Baxter raises his eyebrows and goes back to the safety of his screen; Asante’s clearly regretting ever getting involved.
The room is silent now, but it’s the silence of dissent, and the atmosphere isn’t much better when the door opens fifteen minutes later and Ruth Gallagher appears. She knows this team – she worked with them only a few months ago – and she can tell at once there’s a problem. There are two spots of colour in Somer’s cheeks, and Quinn has that defensive-offensive don’t-blame-me look she’s seen before. Though it’s usually on her fifteen-year-old son.
‘Morning, everyone,’ she says, looking around. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen the email from DI Fawley by now, so you’ll be aware that Major Crimes is taking on the Smith murder case.’
No response. They’re just staring at her.
She tries again. ‘My team are setting up an incident room in the office next door. Assuming we can get the IT to work, of course.’
A flimsy joke, but it’s usually a banker ice-breaker. Not this time, though. Half of them have already gone back to their computers.
The door opens again and Gallagher glances towards it, visibly relieved. ‘Ah, there you are. This is DC Farrow, everyone, so if you can hand him what you’ve got on Hugh Cleland so far that would be great.’
Quinn shuffles his papers into a pile and holds them up, forcing Farrow to walk over and collect them. As one-upmanship manoeuvres go it’s pretty unsubtle, but Gallagher isn’t about to make a thing of it.
Asante looks up. ‘I’ve already sent you everything from my side.’
‘Thank you, DC Asante. Anything else?’
Baxter sits back. ‘I was just about to start checking ANPR for Cleland’s wife’s Honda. I’ll email you the reg number.’
Farrow waits in the middle of the room, but it seems that’s all he’s going to get. Ev sees him hesitate a moment by Somer’s desk, but when she doesn’t even register his presence he’s forced to move on.
* * *
When Nina Mukerjee gets back from the water cooler there’s an email waiting for her from the lab. The forensics on the Smith case. That was quick, she thinks, sliding the cup on to her desk and sitting down. She prints out the attachment – when it comes to technical stuff she always prefers paper to pixels – and starts to read.
Ten minutes later she’s still sitting there. There’s a frown line across her brow. And her water is untouched.
She gets slowly to her feet and makes her way round to Alan Challow’s office. He’s had the same one for ten years but it still looks like he’s hot-desking. No pictures, no desk junk, not even a weary cheese plant. He’s tapping at his keyboard, his eyes fixed on his machine.
He glances up at her, but only for a moment, then gestures to the empty chair.
‘I got the forensics back on Smith’s flat,’ she says.
‘Oh yes?’ He’s still absorbed in his screen.
She pushes the sheet of paper across the desk at him. He reads it, looks at her, then reads it again. Then he sits back.
‘Shit.’
‘So what do we do now?’
He tosses the paper on to the desk.
‘There’s only one thing we can do.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
11 July 2018
9.42
I should have left for work over an hour ago. But I let Alex sleep in, and then the health visitor was running late, and when she did finally arrive it took far longer than I anticipated. Sitting there, hearing the standard advice, collecting the standard leaflets, answering the standard questions; it took all the self-control I could muster not to keep checking my watch. It would have been so easy to tell her that we know all this – that we’ve done it all before – but it’s nowhere near that simple. Not for us. Yes, we had a child, but we don’t have one any more. Because our child took his own life, and this woman knows that. So I sit, and I listen, and I find the right words, because I can’t risk her thinking I have better, more pressing, more urgent things to do.
But then, finally, she collects up her notes and her handouts and her Etsy bag, and I show her to the door. Where she turns and faces me, square-on.
‘Is there something your wife wasn’t telling me, Mr Fawley?’
I wasn’t expecting her to be so direct. Or, perhaps, so shrewd.
Her eyes narrow a little. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
I hesitate then nod. ‘Yes, you are. But it’s nothing to do with the baby.’
She gives me a look. ‘Right now, Mr Fawley – with your wife’s medical history – everything is to do with the baby.’
‘OK, yes, I get that. It’s just that Alex has just had some bad news. A friend of hers has been killed. She’s very upset.’
‘Oh Lord, how awful. Was it some sort of accident?’
I shake my head. ‘No. We thought at first it was a suicide, but I’m afraid we’ve had to launch a murder inquiry.’
She registers that ‘we’. ‘Ah yes, I remember now. You’re a police officer, aren’t you.’
‘My colleagues are going to have to speak to Alex today. Which, I know, is very far from ideal, but there’s no way round it. Alex was one of the last people to talk to her.’
She nods slowly. ‘I see.’
‘That’s why Alex seemed upset just now – we were talking about it before you arrived. It was after I told her the news last night that she had that scare –’
Another nod. ‘I understand. It must be very distressing for her. But thank you – it does help me to have a fuller picture.’ She puts
