* * *
When the minicab driver first spotted the girl, he thought she was drunk. Yet another bloody student, he thought, getting pissed on cheap cider and staggering home at all hours. She was a good hundred yards ahead of him, but he could see she was lurching unsteadily from side to side. It wasn't till the car got closer that he realized she was actually limping. One strappy shoe was still on but the other had lost its heel. That's what made him slow down. That and where she was. Out on the Marston Ferry Road, miles from anywhere. Or as close to it as Oxford ever gets. Though as he signalled and pulled over alongside her, he still thought she must just be drunk.
But that was before he saw her face.
* * *
The office is all but empty when the call comes through. Quinn's AWOL somewhere, Fawley's not due in till lunchtime and Gislingham's off on a training course. Something to do with people management, Baxter tells Ev. Before smiling wryly and observing that he can't see why the Sarge is bothering: there's nothing about that particular subject Gis couldn't learn from his own wife.
Somer has just got back with a salad and a round of coffees when the phone rings. She watches Everett pick it up and wedge the handset against her shoulder while she answers an email.
`Sorry?' she says suddenly, gripping the phone now, the email forgotten. `Can you say that again? You're sure? And when did this happen?' She grabs a pen and scribbles something down. `Tell them we'll be there in twenty minutes.'
Somer looks up; something tells her the salad is going to have to wait. Again. She doesn't even bother buying hot lunches any more.
Everett puts the phone down. `A girl's been found on the Marston Ferry Road.'
`Found? What do you mean `њfound`ќ?'
`In a state of extreme distress, and with marks on her wrists where her hands were tied.'
`Tied? She'd been tied up?'
Everett's face is grim. `I'm afraid it sounds a lot worse than that.'
* * *
Adam Fawley
1 April 2018
12.35
I'm still on the ring road when I get the call from Everett.
`Sir? I'm with Somer on our way to the Lakes. We had a call about ten minutes ago `“ a girl's been found in a distraught state on the Marston Ferry Road. It looks like she may have been attacked.'
I signal to pull over into a lay-by and pick up the phone. `Sexual assault?'
`We don't actually know that. But to be honest, right now, we don't know much at all.'
I can tell something's off, just from her voice. And if there's one thing I know about Ev, it's that she has good antennae. Good antennae, and not enough confidence in them. Or herself. Something for Gislingham to pick up when he gets back from that HR course of his.
`There's something bothering you, isn't there?'
`She was found with her clothes torn and muddy and evidence that her hands had been tied `“'
`Jesus `“'
`I know. She was apparently in a terrible state but the point is she refused to go to either the police or the doctor. She made the minicab driver who found her take her straight home and told him she didn't want it reported. Which, thankfully, he ignored.'
I poke about in the glovebox for some paper and ask her to repeat the address in the Lakes. And if you're wondering how you missed all that standing water when you did the Oxford tourist tour, there isn't anything larger than a pond for miles. The Lakes is a 1930s housing development in Marston. People call it that because there are so many roads there named after them: Derwent, Coniston, Grasmere, Rydal. I like to think some long-ago town planner was homesick for the fells, but Alex tells me I'm just being Romantic.
`Do we know the girl's name?'
`We think it could be Faith. The cab driver said she was wearing a necklace with that on it. Though it might just be one of those `њLive Love Life`ќ sort of things. You must have seen them.'
I have. But not on Ev, that's for sure. As for the cabbie, it seems he wasn't just public-spirited but observant too. Wonders will never cease.
`According to the electoral roll there's a woman called Diane Appleford resident at the address,' she continues. `She moved there about a year ago, and there's no criminal record, nothing flagging anywhere. But there's no Mr Appleford `“ or not one living with her, at any rate.'
`OK, I'm only about ten minutes away.'
`We're just turning into Rydal Way now, but we'll hold off going in till you get here.'
The Appleford home is a neat bow-fronted semi, with a paved front garden and a low wall made of those square white bricks that look like stencils. Our next-door neighbours had exactly the same when I was a kid. What with that and the frilly nets in the window the house looks landlocked in 1976.
I see Somer and Everett get out of their car and come down the road towards me. Everett is in her standard combo of white shirt, dark skirt and sensible mac, though the bright-red scarf is definitely her little rebellion. Somer, by contrast, is in black jeans, a leather jacket and high-heeled ankle boots with fringy bits around the back. She doesn't usually dress like that at work, so I'm guessing she was at the boyfriend's this weekend and hasn't been home. She flushes slightly when she sees me, which makes me even more convinced I'm right. She met him when we were working on the Michael Esmond case. The boyfriend, I mean. Giles Saumarez. He's in the job too. I can never quite decide if that's a good thing.
`Afternoon, sir,' says Everett, hoisting her bag a bit higher on her shoulder.
I reach into my pocket for a mint. I carry handfuls of the bloody things now. Stopping smoking is a bastard, but it's non-negotiable. And by that, I mean between me and myself; I didn't wait for Alex to ask.
`Is that a good idea?' says Somer, eyeing the sweet. `With the teeth, I mean.'
I frown for a moment and then remember that's where I told them I was this morning. The dentist's. The universal white lie of choice. It's not that the baby is a secret `“ people will have to know eventually. It's just `“ you know `“ not right now.
`It was OK,' I say. `I didn't need anything doing.'
I turn to Ev. `So anything more before we go crashing in?'
She shakes her head. `You know as much as we do.'
The woman who opens the door has dried-out blonde hair, white sweatpants and a white sweatshirt with Slummy Mummy written on it. She must be mid-forties. She looks tired. Tired and immediately defensive.
`Mrs Appleford?'
She eyes me and then the women. `Yes. Who are you?'
`I'm Detective Inspector Adam Fawley. This is DC Everett and DC Somer.'
She grips the door a little tighter. `Faith was quite clear `“ she doesn't want the police involved. You have no business `“'
`Faith is your daughter?'
She hesitates a moment, as if divulging even so bare a fact is some sort of betrayal. `Yes. Faith is my daughter.'
`The passer-by who found her was extremely concerned for her well-being. As, of course, are we.'
Somer touches my shoulder and gestures back behind her. I don't even need to turn round. I can almost hear the sound of curtains twitching.
`Could we come in, Mrs Appleford? Just for a moment? We can talk more easily inside.'
The woman glances across the road; she's spotted the nosy neighbours, too.
`OK. But only for a couple of minutes, all right?'
The sitting room is painted pale mauve, with a sofa and armchairs which are obviously supposed to match but the colour's just far enough off to mess with your head. And they're much too big for the space. It never ceases to baffle me why people don't measure their rooms before they buy their furniture. There's a strong smell of artificial air freshener. Lavender. As if you had to ask.