MF: [looking from one officer to the other]
Dragon? What dragon?
VE: You told him to say Morgan was ‘hurting’ you – that your dress was up over your waist, that you were all ‘floppy’ and ‘sleepy’. You planted those ideas in your son’s mind, you made him see those pictures in his head –
MF: [extremely distressed now]
No – I never said anything about any of that – I was raped – he raped me –
NK: That’s enough, Constable.
* * *
Morgan’s lawyers are on their feet now, collecting papers, surreptitiously checking their phones.
‘So you understand, Mr Morgan?’ says Somer, forcing his attention. ‘We’ll need to talk to the CPS, but I doubt they’ll decide to take any further action against you. If so, you’ll be issued with a formal caution.’
‘Don’t worry, Caleb,’ says Melia. ‘We’ll talk you through all that.’
‘It’s not a get-out-of-jail card,’ continues Somer, making him look at her. ‘It’s serious. And it has consequences – you do understand that?’
Morgan hesitates a moment then nods. ‘Yeah, I understand.’
* * *
In the adjoining room, Gislingham turns to the CPS prosecutor. ‘What do you think – should we interview Tobin again – see if we can get him to admit that his mother told him what to say?’
The lawyer sighs. ‘I doubt it’s worth the effort – no jury is going to believe that child now.’
She starts to pack her notebooks into her bag. ‘And the physical evidence is all over the place – the whole case is a complete morass.’
Gow glances up, raises his eyebrows. Evidently he agrees.
‘Let her sweat a bit,’ says the lawyer, ‘then let her go.’
Gis frowns. ‘He gets a caution and a criminal record, but she goes scot-free?’
‘He admitted what he did. She’s denying it, and we can’t prove it. It’s all circumstantial.’
‘We could contact her other students – say we’re investigating sexual assault allegations and ask anyone with information to contact us?’
The lawyer nods. ‘I don’t have any problem with you doing that. It may help keep the press off your backs, if nothing else. But unless someone else comes forward with a case that will actually stand up in court, I’m afraid this is a non-starter.’
‘So she just gets away with it.’
The prosecutor gives him a heavy look. ‘You think having her name dragged through the dirt and wrecking her career is “getting away with it”?’
Gis considers. ‘Well, I guess if you put it that way …’
* * *
Dave King presses pause on his tablet screen and turns to Ruth Gallagher.
‘It’s enough, right?’ he says. ‘Enough to nail him?’
She frowns. ‘Play it again.’
She’s already seen the CCTV footage three times, and she’s rarely seen evidence so incontrovertible. That’s not what’s holding her back. It’s the look on the face of the man who’s showing it to her. There’s been a zeal, almost a fanaticism, about King these last few days that’s made her increasingly uneasy. No police officer should be that elated about bringing down one of their own – whatever he’s supposed to have done.
King starts the footage again. She can see how hard he’s working not to betray his impatience. There’s a little vein pulsing in the side of his neck.
The camera is from one of the flats on the corner of William Lucy Way, looking straight at Walton Well Road. The bridge is out of range to the left, but you can see anything – and anyone – heading towards it. Including the car that passes at speed at 01.09 on Tuesday 10 July, fifteen minutes before a team of Network Rail engineers will spot a body falling on to the northbound line.
‘That stretch of road is a dead end,’ says King, as if Gallagher didn’t already know. ‘And with all the parked cars it’s too narrow for a three-point. He had to go down to the car park by Port Meadow to turn round.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Just a pity the tosser who put up the camera didn’t stick it somewhere where we could see the sodding reg number.’
On the screen, the road is now deserted. No passers-by, no other vehicles. No signs of life at all until 01.31, when the car reappears going in the opposite direction, heading back fast towards town. Gallagher swallows. She knows what this man just did. And what he had in that car.
King freezes the image. It’s impossible to see who’s driving, but the car itself is clear enough.
It’s a dark-blue Ford Mondeo.
* * *
The day is still stifling but the sky has clouded. The air is thickening with approaching thunder and despite the high ceilings and long windows, the sitting room at St Luke Street feels grey, oppressive. On the sofa, Marina clutches her sobbing son on her lap, like some ghastly perversion of a Madonna and Child.
‘It’s not fair!’ he wails. ‘They said I was lying but I wasn’t!’
‘I know you weren’t, darling,’ she whispers, rocking him against her. ‘I know you weren’t.’
‘I saw him, Mummy! I saw him! I saw him!’
‘I know, sweetheart, I know.’
His sobs stutter, turn to gasps. He sits back and looks at her. ‘Then why –?’
She strokes his hair, her own eyes filling with tears now. ‘It’s like that sometimes, darling – it’s not fair and it can break your heart, but people don’t always believe you. Even if you are telling the truth.’
* * *
‘So you’re going to charge him?’ says Harrison. He has his jacket off and his shirt sleeves rolled up. Safe to say he’s feeling the heat, whichever way you look at it.
‘Yes, sir,’ says Gallagher. ‘We need to put the new evidence to him in interview first, but the CPS are confident that the case against DI Fawley is now very sound.’
‘I gather we have DS King to thank for that.’
She frowns slightly; even if that were true, King had no business talking to Harrison behind her back. ‘Actually, sir, it was DC Asante who tracked the footage down. He knows the area around the
