The Whole Truth

‘No. I mean, I do want children eventually, but right now –’ She throws up her hands. ‘It’s complicated, that’s all.’

The doctor smiles. ‘These things usually are.’

Somer takes a deep breath. ‘Me and my partner – we haven’t been seeing each other that long and we haven’t even discussed having children. He has two already – teenage girls. I have no idea if he wants to start all over again. And, in any case, there’s my career – it would be terrible timing –’

She stops, realizing there’s a sob in the back of her throat.

The doctor is watching her. ‘You’re not pregnant.’

Somer stares at her. ‘But – are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘But what about the other symptoms – the nausea –?’

The doctor shifts a little in her seat. ‘There are other things that can cause that, but ovarian cysts are the usual culprit. And based on the internal examination I just did, I suspect that may well be the case here.’

She turns to her screen and starts tapping at her keyboard. ‘I’m going to book you in for an ultrasound at the JR so we can be sure.’

Somer’s struggling to keep up with her own feelings. She doesn’t even know if she’s relieved or regretful that there’s no child, and now –

‘I’m sorry – I wasn’t expecting this. I don’t know anything about ovarian cysts – are they serious? Should I be worried?’

The doctor is businesslike. ‘Most are nothing to be concerned about. Where there are complications, it’s usually because they cause an infection, which can sometimes lead to difficulty in conceiving at a later date. That’s why I asked whether you’ve been trying for a baby.’

‘But –’ Somer takes a breath, realizes her fingernails are digging into her palms. ‘You said “most” are nothing to worry about, so some of them are, right?’

‘Those are very rare –’

‘But even those, the rare ones – they’re benign? We’re not talking about –’

The doctor gives a quick professional smile. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Like I said, the vast majority are not serious. Let’s get that ultrasound done, shall we, and see where we go from there.’

* * *

Having been sandbagged into spending twenty minutes with McHugh in a confined space, Gallagher’s evidently going to make the lawyer work for her scraps. She certainly isn’t volunteering anything as they edge through the rush-hour traffic in Oxpens Road.

‘It was the CCTV I was going to ask about,’ says McHugh, turning to look out of the window as if the question isn’t really that important. There’s a queue outside the ice rink. She used to take her own kids there, but that was before they turned teenagers and skating wasn’t cool any more. It’d be cool now though, on a hot night like this. The air sparkling with ice, the swoop of the skates –

‘There isn’t any,’ says Gallagher, who clearly knows a thing or two about cool herself. ‘CCTV, I mean.’

It was a long shot at best; McHugh tries another tack.

‘Have you ascertained Gavin Parrie’s movements on the night of July the 9th?’

Gallagher looks across at her and raises her eyebrows, then turns her gaze back to the road. ‘I take it you do realize quite how preposterous that sounds?’

McHugh shrugs. ‘That’s as may be. I still need to ask.’

The van in front shifts suddenly and Gallagher puts the car in gear. ‘The answer is yes, we have. And no, he was nowhere near Oxford that night.’

‘How near is nowhere near?’

Gallagher frowns a little, though whether it’s the traffic that’s irritating her or her passenger, it’s hard to say.

‘Leamington Spa,’ she says after a moment. ‘He’s in a halfway house near there, and has been ever since he left Wandsworth. That information is, of course, confidential, but in the circumstances, it may help you to know.’

It may help put paid to this wild and implausible theory: the message is clear enough, even though her tone is studiously objective.

‘Does he have access to a vehicle?’

Gallagher shoots her a glance, Well, what do you think?

‘How is Adam?’ she asks after a moment, her voice still neutral, her eyes still fixed on the road.

‘Much like anyone in his situation, I imagine,’ says McHugh. ‘Stressed to the eyeballs. Angry. Worried about his wife. What do you expect?’

‘He’s always been a fine officer,’ says Gallagher, ‘and speaking personally, I like him very much –’

‘But?’ says McHugh, who’s registered that initial past tense.

Gallagher looks at her and then away. ‘But however hard we look – and believe me, we’ve tried – we cannot find a single piece of evidence to exonerate him. Or even cast a reasonable doubt –’

‘Not even this man Cleland? He had a motive.’

‘Possibly. But that’s all. There is absolutely nothing else linking him to the crime. No witnesses, no forensics, no proof he went anywhere near there.’ She glances across again. ‘I’m sorry. I want it to be Cleland as much as you do, but it’s a non-starter. Everything we have points to Adam, and you’ve given me nothing I can use to refute it. And as for this obsession of his about Gavin Parrie – it’s – it’s insane.’