Hope to Die

Adam Fawley

21 October

21.15

‘So what do you think? I know Ben’s really young to be a godparent, but if it hadn’t been for him –’

I load the last of the supper plates and straighten up. Alex is watching me from the other side of the kitchen. She looks a little apprehensive, though I don’t know why: she can’t really think I’d say no.

‘Of course – I think it’s a great idea.’

There’s a photo of Ben and Lily stuck to the fridge behind me; his small face managing to look thrilled and nervous all at once, because he’s never held a baby before and is clearly terrified he’s doing it all wrong. It was Ben – our eleven-year-old nephew – who phoned the ambulance when Alex went into premature labour and there was no one else in the house. Certainly not me. I didn’t even know it was happening. Because I was in the cells at Newbury nick, twelve hours and counting from a rape and murder charge. I’m not about to go into all that again – I’m guessing you know already, and if not, I’m sorry, but I’ve tried damned hard, these last few weeks, to stop obsessing about it. Let’s just say that I have two people to thank for being here right now, stacking my dishwasher rather than slopping out a cell. One of them is my wife; the other is Chris Gislingham. Gis who’s in the dictionary under ‘dependable’; Gis who doesn’t know it yet but will be needing to get his wedding suit cleaned, because when Lily is christened in a few weeks’ time, he’ll be standing up next to Ben as her other godfather.

And right on cue there’s a crackle on the baby monitor and I can hear the little breathy snuffling noises of my daughter waking up. She’s a miraculously sunny child – hardly ever cries, even when she needs changing. She just gets this bemused look on her little face, as if surely the world isn’t supposed to work that way. The rest of the time she lies there in her cot, smiling up at me and kicking her tiny feet and breaking my heart. She has her mother’s blue-lilac eyes and a soft down of her mother’s dark auburn hair, and even though I’m as biased as the next new dad, when people tell us how beautiful she is I just think, Hell, you’re right, she bloody is. Beautiful, healthy and, more than anything, here. Against all the odds, after losing Jake, when we thought our last chance was gone –

‘I’ll go,’ says Alex. ‘She’s probably just hungry.’

Which is mother code for ‘so you wouldn’t be much use anyway’. She touches my arm gently as she goes past and I catch a drift of her scent. Shampoo and baby milk and the butter-biscuit smell of her skin. In the last few months of her pregnancy Alex looked haunted, like someone locked on the brink of terror. But that last day, the day Lily was born, something changed. She found herself again. Perhaps it was the hormones, perhaps it was the adrenaline; who knows. Alex has never been able to explain it. But it was the old Alex who worked out where the evidence against me had come from, and made sure, even as they were lifting her into the ambulance, that a message got through to Gis. The old Alex I have always loved, the old Alex who laughed and was spontaneous and stood up to people and could out-think pretty much everyone I know, including me. I didn’t realize it until much, much later, but a daughter wasn’t the only gift I was given that day; I got my wife back too.

* * *

Transcript 999 emergency call

21.10.2018 21:52:08

Operator 1: Emergency, which service do you require?

Caller: Police, please.

Operator 1: Connecting you.

[Ringing tone]

Operator 2: Go ahead, caller.

Caller: I’m at Wytham [INAUDIBLE 00.09] may be in trouble.

Operator 2: I’m sorry, I didn’t catch all of that – can you repeat?

Caller: It’s that big house on Ock Lane [INAUDIBLE 00.12] heard something.

Operator 2: You’re at Ock Lane, Wytham?

Caller: Well, not exactly – the thing is [INAUDIBLE 00.15] definitely sounded like it.

Operator 2: You’re breaking up, sir –

Caller: My phone’s about to die [INAUDIBLE 00.17]

Operator 2: You want the police to attend – Ock Lane, Wytham?

Caller: Yes, yes –

[Dial tone]

Operator 2: Hello? Hello?

* * *

‘According to Google, this is the place.’

PC Puttergill pulls on the handbrake and the two of them peer out of the window. It may have ‘Manor’ in its name but it’s actually just a farmhouse, though to be fair, a pretty hefty one – a gravel drive, a five-bar gate and an old mud-spattered SUV parked outside an open barn. It looks quiet, private and a little run-down, as a certain type of old-money home so often does. What it certainly doesn’t look like is a place where bad things happen.

‘What did the control room say again?’

Puttergill makes a face. ‘Not much, Sarge. The line was bad and they couldn’t hear half what he was saying. When they tried to call back it just went to voicemail.’

‘And who lives here, do we know?’

‘Couple called Swann. Pensioners. They aren’t answering the phone either. Though they should be expecting us – the station left a message.’

Sergeant Barnetson gives a heavy sigh, then reaches into the back seat for his cap.

‘OK,’ he says, his hand on the door handle, ‘let’s get on with it.’

They trudge up the drive, the gravel crunching beneath their feet, puffing white in the cold air. They can almost feel the temperature dropping; there’ll be ice on that SUV by morning.

