The Whole Truth by Hunter, Cara (ebook reader with internet browser .TXT) 📗

against any comparison with the Gavin Parrie case.

Should further evidence emerge which leads me to reconsider this view, I will, of course, inform you.

CRB

* * *

Telephone interview with Sgt Vince Hall, Warwickshire Police, Leamington Spa

14 July 2018, 8.15 a.m.

On the call, DI Ruth Gallagher

VH: Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you, but I’ve checked the records you were asking about, and I’ve spoken to the probation officer as well.

RG: Excellent – thank you.

VH: The tag logs show Gavin Parrie never breached his licence conditions at any time on the night you’re interested in. He was either at the hostel or at most a mile away from it, the entire night. There’s no way he could have been anywhere near Oxford.

RG: And we’re sure the tag is fully functional?

VH: Yup. Only got checked last month. Nothing wrong with it.

RG: Good. I’m glad we’ve been able to clear that up. And I take it he has no access to any sort of car?

VH: Sorry?

RG: No, I’m sorry I even had to ask. I’m just covering all the bases. Our suspect’s lawyer has a bee in her bonnet about it.

VH: Well, for the record, he doesn’t. And for what it’s worth, the PO says Parrie’s been a right little goody-two-shoes since he got out. Spends half his time with youth offender programmes, giving them dire warnings about the error of their ways.

RG: And she thinks it’s genuine – this transformation of his?

VH: She’s not some rookie straight out of training – she’s been on the job fifteen years. And he was a model prisoner too, Parrie. So yes, it’s always possible he could be faking it, but he’s kept it up a bloody long time if he is.

* * *

Everett’s Friday evening wasn’t exactly restful. Most of it was eaten up by a week’s worth of undone chores, and she ended up so ragged with exhaustion she slept through this morning’s alarm. She drives down the Banbury Road under a sultry grey-yellow sky, which does nothing for her headache, and the low-level throb of guilt about her father and that call she still hasn’t made to Elaine Baylis isn’t helping much either. She keeps telling herself she’s doing as much as anyone could expect; that her dad’s being well looked after, he’s eating and people are trying to involve him in group activities like whist and bingo, all of which he despises at the top of his voice whenever any of the staff are near enough to hear. His contempt ought to reassure her, it’s so completely in character, but there’s a vehemence to it now which leaves her uneasy.

The rest of the team are already at their desks when she gets in. Somer looks up briefly but doesn’t meet her eye, and is then so intent on looking busy she might as well hang up a sign saying ‘Leave me alone’. Ev unloads her phone and notebook from her bag, wondering how she should play it. She’s pretty sure Somer had an appointment last night with her doctor, but she never actually said so, and Ev’s attempts to WhatsApp her later got nothing more than one-word answers.

* * *

For an expert in body language, Bryan Gow isn’t very good at masking his own. When he rounds the corner and sees Gislingham in the corridor outside CID his reaction is such a perfect picture of acute embarrassment he could use it as an example in his next PowerPoint presentation.

Gis frowns. ‘I thought your assistant said we couldn’t meet up because you were busy today?’

Gow flushes a little. ‘We can’t – that is, I am.’ He hesitates. ‘If you must know, Ruth Gallagher asked me to come in.’ He makes a face. ‘Hashtag awkward.’

Because he’s helping her on the Emma Smith case. Because he’s helping to convict Fawley.

Gis forces away the thought, and the resentment that comes with it. All this shit – none of it’s Gow’s fault.

‘I was going to ask you to look at some footage for us. The Fisher case again.’

Gow nods slowly. ‘OK, I can do that. I’ll drop by later.’ He looks round. ‘And in the meantime, perhaps you could tell me what Gallagher has done with her team, because that office of theirs is doing a pretty good impersonation of the Mary Celeste.’

* * *

Gow wasn’t the only one wrong-footed by that this morning. Major Crimes were just as confounded themselves. Overnight, without warning, their entire operation had been tea-crated and relocated upstairs. The first thing everyone noticed was that the new office is about as far away from CID as it’s possible to get; the second was the secure-access keypad on the door.

And just in case anyone was being especially dense, Dave King makes a big show of getting the facilities manager to reset the code right in front of them.

‘From now on, we’re the only ones who’ll have access to this room,’ he says, staring round. ‘Not even the bloody cleaners are getting in here without one of us present. So if there are any more leaks about this investigation – external or internal – I’ll know it was someone here, not one of Fawley’s arse-lickers gone rogue. Do I make myself clear?’

Evidently so.

He nods, makes as if to go, then has second thoughts. ‘Oh, and if any of you happen to see DS Gislingham in the khazi, do make sure to pass that on.’

There’s an exchange of glances now, the odd murmur.

‘Right,’ says King. ‘Well, get on with it, then.’

The room kicks into action and King watches for a moment before making his way over to Simon Farrow’s desk. He smiles at him; Farrow is immediately wary. ‘I was going to ask,’ says King, perilously jovial. ‘It wasn’t you by any chance, was it, slipped CID a look at our files? Because someone made a call to that railway engineer last night and it wasn’t one of us.’

Farrow’s eyes widen. ‘Why are you asking me?’

The teeth are showing in King’s