‘Look at that bloody mess. Fucking invasion of privacy, that’s what this is.’
The woman glances up. ‘You’re on licence, Parrie,’ she says briskly. ‘Random searches are part of the deal. And we don’t need to ask your permission. You know that.’
She whisks the drawer shut and goes over to the bedside table. In the bathroom, the officer is on his hands and knees, squinting up into the pipework under the basin.
Parrie’s eyes narrow.
* * *
They know there’s someone in because the windows are open and there’s music coming from inside. The Rolling Stones. Loud. Like so many other houses in this part of Cowley, the front garden is concreted over, thick now with the mud and litter washed in by the day’s floods. There’s a wheelie bin with the lid open, a crate of empty lager cans, a white van parked out front.
RP Plastering – No Job Too Small
* * *
‘Sarge? Think we may have something here.’
The officer is gesturing up at the inside of the cupboard. The sergeant shoots Parrie a look, then goes over to the bathroom and crouches down to see for herself.
‘Well, well, well,’ she says. ‘What do we have here, then?’
It’s so small, so watchfully hidden, that no casual observer would even see it. The small ziplock bag taped carefully to the back of the U-bend. But these are not casual observers. And they knew exactly what they were looking for.
Parrie takes a step back towards the door but there’s an officer barring the way.
An officer who wasn’t there five minutes before.
The sergeant peels the bag away from the pipe and gets back to her feet. You can see now what’s inside. The piece of white tissue carefully folded, as if what it contains is precious and needs to be kept safe.
She unzips the bag and slowly opens the paper out, hearing the gasp from her colleague when he realizes what it is.
A silver hoop earring, the metal spotted here and there with dark stains.
And coiled beside it, a single strand of long blonde hair.
* * *
‘It took a while because he went all the way to Banbury to cover his tracks, but we’ve got it now, in black and white. Bobby Parrie picked up a dark-blue Ford Mondeo on Saturday 7th July and returned it, already valeted, three days later. Uniform are on their way to pick it up.’
‘So we’re good to go, ma’am?’
There’s some crackling on the line now, but Gallagher’s voice is loud and clear. ‘You’re good to go.’
The two men exchange a look and then, in silence, get out of the car and walk up the path.
The man who answers the door has a beer bottle in one hand and a tea towel chucked over his shoulder. Dark hair, hazel eyes, a ready smile. A smile that quickly hardens.
‘Robert Craig Parrie?’ says the man on the step, holding out his warrant card. ‘DC Tony Asante, Thames Valley; this is DC Farrow. We’re here to arrest you.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
16 July 2018
19.09
I don’t know how I got my legs to move – that poor bloody PC was half carrying me by the end. The people we passed in the wards must have thought I was the one in danger – I was the one who needed medical attention. And perhaps I do, because by the time we get to the delivery room it feels like my chest is breaking open – all I can see is a blur of people in gowns and hairnets – all I can hear is the beating in my skull –
Someone’s coming towards me now, getting hold of my arms.
‘Adam –’ says a voice. Low. Kind. Familiar.
I know who this is – Nell – Nell –
‘She’s OK, Adam,’ she’s saying, shaking me, trying to make me listen. ‘Alex is OK –’
And suddenly the green wall parts and I can see her. On the bed, her hair spread over the pillow, her skin grey with exhaustion.
‘Adam,’ she breathes, reaching out for me, her face wrung with concern, ‘my God – you look terrible –’
Someone pushes me forward and I’m holding her hand, touching her cheek. ‘Alex, my darling, I’m so sorry – this is all my fault –’
‘No, it isn’t,’ she whispers. ‘None of it. I know what happened – I know you didn’t do it.’ She reaches for my hand, squeezes my fingers. ‘I’ve told Gis everything – it’s going to be all right. It’s going to be all right.’
I stare at her. ‘Gis? But how –?’
I feel Nell’s hand on my shoulder. ‘That can wait,’ she whispers. ‘There’s something else much more important right now.’
She pulls me gently round. There’s a nurse smiling into my dazzled face.
‘Mr Fawley,’ she says. ‘You missed all the excitement, I’m afraid. It seems this little one couldn’t wait to be born.’
And as I take my baby in my arms for the first time, I feel the warmth and the weight of my real, breathing child, the little fists paddling the big new air, the soft mouth opening and closing like a tiny bird, and after all these last terrible days when I barricaded my emotions, put my heart in lockdown, the tears spill finally down my cheeks because she is here and she is perfect.
My daughter.
Perfect, and alive, and as beautiful as her name.
Epilogue
6 July 2018, 11.26 p.m.
Monmouth House, St Luke Street, Oxford
He’s down in the kitchen when he hears the front door slam and the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs.
A moment later she swings into the room in a crackle of sequins and high heels. The scent she’s wearing is so dense in the hot night air he can taste it in his throat.
She drops her evening bag on to the table, and tosses back her hair. Her face radiates into a smile. ‘I did it, Caleb,’ she says. ‘I did it. Two hundred bloody million. And
