‘No, no.’ She grips my arm. ‘Please, Adam – you know how much I hate that place. And it’s going off now, seriously.’
She breathes, slowly. In, then out; in, then out. A minute passes, and gradually her grasp on my arm softens and she gives me a wobbly smile. ‘See? I told you.’
I put the keys down. ‘OK, but you need to go to bed right now –’
‘In a minute – what about Emma –’
I shake my head. She’ll have to know the truth – Ruth Gallagher will be calling, for a start, and I want Alex prepared. But not now. Not tonight.
‘We’ll talk about it in the morning. Right now what you need is rest. That’s the only way I agree not to take you straight to the JR.’
Her head drops and I reach for her hand. Her lips are trembling.
‘Oh Lord,’ she whispers. ‘Poor Em – poor, poor Em.’ She raises her eyes to mine, and the tears are brimming. ‘1992. That’s when we first met. 1992. Twenty-six bloody years. How did that happen?’ She puts a hand to her mouth. ‘I mean, I knew she’d been unhappy lately, but –’
I could say something. Tell her I know exactly why Emma was unhappy. Tell her I went to see her, to try to help –
But I don’t. Perhaps I should. Perhaps you would, if you were me. But you’re not, and I don’t. I should have told her I went to that flat long before this. Yesterday, as soon as I got back, even though she was exhausted and on her way to bed; or this morning, before I went to work. All I was doing was trying to protect her, cocoon her, keep her and our baby safe, but it’s too late now. If I tell her now she’ll think I have something to hide. And you wouldn’t blame her, would you? Because you’re thinking exactly the same. You’re wondering why this is the first you’ve heard of all this – why I never said a thing about it before.
So let me be absolutely clear – just because you didn’t see, just because I didn’t tell you – at the flat, last night, with Emma? Nothing happened.
Do you hear me?
Nothing. Bloody. Happened.
* * *
This time, Quinn isn’t the only one in early. When he pushes open the office door at 7.55 the place is already humming.
‘Got the email, I see,’ says Everett drily.
Quinn gives a non-committal grunt and goes across to his desk. But Ev’s not giving up. She comes over.
‘That came out of a blue sky, didn’t it – Gallagher taking over? Did Fawley say anything to you – you know, before?’
Quinn shakes his head. He was already smarting at King for showing him up in front of Cleland. And now he’s pissed off with Fawley for being the reason.
‘It’s turning into a bit of a habit,’ says Baxter from the other side of the room. He’s leaning back in his chair, cradling a Frappuccino.
Ev frowns. ‘What is?’
‘Gallagher having to tidy up Fawley’s mess.’
Somer looks across. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Baxter shrugs. ‘Well, it happened with the Appleford case, didn’t it –’
Ev is shaking her head. ‘Come on, that was completely different,’ she begins.
‘No.’ Somer, sharper now. ‘If he’s got a point, let’s hear it.’
Baxter holds up his hands. ‘Nothing. I was just saying.’
Somer’s about to reply but Ev intercepts her with a look. A look that says, Let it lie.
Quinn starts unloading his messenger bag. He got it from Jekyll and Hide. It’s as close as he could find to the one Asante carries without looking like he’s actually copying. Which, of course, he is.
‘If you ask me,’ he says, ‘all that stuff about Fawley not knowing who Smith was is a load of bullshit.’
Ev turns to look at him. ‘What makes you say that?’
He tugs his tablet out of the bag and puts it down on the desk. ‘Well, the thing about not knowing her surname is crap, for a start.’
Somer frowns. ‘Why? I bet you don’t know the surnames of any of your girlfriend’s mates.’
‘That’s different and you know it,’ he snaps. ‘I’ve only been seeing her a few weeks – Fawley knew this woman for years.’
Somer turns away, her face dark. ‘You’re just hacked off because it’s a big case and they’ve taken it off you.’
Quinn stands his ground. ‘I’m not, actually,’ he says coolly. ‘Because it wasn’t just that. Not by a long way. This whole thing – it stinks.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Ev now. ‘Care to elaborate on that?’
Quinn squares up to her. ‘It was me who took the call when Smith was reported missing.’
‘So?’
‘So I remember repeating back the address.’
But Somer isn’t backing down. ‘And your point is?’
‘My point is that Fawley heard that. He was right here, at that very moment, in this room.’
He looks to Baxter, who nods. ‘He’s right. He was.’
Quinn lifts his chin, vindicated. ‘So even if you accept the name thing, how do you explain that?’
‘I was here too, actually,’ says Somer. ‘And as far as I remember Fawley was looking at that Joseph Andrews Twitter account when that call came through.’ She glances across at Baxter. ‘Right?’
Baxter hesitates then nods. This is getting distinctly uncomfortable.
‘So it’s quite possible,’ continues Somer, ‘that Fawley didn’t even hear what Quinn said. I mean, do you remember hearing that address?’
Baxter’s eyes widen. ‘Me?’
‘Yeah, you. Do you remember Quinn saying that address?’
‘I’m not sure –’
She flips her hand at him. ‘There you are, then.’
‘To be fair,’ says Asante quietly, ‘you’d be far more likely to notice an address if it was one you already knew. It’s like someone saying your name. You’re more attuned to it.’
‘Right,’ says Quinn, piling in. ‘And he definitely did know that address because he’d been there – he said so –’
‘But the email doesn’t say when, does it?’ says Somer. ‘It could have been weeks before – months –’
Quinn
