The line goes dead.
* * *
‘Alex Fawley – she came in earlier – I’m her sister.’
Nell’s lungs are ragged with running across the water-logged car park and up two sets of stairs. She leans heavily against the reception desk, her heart racing, her hair hanging in rat-tails.
The nurse looks at her kindly. ‘Just catch your breath a minute, love – we don’t want you admitted as well, do we?’
She scans down her screen then looks up. ‘She’s in Room 216 – down the corridor on the left.’
Nell shoots her a thank-you smile and rounds the corner, muttering frenzied prayers to a God she’s never believed in that it will be OK, it will be OK, but Alex is already on a stretcher, being wheeled away, a drip and a mask and machines – too many machines –
‘Oh my God – Alex – Alex!’
She races to catch up with the orderlies.
‘Alex – are you OK?’
Her sister grabs at her hand, her eyes frantic, her voice muffled through the mask. ‘Did you speak to Gislingham?’
‘Yes, yes, I told him – I sent him a picture –’
Alex drops her head back on the pillow and closes her eyes. ‘Gis – thank God –’
‘Are you coming to the delivery room?’ says the orderly. ‘Only we need to keep moving here.’
‘Yes, yes,’ says Nell quickly. ‘I’m coming with her.’
* * *
‘Hello?’
It’s a man who answers. Gallagher can hear other voices in the background. It sounds like the radio. BBC news.
‘Hello – Mr Heneghan? You don’t know me – my name’s Ruth Gallagher – I’m an Inspector at Thames Valley.’
‘Oh yes? What’s this about?’
‘Is your wife there?’
‘Afraid not. She’s at the JR with her sister.’
Of course she is, thinks Gallagher. Of course she is. That’s why her mobile is off.
‘Well, you may be able to help me. Your wife sent a photo to one of our sergeants earlier – Chris Gislingham –’
‘Ah, right, yes, she said something about that. But it was all a bit rushed – I’m afraid she left as soon as I got here so I don’t really know much about it.’
‘The picture was of one of the pages in Mrs Fawley’s notebook. I was hoping to get another shot of it.’
‘Hold on a minute,’ he says. ‘Ben may know more than I do.’
There are scuffling noises the other end, the sound of Gerry calling Ben’s name, and then, eventually, another voice. Younger, softer.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello – Ben, is it? My name’s Ruth. I’m hoping you can help me with something. Your mum took a picture earlier –’
‘Auntie Alex’s notebook.’
‘Yes – exactly. That’s exactly what I mean. I think your mum may have been in a bit of a hurry when she did it and there may be something missing on the photo. At the bottom of the page?’
‘She was worried about Auntie Alex. The ambulance men took her away. They had the lights on.’
You can tell how much that frightened him and Gallagher bites her lip – not the least of her many looming guilts is the effect all this has had on Fawley’s already stressed and vulnerable wife. And if something happens to that baby –
She forces the thought down, tries to sound reassuring.
‘I’m sure everything will be OK. It’s a really good hospital. But it’s important I have another look at that notepad.’
‘Is it about Uncle Adam? I like Uncle Adam.’
And from nowhere there are tears in her eyes. ‘I do too. I like him a lot. That’s why I’m trying to help him.’
‘OK,’ says Ben. Nonchalant now, in one of those on-a-sixpence mood changes children always wrong-foot you with. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Can you get your dad to help you take another picture of the same page? And make sure it includes the whole thing? And then could you please text it to this number?’
She repeats it twice and he writes it down, and she tells him how grateful she is, and how Uncle Adam and Auntie Alex will be too, and by the time she puts the phone down she’s crying for real.
* * *
Headington Health and Leisure is behind the parade of shops on the London Road, not far from the ring road. A tired thirties building obviously chosen solely for the size of its car park. They’ve done their best to drag the exterior into the new millennium but it was always going to be a challenge. Inside, though, it’s a different story. The whole ground floor has been gutted, knocked through and fully sleeked-out with state-of-the-art lighting, funky graphics and a health-food café offering chai lattes and vegan quiche.
Gislingham strides up to the reception desk (‘Ask us how we can help you achieve your personal goals’) and flashes his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Chris Gislingham, Thames Valley Police; this is DC Quinn. I believe you have a member of staff here called Ryan Powell?’
The girl at the desk looks completely terrified. She opens her mouth to say something but no sound comes.
Quinn leans on the counter and puts on his affable face. ‘According to your website, Powell has an abs class starting in fifteen minutes. So I reckon he’s probably around here somewhere, don’t you?’
She swallows, shakes her head. ‘No.’
Gislingham’s eyes narrow. ‘What do you mean “no”?’
‘He’s on holiday.’ She’s flushed red now. ‘Malaga. He’s been there two weeks.’
The men exchange a glance, a glance that quickly turns into a frown as they do the math.
‘Two weeks?’ says Gislingham.
She nods.
‘OK,’ says Quinn slowly. ‘So when exactly did he leave?’
* * *
The text pings in and Gallagher almost sends her mobile skittering on to the floor as she grabs at it. She’s just opening up the image when the phone starts to ring. She sticks it on speaker so she can still see the text.
‘Ma’am, it’s Gislingham.’
She’s too distracted to register his tone. His defeat.
She scrolls down, zooms in – it’s there – she’s right – it wasn’t just a random line, it was an arrow –
Gis is still speaking. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am.
