* * *
Having been sandbagged into spending twenty minutes with McHugh in a confined space, Gallagher’s evidently going to make the lawyer work for her scraps. She certainly isn’t volunteering anything as they edge through the rush-hour traffic in Oxpens Road.
‘It was the CCTV I was going to ask about,’ says McHugh, turning to look out of the window as if the question isn’t really that important. There’s a queue outside the ice rink. She used to take her own kids there, but that was before they turned teenagers and skating wasn’t cool any more. It’d be cool now though, on a hot night like this. The air sparkling with ice, the swoop of the skates –
‘There isn’t any,’ says Gallagher, who clearly knows a thing or two about cool herself. ‘CCTV, I mean.’
It was a long shot at best; McHugh tries another tack.
‘Have you ascertained Gavin Parrie’s movements on the night of July the 9th?’
Gallagher looks across at her and raises her eyebrows, then turns her gaze back to the road. ‘I take it you do realize quite how preposterous that sounds?’
McHugh shrugs. ‘That’s as may be. I still need to ask.’
The van in front shifts suddenly and Gallagher puts the car in gear. ‘The answer is yes, we have. And no, he was nowhere near Oxford that night.’
‘How near is nowhere near?’
Gallagher frowns a little, though whether it’s the traffic that’s irritating her or her passenger, it’s hard to say.
‘Leamington Spa,’ she says after a moment. ‘He’s in a halfway house near there, and has been ever since he left Wandsworth. That information is, of course, confidential, but in the circumstances, it may help you to know.’
It may help put paid to this wild and implausible theory: the message is clear enough, even though her tone is studiously objective.
‘Does he have access to a vehicle?’
Gallagher shoots her a glance, Well, what do you think?
‘How is Adam?’ she asks after a moment, her voice still neutral, her eyes still fixed on the road.
‘Much like anyone in his situation, I imagine,’ says McHugh. ‘Stressed to the eyeballs. Angry. Worried about his wife. What do you expect?’
‘He’s always been a fine officer,’ says Gallagher, ‘and speaking personally, I like him very much –’
‘But?’ says McHugh, who’s registered that initial past tense.
Gallagher looks at her and then away. ‘But however hard we look – and believe me, we’ve tried – we cannot find a single piece of evidence to exonerate him. Or even cast a reasonable doubt –’
‘Not even this man Cleland? He had a motive.’
‘Possibly. But that’s all. There is absolutely nothing else linking him to the crime. No witnesses, no forensics, no proof he went anywhere near there.’ She glances across again. ‘I’m sorry. I want it to be Cleland as much as you do, but it’s a non-starter. Everything we have points to Adam, and you’ve given me nothing I can use to refute it. And as for this obsession of his about Gavin Parrie – it’s – it’s insane.’
McHugh’s about to answer, but Gallagher’s still talking. ‘I have to confess I’ve become increasingly concerned about him – the way he’s been reacting, it’s so out of character. My whole team has noticed.’
Is she asking me if Fawley’s losing it? thinks McHugh. Is that really where they’re going with this?
Gallagher sighs now. ‘And what with the baby, and coming so soon after losing Jake – even the strongest people can break under stress like that –’
She doesn’t finish the sentence but the inference is up there now in neon lights: Are you sure your client is of entirely sound mind? Could he, in fact, be so unstable, under such intolerable pressure, that he actually did this?
* * *
‘Giles? It’s me. Look, I’m really sorry but I can’t come down tomorrow after all. Something – something’s come up.’
He doesn’t reply straight away, but this is Giles: unlike most men, he thinks before he speaks.
‘Is everything OK?’ By which he really means ‘Are you OK?’ But he’s trying not to crowd her, not to intrude.
‘Yes, it’s just,’ she takes a breath, ‘work stuff, you know. This sexual assault case is a nightmare, and appraisals are coming up, and then there’s Fawley being arrested –’
She stops herself, but not quickly enough. She’s heard Fawley say it a hundred times – you can always tell a liar from the overkill. Three answers when one is plenty.
‘OK,’ he says, after a moment. She can hear the hurt in his voice. ‘I’m really sorry I won’t see you, but I understand.’
She nods, knowing it’s pointless because he can’t see her, but she can’t trust herself to speak.
‘Look – I’m not going to push it, but I think there’s something worrying you, and if there is, and I can help, you only have to ask. I hope you know that. I just want you to be happy, OK? That’s all.’
She puts the phone down and sits there in her empty flat. She’s never felt so utterly alone.
* * *
Sent:Fri 13/07/2018, 20.35 Importance: HighFrom:[email protected]To:[email protected]
Subject: Case no 75983/02 Smith, E
In re the request from Penelope McHugh for information relating to the post-mortem, I can confirm that only one earring was retrieved from the body (a silver hoop), but as this was merely hooked in, with no rear fixing, the second one probably came off either during a struggle with her assailant or when the body was dumped. Likewise a very small amount of the victim’s hair does indeed seem to be missing at the rear of the scalp (see photo attached). But as you will see, the quantum is so small it is very unlikely to be significant and was, again, probably the result of a struggle.
For the avoidance of doubt, I am sceptical that either the earring or the missing hair form any deliberate part of the killer’s MO. That, combined with the absence of ligature marks on either the wrists or ankles, leads me to caution
