But Gis is shaking his head. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the bloody tag. Parrie didn’t come to Oxford to kill Emma Smith, because he didn’t need to. He had his evil little shit of a son deliver her straight to his door.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
16 July 2018
18.17
‘Put the bloody siren on, can’t you?’
It’s thirty miles from Newbury nick to the JR – forty minutes on a good day, but it’s not a good day. Rain coming down like iron rods, lorries, vans, tourist buses, bloody people everywhere.
We’ve been stuck at this set of lights for over five minutes now, inching forward, staring an HGV up the arse.
I lean forward. ‘My wife is in labour –’
The two PCs exchange a look and the one in the driving seat reaches for the switch.
The blue light’s blaring now and people are trying to get out of the way, but it’s still too slow, too fucking slow –
I throw myself back in the seat, helpless with anxiety and fear and guilt – because this is all my fault – if Alex loses the baby – if my child dies – it will be all my fault –
The traffic parts suddenly and we jolt forward –
* * *
Gallagher reaches for her keyboard and pulls up the Police National Computer, her heart hammering, trying to stifle the panic, the consequences, cursing King for his fixation with Fawley.
‘Ryan Sean Powell,’ she begins, ‘born 8/10/95 –’ Then her voice trails off. ‘There’s nothing here. He’s clean.’
Gislingham frowns. ‘Nothing at all?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not even a bloody speeding fine.’
‘But it has to be him – it all fits –’
She looks up. ‘On paper, yes – but we have absolutely no evidence.’
‘Not enough for an arrest, but enough to at least talk to him, surely? That’s if he hasn’t bolted – he could be halfway to Florida by now.’
‘Yes,’ she says, the panic surging back, only worse now, because he’s right: it may already be too late. ‘Yes, we can do that – get up to that gym – even if he’s not there, they’ll have an address. And I’ll call Warwickshire – get them over to that hostel.’
Gislingham is almost at the door when she calls him back. ‘Chris?’
He stops and turns.
‘Take someone with you – Asante –’
He looks her straight in the eye. ‘No, ma’am. I’m sorry, but no. I’m taking Quinn.’
* * *
9 July 2018, 10.50 p.m.
She can smell petrol and sweat and her own urine, and underneath it, a thick chemical waft of cleaning fluid. He blindfolded her but she knew where she was, even before the boot thudded shut and the engine started. Her knees bent double against her face, the hot plastic under her sticking to her skin. No room to straighten, to brace against the sides when the car rounds a bend. And he’s driving fast – that much she knows, though she’s lost sense now of how long they’ve been moving. She can’t see, can’t loosen her hands, but she’s trying to feel around behind her – for a tyre iron, a jack, anything she could use. But there’s nothing, nothing at all. The boot is empty. As if the car isn’t even his – as if he hired it – as if he hired it just for this –
Oh God – oh God –
They stop.
The door.
Footsteps.
The boot opens.
A rush of air, of sound. Wind. Trees?
More footsteps.
And a voice.
But it’s not his.
* * *
Gallagher sits back in her chair. She’s still breathing far too fast. It can’t be good for you, this sort of stress. And now she’s stuck here, powerless, waiting for news. If that doesn’t sum up the female dilemma since the dawn of time, she doesn’t know what does. She reaches for the paper Gislingham left behind; anything to deflect some of this useless energy.
Alex’s writing is more familiar now, so it’s easier to detect the clear, methodical thinking under all the apparently haphazard annotations. Gallagher remembers all at once that sudden, almost euphoric release of energy she felt just before her own children were born. The body preparing for labour. Perhaps she’s looking at the fruits of that here.
She’s about to put it down again when something catches her eye. She holds the page a little closer, frowns and changes the angle. Hand-scrawl to photo to printout makes it third-hand imperfect at best, and she could be making something out of nothing. But all the same –
She reaches for her phone.
* * *
Gislingham is stuck in traffic too, crawling yard by yard through the centre of town. Quinn’s drumming his fingers against the windowsill; he hates being driven, even at the best of times. And this is not the best of times.
‘Should have gone the other way,’ he mutters. ‘Rush hour – fucking monsoon – every sodding car in Oxford is on the road.’
Thanks for that, thinks Gislingham, I’d never have worked it out if you hadn’t told me.
His mobile goes and he puts it on speaker.
‘DS Gislingham.’
‘Chris – it’s DI Gallagher –’
‘I’m afraid we’re stuck in traffic, ma’am –’
‘It’s not that. I was just looking at these notes again. Did you print out the whole thing? There’s no chance part of the page could have got missed off?’
Gis glances across at the phone. ‘Don’t think so. Why?’
‘Is there any way I can check?’
Gislingham frowns; Quinn’s taking an interest now too.
‘You could phone Nell Heneghan?’ says Gislingham. ‘I’ll text you her mobile number. And if that’s off they’re probably in the book. His initial’s G and they live in Abingdon.’
He can hear her writing it down. A bus goes past on the other side of the road, arcing water over the front of the car. Quinn swears as the water deluges down the windscreen and Gislingham stands on his brakes.
‘Anything I should know about, ma’am?’ he says, raising his voice slightly.
‘No, no,’ she replies quickly. ‘It may be nothing. But if it isn’t, I’ll
