A sigh so loud she can hear it, even over the traffic noise.
‘Back to square one.’
‘No,’ she says, finally listening to him properly. ‘No – we’re not. I think you were right about Ryan. I reckon he may well have been the source of the DNA, but he didn’t take Emma to Leamington and he didn’t dispose of her body. Those initials in Alex’s notes? RP isn’t Ryan Powell. RP is someone else.’
* * *
9 July 2018, 10.55 p.m.
‘Did anyone see you?’
The new voice is different. Rougher. Crueller.
‘No. I was careful. I’ve got pretty good at this, you know.’
‘And you know what you have to do when you get back?’
‘Yeah. It’s all set up, just like you said. And I checked – they’re still doing the works on the line. It was going on all night last night.’
‘Nice one.’
There are hands on Emma now, pulling her roughly up and out, scraping her skin against the metal.
She’s upright but she can’t stand straight, she can’t breathe. The urine runs down her legs and she feels herself go hot with shame.
The second man sneers, ‘Oh bless, I think she’s scared. You were right, she’s fucking perfect. I’m going to enjoy this.’
‘Yeah, well, I owed you one, didn’t I. For not letting on I was with you for that Donnelly bird.’
‘Well, it wasn’t your fault I got framed. And no bloody use both of us getting banged up, either. At least that way you could keep an eye on the kids.’
The click of a lighter, an intake of breath. ‘Talking of which, I got a text from your Ryan. He says Malaga’s even hotter than here.’
‘Blimey, he must be roasting his arse. But it was good timing, him being out of the way. Even Thames fucking Valley can’t fit him up for this if he’s in sodding Spain.’
A long exhalation. ‘You’re overreacting, mate – they’ll never make the connection. No way.’
‘All the same, you don’t think Ryan cottoned on, do you? About the gym? I mean, I wouldn’t want him to think –’
A quick laugh. ‘Nah, no risk of that, bless him. Right little goody-two-shoes, that one. It was as much as I could do to get him to sign me into that place on the QT. He was crapping himself just doing that.’ A laugh now. ‘Shitting hell, Gav, that Fawley is a tedious fucker. Takeaway Friday, shopping Saturday, gym four times a week, same time, same days, even the same fucking machines. Jesus.’
‘Don’t knock it – made it easier to get hold of the stuff, didn’t it?’
Another laugh. ‘Like shooting fish in a fucking barrel.’
‘Right,’ says the second man. Emma feels his grip tightening on her shoulder. ‘So, fancy joining the party? Once more for old times’ sake?’
‘Nah, mate, this one’s all yours. I’ll go for a fag – keep an eye out.’
‘Fair enough. But don’t hurry back. I’m planning to take my time. Reckon I deserve it, don’t you?’
The sound of footsteps now, and then he’s shoving her forward and pushing her face into the hot, dry grass.
* * *
* * *
‘There were two of them?’
Gislingham’s at Gallagher’s desk, staring at the screen on her phone, his sodden suit soaking the seat; behind him, Quinn’s obsessively smoothing his hair, rain still running down the back of his neck.
Gallagher sits forward. ‘I listened to episode four of that podcast – the one Alex highlights. It was an interview with Alison Donnelly. She was very articulate, very clear. She said she was raped once, then her attacker came back a few minutes later and raped her again. She says he was different that time. More violent. More brutal.’ She sighs. ‘She had a plastic bag over her head. She couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear properly. And in any case, he never spoke. She had no way of knowing that the second time it was a completely different man.’
‘Jesus,’ breathes Gislingham. ‘Why the hell wasn’t this picked up in ’98?’
Gallagher shrugs. ‘There was no DNA, nothing to suggest Parrie had an accomplice. And as far as I can tell, he didn’t – apart, that is, from that one time. And those questions Alex is asking? She’s bang on. I’ve had a look at the file. He was questioned, but they were more interested in establishing if he could provide Parrie with an alibi than whether he had one himself. Which, as it turned out, he did. At least for the last victim. He’d gone up to see his mum in Coventry, so there was CCTV at the railway station and a time-stamped ticket. There was no way he could have attacked that last girl, so he just got scrubbed from the list. No one even thought to ask where he was the night Alison Donnelly was raped. No one, that is, till now.’
‘Sorry,’ says Quinn, stopping mid-gesture. ‘Am I missing something? If RP isn’t Ryan Powell, who the hell are we talking about?’
She looks up at him. ‘Robert Parrie. Known to his family as Bobby. Gavin Parrie’s little brother.’
* * *
‘I don’t know what you think you’re going to find. I don’t do drugs and I’ve got no booze.’
He’s leaning against the doorway, arms folded, elaborately casual, but there’s an edge to his energy and a wariness in his eyes.
A uniformed officer is in the tiny bathroom, going through the pedestal cupboard, and a female sergeant is in the bedroom checking the chest of drawers. The bedding has been stripped and piled anyhow on the floor, along with the entire contents of the wardrobe. Which isn’t much. A couple of pairs of jeans, some T-shirts, a hoodie. There’s a shelving unit on the other wall, but it’s empty; no books, no photos, no personal items. The room
