He sighs, runs his hands through his hair.
‘DS King said as much in the last interview. It would make the death look like suicide and cause so much damage to the body there’d be practically nothing left to autopsy. The police probably wouldn’t even have bothered to search her flat, far less process it as a crime scene. In which case, it wouldn’t matter how much of your DNA you left behind, because no one was ever going to find it.’ She sits back. ‘You used everything you’ve learnt from decades of working homicide cases to commit as near as dammit a perfect murder. And without that gang of engineers, that’s exactly what it would’ve been. But like you said before, even professionals make mistakes. That was yours.’
His breath is ragged now. He’s struggling to stay composed. ‘So I can’t win – is that what you’re telling me? Whatever I say, I can’t win?’
‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m just trying to be realistic. But I will check with Inspector Gallagher – find out whether there were any clothes in the flat that look like the leggings and T-shirt you saw.’
‘Fat chance,’ he says grimly. ‘Parrie wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave them there.’
She nods. ‘I suspect you’re right, but we won’t know until we ask. And even if there’s nothing in the flat, the neighbour may remember what Emma had on when she came to the door that night. And failing that, there could be other ways to prove she owned clothes like that. Although it’ll mean tracking down either witnesses or photos. It’s not impossible, but we don’t have Thames Valley’s resources. Or their ability to buttonhole Joe Public at will.’
He makes a face and looks away. ‘The more I see of the view from this side of the tracks, the less I like it.’
‘On the other hand,’ she says, trying to sound more positive, ‘we can certainly make a very solid case for Gavin Parrie having a motive. And, if we’re lucky, there’ll be evidence out there somewhere that will either alibi you out or incriminate someone else.’
‘What about Cleland?’
‘Not as promising as he initially appeared, from what I hear. I believe they’ve yet to rule him out formally, but without forensic evidence on his clothes or in Smith’s flat, I can’t see King taking it any further.’
Fawley wouldn’t either, she can see that from his face.
She picks up her pen again. ‘But if there’s footage of his car at Walton Well, that situation could change. I need to chase up on whether they have CCTV on the bridge.’
He makes a rueful face. ‘I wouldn’t hold my breath. If I know Parrie, he’ll have checked out that location long before he used it.’
She frowns. ‘How, exactly?’
He shrugs. ‘Google Earth? Though I wouldn’t put it past him casing it out in person. After all, we know he’s worked out how to get round his tag, and we know he has transport – he must do, to get here from wherever he is, transport the body, get away. Worth checking what sort of vehicle he has access to, because there absolutely must be one.’
‘Presumably not a white van this time,’ she says drily. ‘That would be too easy.’
He shrugs. ‘Who knows. My wife thought she saw one near the house once or twice lately.’
‘Really? Do you have a reg number?’
He shakes his head dully. ‘Nope. If I did, I’d have checked out the bloody thing myself.’
* * *
‘Freya? It’s me.’
His voice is muffled, like he’s behind glass.
She grips the phone. ‘Jesus, Caleb – I’ve been trying to get through to you for hours. What’s happened – is there something wrong with your phone? This isn’t your number –’
‘I got a pay-as-you-go. The police took mine.’
Her eyes widen, and she sits down slowly. ‘The police? Why?’
She can hear noise in the background now, traffic – as if he’s out on the street.
‘They fucking arrested me, didn’t they. They’re saying Tobin saw me raping her – that I gave her GHB or some shit like that so she wouldn’t remember.’
‘Oh my God –’
‘Yeah, right – how fucked up is that?’
Her heart rate is brutal. ‘But, babe, this is really bad – they must be taking it seriously or they wouldn’t have arrested you –’
He laughs bitterly. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve been “Released Under Investigation” while they dig about for dirt.’
She swallows. ‘What did your lawyers say?’
‘That they won’t be able to prove it – that there’s no forensics and they’ll just be relying on Tobin’s word for it. And we all know what a lying little fucker he is.’
‘Yeah,’ she says slowly, ‘we do, don’t we.’
* * *
Telephone call with Lloyd Preston, Network Rail
13 July 2018, 5.15 p.m.
On the call, DS Chris Gislingham
CG: Hello? This is Thames Valley Police, am I speaking with Lloyd Preston?
LP: Yeah, that’s me. Thames Valley, did you say?
CG: Yes, sir – just a couple more routine questions about the incident at Walton Well –?
LP: I don’t know what else I can tell you. I already told that other police bloke everything I saw. Sparrow, was it?
CG: DC Farrow.
LP: Yeah, that’s the one. So are you his boss or what?
CG: Something like that. Like I said, it’s just routine.
LP: So what do you want to know?
CG: Do you remember seeing anyone on the bridge that night? Either before or after you saw the body fall?
LP: No. Like I said to the other bloke. That’s why I thought it was a suicide.
CG: What about a car, a van?
LP: You can’t see the road from the tracks.
CG: Then maybe you heard something? That time of night, when there’s no other noise, it must be much easier to hear a vehicle –
LP: I’m not sure –
CG: Take your time.
LP: Look, I can’t be sure,
