‘Well, it wasn’t your fault I got framed. And no bloody use both of us getting banged up, either. At least that way you could keep an eye on the kids.’
The click of a lighter, an intake of breath. ‘Talking of which, I got a text from your Ryan. He says Malaga’s even hotter than here.’
‘Blimey, he must be roasting his arse. But it was good timing, him being out of the way. Even Thames fucking Valley can’t fit him up for this if he’s in sodding Spain.’
A long exhalation. ‘You’re overreacting, mate – they’ll never make the connection. No way.’
‘All the same, you don’t think Ryan cottoned on, do you? About the gym? I mean, I wouldn’t want him to think –’
A quick laugh. ‘Nah, no risk of that, bless him. Right little goody-two-shoes, that one. It was as much as I could do to get him to sign me into that place on the QT. He was crapping himself just doing that.’ A laugh now. ‘Shitting hell, Gav, that Fawley is a tedious fucker. Takeaway Friday, shopping Saturday, gym four times a week, same time, same days, even the same fucking machines. Jesus.’
‘Don’t knock it – made it easier to get hold of the stuff, didn’t it?’
Another laugh. ‘Like shooting fish in a fucking barrel.’
‘Right,’ says the second man. Emma feels his grip tightening on her shoulder. ‘So, fancy joining the party? Once more for old times’ sake?’
‘Nah, mate, this one’s all yours. I’ll go for a fag – keep an eye out.’
‘Fair enough. But don’t hurry back. I’m planning to take my time. Reckon I deserve it, don’t you?’
The sound of footsteps now, and then he’s shoving her forward and pushing her face into the hot, dry grass.
* * *
* * *
‘There were two of them?’
Gislingham’s at Gallagher’s desk, staring at the screen on her phone, his sodden suit soaking the seat; behind him, Quinn’s obsessively smoothing his hair, rain still running down the back of his neck.
Gallagher sits forward. ‘I listened to episode four of that podcast – the one Alex highlights. It was an interview with Alison Donnelly. She was very articulate, very clear. She said she was raped once, then her attacker came back a few minutes later and raped her again. She says he was different that time. More violent. More brutal.’ She sighs. ‘She had a plastic bag over her head. She couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear properly. And in any case, he never spoke. She had no way of knowing that the second time it was a completely different man.’
‘Jesus,’ breathes Gislingham. ‘Why the hell wasn’t this picked up in ’98?’
Gallagher shrugs. ‘There was no DNA, nothing to suggest Parrie had an accomplice. And as far as I can tell, he didn’t – apart, that is, from that one time. And those questions Alex is asking? She’s bang on. I’ve had a look at the file. He was questioned, but they were more interested in establishing if he could provide Parrie with an alibi than whether he had one himself. Which, as it turned out, he did. At least for the last victim. He’d gone up to see his mum in Coventry, so there was CCTV at the railway station and a time-stamped ticket. There was no way he could have attacked that last girl, so he just got scrubbed from the list. No one even thought to ask where he was the night Alison Donnelly was raped. No one, that is, till now.’
‘Sorry,’ says Quinn, stopping mid-gesture. ‘Am I missing something? If RP isn’t Ryan Powell, who the hell are we talking about?’
She looks up at him. ‘Robert Parrie. Known to his family as Bobby. Gavin Parrie’s little brother.’
* * *
‘I don’t know what you think you’re going to find. I don’t do drugs and I’ve got no booze.’
He’s leaning against the doorway, arms folded, elaborately casual, but there’s an edge to his energy and a wariness in his eyes.
A uniformed officer is in the tiny bathroom, going through the pedestal cupboard, and a female sergeant is in the bedroom checking the chest of drawers. The bedding has been stripped and piled anyhow on the floor, along with the entire contents of the wardrobe. Which isn’t much. A couple of pairs of jeans, some T-shirts, a hoodie. There’s a shelving unit on the other wall, but it’s empty; no books, no photos, no personal items. The room barely looks lived in.
‘Look at that bloody mess. Fucking invasion of privacy, that’s what this is.’
The woman glances up. ‘You’re on licence, Parrie,’ she says briskly. ‘Random searches are part of the deal. And we don’t need to ask your permission. You know that.’
She whisks the drawer shut and goes over to the bedside table. In the bathroom, the officer is on his hands and knees, squinting up into the pipework under the basin.
Parrie’s eyes narrow.
* * *
They know there’s someone in because the windows are open and there’s music coming from inside. The Rolling Stones. Loud. Like so many other houses in this part of Cowley, the front garden is concreted over, thick now with the mud and litter washed in by the day’s floods. There’s a wheelie bin with the lid open, a crate of empty lager cans, a white van parked out front.
RP Plastering – No Job Too Small
* * *
‘Sarge? Think we may have something here.’
The officer is gesturing up at the inside of the cupboard. The sergeant shoots Parrie a look, then goes over to the bathroom and crouches down to see for herself.
‘Well, well, well,’ she says. ‘What do we have here, then?’
It’s so small, so watchfully hidden, that no casual observer would even see it. The small ziplock bag taped carefully to the back of the U-bend. But these are not casual observers. And they knew exactly what they were looking for.
Parrie takes a step back towards the door but there’s an officer barring the way.
An officer who wasn’t there five minutes before.
The sergeant peels the bag away from the pipe and gets back to her feet. You can see now what’s inside. The piece of white tissue carefully folded, as if what it contains is precious and needs to be kept safe.
She unzips the bag and slowly opens the paper out, hearing the gasp from her colleague when he realizes what it is.
A silver hoop earring, the metal spotted here and there with dark stains.
And coiled beside it, a single strand of long blonde hair.
* * *
‘It took a while because he went all the way to Banbury to cover his tracks, but we’ve got it now, in black and white. Bobby Parrie picked up a dark-blue Ford Mondeo on Saturday 7th July and returned it, already valeted, three days later. Uniform are on their way to pick it up.’
‘So we’re good to go, ma’am?’
There’s some crackling on the line now, but Gallagher’s voice is loud and clear. ‘You’re good to go.’
The two men exchange a look and then, in silence, get out of the car and walk up the path.
The man who answers the door has a beer bottle in one hand and a tea towel chucked over his shoulder. Dark hair, hazel eyes, a ready smile. A smile that quickly hardens.
‘Robert Craig Parrie?’ says the man on the step, holding out his warrant card. ‘DC Tony Asante, Thames Valley; this is DC Farrow. We’re here to arrest you.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
16 July 2018
19.09
I don’t know how I got my legs to move – that poor bloody PC was half carrying me by the end. The people we passed in the wards must have thought I was the one in danger – I was the one who needed medical attention. And perhaps I do, because by the time we get to the delivery room it feels like my chest is breaking open – all I can see is a blur of people in gowns and hairnets – all I can hear is the beating in my skull –