The front door has a wrought-iron carriage lamp and a fake-old bell you pull like a lavatory chain. Barnetson makes a face; it’ll be bloody horse brasses next.

They hear the bell ringing deep in the house, but despite the light in one of the upstairs windows there are no signs of life. Puttergill starts stamping to keep warm. Barnetson rings again, waits; still nothing. He takes a couple of steps back and looks up at the first floor, then gestures to Puttergill.

‘Can you try round the back? I’ll wait here.’

It’s so quiet he can hear Puttergill’s feet all the way along the side of the house. A distant knock, a ‘Hello, anyone in?’, a pause. And then, suddenly, the sound of running and Puttergill appearing round the corner and slithering to a halt in a spatter of gravel.

‘I think there’s someone in there, Sarge – on the floor – it’s too dark to see much but I reckon they could be injured –’

Barnetson strides up to the door but even as he stretches out to knock there’s a crunch of bolts being drawn back and the door swings open. The man on the step is late sixties or early seventies, slightly stooped, an angular and bony face. He’s wearing the sort of threadbare cardigan that keeps for thirty years if you look after it, as he evidently has. He doesn’t look like someone bad things happen to, either. In fact, as Barnetson is already concluding, Puttergill must have got the wrong end of the stick: no one with a casualty in their kitchen could possibly look as composed as this.

‘Yes?’

His vowels are more clipped than his hedge.

‘Mr Swann, is it?’

The man frowns. ‘Yes?’

‘Sergeant Barnetson, PC Puttergill, Thames Valley Police. We had a call from a member of the public. They thought you might be in need of assistance.’

There’s something on the man’s face now. Irritation? Surprise? His glance flickers away. He doesn’t, Barnetson notes, ask them what the caller said or why they thought something was wrong. ‘I think,’ he says heavily, ‘you’d better come in.’

He heads off into the house and the two officers exchange a glance. There’s something, obviously, but clearly nothing that drastic, and certainly not a corpse. So, what? Break-in? Some sort of minor domestic?

The hall is paved with quarry tiles. There’s a rack of wellington boots, hooks with waxed jackets and tweed caps, a line of musty watercolours running along the wall, most of them hanging skew. Somewhere upstairs a loo is flushing. Barnetson glances back at Puttergill, who shrugs and makes a mental note to suggest a tea-stop at the garage on the bypass on the way back: it’s not much warmer inside than it was out.

‘It’s in here,’ says Swann, gesturing forward. They round the corner after him, two steps down and into the kitchen.

Thirty seconds later Puttergill is stumbling blindly out of the back door and throwing up what remains of his lunch over the crazy paving.

* * *

‘So they think it went well?’

Everett tries to catch Somer’s eye, but she’s just staring at her hands.

The ward around them whirrs with hospital white noise. Bright nurse voices, rattling trolleys, the swish of curtains on metal rails.

‘Erica?’

Somer looks up and takes a heavy breath. ‘As far as I know.’

‘But they caught it really early, right? That’s what they said – before – when –’

Before, when Somer was told she had a malignant tumour on one of her ovaries. She makes no answer to Ev’s question, leaving all the others festering in the air, unasked.

Somer starts to fiddle distractedly with the plastic bracelet round her wrist. Her mouth is trembling with the effort not to cry.

Ev reaches for her hand. ‘What about your mum and dad? Have they been in?’

Somer bites her lip and shakes her head. ‘I can’t face seeing them. It’s bad enough –’

The sentence dies. Ev suspected as much. And she gets it – the last thing Somer needs right now is a deluge of parental sympathy, however kindly meant. But Somer has a sister too – and a boyfriend. Where are they?

Somer glances up, reading her mind.

‘Kath’s in Washington.’

There’s a silence. A silence filled with Giles.

Giles who loves Somer; Giles who for some reason was being shut out, even before Somer’s diagnosis. Ev doesn’t understand it. She didn’t then and she doesn’t now.

She sighs. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Why don’t you call Giles? He doesn’t even know you’re here, does he?’

The tears spill over now, but Somer makes no move to brush them away.

Ev feels bad even sparing a thought for him – Somer’s situation is so much worse. And it’s not just this – there’s a looming disciplinary process at work that’s been put on hold for the time being but isn’t going to go away. Giles deserves some pity all the same, though: the poor bastard must be wondering what he did wrong.

She gathers her courage and opens her mouth to say something.

But at that exact moment there’s a ping from her phone.

* * *

The kitchen is filling up with people now as the CSI team start to arrive, led by Alan Challow, dragged from his Sunday-night TV supper and evidently none too pleased about it.

‘Mindhunter,’ he says, though no one actually asked. ‘Funnily enough, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen a fatality like this one done properly,’ he says, nodding towards the corpse. ‘Most of those TV people just don’t have the balls.’

