She curls up tighter, pushing away the pain. The real pain and the Giles pain. She’s written to him, torn it up, written again, and even six or seven versions later she still hasn’t sent the poor, scaled-down, barely comprehensible message she ended up with. She was going to ask Ev to post it – she swore to herself she would – but somehow that never happened either. It was all too hurried at the end – Ev rushing off to her busy police life. She’d looked embarrassed, as she left, as if she was worried Somer might envy her. But she didn’t. She doesn’t know what exactly she felt, but she knows it wasn’t that. The job and all it used to mean seem very long ago and very far away. A long-dead life where she was sharp and ambitious and incisive and professional, and perhaps, in some parallel world, still is. She’s oppressed, suddenly, by the thought of that light-hearted, uncancered Erica stalking her for the rest of her life, doing all the things she would have, could have, should have done. Though her new numbness does have at least one advantage: the disciplinary procedure still hanging over her has lost all power to panic. A shit treated her like shit and she gave as good as she got. If Thames Valley want to fire her for that, then fuck it, she’ll do something else. Though what, and how, and when, are yet more questions she has neither the energy nor interest to address.
* * *
Margaret Swann is in what she’s referred to as the ‘drawing room’, with a uniformed female officer for company. This part of Gantry Manor must be older than the rest – the ceilings are lower, the windows smaller. There’s an inglenook fireplace, a piano draped with a tablecloth, dried-flower arrangements, too much furniture. It all adds up to a distinct run-down country pub feel, which isn’t helped by the string of horse brasses over the hearth. It must be ten years since Ev saw any of those.
Swann is sitting in the corner, a tiny thin woman, all bones and sharp edges. Her hair is an unnatural orange-brown, with a hairslide to one side which makes her look like a withered eight-year-old. She has her arms wrapped around herself as if she’s frozen with cold, though the log burner’s been restoked and the room is warm. It’s probably shock, thinks Ev. Even if she didn’t see the body, having something like that happening in your own kitchen – Jesus. They’re going to have to replace the lino for a start; that stain is never going to come out.
‘Can I get you something?’ Ev says. ‘Tea?’
The old woman huffs a little and shakes her head. She doesn’t look up. The officer exchanges a glance with Ev. A glance that says, ‘I didn’t get very far either.’
Ev moves over and takes a seat on the sofa. ‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions, Mrs Swann? I know you’ve been through a terrible experience, but it’s really important for us to take statements from witnesses as soon as possible.’
The woman looks up. ‘Where’s your senior officer? I’m not wasting my time with some WPC.’
‘I’m a Detective Constable, Mrs Swann. We don’t have WPCs any more. And DS Quinn is busy with your husband.’
‘Where is he? What have you done with him?’
Ev sits forward. ‘He’s been taken to St Aldate’s.’
Her eyes widen. ‘The police station? What on earth for? He hasn’t done anything – that man – that person – he attacked Richard – in our own home –’
Whoa, thinks Ev. One step at a time.
‘There’s no need to be alarmed, Mrs Swann. It’s just that in circumstances like these there’s a procedure we have to follow.’
She lifts her chin, defiant. ‘We’re the victims here, young lady.’
It’s a good ten years since anyone called Ev that, either. She takes a deep breath. ‘I understand how you feel, really I do, but until we’ve questioned your husband –’
‘He broke in here, he broke the law –’
‘Mrs Swann, a man is dead.’
There’s a silence. Ev holds the woman’s gaze until she looks away, then clears her throat. ‘So, perhaps we could start by you telling me exactly what happened here tonight.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
22 October
00.16
Quinn’s waiting outside when I pull into the St Aldate’s car park, shifting from one foot to the other. He manages to stop himself looking at his watch, but it must have taken a supreme effort.
‘Sorry, I got held up.’
He gives a non-committal nod. ‘He’s been processed. For murder. So ready when you are.’
‘Lawyer?’
‘No. He was offered one but turned it down. We’re good to go.’
‘OK, Sergeant, let’s get him brought up, shall we.’
The lighting in Interview One is unforgiving at the best of times, but at this time of night it’s positively funereal. Perhaps that’s why, when they bring Swann in, the first word that comes to mind is Death. He’s not quite the Grim Reaper, but only just this side of cadaverous all the same. I’m guessing he was at least six-four as a young man – he’s taller than me even now, despite the stoop. He has a stark hooked nose, piercing eyes and an uncertain stride, though the custody-issue overalls could well be responsible for that. He also has a cut to his right palm.
He takes his seat, sits back slowly, then raises his gaze and gives me a long, cold look.
‘So who would you be, then?’
* * *
Margaret Swann takes a deep breath. ‘We heard a noise downstairs. Someone moving about.’
‘Did the alarm not go off? You have one, don’t you?’ Ev remembers seeing the box on the front of the house, its red bulb flashing.
Margaret Swann sniffs a little. ‘We don’t set it. Not unless we go away. It’s too fiddly – always going off by mistake and making that dreadful blaring noise. Richard said the security light would be enough to put people off.’
Not this time, evidently. Though Ev makes a note, because the old man’s right – house thieves are almost always opportunistic and surprisingly easily deterred; in all her time on the Burglary team she never saw a break-in at a house with a closed gate or a functioning alarm.
‘And what time was this?’
A shrug. ‘Nine thirty. Around then anyway. I like to read in bed in the winter.’
So there would have been a light in an upstairs window, at least. And in any case, how many burglars would risk breaking in that early in the evening? Ev frowns; Quinn was right. This isn’t adding up.
‘And your husband? He was in bed too?’
‘Yes. He was watching the television.’
‘So you hear a noise, then what?’
* * *
Interview with Richard Swann, conducted at St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford
22 October 2018, 12.37 a.m.
In attendance, DI A. Fawley, DS G. Quinn
GQ: For the purposes of the recording, Mr Swann has been arrested on suspicion of murder after a fatal shooting at his home, Gantry Manor, Ock Lane, Wytham, on the evening of October 21st 2018. Mr Swann has been apprised of his rights, and has declined a solicitor at this stage. He is aware he can ask for legal representation at any time.
OK, Mr Swann, let’s start by hearing your version of events.
RS: My wife and I were in bed and heard a noise downstairs. I remember it was just after 9.30 because my television programme had just started.