The Whole Truth

As she passes the turn-off for Compton and East Ilsley she grips the steering wheel a little tighter and puts her foot down.

* * *

Fuck I just had the police here

Shit

What did they say?

Just asked about Caleb. And that bitch F

What she did to him

That’s all?

Nothing else?

No. I’m prob just overreacting. If they knew anything they’d have said

You still want to go ahead?

Yeah yeah we’re good

Like I said, I’m just panicking

There’s no way they could’ve found out

OK leave it with me

And delete this

* * *

Adam Fawley

8 July 2018

10.20

Alex was still asleep when I left for the gym and I decided not to wake her. She needs rest more than I need to demonstrate my keeper credentials by making her breakfast. But I do pick up two cappuccinos and a couple of almond croissants from her favourite place on my way back from the gym. Though as it turns out, I’m wasting my time.

The first thing I notice when I push open the front door is the smell of coffee; the second is the sound of voices. And it’s not the radio. There’s someone here.

I drop my keys on the hall table and my bag on the floor, and walk through to the back. Alex is sitting at the kitchen table in one of my old T-shirts, her feet bare, her hair twisted up in a loose knot, and in front of her, yet another bowl of that kids’ cereal she can’t get enough of at the moment. I tease her about it all the time but she just looks arch and says I should thank my lucky stars it’s something so bland (and she has a point – with Jake, it was kippers).

Opposite her, her hands wrapped around my Mr Perfect mug (and yes, that is a joke), is a woman. I’ve seen her before. Emma something. She was at the same college as Alex years ago, but there isn’t really a word for what they are now – not exactly friends but a bit more than acquaintances. She works for the council fostering and adoption service. Last year, when a couple of local builders found a traumatized young woman locked in a basement with her eighteen-month-old son, it was Emma who arranged for Alex and me to foster him for a few weeks. Though lest you should think I really am Mr Perfect I should say at once that it was against my better judgement, and, I suspect, against Emma’s too, though we never discussed it. It was my wife’s idea, and she is both very persistent and very persuasive. And if you know about that case, and that little boy, and you’re wondering what happened to him, Brandon is doing well. He’s with long-term foster parents who are hoping to adopt him. It’s not my case any more, but I keep in touch. I don’t have to, but I do.

‘Adam, you remember Emma, don’t you?’

We smile at each other, a little awkwardly. I’m uncomfortably aware that I didn’t shower at the gym and even my own wife wouldn’t want a clincher with me right now. So I just stand there, trying not to look like an oaf.

I raise a hand. ‘Hi.’

Emma’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She has long strawberry-blonde hair and a pair of silver hoop earrings that she keeps fiddling with. I seem to remember her hair being darker the last time I saw her, but it’s been quite a while. I could be wrong.

‘Emma just popped by to drop off a present for the baby,’ says Alex, levering herself out of her chair. I see now there’s a white teddy bear sitting on the worktop beside her. It has a red bow tie and that slightly imploring look soft toys always manage to have.

‘We were just having a bit of a catch-up –’

I start to back out of the kitchen. ‘Great – absolutely. Totally fine by me.’ I gesture towards the stairs. ‘I’ll just, you know, have a shower. Take your time.’

* * *

‘Bloody hell,’ says Baxter, sitting back in his chair. He’d had his earphones in but he’s pulled them out now and is looking round at the rest of the team. ‘I think you lot need to hear this.’

Quinn and Asante have only just got back from seeing Sandford – Quinn’s still in the process of hanging up his jacket – but they all know Baxter, and if he says there’s something, there’s something.

‘What you got?’ asks Quinn as they start to gather round.

‘I had a call a while back from Clive Conway,’ says Baxter. ‘He’s got the results on the prints at Fisher’s house. Nothing on the champagne glasses, as expected, but there were prints on the bottle. Both Fisher’s and Morgan’s.’

Quinn frowns. ‘But they both said Morgan was the one who opened it, didn’t they? So where does that get us?’

Baxter shakes his head. ‘It’s not just that. Apparently when Conway fished the bottle out of the bin, there was a whole load of broken glass in there too – and it was right at the top, so it couldn’t have been in there very long.’

‘So?’ says Ev, looking increasingly mystified.

‘So, it turns out it was another wine bottle – prosecco, Conway said. And there were prints on that too. Two different sets. One lot were Morgan’s, but the others are unidentified. But one thing we do know – they’re definitely not Marina Fisher’s.’

Quinn’s still frowning. ‘And? Am I missing something?’