Nina Mukerjee glances across from the other side of the kitchen table, where she’s unpacking her forensic kit. ‘Well, can you blame them? I mean – look at him.’

Because it’s not balls this victim is missing. He’s on his back, legs twisted, the wall behind a detonation of blood and bone and brain matter, and a dark stain spreading from his flung arms like some sort of macabre snow angel.

There’s the sound of voices at the front door. Barnetson makes a face. ‘The suits,’ he says. ‘Right on cue.’

The sergeant may be irritated at having to hand off to CID but Puttergill only looks relieved. He’s spent the last half-hour hugging the open window, taking deep breaths and answering in monosyllables.

‘What have we got here, then?’ It’s Gareth Quinn, filling the low doorway. Barnetson gives a non-committal grunt. Quinn isn’t just a suit, he’s a Hugo Boss bloody suit. Too flash, too smart-alecky, too prone to cut corners. And no one has any right to look that chipper at this time of the night, not at a scene like this. But as Barnetson well knows, it was only a couple of weeks ago that Quinn got his stripes back: this will be his first murder as a re-minted DS, so small wonder he’s so keen. The DC following a few steps behind looks a good deal more apprehensive. Barnetson hasn’t come across him before, so he must be a transfer in. Probably his first job in plain clothes. Green as grass, he thinks. Though not as green as Puttergill, who looks ready to throw again.

‘This is DC Hansen,’ says Quinn to anyone who’s interested. ‘Asante’s replacement.’

Barnetson remembers now – there was talk about it at the station in the summer, back when Fawley was arrested. Something about Asante coming up with evidence against him and Gislingham not wanting to work with him after that. Seems Gis got his way, though given that Asante’s ended up in Major Crimes he’s hardly likely to be complaining. And from what Barnetson’s seen, Fawley’s been bending over backwards to make it clear that, as far as he’s concerned, he has no quarrel with Asante. So as at now Fawley has two DSs on the same team, which is a challenge at the best of times, never mind when one of those is Gareth Quinn with a point to prove.

Hansen looks round the room, making discreet eye contact with anyone who looks up. Barnetson gestures towards the corpse. ‘Hope you didn’t get takeout on the way here,’ he says drily.

Hansen flashes him a wry grin. ‘No such luck.’

‘So what have we got?’ asks Quinn, moving across to the corpse.

Challow looks him up and down. ‘As any competent detective would know, DS Quinn, there’s no bloody point wearing protective clothing unless you put the hood up.’

Quinn flushes a little, then runs his hand back through his hair so it lies flat before yanking up the hood. Barnetson sees Hansen suppress a smile. He’s a quick study, that one.

‘And in answer to your question, what we have is a shotgun to the face at close range. Though a smart chap like you has probably deduced that already from the rather telltale absence of a head.’

‘Any ID?’

‘Nothing in his pockets. No wallet. No phone. On the other hand, you can at least tick the box on the murder weapon.’

There’s a gun on the kitchen table, an old-fashioned one with a polished wooden handle. But there’s something else as well. Mukerjee hasn’t started numbering the evidence yet, but Quinn doesn’t need a plastic marker to know this is important. A knife, still clutched in the dead man’s hand. A knife with blood along the blade.

* * *

Adam Fawley

21 October

22.51

‘Apparently the old man admitted it straight up.’

I can hear voices in the background, which accounts for Quinn’s super-competent ‘I’ve got this’ voice. I could have gone to the scene myself but decided to let him run with it. Only I’m wondering now if that was a mistake. For a start, I can’t remember the last time we had a shooting in Oxford. But it’s not just that: Quinn’s sent me the photos. Something about this isn’t sitting right.

I glance up at Alex and give her that look she knows so well. The ‘shit I’ve got to go in and it’s bound to take all night’ look. But she just smiles.

‘It’s fine, don’t worry. It’s part of the deal.’

Part of the deal if I’m going for Chief Inspector this year. We’ve talked about it, on and off, for ages. But then there was Jake, and then there was the baby and the Gavin Parrie case coming back to haunt us, and it was never the right time. Until – perhaps – now. But it’d be a big change. Maybe even back to Uniform for a bit. Not much more money, and much less hands-on too, even if I do stay in CID. But after twenty-mumble years in the force, and at my age, I need to decide pretty damn soon if I’m happy staying put, and if not, if I’ve got enough ambition – and, frankly, energy – to try to move up. Though as Harrison has already told me, in that ponderous ‘I’m giving you great advice here, lad’ tone of his, ‘Chief Inspector is a stepping stone, Adam, not a place to get stuck.’ So if I go for it, I’m going for Superintendent. And trust me, that is a Big Deal.

Alex touches me lightly on the arm; she knows what I’m thinking. Always. ‘Like I said, it’s OK. Just try not to wake me up when you get back.’

I pull her close and kiss her hair, feeling her body soften against me. ‘Don’t hold me to it.’

‘Promises, promises,’ she murmurs, her lips on mine.

