The Whole Truth

Quinn turns to him. ‘Sorry?’

‘Just saying. Fisher looked pretty genuine to me. When she picked up that water her hands were shaking.’

‘It’s in her interests to be convincing. And don’t forget all that TV stuff she does. That woman is a performer. She knows exactly how to play a crowd.’

* * *

The female PC comes back from the drinks machine and hands the can of Fanta to Tobin. He takes it, but he doesn’t look at her or say thank you. Somer’s eyes meet the officer’s over the boy’s head and the woman shrugs, evidently unsurprised. Somer isn’t surprised either; in fact, she’s beginning to wonder whether Tobin might be on the spectrum somewhere. There’s no doubting his intelligence, but he barely functions socially at all. Can someone as well informed as Marina Fisher really not have noticed what’s going on with her own child?

The little boy is still colouring in, carefully and deliberately, utterly absorbed in what he’s doing. He’s filling in one colour range at a time, a rainbow of pencils laid out on the chair next to him, their ends and points neatly aligned.

‘Can I see?’

The scratching at the paper stops. He doesn’t look up but after a moment he puts the pencil down in the correct place in the line and hands her the book.

Somer looks at the drawing, then takes a breath – realizing suddenly what this is.

* * *

‘Something up?’ asks Ev.

Somer’s a few yards away, by the whiteboard, staring at the pictures from the Morgan case. Marina Fisher’s kitchen, the ripped evening gown, the empty bottle of champagne, the photos of Caleb taken at the Sexual Assault Referral Centre.

Ev gets up and goes over, and Somer registers her presence at last.

‘Sorry,’ she says, glancing across. ‘I didn’t realize you were there.’

‘Penny for them?’ says Ev.

Somer turns back to the board. ‘I saw Tobin Fisher just now. He was waiting downstairs while his mother was being interviewed. He had a colouring book with him – one of those “educational” things mothers like Fisher get for their kids. Illustrations from Shakespeare, the Greek myths, that sort of thing.’

‘O-kay,’ says Ev slowly, wondering where this is going. ‘And your point is?’

‘My point is that up till now he’s just been working his way through the drawings one at a time. But the one he’s doing now – it’s right near the end. There are loads of blank pages in between. He must have deliberately chosen to do it.’

‘So –?’

‘That’s just it. What he’s doing now is George and the Dragon. The colour-by-numbers thing says to do the dragon in different shades of green, but Tobin’s completely ignored it. He’s never done that with any of the pictures before. I checked.’

Ev frowns. ‘So what colour is he doing the dragon?’

‘Red,’ says Somer. ‘All the same shade of red.’ She makes a face. ‘And that was when I remembered this.’

She points at one of the photos on the board. A shot of Morgan taken from behind. His head and his back and his neck, and the tattoo on his left shoulder.

It’s a red dragon.

* * *

The custody sergeant pushes the door open with a clang, then he stands back to let the lawyer through.

‘Let me know when you’ve finished.’

Penelope McHugh nods. ‘Thank you.’ Then she waits until the sergeant has lumbered back down the corridor and out of sight before stepping forward into the cell.

Her client is sitting on the narrow bed, his head in his hands, the toast and cereal untouched on a tray. There are huge dank stains under his armpits. It shouldn’t surprise her; she’s been doing this job a long time and she’s had suspected murderers for clients before. But never, thus far at least, a serving Detective Inspector.

She’s breathing as shallowly as she can. The hot stagnant air is riddled with sweat and piss and despair.

‘We could have done this in a consultation room, you know.’

He looks up. ‘I could do without another perp walk of shame upstairs.’

It’s horrifying, how quickly a human being can fall apart. She knows this man – she’s known him for years – but seeing him now, he’s a wraith of his former self. All that quiet authority, that sense of latent power held in check – it’s all gone. He looks hollowed out, scourged, paranoia ground like dirt into the lines around his eyes –

‘I need to talk to you.’

Even his voice has diminished.

McHugh takes a step closer. ‘OK. Shoot.’

‘I’ve been thinking – this whole thing – the DNA, the car, the lack of semen – it makes no bloody sense.’

She gives an acid smile. ‘You’re telling me.’

‘So much so that there’s only one explanation. Only one way I can even begin to make it all add up.’

She frowns. He’s talking too fast, his eyes are too wide. If she didn’t know any better she’d think he was deranged. Or high.

‘The evidence – it was planted. I’m being framed.’

It drops like lead. The guilty ones – they all say that. And she really didn’t want this man to be one of them.

He must have seen something in her face because he gets up and comes closer. She has to force herself to stand her ground.