The Whole Truth

most of her identikit predecessors. She made him laugh and she listened, but she didn’t give him an easy ride, and he found himself having to articulate why he believed what he did, some of which surprised even him. He also realized – and this was fairly unprecedented too – that he actually liked her, as much out of bed as in it. Which is why, even though he’s always had an almost anaphylactic reaction to the idea of meeting his girlfriends’ parents, he’s not only here but still here, long after he’d agreed with Maisie that they would leave. The beef was rare, the wine likewise, and Ted and Irene Ingram are decidedly not what it said on the tin. Yes, they have a lot of money, but they’re not shy of showing it, which was never going to be a problem with Quinn. The two men edged around the Brexit bear trap for a good half-hour before Ingram let slip which side he was on, whereupon they fell on each other with all the relief of oppressed fellow devotees. In Oxford, at least, theirs is most definitely the Leave that dare not speak its name.

So all in all, Quinn has been enjoying himself royally. By the time the phone call comes through there’s even an imp in the back of his brain whispering that Maisie is the Ingrams’ only child, and if in-laws are inevitable then these two might not be such a bad option. There’s a bottle of 1996 Sauternes on the table now, and a box of Havana cigars, and Quinn has slid Maisie his car keys. Which, as the look on her face makes clear, is also pretty much unprecedented. She glances at him now, as his mobile goes: it’s the ringtone he uses for calls from work.

As he reaches for the phone, Quinn glances round the table, smiling his contrition. ‘I’m really sorry – they wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.’

Ingram waves the apology away. ‘Of course. Maisie explained this might happen. I completely understand. It’s an important job, what you do.’

Irene Ingram pushes back her chair tactfully and Maisie gets to her feet. They start clearing the plates, and Quinn walks away down the garden. Perhaps he’s doing it to get a better signal, but then again, perhaps he’d rather Maisie’s father didn’t hear him answering with his current rank.

A few yards further on he finally takes the call.

‘DC Quinn.’

‘Woods here.’ Quinn can hear the traffic in the background; Woods must be at the front desk. He makes a perfunctory apology for ruining Quinn’s Saturday but it’s clear from his tone that he’s not getting a bloody weekend so why the hell should CID.

‘Just had the Principal from Edith Launceleve on the blower asking for Fawley.’

Quinn frowns. ‘What’s wrong with the duty inspector?’

‘Tried that. Nothing doing. Sorry.’

‘OK, so –’

Woods interrupts him. ‘I’d have called Gislingham, as DS, but given he’s out till Wednesday –’

Quinn ignores the snipe. He’s got used to all the not-so-subtle digs about his demotion. He could have got a transfer, but when he decided not to, he knew the price would be sucking it up. And some of the bolder wags have, of course, taken great delight in using exactly that phrase. But he only has himself to blame: he let his dick rule his head and got involved with a suspect. He was lucky he didn’t get fired. But he’ll show them – he’ll get his stripes back. It’s just a matter of time. In fact – who knows? – perhaps this call is a golden opportunity. With Gis away, a slam-dunk chance to show his class.

‘No worries,’ he says airily. ‘What is it – what have you got?’

By the time Woods has finished, the opportunity is looking rather less than twenty-four carat, but there’s no need for Ted Ingram to know that. As far as he’s concerned, this is a mega-important hush-hush murder case requiring the attention of a fast-track officer destined for greater things. The sort of man, whispers the imp, Ingram would positively welcome as a son-in-law. Quinn squares his shoulders, lifts his chin and starts back up the grass towards the pool.

* * *

Adam Fawley

7 July 2018

14.35

A call from Quinn is just about the last thing I was expecting. He’s at his girlfriend’s parents’ today – he made a big thing about how nonchalant he was about it, which rather indicated the opposite to me, but that’s Quinn all over. He’s been deputizing for Gis while he’s away, but we don’t have a big case on at the moment – certainly nothing that would merit a call at the weekend. I’d have thought Quinn would relish the chance of flying solo again, even though I did make it abundantly clear it’s just unofficial ‘standing in’ not official ‘Acting’.

We’re all still in the dining room when he calls. The afternoon is reaching the fuggy stage, though Alex’s dad is still chirpy – as garrulous as I’ve seen him in years. I’ve always liked Stephen. It’s the anomaly of in-laws: the same age as your parents, and you can end up knowing them almost as long, but if you’re lucky – as I’ve been – they have your back but they don’t press your buttons. Though that could just be because they don’t know where the dangerous buttons are.

Alex flickers an anxious look at me as the phone goes, but says nothing. She has one hand curled round her belly and she’s fiddling with her napkin with the other. She’s getting tired. I need to start manoeuvring people to leave.

Out on the patio, I take the call.

‘Quinn? What is it?’

‘Sorry to bother you, boss. I’m meeting Ev at Edith Launceleve. There’s been an incident involving a student.’

I frown – I know Quinn’s being uber-careful not to balls anything up at the moment, but does he really need to call me about this? But then I remember that most of the students have already gone down