The Whole Truth

‘That they won’t be able to prove it – that there’s no forensics and they’ll just be relying on Tobin’s word for it. And we all know what a lying little fucker he is.’

‘Yeah,’ she says slowly, ‘we do, don’t we.’

* * *

Telephone call with Lloyd Preston, Network Rail

13 July 2018, 5.15 p.m.

On the call, DSChris Gislingham

CG: Hello? This is Thames Valley Police, am I speaking with Lloyd Preston?

LP: Yeah, that’s me. Thames Valley, did you say?

CG: Yes, sir – just a couple more routine questions about the incident at Walton Well –?

LP: I don’t know what else I can tell you. I already told that other police bloke everything I saw. Sparrow, was it?

CG: DC Farrow.

LP: Yeah, that’s the one. So are you his boss or what?

CG: Something like that. Like I said, it’s just routine.

LP: So what do you want to know?

CG: Do you remember seeing anyone on the bridge that night? Either before or after you saw the body fall?

LP: No. Like I said to the other bloke. That’s why I thought it was a suicide.

CG: What about a car, a van?

LP: You can’t see the road from the tracks.

CG: Then maybe you heard something? That time of night, when there’s no other noise, it must be much easier to hear a vehicle –

LP: I’m not sure –

CG: Take your time.

LP: Look, I can’t be sure, OK? There may have been.

CG: When exactly? Before or after you saw the body?

LP: Before. As soon as we saw the girl we were just focused on getting through to the control room A-SAP so that’s all we were thinking about. I wouldn’t have noticed a car then.

CG: How long before, do you think? A minute? Five minutes?

LP: More than that, but I couldn’t tell you exactly.

CG: So if the man driving that vehicle was the same one who threw the body on the track, he could have been there for some time before he did it? He could have been waiting for you to be in range?

LP: That’s a hell of a lot of ‘could ofs’.

CG: But it’s possible?

LP: Yeah, OK, I suppose it’s possible. Just don’t ask me to stand up in court and swear to it.

* * *

She could have made an official appointment, but McHugh reckons Ruth Gallagher might be more amenable if she’s caught off guard. She knows Gallagher has a young family and calculates (rightly) that she’s not going to have much time for presenteeism, especially not on a Friday night. So she loiters for a while on a bench with her Kindle and a grandstand view of the St Aldate’s entrance, and at just after six, she gets her reward. Gallagher emerges from the door into the evening sunshine and heads briskly to an old Volvo estate on the far side of the car park.

It’s not the car McHugh had bet on – her money was on the shiny hybrid SUV on the other side. She’d dismissed the Volvo as far too earnest and disorganized for a senior DI. It was the junk in the back that did it. Plastic boxes of old clothes, discarded toys, dog-eared books – there’s a whole squadron of middle-aged Oxford women driving round with crap like that in the back of their cars, but McHugh didn’t have Gallagher down for one of them. Just shows – you never can tell.

‘DI Gallagher?’ she says, slightly out of breath after the dash across the road.

The Inspector turns. She doesn’t look especially enthused at the sight of her.

‘Sorry to ambush you, but could I have a quick word?’

You can almost see Gallagher’s heart sink.

‘I’m not sure this is quite the place –’

‘I just had a couple of questions – just factual stuff. It won’t take long.’

Gallagher weighs her car keys in her hand. ‘I’m afraid I have to get back to my kids. My husband’s out tonight and I’m on the pizza rota.’

‘Oh,’ says McHugh brightly, ‘you live in Summertown, right? I’m in Kidlington. Why don’t I come with you as far as the shops and I can get my bus from there?’

And it’s true. McHugh does indeed live in Kidlington. She also has her own car parked in the Westgate multistorey. But Gallagher doesn’t need to know that.

The DI frowns and opens her mouth to say something, but it’s too late. McHugh is already reaching for the car door, smiling broadly. ‘Thanks so much. I really appreciate it.’

* * *

Somer is one of the last patients of the day. The only other people waiting were an elderly chap with trembling hands, bent double over his walking frame, and a harassed mother with two overactive toddlers long past their bedtime. After the shrieks and the tantrums and the tumbling plastic bricks, the silence of the consulting room is something of a relief. But not enough to quiet the anxiety slithering in her gut.

She finishes doing up her skirt and comes back out from behind the screen. Her doctor is at the desk, a page of notes open on her screen. Somer sits down, swallows.

‘I’m pregnant, aren’t I.’ It’s a statement, not a question. ‘I mean, I know the test was negative, but those High Street things, they’re not always accurate, are they –’

The doctor sits back and adjusts her glasses. ‘Have you been trying for a baby, Erica?’