* * *

They told Ev that Gantry Manor would be hard to find, but that was before half Thames Valley turned up and parked out front. The house is lit up like a filmset by the time she gets there, the air throbbing with blue light. The neighbours would be having a field day. If there were any.

Quinn’s at her car door before she even opens it.

‘Evening, Sarge,’ she says with a smile.

Quinn’s eyes narrow; he’s pretty sure she’s taking the piss (which she is), but if he wants the rest of the world to acknowledge his rank he can hardly call her out on it.

‘You’re just in time – I’m about to take the suspect down to the station to be processed. Fawley’s meeting me there.’

She glances across to where two uniformed officers are helping a tall elderly man into the back of a squad car. He has plastic bags taped around his hands.

‘What have we got?’

‘Fatal shooting.’

She nods; hence the bags.

‘Householder told Uniform it was self-defence.’ Quinn cocks his head towards the man. ‘He claims the vic broke in and threatened them.’

Ev frowns. ‘But you don’t believe him?’

Quinn raises an eyebrow. ‘Let’s just say he has a few questions to answer. Starting with why the hell they didn’t call 999.’

* * *

Somer turns over and pulls the blanket closer around her. She’s never had a talent for sleeping, and this is the perfect storm. The scratchy bed, the incessant just-too-loud-to-ignore noise and, even more raucous, the drone inside her own head. The questions she knows Ev wanted to ask – the questions she’d have been asking herself if their positions were reversed. Will she need chemo? Has the cancer spread? Can she still have children? Probably, probably not, and unclear, in that order. But there’s little comfort in any of it. The prospect of chemotherapy terrifies her, and the idea that in some notional happy future world she might actually have a baby is a bad joke.

She curls up tighter, pushing away the pain. The real pain and the Giles pain. She’s written to him, torn it up, written again, and even six or seven versions later she still hasn’t sent the poor, scaled-down, barely comprehensible message she ended up with. She was going to ask Ev to post it – she swore to herself she would – but somehow that never happened either. It was all too hurried at the end – Ev rushing off to her busy police life. She’d looked embarrassed, as she left, as if she was worried Somer might envy her. But she didn’t. She doesn’t know what exactly she felt, but she knows it wasn’t that. The job and all it used to mean seem very long ago and very far away. A long-dead life where she was sharp and ambitious and incisive and professional, and perhaps, in some parallel world, still is. She’s oppressed, suddenly, by the thought of that light-hearted, uncancered Erica stalking her for the rest of her life, doing all the things she would have, could have, should have done. Though her new numbness does have at least one advantage: the disciplinary procedure still hanging over her has lost all power to panic. A shit treated her like shit and she gave as good as she got. If Thames Valley want to fire her for that, then fuck it, she’ll do something else. Though what, and how, and when, are yet more questions she has neither the energy nor interest to address.

* * *

Margaret Swann is in what she’s referred to as the ‘drawing room’, with a uniformed female officer for company. This part of Gantry Manor must be older than the rest – the ceilings are lower, the windows smaller. There’s an inglenook fireplace, a piano draped with a tablecloth, dried-flower arrangements, too much furniture. It all adds up to a distinct run-down country pub feel, which isn’t helped by the string of horse brasses over the hearth. It must be ten years since Ev saw any of those.

Swann is sitting in the corner, a tiny thin woman, all bones and sharp edges. Her hair is an unnatural orange-brown, with a hairslide to one side which makes her look like a withered eight-year-old. She has her arms wrapped around herself as if she’s frozen with cold, though the log burner’s been restoked and the room is warm. It’s probably shock, thinks Ev. Even if she didn’t see the body, having something like that happening in your own kitchen – Jesus. They’re going to have to replace the lino for a start; that stain is never going to come out.

‘Can I get you something?’ Ev says. ‘Tea?’

The old woman huffs a little and shakes her head. She doesn’t look up. The officer exchanges a glance with Ev. A glance that says, ‘I didn’t get very far either.’

Ev moves over and takes a seat on the sofa. ‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions, Mrs Swann? I know you’ve been through a terrible experience, but it’s really important for us to take statements from witnesses as soon as possible.’

The woman looks up. ‘Where’s your senior officer? I’m not wasting my time with some WPC.’

‘I’m a Detective Constable, Mrs Swann. We don’t have WPCs any more. And DS Quinn is busy with your husband.’

‘Where is he? What have you done with him?’

Ev sits forward. ‘He’s been taken to St Aldate’s.’

Her eyes widen. ‘The police station? What on earth for? He hasn’t done anything – that man – that person – he attacked Richard – in our own home –’

Whoa, thinks Ev. One step at a time.

‘There’s no need to be alarmed, Mrs Swann. It’s just that in circumstances like these there’s a procedure we have to follow.’

She lifts her chin, defiant. ‘We’re the victims here, young lady.’

