The Whole Truth

‘I’m sure everything will be OK. It’s a really good hospital. But it’s important I have another look at that notepad.’

‘Is it about Uncle Adam? I like Uncle Adam.’

And from nowhere there are tears in her eyes. ‘I do too. I like him a lot. That’s why I’m trying to help him.’

‘OK,’ says Ben. Nonchalant now, in one of those on-a-sixpence mood changes children always wrong-foot you with. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Can you get your dad to help you take another picture of the same page? And make sure it includes the whole thing? And then could you please text it to this number?’

She repeats it twice and he writes it down, and she tells him how grateful she is, and how Uncle Adam and Auntie Alex will be too, and by the time she puts the phone down she’s crying for real.

* * *

Headington Health and Leisure is behind the parade of shops on the London Road, not far from the ring road. A tired thirties building obviously chosen solely for the size of its car park. They’ve done their best to drag the exterior into the new millennium but it was always going to be a challenge. Inside, though, it’s a different story. The whole ground floor has been gutted, knocked through and fully sleeked-out with state-of-the-art lighting, funky graphics and a health-food café offering chai lattes and vegan quiche.

Gislingham strides up to the reception desk (‘Ask us how we can help you achieve your personal goals’) and flashes his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Chris Gislingham, Thames Valley Police; this is DC Quinn. I believe you have a member of staff here called Ryan Powell?’

The girl at the desk looks completely terrified. She opens her mouth to say something but no sound comes.

Quinn leans on the counter and puts on his affable face. ‘According to your website, Powell has an abs class starting in fifteen minutes. So I reckon he’s probably around here somewhere, don’t you?’

She swallows, shakes her head. ‘No.’

Gislingham’s eyes narrow. ‘What do you mean “no”?’

‘He’s on holiday.’ She’s flushed red now. ‘Malaga. He’s been there two weeks.’

The men exchange a glance, a glance that quickly turns into a frown as they do the math.

‘Two weeks?’ says Gislingham.

She nods.

‘OK,’ says Quinn slowly. ‘So when exactly did he leave?’

* * *

The text pings in and Gallagher almost sends her mobile skittering on to the floor as she grabs at it. She’s just opening up the image when the phone starts to ring. She sticks it on speaker so she can still see the text.

‘Ma’am, it’s Gislingham.’

She’s too distracted to register his tone. His defeat.

She scrolls down, zooms in – it’s there – she’s right – it wasn’t just a random line, it was an arrow –

Gis is still speaking. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. Ryan Powell didn’t abduct Emma. He had nothing to do with it – he’s been in Spain since July 3rd. We’ll double-check he definitely boarded the flight but he’s sent photos to some of his mates at the gym, so I reckon the alibi’s legit.’

A sigh so loud she can hear it, even over the traffic noise.

‘Back to square one.’

‘No,’ she says, finally listening to him properly. ‘No – we’re not. I think you were right about Ryan. I reckon he may well have been the source of the DNA, but he didn’t take Emma to Leamington and he didn’t dispose of her body. Those initials in Alex’s notes? RP isn’t Ryan Powell. RP is someone else.’

* * *

9 July 2018, 10.55 p.m.

‘Did anyone see you?’

The new voice is different. Rougher. Crueller.

‘No. I was careful. I’ve got pretty good at this, you know.’

‘And you know what you have to do when you get back?’

‘Yeah. It’s all set up, just like you said. And I checked – they’re still doing the works on the line. It was going on all night last night.’

‘Nice one.’

There are hands on Emma now, pulling her roughly up and out, scraping her skin against the metal.

She’s upright but she can’t stand straight, she can’t breathe. The urine runs down her legs and she feels herself go hot with shame.

The second man sneers, ‘Oh bless, I think she’s scared. You were right, she’s fucking perfect. I’m going to enjoy this.’

‘Yeah, well, I owed you one, didn’t I. For not letting on I was with you for that Donnelly bird.’

‘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 –’