The Whole Truth

Erica Somer looks up, shielding her eyes against the sun. She’s sitting on the terrace of Giles Saumarez’s house. Three fishermen’s cottages knocked together into a long, low, whitewashed space with polished stone floors and windows overlooking Southampton Water. It’s cool and airy inside, but out here the sunlight is blinding. At least a breeze has got up now; out on the estuary, among the tankers hauling towards the refinery, there are four or five small yachts leaning into the wind. Somer has never sailed, never wanted to, but she yearns suddenly to be out there, on the water, on her own. No one to think about, no one to answer to, wholly at the mercy of the current and the bright blue air. It’s the impulse of a moment only, and hard on its heels comes a pang of remorse. She should be grateful she’s here at all – at this amazing house, with Giles, who’s put so much effort into this weekend but doesn’t undo it all by telling her so every five minutes, like most blokes would. He’s bought the wine he knows she likes, put flowers in their bedroom, fresh towels in the shower. It’s been a beautiful day, and they’ve had a beautiful lunch. Literally. Crumbly white cheese, golden focaccia sprinkled with rosemary and salt, ripe figs, prosciutto, cubes of deep-orange quince jelly – the table was crying out for a #foodporn hashtag.

She shakes her head now: the glass Giles poured for her more than half an hour ago is still almost full.

He pushes up his sunglasses so he can look her in the eye. ‘Everything OK?’

She nods quickly, reaching for the glass, making an effort.

‘Yes, fine, just felt a bit off earlier, that’s all.’

He sits down next to her.

‘We don’t have to go out tonight if you don’t want to. It’s just that last time you were here, you said –’

‘No,’ she says, cutting across him. ‘I want to go. Will you please just stop fussing.’

She looks away, at the water, the gulls, the wheeling boats. Anything to block out the hurt and bewilderment in his eyes.

* * *

Adam Fawley

7 July 2018

15.17

Hilary Reynolds isn’t the first head of house I’ve come across in this job. Principals, Provosts, Wardens – the handles may differ but they all grow the same masterly veneer; that grand self-assurance that comes of habitual High Table dining, an entire organogram of domestic staff and a great deal of getting your own way. Reynolds is no different; or at least not at first sight. It takes me a moment to realize quite how much anxiety is running in this room. And who’s generating it.

He’s in the far corner, leaning against the window seat. He must be twenty-two, twenty-three; pale skin, toffee-coloured hair bleaching to blond at the ends. A dark tattoo on one forearm, something spiky and sinister, like a Venetian mask. He’s taller than me, and broader too. The physique of an athlete; I’d go for rugby if you forced my hand.

‘Inspector Fawley,’ says Reynolds with a small cough, ‘I’m grateful you were able to join us. This is Caleb Morgan. He’s with the Mathematics faculty, working on compressed linear algebra for large-scale machine learning.’

Condescending and inconsequential; I have to hand it to Reynolds – as irrelevant information goes, that was pretty stellar.

Quinn must be sensing my irritation because he steps in quickly. ‘There’s been an allegation of sexual assault, boss.’

I stare at him. What the fuck is he playing at? This is Policework 101 – get your facts together before you go anywhere near the perp. And I mean, all your facts.

I pull Quinn to one side. ‘What’s he doing here?’ I say quietly. ‘You didn’t think you ought to speak to the victim first?’

He flushes. ‘I did,’ he says. ‘He is the victim.’

I turn to look at Morgan. His pale-blue eyes are intent on my face and I feel myself flush. And now I look properly, I can see the livid red mark on his neck. But even though it goes against all the training, against everything they drum into us these days, I just can’t stop myself thinking – this lad is six foot two, he’s built like a full back, surely he could have defended himself –

‘So,’ says Reynolds, looking at Quinn and then at me, ‘now we’ve got that straightened out, I imagine you’ll want to speak to Professor Fisher?’

Ev glances quickly at me. ‘Professor Fisher is Mr Morgan’s supervisor –’

Reynolds cuts across her. ‘I would, of course, prefer that you did not conduct that interview on college premises, especially given that the incident did not take place here. Professor Fisher’s address is Monmouth House, St Luke Street,’ he says, sitting back in his chair. ‘And it being a Saturday afternoon, I would imagine it’s more than likely you will find her at home.’

Her?

Morgan’s assailant was a woman?

* * *