The Whole Truth

Gislingham is watching her face. ‘Smith never saw enough to ID him, but Ryan made bloody sure she knew he was there – he wanted her to know.’

Gallagher stares. ‘But why –?’

‘Think about it, ma’am – if you’re scared you’re being stalked and you know a DI, who are you going to ask for advice?’

‘She could have just spoken to him on the phone. There was no guarantee he’d actually go round there.’ She’s saying the words, but it’s just the devil’s advocate kicking in. She knows he’s right.

‘Parrie’s had nigh on twenty years to plan this. He’d have found a way to get Fawley round to that flat sooner or later. Staged a break-in – something.’ He shrugs. ‘And the minute he did turn up – bingo – game on.’

‘So it was Ryan who killed her – is that what you’re saying?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nah. After all those years inside, Parrie’s not going to pass up the chance to do another girl, is he? What was done to Emma, that has him written all over it. Even down to that tiny bit of hair he just couldn’t stop himself taking.’

She gives him a dry look. ‘There’s still the not-so-small matter of the electronic tag. Despite what Alex Fawley says, they really don’t malfunction that often. And as for some sort of conspiracy with his PO, that’s just absurd –’

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.