The Whole Truth

Quinn shuffles his papers into a pile and holds them up, forcing Farrow to walk over and collect them. As one-upmanship manoeuvres go it’s pretty unsubtle, but Gallagher isn’t about to make a thing of it.

Asante looks up. ‘I’ve already sent you everything from my side.’

‘Thank you, DC Asante. Anything else?’

Baxter sits back. ‘I was just about to start checking ANPR for Cleland’s wife’s Honda. I’ll email you the reg number.’

Farrow waits in the middle of the room, but it seems that’s all he’s going to get. Ev sees him hesitate a moment by Somer’s desk, but when she doesn’t even register his presence he’s forced to move on.

* * *

When Nina Mukerjee gets back from the water cooler there’s an email waiting for her from the lab. The forensics on the Smith case. That was quick, she thinks, sliding the cup on to her desk and sitting down. She prints out the attachment – when it comes to technical stuff she always prefers paper to pixels – and starts to read.

Ten minutes later she’s still sitting there. There’s a frown line across her brow. And her water is untouched.

She gets slowly to her feet and makes her way round to Alan Challow’s office. He’s had the same one for ten years but it still looks like he’s hot-desking. No pictures, no desk junk, not even a weary cheese plant. He’s tapping at his keyboard, his eyes fixed on his machine.

He glances up at her, but only for a moment, then gestures to the empty chair.

‘I got the forensics back on Smith’s flat,’ she says.

‘Oh yes?’ He’s still absorbed in his screen.

She pushes the sheet of paper across the desk at him. He reads it, looks at her, then reads it again. Then he sits back.

‘Shit.’

‘So what do we do now?’

He tosses the paper on to the desk.

‘There’s only one thing we can do.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

11 July 2018

9.42

I should have left for work over an hour ago. But I let Alex sleep in, and then the health visitor was running late, and when she did finally arrive it took far longer than I anticipated. Sitting there, hearing the standard advice, collecting the standard leaflets, answering the standard questions; it took all the self-control I could muster not to keep checking my watch. It would have been so easy to tell her that we know all this – that we’ve done it all before – but it’s nowhere near that simple. Not for us. Yes, we had a child, but we don’t have one any more. Because our child took his own life, and this woman knows that. So I sit, and I listen, and I find the right words, because I can’t risk her thinking I have better, more pressing, more urgent things to do.

But then, finally, she collects up her notes and her handouts and her Etsy bag, and I show her to the door. Where she turns and faces me, square-on.

‘Is there something your wife wasn’t telling me, Mr Fawley?’

I wasn’t expecting her to be so direct. Or, perhaps, so shrewd.

Her eyes narrow a little. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

I hesitate then nod. ‘Yes, you are. But it’s nothing to do with the baby.’

She gives me a look. ‘Right now, Mr Fawley – with your wife’s medical history – everything is to do with the baby.’

‘OK, yes, I get that. It’s just that Alex has just had some bad news. A friend of hers has been killed. She’s very upset.’

‘Oh Lord, how awful. Was it some sort of accident?’

I shake my head. ‘No. We thought at first it was a suicide, but I’m afraid we’ve had to launch a murder inquiry.’

She registers that ‘we’. ‘Ah yes, I remember now. You’re a police officer, aren’t you.’

‘My colleagues are going to have to speak to Alex today. Which, I know, is very far from ideal, but there’s no way round it. Alex was one of the last people to talk to her.’

She nods slowly. ‘I see.’

‘That’s why Alex seemed upset just now – we were talking about it before you arrived. It was after I told her the news last night that she had that scare –’

Another nod. ‘I understand. It must be very distressing for her. But thank you – it does help me to have a fuller picture.’ She puts her hand briefly on my arm – ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, just give me a call’ – then heads off down the path.

I watch her for a moment, then scan the street, almost automatically. The cars, the people; the men in vehicles, the men on their own. Then I go back into the house to collect my car keys.

It was true, what I said to that woman. Alex knows now how Emma died.

But I still haven’t told her I was at her flat.

* * *

Simon Farrow hesitates before knocking at Dave King’s door. In fact, he pretty much always hesitates before knocking at King’s door. He’s a good DS, no question – tough, uncompromising. And he gets results, even if he has to be a bit of a shit to do it. One thing’s for sure, though – no one could accuse him of being a people person. He can’t be arsed to manage down, so his team are forced to manage up, which makes life occasionally explosive and a lot more tiring. Farrow can hear him now, on the other side of the door, talking on the phone. He can’t hear what he’s saying but King sounds wired, whatever it is.