2.05 p.m.
On the call, DC V. Everett
VE: I just wanted to have a quick chat with you about one of your former pupils, Mrs Davidson. Just for some background. The surname is Appleford?
JD: Oh yes? Has there been some sort of problem?
VE: Not exactly –
JD: Because I’d be surprised if either Daniel or Nadine had got themselves into trouble with the police.
VE: [pause]
It’s nothing like that, Mrs Davidson. And it’s not about Nadine. It’s about Daniel. Both were at your school, I believe?
JD: That’s right. Mrs Appleford was keen to move to Oxford, but it made sense to wait until Daniel sat his GCSEs.
VE: What was your impression of him?
JD: I wish we had more like him, if you really want to know. Hard-working, polite, well-mannered. A credit to the school.
VE: How did he get on with his peers? Was there anyone he had trouble with?
JD: Oh, nothing like that, he was very popular. Much more so than Nadine, who, between ourselves, can be rather touchy. Though she’s the brighter of the two, if only she’d buckle down and apply herself. But you know what kids that age are like – any sort of academic aptitude is some sort of curse. Sport is different, of course –
VE: Was Daniel good at sport?
JD: No. In fact, as far as I could tell he did everything he could to avoid PE in all its forms. But he wasn’t particularly unusual in that. Changing rooms, showers, puberty – it can be a nerve–racking combination for any teenager. No, sport definitely wasn’t his thing, but he was hugely talented in other ways.
VE: You mean the design stuff?
JD: Yes. He was exceptionally good at art from Year Seven on. My colleague in the art department said Danny was the most gifted student she’d seen in over ten years.
VE: So studying fashion was a natural progression?
JD: [laughs]
Absolutely – he had his heart set on that long before he chose his GCSEs. You may laugh, but I genuinely thought we might have the next Alexander McQueen on our hands.
* * *
Adam Fawley
3 April 2018
14.55
I promised Challow I’d talk to Harrison. And I will. Just not yet. There’s someone else I need to see first.
I pull up outside a solid brick and flint house a few miles outside Abingdon. Open fields, a high hedgerow and a line of distant trees that marks the river. For as long as I worked for him it was Alastair Osbourne’s dream to retire to the country, and last time I came here Project Picket Fence was well underway. Climbing roses, herbaceous borders, the lot. The place looks a lot less loved now, but then again, it’s hard to make anything look that wonderful on a grey April afternoon, even if you do have a lot of time on your hands.
I rang ahead so he knew I was coming but he still looks frazzled when he opens the door. He has a mug of tea in one hand and a tea towel over his shoulder.
‘Adam,’ he says distractedly, as if he expected me and yet was still taken on the hop. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘You’re sure it’s not a bad time?’
There’s a flicker across his face at that, which I don’t immediately understand.
‘No, no, not at all,’ he says. ‘It’s just, well, one of those days.’ He steps aside to let me in. ‘Viv’s in the conservatory. She likes to be able to look at the garden.’
That phrase alone should have told me something, but I’m too wound up about what I’m about to say to hear it. Which is why I’m so entirely unprepared for what I see, when I follow him through to the back. Vivian Osbourne, avid fell walker, former bank manager and no-nonsense Girl Guide leader, is by the window. She has a rug over her knees and a large black cat curled asleep on her lap, but she’s sitting in a wheelchair. I falter a moment then try desperately to pretend I haven’t.
‘MS,’ she says, her voice a little halting but still the Viv I remember. ‘The bastard.’
‘I’m sorry – I didn’t know.’
She makes a face. ‘Well, we haven’t exactly been putting announcements in the Oxford Mail. It’s been pretty shitty, to be honest, but we’re getting there. Finding a way forward.’
Osbourne puts the mug he’s holding on the table next to her. ‘Will you be OK in here for a bit if I take Adam into the kitchen?’
She flaps her hand at him with a dry