It’s a good ten years since anyone called Ev that, either. She takes a deep breath. ‘I understand how you feel, really I do, but until we’ve questioned your husband –’

‘He broke in here, he broke the law –’

‘Mrs Swann, a man is dead.’

There’s a silence. Ev holds the woman’s gaze until she looks away, then clears her throat. ‘So, perhaps we could start by you telling me exactly what happened here tonight.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

22 October

00.16

Quinn’s waiting outside when I pull into the St Aldate’s car park, shifting from one foot to the other. He manages to stop himself looking at his watch, but it must have taken a supreme effort.

‘Sorry, I got held up.’

He gives a non-committal nod. ‘He’s been processed. For murder. So ready when you are.’

‘Lawyer?’

‘No. He was offered one but turned it down. We’re good to go.’

‘OK, Sergeant, let’s get him brought up, shall we.’

The lighting in Interview One is unforgiving at the best of times, but at this time of night it’s positively funereal. Perhaps that’s why, when they bring Swann in, the first word that comes to mind is Death. He’s not quite the Grim Reaper, but only just this side of cadaverous all the same. I’m guessing he was at least six-four as a young man – he’s taller than me even now, despite the stoop. He has a stark hooked nose, piercing eyes and an uncertain stride, though the custody-issue overalls could well be responsible for that. He also has a cut to his right palm.

He takes his seat, sits back slowly, then raises his gaze and gives me a long, cold look.

‘So who would you be, then?’

* * *

Margaret Swann takes a deep breath. ‘We heard a noise downstairs. Someone moving about.’

‘Did the alarm not go off? You have one, don’t you?’ Ev remembers seeing the box on the front of the house, its red bulb flashing.

Margaret Swann sniffs a little. ‘We don’t set it. Not unless we go away. It’s too fiddly – always going off by mistake and making that dreadful blaring noise. Richard said the security light would be enough to put people off.’

Not this time, evidently. Though Ev makes a note, because the old man’s right – house thieves are almost always opportunistic and surprisingly easily deterred; in all her time on the Burglary team she never saw a break-in at a house with a closed gate or a functioning alarm.

‘And what time was this?’

A shrug. ‘Nine thirty. Around then anyway. I like to read in bed in the winter.’

So there would have been a light in an upstairs window, at least. And in any case, how many burglars would risk breaking in that early in the evening? Ev frowns; Quinn was right. This isn’t adding up.

‘And your husband? He was in bed too?’

‘Yes. He was watching the television.’

‘So you hear a noise, then what?’

* * *

Interview with Richard Swann, conducted at St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford

22 October 2018, 12.37 a.m.

In attendance, DI A. Fawley, DS G. Quinn

GQ: For the purposes of the recording, Mr Swann has been arrested on suspicion of murder after a fatal shooting at his home, Gantry Manor, Ock Lane, Wytham, on the evening of October 21st 2018. Mr Swann has been apprised of his rights, and has declined a solicitor at this stage. He is aware he can ask for legal representation at any time.

OK, Mr Swann, let’s start by hearing your version of events.

RS: My wife and I were in bed and heard a noise downstairs. I remember it was just after 9.30 because my television programme had just started.

GQ: What sort of noise did you hear? Breaking glass? Something like that?

RS: No. It was more like someone moving about. When you’ve lived in a house for a long time you get to know the noises. It was obvious there was someone downstairs.

GQ: Why didn’t you call 999? That would have been safer, surely?

RS: In case you haven’t noticed, we’re some way from the nearest police station. By the time anyone got there the culprit would have been long gone. Assuming, of course, that you people bothered coming out at all. And for the record, since you’re bound to ask, I was going to call you. I was on the point of doing so when those two uniformed chappies turned up.

GQ: Right. So to return to the sequence of events, you heard an intruder, and you decided not to call the police but go down and confront him yourself, even though you’re – what? – in your seventies?

RS: Seventy-four. And I’m fully entitled to defend both myself and my property. I know my rights -

AF: What you’re entitled to, Mr Swann, is the use of ‘reasonable force’. What is, and is not, ‘reasonable’ is determined by the level of threat confronting you at the time. That’s what we’re trying to establish. Especially given the fact that the man you shot was found not only dead but – quite literally – with his back to the wall. That doesn’t strike me as the stance of an aggressor.

RS: [silence]

Like I said, I heard the noise and went downstairs. I told Margaret to stay where she was.

GQ: I assume there were no lights on downstairs at this point?

RS: No, none. But I could hear him – he was in the kitchen.

GQ: He was in the kitchen, even though he must have known there was next to no chance there was anything valuable in there?

RS: We keep cash in a tea caddy. People our age often do. I assume that was what he was after.

GQ: OK, fair enough. So you go through to the kitchen, and – what? – confront him?

RS: Right.

AF: What did you say?

RS: [turning to DI Fawley]

I told him to eff off. To get the hell out of my property and not come back. Pointed the gun at him.

GQ: And what happened then?

