All the Rage (DI Adam Fawley #4) - Cara Hunter Page 0,4

– a girl’s been found in a distraught state on the Marston Ferry Road. It looks like she may have been attacked.’

I signal to pull over into a lay-by and pick up the phone. ‘Sexual assault?’

‘We don’t actually know that. But to be honest, right now, we don’t know much at all.’

I can tell something’s off, just from her voice. And if there’s one thing I know about Ev, it’s that she has good antennae. Good antennae, and not enough confidence in them. Or herself. Something for Gislingham to pick up when he gets back from that HR course of his.

‘There’s something bothering you, isn’t there?’

‘She was found with her clothes torn and muddy and evidence that her hands had been tied –’

‘Jesus –’

‘I know. She was apparently in a terrible state but the point is she refused to go to either the police or the doctor. She made the minicab driver who found her take her straight home and told him she didn’t want it reported. Which, thankfully, he ignored.’

I poke about in the glovebox for some paper and ask her to repeat the address in the Lakes. And if you’re wondering how you missed all that standing water when you did the Oxford tourist tour, there isn’t anything larger than a pond for miles. The Lakes is a 1930s housing development in Marston. People call it that because there are so many roads there named after them: Derwent, Coniston, Grasmere, Rydal. I like to think some long-ago town planner was homesick for the fells, but Alex tells me I’m just being Romantic.

‘Do we know the girl’s name?’

‘We think it could be Faith. The cab driver said she was wearing a necklace with that on it. Though it might just be one of those “Live Love Life” sort of things. You must have seen them.’

I have. But not on Ev, that’s for sure. As for the cabbie, it seems he wasn’t just public-spirited but observant too. Wonders will never cease.

‘According to the electoral roll there’s a woman called Diane Appleford resident at the address,’ she continues. ‘She moved there about a year ago, and there’s no criminal record, nothing flagging anywhere. But there’s no Mr Appleford – or not one living with her, at any rate.’

‘OK, I’m only about ten minutes away.’

‘We’re just turning into Rydal Way now, but we’ll hold off going in till you get here.’

The Appleford home is a neat bow-fronted semi, with a paved front garden and a low wall made of those square white bricks that look like stencils. Our next-door neighbours had exactly the same when I was a kid. What with that and the frilly nets in the window the house looks landlocked in 1976.

I see Somer and Everett get out of their car and come down the road towards me. Everett is in her standard combo of white shirt, dark skirt and sensible mac, though the bright-red scarf is definitely her little rebellion. Somer, by contrast, is in black jeans, a leather jacket and high-heeled ankle boots with fringy bits around the back. She doesn’t usually dress like that at work, so I’m guessing she was at the boyfriend’s this weekend and hasn’t been home. She flushes slightly when she sees me, which makes me even more convinced I’m right. She met him when we were working on the Michael Esmond case. The boyfriend, I mean. Giles Saumarez. He’s in the job too. I can never quite decide if that’s a good thing.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ says Everett, hoisting her bag a bit higher on her shoulder.

I reach into my pocket for a mint. I carry handfuls of the bloody things now. Stopping smoking is a bastard, but it’s non-negotiable. And by that, I mean between me and myself; I didn’t wait for Alex to ask.

‘Is that a good idea?’ says Somer, eyeing the sweet. ‘With the teeth, I mean.’

I frown for a moment and then remember that’s where I told them I was this morning. The dentist’s. The universal white lie of choice. It’s not that the baby is a secret – people will have to know eventually. It’s just – you know – not right now.

‘It was OK,’ I say. ‘I didn’t need anything doing.’

I turn to Ev. ‘So anything more before we go crashing in?’

She shakes her head. ‘You know as much as we do.’

The woman who opens the door has dried-out blonde hair, white sweatpants and a white sweatshirt with Slummy Mummy written on it. She must be mid-forties.