‘What exactly did DS King say?’
Somer looks up at her again, then drops her gaze. ‘He said he assumed I’d be finishing with him and I could do a lot better. That even if he was a “sodding DI” he was still a bastard.’
Gallagher sighs. Needless to say, King’s story is rather different, though given the way he’s been gunning for Fawley she suspects Somer’s version of events is likely to be closer to the truth. But even if she could prove it, that’s still no excuse for what Somer did.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘This is what’s going to happen. I’ve already spoken to DS King and he’s not minded to resolve this informally, which is regrettable, but unless he has a change of heart, a formal misconduct investigation will have to be instigated.’
Somer drops her head, nods.
‘There’s nothing I can do about that, even if I wanted to. And in any case, Superintendent Harrison has already decided to refer the case to Professional Standards. So what you need to do now is talk to a Police Federation rep as soon as you can – today, if possible. Take them through exactly what happened. All of it, mind – the precise words he used, the assumptions he made – the whole thing. You understand what I’m telling you?’
Somer nods again.
‘I’m not going to recommend suspension –’
Somer gasps – but surely she must have realized it was a possibility?
‘– but I am going to suggest you transfer temporarily to other duties. But right now, this minute, I want you to go home and contact your rep. You look completely bloody exhausted.’
Somer says nothing. There’s something about her demeanour – the deadness of it – that makes Gallagher suddenly wonder –
‘Are you OK, Erica? Is there something I should know – something that might affect your case?’
Somer shakes her head. ‘No, ma’am,’ she says. ‘Nothing at all.’
* * *
Fair to say it’s been a slow news day for Richard Yates at the Oxford Mail. There are only so many ways you can say ‘Phew, what a scorcher’ without actually saying ‘Phew, what a scorcher’, and what with the usual silly season crap, the pickings right now are particularly parched. He sifts idly through the latest crop of press releases but nothing’s popping; another round of Endeavour filming really isn’t cutting it as ‘news’ these days, and as for the Martin Scorsese honorary degree, he’s already squeezed two bylines out of that and his suggestion for a vox pop at the station cab rank was well and truly spiked (‘That’s enough Taxi Driver references, Ed’, as his editor took great delight in scrawling on Yates’s message pad).
He sits back in his desk chair and swings it idly from side to side. His mobile starts to ring, but he doesn’t exactly jump to it. The way today’s going, it’s probably his mum.
‘Dick, old mate, how are you?’
There’s only one person who calls him that. It fucks him off every time, but he bites his tongue because of who this bloke is.
‘You got something for me?’
‘Off the record, right? Really off. Because if it gets out you got this from me, they’ll have my arse.’
Yates sits forward, scoop feelers on full alert. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says as casually as he can muster. ‘When have I ever dumped on you?’
There’s a sigh at the other end. ‘OK. Just needed to say it, right?’
Yates pulls his notebook towards him. ‘So what’ve you got?’
‘Emma Smith. We’ve charged someone.’
‘That forty-six-year-old bloke you arrested?’
‘Right. We won’t be making an announcement but he’ll be up before the beak first thing tomorrow, so make sure you’re down there waiting, OK? And take a bloody photographer.’
Yates is writing furiously. ‘You think he’s definitely your man?’
No mistaking the self-satisfaction at the other end. ‘Oh yeah, he’s our man, all right. But it’s not that. It’s who he is. Seriously, mate, this is hold-the-fucking-front-page territory.’
Yates grasps the phone a bit tighter. ‘You going to give me a heads-up or just be a bloody prick-tease?’
‘If I do, you can’t break it early, right? You’ll have to wait for the court list. Security on this one is as tight as a duck’s backside.’
‘Yeah, yeah –’
A low laugh. ‘Let’s just say you could do worse than mugging up on the life and career of one Adam John Fawley.’
Yates frowns; he knows that name. Every reporter in this city knows that name. ‘Hang on, are you seriously telling me –’
‘Too right, mate. That’s exactly what I’m telling you. The bastard who raped and murdered Emma Smith? It was Detective Inspector Adam Fawley.’
* * *
‘I wanted Cheerios,’ says Ben, standing by the open cupboard. He’s just back from his bike ride, sweaty, dusty and in quest of quick carbs. ‘But we’ve run out.’
Nell Heneghan glances across from the sink. ‘I’m sure we haven’t, darling. I only got another packet a couple of days ago.’
Ben is standing his ground. ‘We’ve run out,’ he says in martyred tones, ‘because Auntie Alex keeps eating them. They’re supposed to be for me.’
Nell smiles. ‘I told you, didn’t I – pregnant ladies sometimes have weird cravings. I stuffed myself with pickled onions when I was carrying you – I’ve never been able to eat a single one since. Auntie Alex just happens to fancy Cheerios right now, OK? It’s not a problem – there’s plenty to go round.’
‘No,’ says Ben stolidly. ‘There isn’t.’
Nell’s slightly nettled now. ‘You’re probably just not looking properly.’
Like his father, like her father. It’s one of those bloke things.
Ben’s still not moving, so she puts down the potato peeler with an audible sigh and goes over to the larder. But three frustrated minutes later she has to concede defeat.
‘Can’t you have something else? I can make toast