RS: He laughed – called me ‘Grandad’. Said I didn’t scare him and it was probably just an effing air gun. Then he came at me with that knife. That’s when I shot him.

AF: And he ended up by the wall?

RS: Evidently. I can’t tell you any more than that. It all happened very fast.

AF: But you still maintain you were in fear of your life?

RS: He was three feet away from me, and at least forty years younger, and he had a weapon. Of course I was in fear of my life.

AF: You could tell his age? You just said the ground floor was in darkness.

RS: There’s a security light at the back of the house, and the kitchen blinds weren’t drawn. There was easily enough light to see it was a young man.

AF: Did you recognize him?

RS: Never seen him before in my life.

AF: There hadn’t been any strangers hanging round the house lately – people who might have been checking out the property?

RS: Of course not – we’d have phoned the police. That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it?

GQ: So according to you, the shooting was an act of self-defence?

RS: Not ‘according to me’, it’s what happened.

[holds up his hand]

You can see that with your own eyes. And you have the knife. What more do you need?

AF: Thank you, Mr Swann. You’ve been very clear.

[silence]

RS: So is that it? I can go?

AF: Where’s the gun kept?

RS: What?

AF: It’s a simple enough question, Mr Swann.

* * *

‘So, your husband goes downstairs, leaving you in the bedroom. Can I ask why you didn’t call the police? Or if not the police, someone else who might have helped – a family member, a neighbour?’

An arch look. ‘There’s no telephone in our bedroom. And I don’t have one of those mobile things. I don’t want brain cancer, thank you very much.’

‘And you stayed upstairs? You didn’t see anything?’

Margaret Swann shakes her head. ‘No. Nothing at all.’

‘What did you hear?’

She frowns. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You’ve clearly had no problem hearing me so far, Mrs Swann. I can’t believe you didn’t notice a shotgun going off in a silent house.’

* * *

RS: I keep my gun in an appropriately secured safe. And before you ask, I have a permit, and it’s fully up to date.

GQ: Yes, we’ve already checked that.

[passes across a sheet of paper]

This is a plan of the ground floor of your house, yes?

RS: [hesitates]

Yes – though I don’t know where you got that from –

GQ: I asked one of our forensics team to do it for me. Could you show me, on this diagram, exactly where the gun safe you mentioned is located?

* * *

Margaret Swann looks irritated, as if she’s dealing with a halfwit. ‘Of course I heard the gun go off.’

‘And did you hear anything else? Voices?’

A pause. ‘I think I heard Richard shouting something before the shot. But I couldn’t hear what it was.’

‘And then what happened?’

‘I went out on to the landing and called down to Richard – I was frightened – I thought he’d been shot. But he came out of the kitchen straight away and told me to stay upstairs. I didn’t come down until you people came.’

‘How did he look – your husband?’

That was clearly unexpected. ‘Shocked,’ she says, after a moment. ‘As you would expect.’

‘So you must have been able to see him pretty clearly – if you could see his expression?’

She shifts in her seat. ‘Clearly enough, obviously.’

But no mention of blood. Not on his face, not on his clothes, even though the kitchen was an abattoir.

Ev allows the silence to lengthen a little, makes another note, and then looks up. ‘Where are your husband’s nightclothes, Mrs Swann?’

* * *

GQ: Thank you for confirming that, Mr Swann. The gun safe is indeed in the cellar. You see, that’s what we’re struggling with.

RS: [silence]

GQ: Because we tried it. There’s no way you could have gone down there without putting on the light. Not to mention the fact that the cellar door makes quite a racket.

RS: [silence]

GQ: So you’re asking us to believe that you managed to open that door, put on the light, go down and retrieve the gun and come back up, all without the intruder noticing what you were up to?

RS: [silence]

AF: You can see why we find that troubling.

RS: I think I’d like to speak to my lawyer now.

GQ: You will now be returned to the cells. You should also be aware that, given the nature of the possible charge, we will be seeking authorization from a magistrate to hold you for up to 96 hours, pending further enquiries. Interview concluded at 12.57.

* * *

Margaret Swann is not blinking. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘When our uniformed colleagues arrived, Mr Swann answered the door in a shirt and cardigan, and a pair of slacks. But you said he was watching television in bed. So where are his nightclothes?’

‘What difference does it make?’

Oh FFS, thinks Ev. I don’t believe you’re that stupid. But if you want me to spell it out, I’ll spell it out.

‘If someone’s shot at that close a range, it causes a huge amount of damage. Explosive damage. Body matter is flung in all directions.’

Swann looks revolted.

‘So you can appreciate why I’m asking about your husband’s clothes. His dressing gown, pyjamas, whatever it was he was wearing. Because one thing’s for sure – it wasn’t that cardigan and slacks.’ She stops and leans forward, stressing the point. ‘They’d have been literally drenched in blood spatter, brain tissue –’

Swann turns away, squares her shoulders a little. ‘I put them in the wash.’

