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.
‘She’s only a few weeks away from her due date, and has already been hospitalized once for stress. I wasn’t about to risk that happening again by telling her there could be some sort of stalker in the area.’
She’s terrified enough already without that. But this I don’t say.
‘Emma – Ms Smith – didn’t want Alex worrying either. That’s why she came to the station rather than calling me at home. She said as much – in fact, she used that exact phrase.’
Harrison gives me a look; a look that says, We only have your word for that. I should know – I give it to suspects myself often enough.
Gallagher shifts a little in her seat. Embarrassed? Uncomfortable? Who knows. I’d like to think she, at least, would understand about Alex – she has kids herself. But I’m basing that on my experience of her before, when we were on the same side. Right now, it feels like that bet is off.
Harrison is still watching me.
‘Where did you go?’
His tone is calm now, almost sympathetic. But I am not deceived.
‘Where did I go when?’
‘In Smith’s flat. Where did you go? The kitchen, the living room, the bedroom?’
I stare him out. ‘The living room, sir. That’s all.’
‘And you were there, what, an hour? More?’ Gallagher now.
‘Less. At most, thirty minutes.’
‘But you had a drink, didn’t you, in that time.’
It’s not a question. Of course – the glasses.
‘I had half a glass of wine. I was driving. I didn’t even want that, frankly, but I didn’t want to upset her. She was in a bit of a state.’
Gallagher and Harrison exchange a glance.
‘Well, I think that’s all for now,’ says Harrison. ‘Major Crimes will handle the case from now on. Better late than never.’
That was aimed at me: if he’d known I knew Emma he’d never have given it to me in the first place.
He shifts again and his pompous leather chair squeals under his weight.
‘For internal purposes, the line will be that the reallocation of the case is a purely procedural matter, not a reflection on DI Fawley’s conduct in the last twelve hours.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
He frowns. ‘You don’t get off that easily. Not by a long way. But right now, we have a murder case to solve, and public trust to maintain.’
He sits back and turns, as pointedly as he can, to Gallagher. ‘Over to you, Ruth.’
* * *
Interview with Hugh Cleland, conducted at St
Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford
10 July 2018, 6.15 p.m.
In attendance, DC G. Quinn, DC A. Asante, P. Brunswick (solicitor)
GQ: I would remind you, Mr Cleland, that you are under arrest. Do you need me to remind you of the wording of the caution?
HC: I do watch TV. And I’m not a complete fucking imbecile.
GQ: I’ll take that as a ‘No’. So, last night. Talk us through that again.
HC: [gesturing at Asante]
I already told him. I have nothing to add.
GQ: For the benefit of the recording. If it’s not too much trouble.
HC: I went for a run, at Shotover.
GQ: You drove six miles, when you could have just nipped down the road to the Parks?
HC: There’s no law against driving to take exercise. Not that I’m aware of.
GQ: What did you drive? The Range Rover?
HC: [pause]
No.
GQ: Oh? Why was that?
HC: Last time I took it up there some little tyke keyed it.
GQ: Oh dear, how very annoying.
PB: There’s no call for sarcasm, Constable.
GQ: So if not the Range Rover, then what?
HC: My wife’s car.
AA: And that is?
HC: A
