Adam Fawley
11 July 2018
11.35
It’s the Newbury station they opt for. Close enough for convenience; far enough for there to be a reasonable chance no one will recognize me. More than reasonable since, to be honest, I can’t even remember the last time I set foot in here. We usually try to process fellow officers with some degree of discretion, but King must have trumpeted our arrival because I can’t believe it’s usually this crowded on a hot summer afternoon. There’s a ripple of ‘casual’ glances as we parade in, King’s hand gripped around my upper arm just so no one’s in any doubt who’s in charge here, and a low-level buzz starts up as we stand at the desk. But I guess it’s no surprise there are rubberneckers; a DI in detention makes for one hell of a car crash.
The sergeant on duty is playing to the crowd too, labouring over the custody record like it’s the first time he’s ever seen one of the bloody things.
He glances up. ‘I’ll be needing your mobile too.’
‘Not till after I’ve called my wife.’
‘You won’t be doing it from that phone, matey. It’s police property.’
‘I promised I’d tell her where I am. She’s pregnant – this is the last thing she needs –’
He raises an eyebrow. He might as well have said it out loud: Well, whose bloody fault is that?
He holds out his hand. I drag the mobile out of my jacket and slide it across the counter.
It’s starting to hit home, just how much power I’m losing. Over my life, my movements, even my damn phone. Right now, I can’t even take a piss without asking permission. You get used to being in control in this job, and the higher up you go the worse it gets. You lose the knack for subservience too, assuming you ever had it. It strikes me suddenly that I’ve become a walking cliché. Getting a dose of my own medicine, seeing it from the other side of the fence, going a mile in someone else’s shoes. Only trouble is, these shoes are the sort that come with prison fatigues.
When I turn, King is three inches from my face. He’s smiling. I can see his teeth.
* * *
‘Mrs Fawley?’
The man holds out his warrant card. She doesn’t recognize him. Definitely not one of Adam’s. He’s thin, tentative, slightly embarrassed.
‘DC Farrow,’ he says, holding the card out a little further. ‘Can we come in?’
There’s a van parked further down the street.
A white one.
She feels a cold surge of fear. Only this time, it’s different.
This time she knows who’s inside.
* * *
Interview with Adam Fawley, conducted at Thames Valley Police Station, Mill Lane, Newbury
11 July 2018, 12.30 p.m.
In attendance, DI R. Gallagher, DS D. King, Mrs P. McHugh (solicitor)
RG: Interview commenced at 12.30. Those present are DI Ruth Gallagher, DS David King, DI Adam Fawley. DI Fawley has been cautioned and is now accompanied by his solicitor, Mrs Penelope McHugh. Perhaps we could begin by having your account of the events of Monday night, 9th July 2018. You have previously admitted that you went to Emma Smith’s flat – what time was that?
AF: Around 9 p.m.
RG: And I believe that immediately before that you had been at your gym?
AF: At Headington Health and Leisure, yes. I would have left at about 8.45. I’m sure you’ll be able to confirm that.
RG: Did you change at the gym before you left?
AF: No, I was running a bit late so I went straight to Ms Smith’s.
RG: So you were wearing –?
AF: A T-shirt and shorts. Trainers.
RG: What colour T-shirt?
AF: A white one.
RG: I see. And you still maintain that you went to Shrivenham Close at Ms Smith’s request?
AF: I don’t ‘maintain’ it – it’s what happened. I saw her in St Aldate’s earlier that day and she asked me to go round.
PM: Given the location, I imagine there will be CCTV corroborating this.
RG: We will, of course, look into that. And was this meeting in St Aldate’s accidental? She just happened to be there?
AF: No, she’d made a special trip up from the Iffley Road in her lunch hour. She wanted my advice. She said that it wouldn’t take very long, so I offered to drop in on my way back home.
DK: Did she tell you what she wanted to talk about?
AF: No. As I explained before, I only saw Ms Smith for a few moments then. I didn’t find out what the problem was until that night, when I went to the flat.
RG: So you arrived at about 9.00 p.m. How long did you stay?
AF: About half an hour.
DK: And what happened during those thirty minutes?
AF: Again, as I’ve said before, we talked about the stalker –
DK: Nothing else?
AF: No –
DK: No small talk at all? Not even about your wife? They were friends, weren’t they?
AF: Ms Smith asked after my wife, very briefly, when I arrived. But that wasn’t why I was there.
RG: So what course did the conversation take?
AF: She talked me through what had been happening – specific incidents – dates and times –
DK: She’d kept a record?
AF: Informally, yes. But it was more like a diary. It wasn’t something she was happy to hand over.
RG: For the record, no such diary has been retrieved from Ms Smith’s flat.
AF: Well, it was there that night – it was on the coffee table.
DK: When she went through these dates – did you make notes?
AF: No. When I got out my notebook she got nervous and asked me not to write anything down. She wasn’t ready to make an official complaint.
DK: So we only have your word for it.
AF: As I said, she didn’t want to escalate things –
DK: So as I said, we only have your word for it. Because no one else seems to know anything about this ‘alleged’ stalker of yours.
AF: I can’t speak to that. I only know what she said to me. And as we’ve since discovered, a man called Hugh Cleland had