Ev can hear the gasp from the officer behind her, and she’s a hair’s breadth from doing the same herself.

‘You washed them? Even though you must have known it would be crucial evidence in the police inquiry?’

Swann makes a non-committal noise that manages to convey an equal measure of indifference and disdain.

Ev glances back at the officer. ‘Can you check the washing machine, please, and get everything in there bagged up? Assuming CSI haven’t done so already.’

The officer nods and heads for the door. Ev returns to Swann. ‘Is there anything else you haven’t told me, Mrs Swann?’

Swann has her hand to her chest now, her breath rasping. She makes no move to reply.

‘So let’s get this straight. Your husband shot and killed someone, you didn’t call the police to report it, either before or after it happened, and in the meantime did everything you could to eliminate the evidence. You do realize that alone is a criminal offence?’

Swann turns to face her. There’s a flush to her cheeks. ‘I’d like you to call my doctor, please. I’m beginning to feel unwell.’

* * *

Oxford Mail online

Monday 22 October 2018 Last updated at 07:24

BREAKING:

Fatality after ‘serious incident’ at Wytham

Thames Valley Police have confirmed that an unnamed person lost their life as a result of a ‘serious incident’ at Wytham last night, after residents reported a significant police presence in the area around 10.30 p.m. Officers and vehicles remain on-site at an isolated property on Ock Lane, on the outskirts of the village.

The precise nature of the incident has not been made public, with the Thames Valley Police statement confirming only that ‘Officers attended a property in Wytham on the evening of October 21st, after a serious incident which regrettably resulted in a fatality. Anyone with information about this incident should contact Thames Valley CID on 01865 0966552, or call Crimestoppers in confidence on 0800 555 111.’

More news on this as we hear it.

* * *

Adam Fawley

22 October

08.15

‘OK, settle down, everyone. There’s a lot to get through.’

I guess it’s no surprise there’s a buzz in here this morning. Like I said, people don’t get shot in this town. And certainly not by septuagenarians.

Quinn’s on whiteboard drill. He was hyper enough last night, and he’s giving off so much energy now he looks like a Ready Brek kid. Sorry, showing my age on that one. Google it – you’ll see what I mean. Gis is here now, too, so we’re going to get our first real-life run-up at that division of responsibilities we talked about back when Quinn was first reinstated. It was all very sensible and grown-up, and Quinn was bending over backwards to be positive and reasonable. Only that was then, when all we were dealing with was a couple of muggings and some petty drug-dealing. But now there’s a body, and a possible murder charge, and Quinn’s going to grab all he can get. I know that, and Gis knows that, and right now Gis is the one I owe.

I look round the room again and wait for the noise to settle. There are three new faces here: one replacing Asante, one covering for Somer and one more who’s just arrived today on secondment from PVP (and before you think I’ve gone all Line of Duty acronyms on you, that stands for Protecting Vulnerable People. From domestic violence and child abuse to modern slavery. It can be a brutal brief and you have to be tough to hack it). We’ve been a pretty tight-knit team these last few years so this is a lot of new blood in one hit. But hey, maybe that’s a good thing.

‘Right, before we start, for those of you who haven’t worked with me before, we have two DSs on this team, DS Quinn and DS Gislingham. On a big investigation like this we’ll work to the standard model of a Receiving DS, who collects and reviews evidence, and a Resourcing DS, who allocates tasks based on what we find. In this case it makes sense for DS Quinn, who was on-scene last night, to take on the former, while DS Gislingham will do the latter. Is that clear? Speak now or forever hold your peace.’

A couple of nervous laughs (the newbies) and some intrigued side glances at Quinn (old hands, like Ev).

‘OK,’ says Quinn, as I sit back down, ‘this is where we are right now. The incident took place at approximately 9.45 last night, at Gantry Manor, Wytham, home of Richard and Margaret Swann. There was a 999 call from a member of the public at 9.52 but there were problems with the phone line so at that stage the operator wasn’t clear exactly what we were dealing with. Turns out it was that.’

He gestures at the photos pinned to the board. They’re not for the faint-hearted. I, for one, am very glad I don’t do cooked breakfasts.

‘As you can see, the vic had been shot in the face at close range, and as at now we have no idea who he is. There was nothing on the body and – to state the bleeding obvious – no chance of any sort of visual ID either. Both the Swanns are claiming he broke into the house and Richard Swann says he threatened him with a knife when he went downstairs to confront him. There’s some damage to the back door and Swann has quite a deep cut on his right hand. A blood-stained knife was also recovered at the scene, still in the dead man’s hand.’

He pauses, looks about. ‘So, on the face of it, their story makes sense. Only it doesn’t end there. Not by a long way. Because we had a rush job done on those prints and they are not, repeat not, in the system.’

A ripple round the room now.

