Harrison looks up. ‘Really? Asante? Getting off his backside and using his initiative, eh? We could do with a bit more of that round here, frankly.’
‘Yes, sir. Though I suspect he isn’t feeling much like celebrating. He clearly thought it would be Hugh Cleland’s car we found on that footage.’
‘Ah – tricky.’
‘But I’ll speak to him – pass on your comments.’
‘Yes, do that.’ He sits back, frowns again. ‘Meanwhile –’
‘Meanwhile, Adam Fawley will be charged this afternoon – the press office would rather we didn’t do it any earlier as they’d prefer he didn’t go before the magistrate until tomorrow morning. Give them as much time as possible to man the barricades.’
‘Yes, well, I can’t imagine they’re exactly thrilled by the prospect.’
Gallagher grimaces. ‘They can’t say they didn’t know it was a possibility.’
He gives her a knowing look. ‘Believe me, Ruth, you can never do too much prep for a shitstorm like this.’
Above their heads, there’s a rumble of thunder. The symbolism is painful.
Harrison sits back. ‘And as if having one of our own DIs up for rape and murder wasn’t enough, there’s now this other little matter.’
‘The timing is certainly unfortunate. But if you’re happy with how I propose to deal with it –’
‘Yes, yes,’ he says curtly. ‘Whatever it takes as long as it’s out of my in tray. And off the front page of the bloody Oxford Mail.’
* * *
Gislingham clears his throat. ‘So you understand that by accepting a caution you are admitting to attempting to pervert the course of justice?’
Morgan nods.
‘And that this information could be revealed as part of a criminal record check and might affect your ability to travel to certain jurisdictions?’
Another nod. He’s starting to look impatient.
‘And you’re happy you’ve received appropriate legal advice and understand the full implications –’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says tetchily, ‘let’s just get it over with.’
Sergeant Woods exchanges a dry look with Gislingham and passes Morgan the form.
‘Sign here, please.’
* * *
The atmosphere in the CID office is as changed as the weather. After the adrenaline high of the last hour they’re all going a bit cold turkey. Except Quinn, of course, who’s nowhere to be seen. Probably wandering the corridors, thinks Ev, hoping he’ll ‘accidentally’ run into Harrison and be able to bask in the warmth of his appreciation. Though she has to admit Quinn deserves his pat on the back this time. His intuition about Tobin was what unlogged the jam. But when they’re handing out the plaudits she hopes Gis gets a look-in too: he’s handled this minefield of a case really well, and almost entirely without benefit of DI.
So when she looks up a few minutes later and sees the DS standing in the doorway she’s momentarily thrown. Because he’s frowning. Really frowning, in a way he hardly ever does.
‘I thought that went pretty well,’ she begins, only to falter because he’s shaking his head.
‘It’s not that. It’s Gallagher. She wants to see you. Now.’
But it’s not Ev he’s looking at. It’s Somer.
* * *
‘Ah, DC Somer, come in. And close the door, please.’
Gallagher sits back in her chair. It’s hard to read her face. She has a track record of supporting junior female officers, as Ev and Somer well know, but right now there’s a thin grim line between her brows. A line that says unease, as much as it says displeasure.
‘DS King says you threw coffee in his face. Scalding-hot coffee. What the hell were you thinking? He’d have every right to pursue you for ABH – I assume you do know that?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ says Somer. She’s staring at the floor, her body rigid.
Gallagher frowns. ‘DC Somer – Erica – I know you. Or at least I thought I did. You’re astute, thoughtful, the very opposite of impulsive. I can quite easily see DC Quinn flipping a latte at someone in a fit of pique, but you?’
Somer bites her lip. She can feel tears prickling the back of her throat, but she will not cry, she will not cry –
Gallagher’s still staring at her. ‘Help me out here, will you, because I just don’t get it.’
Somer takes a breath. ‘DS King made a derogatory remark. I just – reacted.’
Gallagher’s frown deepens. ‘A remark about you?’
Somer shakes her head. ‘No. About my boyfriend. About when they worked together.’
Gallagher is taken aback. ‘Worked together? When was this?’
Somer can feel her cheeks going hot. Sweat is seeping down her back. ‘I don’t know.’
Gallagher just looks baffled now. ‘But surely you’ve checked with – Giles, isn’t it? What does he say?’
Somer’s cheeks are burning. ‘I haven’t spoken to him about it.’
Gallagher sighs. There’s clearly more to this than she feels comfortable prising out. ‘Well, for what it’s worth, I know for a fact that DS King has never worked either with or for Hants Police. In any case, there must be some sort of misunderstanding at the root of this, because DS King says you were discussing the Emma Smith case at the time –’
She stops; Somer suddenly has her hand to her mouth, swallowing, as if she’s trying not to be sick.
‘I think, ma’am,’ she says quietly, ‘I think I may have got it wrong. What DS King said, I think it must have been about DI Fawley.’
‘DI Fawley? But why? He’s not your boyfriend –’ Gallagher stops, counts to ten, then takes a deep breath. ‘Unless you’re trying to tell me there’s been something going on between you two?’
Somer is shaking her head vigorously and looking her, finally, in the eye. ‘No. There isn’t and there never has been. But, a few months back, there were rumours – some people thought –’ She makes a sad, despairing gesture. ‘He’d supported me – brought me into CID – so they thought we were – you know.’
Gallagher nods slowly; she knows, all right. Not about this specifically, but how common ‘this’ still is. The casual assumption – even
