There’s an old man sitting on the toilet dressed only in a vest. Tufts of wiry black hair cling to his scalp and shoulders. His underpants are round his ankles and his penis and testicles hang limply between his legs. He cowers away from Quinn, still mumbling, his bony fingers gripping the toilet seat. He’s filthy, and there’s shit on the floor.
Somer calls from the doorstep. ‘DS Quinn? The medics have arrived if you need them.’
‘Thank Christ for that – get them in here, will you?’
Somer stands back to let two men in green overalls come through the door. One squats down in front of the old man. ‘Mr Harper? There’s no need to be anxious. Let’s just take a look at you.’
Quinn motions to Gislingham and they back off towards the kitchen.
Gislingham whistles as the door swings open. ‘Someone call the VA.’
An ancient gas cooker, 1970s brown-and-orange tiling, a metal sink. A Formica table with four unmatched chairs. And every single surface piled with dirty crockery and empty beer bottles and half-finished food cans alive with flies. All the windows are shut and the lino under their feet sticks to their shoes. There’s a glass door with a beaded curtain leading to a conservatory, and another door which must lead down to the cellar. It’s locked but there’s a bunch of keys on a nail. Gislingham seizes them, his fingers fumbling, and it takes three attempts to find the one that fits, but even though the key is rusted it turns without jamming. He pulls the door open and flicks on the light, then stands aside, letting Quinn go first. They make their way down slowly, step by step, the neon strip hissing over their heads.
‘Hello? Is there anyone down here?’
The light is drab, but it’s enough for them to see. The cellar is empty. Cardboard boxes, black plastic sacks, an old lampstand, a tin bath filled with junk. But apart from that, nothing.
They stand there, staring at each other, their hearts pounding so loudly they can barely hear. Then, ‘What was that?’ whispers Gislingham. ‘Sounds like scratching. Rats?’
Quinn starts involuntarily, scanning the ground at his feet; if there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s bloody rats.
Gislingham looks around again, his eyes adjusting, wishing he’d brought the torch from the car. ‘What’s that over there?’
He pushes his way through the boxes and realizes suddenly that the cellar is much bigger than they thought.
‘Quinn – there’s another door here. Can you give me a hand?’
He tries the door but it won’t move. There’s a bolt at the top and Quinn eventually manages to yank it across, but the bloody door still won’t budge.
‘It must be locked,’ says Gislingham. ‘Do you still have those keys?’
It’s even worse finding the right one in the half-light, but they do it. Then they put their shoulders to the door and it slowly shunts forward until a wave of foul air hits them and they have to put their hands to their mouths to face the stench.
A young woman is lying on the concrete floor at their feet, wearing a pair of jeans ripped at the knees and a ragged cardigan that was probably yellow once. Her mouth is open and her eyes closed. Her skin is dead white in the sallow glare.
But there’s something else. Something nothing prepared them for.
Sitting by her, pulling at her hair.
A child.
***
And where was I when all this happened? I’d love to say it was something gritty and impressive like Special Branch liaison or anti-terrorism, but the dreary truth was a training course in Warwick. ‘Community Policing in the 21st Century’. Inspectors and above; aren’t we the lucky ones. What with the death by PowerPoint and the stupid o’clock early start, I was beginning to think the uniforms on the May Morning stint had decidedly the better deal. But then I got the call. Followed swiftly by an exasperated frown from the officious organizer person who’d insisted we turn our phones off, and an audible sigh when I duck out into the corridor. She’s probably worrying I’ll never come back.
‘They’ve taken the girl to the John Rad,’ says Quinn. ‘She’s in a pretty bad way – she’s obviously not eaten for some time and she’s severely dehydrated. There was one bottle of water left in the room, but I suspect she’s been giving most of it to the kid. The medics will be able to tell us more after they’ve done a proper examination.’
‘And the boy?’
‘Still not saying anything. But, Christ, he can’t be much more than two – what’s he going to be able to tell us anyway? Poor little sod wouldn’t let Gis or me anywhere near him, so Somer went in the ambulance. We arrested Harper at the scene, but when we tried to get him out of the house he started kicking and being abusive. Alzheimer’s, I’m guessing.’
‘Look, I know I don’t need to say this, but if Harper is a vulnerable adult we’ll have to play this one by the book.’
‘I know. We have it covered. I called Social Services. And not just for him. That kid’s going to need help too.’
There’s a silence and I suspect we’re both thinking the same thing.
It’s quite possible we’re dealing with a child who’s known nothing else – who was born down there. In the dark.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’m leaving now. I’ll be there by noon.’
***
BBC Midlands Today
Monday 1 May 2017 | Last updated at 11:21
BREAKING: Girl and toddler found in cellar in North Oxford
Reports are coming through of the discovery of a young woman and a small child, thought to be her son, in the basement of a house on Frampton Road, North Oxford. Building work is underway next door, which led this morning to the discovery of the girl, apparently locked in the cellar. The girl has not been named, and Thames Valley Police have not as yet issued a statement.
More news on this as we get it.
***
11.27 a.m. At the Kidlington witness suite, Gislingham is watching Harper on the video link. He’s got a shirt and trousers on now, and is sitting hunched over the sofa. There’s a social worker beside him on a hard-backed chair, talking to him intently, and a woman from the Mental Health team watching from a few feet away. Harper seems restless – he’s moving about, jigging one leg up and down – but they can tell, even without the sound on, that he’s coherent. At least for now. He’s eyeing the social worker tetchily, waving away what he says with a stiff and withered hand.
The door opens and Gislingham turns to see Quinn, who comes over, chucks a file on the table and leans against the desk. ‘Everett’s gone straight to the hospital, so she’ll interview the girl as soon as they let us. Eric –’ He flushes. ‘PC Somer’s gone back to Frampton Road to coordinate the house-to-house. And Challow’s gone in with the forensics team.’
He makes a note on the file then tucks his pen behind his ear. The way he does. Then he nods towards the video screen. ‘Anything?’
Gislingham shakes his head. ‘His social worker’s been in there half an hour. Name’s Ross, Derek Ross. I’m sure I’ve come across him before. Any news on when Fawley will be back?’
Quinn checks his watch. ‘About twelvish. But he said we should get started, if the doctor and Social Services are OK with that. There’s a lawyer on her way too. Social worker’s covering his arse. I suppose you can’t blame him.’
‘Belt and braces, eh,’ says Gislingham drily. ‘But they’re sure he’s OK to be interviewed?’
‘Apparently he has lucid intervals and we can question him then, but if he starts to lose it we’ll have to back off.’
Gislingham stares at the screen for a moment. There’s a line of spit hanging from the old man’s chin; it’s been there at least ten minutes but he hasn’t wiped it away. ‘You think he did it – that he was even up to it?’