The Whole Truth

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 let you know.’

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.