I take a deep breath. I’d been so sure it was Harper, but then the journal convinced me otherwise, and ever since then I’ve been thinking of Harper as a sad old man exploited by Donald Walsh for his own twisted ends. But he’s not. He can’t be.
‘Actually, sir, I think it’s a lot more complex than that. Harper may be showing signs of dementia now, but three years ago, it would have been a very different story. Look at Vicky’s journal – there’s no suggestion there that the man who imprisoned her was in a vulnerable mental state. I think he knew exactly what he was doing. And yes, Vicky’s resemblance to Priscilla could have been a factor, but not out of confusion. Out of vindictiveness. Out of some perverted idea of revenge.’
‘But didn’t he say he was frightened of the cellar – that he could hear noises down there?’
‘I suspect that’s because the dementia is getting worse. He may even have forgotten the girl was there. That would also explain why the food and water were running out.’
Harrison sits back in his chair. ‘I’m still struggling to get my head round this. On the face of it, Walsh seemed a lot more likely.’
‘I know, sir. I thought so too.’
‘But DNA doesn’t lie. The boy is Harper’s son.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Speaking of DNA, where are you with Gardiner?’
‘We’ve questioned him again. We have the partial fingerprint on the tape and some traces of his DNA on the blanket the body was wrapped in, but it’s all just circumstantial – none of it would stand up in court. Though it appears he may have been violent to the childminder. We’re trying to find out if it’s part of a pattern.’
‘May have been? Haven’t you spoken to her about it?’
‘Not yet, sir. She’s proving hard to track down.’
I see him frown and I curse Quinn.
‘But you’re not ruling Harper out – it’s still possible he committed both crimes – the girl in the cellar and Hannah Gardiner?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s still possible.’
‘And would the CPS pursue a case against him, given his medical condition?’
‘I don’t know – we haven’t got to that stage yet.’
‘But he’s in suitable accommodation, in the meantime?’
I nod. ‘A secure dementia unit near Banbury. Whatever happens, he won’t be going back to Frampton Road. The house will probably end up being sold.’
‘Well, at least the Thames Valley Police will have one satisfied customer.’
‘Sir?’
‘That tosser who bought the pile next door.’
*
I’m starting to get the distinct impression that Quinn is avoiding me, and when I find him sitting in his Audi in the car park, eating a sandwich, I know I’m right.
I tap on the window. ‘Quinn?’
He winds it down, hurrying to finish his mouthful. ‘Yup. What is it, boss?’
‘What are you doing out here?’
‘You know. Lunch.’
I give him a ‘yeah, right’ look, and he does at least have the decency to look sheepish.
‘Have you brought Pippa Walker in yet?’
‘Ah, bit of a problem there, boss.’
So that’s it.
‘What sort of problem?’
‘We can’t track her down.’
I stare at him until he stops chewing and stuffs the sandwich back in its bag.
‘I hear there are these things called mobile phones –’
He colours. ‘I know – but we don’t have the number. The one she gave me is unobtainable. Sorry. Sir.’
I don’t usually get a ‘sir’ from Quinn unless he knows he’s fucked up, so he appears to have decided to take his medicine on the chin. Mixed metaphor, but you get my drift.
‘We took a statement from her in 2015 – there’d be an address on that.’
He nods. ‘Arundel Street.’
‘Well, start round there. It’d make sense she’d go back to somewhere she knew.’
‘Right,’ says Quinn, and starts his engine. ‘Don’t worry. It’s my cock-up. I’ll sort it.’
***
‘PC Somer? This is Dorothy Simmons, from Holman Insurance. We spoke before, about Dr Harper’s collection?’
‘Ah, yes, thank you for getting back to me, especially at the weekend.’
‘I’ve had a look at the photos you sent, and compared them to what we have on file for Dr Harper. And you’re right – they’re definitely some of the same items.’
‘And are they valuable?’
‘Oh yes. When Dr Harper had the collection assessed in 2008 it was worth somewhere in the region of £65,000. In fact, I’ve been trying to get him to have the valuation updated – I was worried he was underinsured. But he never seems to answer his correspondence.’
‘That’s really helpful, Miss Simmons. Thank you.’
‘There was one more thing. I don’t know how significant it is, but Mr Walsh only has some of the netsuke. Some appear to be missing.’
‘Are they particularly expensive ones?’
‘One is. But the rest are probably the least valuable of the lot. I don’t know if that’s significant.’
Quite possibly, thinks Somer. If Quinn’s right and Walsh was only interested in filching the pricey ones. So much for ‘sentimental value’ and ‘family legacy’. But all the same, it does raise one interesting question.
Where are the rest?
***
After a wild goose chase in Arundel Street Quinn’s day is showing no sign of improving any time soon. When he gets back to the station at just gone three, the first person he sees in the corridor is Gislingham.
‘Have you found that bus driver yet?’
Gislingham looks at him. It’s your mess, he thinks, you bloody fix it. ‘No,’ he says out loud. ‘I’ve got stuff to do. My own stuff.’
Quinn runs a hand through his hair. He’s proud of his hair and spends a lot on it. Which pisses Gislingham off even though he knows it shouldn’t. Though the bald patch he’s just started to notice in the bathroom mirror probably has something to do with that.
‘Right,’ says Quinn. ‘Sorry. It’s just I’ve got Fawley on my back.’
Yeah, but not half as much as you would if he knew the truth, thinks Gislingham.
He turns to the coffee machine and pretends to be debating between the cappuccino and the latte and chooses what he always has (which tastes the same as all the rest anyway). Then he turns to face his DS.
‘Look, I’ll help you out when I can, all right?’
Quinn looks at him; half of him wants to bawl Gis out, the other half is reminding him that he owes him. The second half wins.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘OK. Thanks.’
***
‘So do you think you’ll be able to get back to them by close of play Monday?’
Alex Fawley switches her mobile from one hand to the other. It’s one of her colleagues, chasing something for their most important client which should have been sent by Friday afternoon. Alex has been trying to avoid having to hand the case over to her assistant, but juggling her workload and a toddler isn’t easy; it was bad enough when it was Jake, but now –
‘Alex?’
‘Sorry. I was just checking the diary. Yes, that should be fine.’
She must sound distracted though, because he asks her again; his doubt is audible.
‘You’re sure? I mean, we can always –’
‘No, no. Really. It’s fine.’
There’s a crash then, from the other room. And a wail that spirals into a shriek.
‘Jesus, Alex, what the hell was that?’
‘Nothing – nothing. I have decorators in. They must have dropped something. Look, I’m sorry, Jonathan, but I have to go. I’ll have the documents to you in plenty of time, I promise.’
***