Mrs Singh.’
‘So – did you see anything yesterday evening?’
She nods slowly. ‘Yes, I did. There was a man. At her door.’
Ev
