The Whole Truth Hunter, Cara (motivational novels for students TXT) 📖

Honda Civic.

AA: Colour?

HC: Black.

AA: Registration?

HC: [pause]

I don’t know. Not offhand. I rarely drive it.

PB: I’m sure we can supply details of the car, if required.

GQ: But you drove it last night?

HC: Like I said –

GQ: Yes, I know what you said.

AA: One of Emma Smith’s neighbours saw a dark-coloured saloon parked outside her door at about nine o’clock last night. She doesn’t recall seeing the car before.

HC: Well, it certainly wasn’t mine.

GQ: You didn’t go and see Ms Smith? Perhaps you thought you could get her to change her mind? Let you have a kid after all?

HC: a) I wouldn’t have demeaned myself by going cap-in-hand to some council nobody who was only going to say no anyway, and b) even if I had wanted to, I didn’t know her bloody address. Capeesh?

AA: You could easily have followed her home from work. You were seen on the Iffley Road –

HC: Buying wine –

GQ: I thought you said you didn’t buy any?

HC: You know what I mean –

GQ: So what time did you leave the house for this run of yours?

HC: About 8.30. There or thereabouts.

AA: And what were you wearing?

HC: What do you think I was wearing? T-shirt, shorts, trainers.

AA: The ones we retrieved from the house? The white T-shirt and black shorts, and the Nike trainers?

HC: I already told you that.

GQ: How long did you run for?

HC: I don’t know, 20 minutes?

GQ: That’s a long round trip for such a short run – half an hour there, half an hour back –

HC: Are you checking my petrol consumption now?

GQ: So by my calculations you’d have got home about ten.

HC: Something like that.

GQ: Your wife will confirm that, will she?

HC: She’d bloody well better.

AA: Did you see anyone while you were running, speak to anyone?

HC: I was running. It’s not a bloody social club.

Interview interrupted by DS David King and DC Simon Farrow.

DK: Stop the recording, this interview is now suspended.

GQ: What’s going on?

DK: Mr Cleland will be returned to the custody suite, pending further investigations, and forensic test results.

HC: What, overnight? In the fucking cells? You can’t do that –

DK: Oh, I think you’ll find we can.

GQ: Is someone going to tell me what the fuck’s going on?

DK: [smiling]

Afraid that’s above your pay grade, DC Quinn.

* * *

Sent:Tues 10/07/2018, 19.05Importance: HighFrom:DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.ukTo:CID@ThamesValley.police.uk, AlanChallowCSI@ThamesValley.police.uk, Colin.Boddie@ouh.nhs.ukcc:DIRuthGallagher@ThamesValley.police.uk

Subject: Case no 75983/02 Smith, E

This is to inform you that DI Gallagher’s team will be taking on this case with immediate effect.

It has been brought to my attention that Ms Smith was a friend of my wife, so it is not appropriate for me to continue to direct the investigation.

For the record, I knew Ms Smith only as ‘Emma’. I met her very infrequently, usually at my own house but also once at her flat. DI Gallagher is fully aware of the circumstances.

I know you will give DI Gallagher’s team your full cooperation.

AJF

Adam Fawley

Detective Inspector, CID, Thames Valley Police

St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford OX1 1SZ

* * *

Adam Fawley

10 July 2018

20.49

It’s nearly nine by the time I get home. I feel like shit, and it’s going to get worse before it gets better. Alex is at the door to meet me before I’ve had time to turn off the engine. Even in the warm light from above the door her face looks wan.

‘Thank God you’re home,’ she breathes as I slide my arm around her shoulders.

‘Are you OK? Has something happened? Have you seen that van again?’

‘No. Not today.’

She knows it’s what I want to hear; that doesn’t mean it’s true.

She tries to laugh it off. ‘And like you said, he’s wearing a tag. I’m just imagining things. Overreacting. Blame the hormones.’

‘You’d tell me though, wouldn’t you? If you’d seen anything? Anyone odd hanging around?’

She frowns, wondering where this is coming from.

‘Of course.’

I follow her into the kitchen and sit down heavily at the table. She’s fussing about now; it’s not like her.

‘Actually,’ she says, reaching into the fridge, ‘there was something I wanted to talk to you about –’

She straightens up, turns, sees my face. ‘What’s wrong?’

She knows – of course she knows. We’ve been married a long time.

I take a deep breath. ‘Have you seen the local news today?’

She shakes her head with a sad little laugh. ‘I never watch that stuff. Every time I see something dreadful I assume you’re right in the middle of it.’

I draw her towards me. ‘This time I’m afraid it’s true.’

I feel her stiffen. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A body was found on the railway line last night. By Walton Well bridge. I’ve only just found out who it was.’

‘What do you mean, a body – what are you talking about?’

‘I’m so sorry, Alex. It was Emma.’

She stares, then sways, and I reach out to steady her.

‘Sit down, please. You’re as white as a sheet.’

She gropes for a chair, lowers herself into it as if she’s in pain.

‘Emma?’ she says, her voice half breath. ‘No, no, that can’t be right – I only just spoke to her –’

I’ve seen this so many times. ‘But I saw them last week.’ Or last month, or last night. They say the cycle of grief starts with denial, but in my experience it’s less that than sheer bewildered disbelief.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say softly. ‘Her parents came. It’s definitely her.’

She frowns. ‘Didn’t you just say the railway line? What the hell was she doing there –?’

‘Alex –’

‘Was it an accident?’

I let the silence lengthen, speak for me. ‘No. It wasn’t an accident.’

‘Oh my God, are you saying she killed herself?’ There’s a gasp but it isn’t just the shock. She has her hand to her side.

‘Alex – what is it?’

I’m on my feet now but she’s pushing me away, rejecting my hand.

‘It’s just Braxton Hicks – I’ve been having them all day.’

‘Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’

She shakes her head, trying to smile it off, but her breath is shallow and there’s sweat along her upper lip.

‘Alex – you’re thirty-five weeks, for God’s sake –’

And now she’s clutching her side