‘As we all know, it’s extremely unlikely that a habitual housebreaker wouldn’t already be in the system. So either we’re looking at a complete rookie who got unlucky, or –’

‘– he’s bloody good and has never been caught,’ finishes Baxter grimly.

Quinn looks across at him. ‘Which I don’t buy. Not for a nanosecond. He wasn’t even wearing gloves, for Christ’s sake. And there’s no evidence he went looking for stuff to nick – there are no prints anywhere else downstairs. Even if we believe Swann’s cock-and-bull story about him being after the money in the tea caddy it makes no odds – there were no prints on it.’

‘More to the point,’ says Gis, ‘there are none on the back door either, even though, as DS Quinn just said, the so-called intruder wasn’t wearing gloves. And yes, I suppose he could have wiped the door down as soon as he got inside – hands up anyone who reckons that’s a runner?’

No one moves.

‘Which leaves us,’ says Quinn, ‘with rather a lot of questions.’

He takes two strides to the flip chart and flicks over the top sheet. He was clearly in the office even earlier than I thought. I spot a smile curl Ev’s lips and see her nudge Baxter and mouth, ‘Here’s one I prepared earlier.’

QUESTIONS

1 WHY DIDN’T THE SWANNS CALL 999, IF NOT BEFORE THE SHOOTING, THEN AFTER?

NB 35 MIN DELAY BETWEEN WITNESS 999 CALL AND UNIFORM ATTENDING – PLENTY OF TIME FOR THEM TO CALL 999 THEMSELVES

2 WHY DID RS CHANGE HIS CLOTHES? (FOUND IN WASHING MACHINE)

3 HOW DID RS GET THE GUN FROM THE SAFE IN THE CELLAR WITHOUT INTRUDER NOTICING? (SEE FLOOR PLAN)

WAS THE GUN NOT IN THE SAFE? ← WHY NOT SAY THAT UPFRONT?

4 IF THE INTRUDER WAS THREATENING SWANN HOW DID HE END UP WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL?

Quinn turns and looks round the room. ‘Me and the boss interviewed Swann last night, but we didn’t get a satisfactory answer to any of these questions. As soon as we pressed him on the gun he clammed up and asked for a lawyer.’

Quinn’s clearly getting a head of steam on this, and he has a point – more than a point. But we can’t afford tunnel vision. But before I can say anything, Chloe Sargent pre-empts me. She’s the one on secondment from PVP. Petite and blonde and soft-spoken, but bright too, and a lot tougher than she looks. She’d have to be, not just in PVP, but working this job at all, with a surname like that.

‘I know it looks bad,’ she says. ‘I mean, none of us would act the way the Swanns did. But they aren’t police officers. They’re an old couple, in the dark, with a stranger in the house.’

‘They’re a bit odd too, if you ask me,’ says Ev, backing her up. ‘At least, based on what I saw last night. And very private. I bet they don’t get many visitors.’

‘Right,’ says Sargent. ‘I can easily see someone like Mr Swann panicking in those circumstances, but then it all goes wrong – the gun goes off and he panics again and makes things worse by trying to cover it up.’

I like the way she thinks. It’s almost like having Somer here. Almost.

‘There’s no way of knowing, DC Sargent,’ I say, seeing her blush slightly that I know her name. ‘And I have to say I’m as sceptical as DS Quinn right now. But – and this is important, people – even if the Swanns are their own worst enemy, it’s still quite possible they’re telling the truth, even if not the whole of it. As DC Sargent said, they’re elderly people in an isolated house with someone they don’t know – possibly armed – in their kitchen.’

‘You sound like a defence barrister,’ says Ev drily.

I turn to her. ‘Exactly. And that’s how we need to think. Unless and until.’

OK, I know, I do say that quite a lot. Ev’s not the only one trying not to smile.

I nod to Quinn. ‘Sorry, Sergeant. I interrupted.’

He looks up, checks his tablet. ‘Right, yeah, so, next up, Mrs Swann. She was interviewed at the scene by DC Everett, and basically claimed she was upstairs the whole time. But when Ev asked her why she’d stuck the old boy’s jim-jams in the wash she pulled a sicky, so we had her taken to the JR. Better safe than sorry blah blah blah.’

He turns to Ev. ‘Anything to add on that score?’

‘I rang the ward just now and they kept her in for observation,’ says Ev. ‘Not for the first time, by all accounts – apparently she’s been in there at least four times in the last eighteen months, though they were a bit cagey about telling me why without authorization. But I’ll check in again later and see if she’s up to talking. Though given the way she reacted last night, it might be best to send someone other than me. As in, a man with a badge. The bigger the better.’ She stops, smiles. ‘I mean the badge, obvs.’

There’s a flurry of laughter and Gis is grinning, but Quinn’s still playing it absolutely straight.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘So in terms of next steps, the PM is this morning, and we’re hoping for initial results on the forensics early this afternoon, and we also need to talk to the –’

OK, I think, time for me to intervene. To Gis’s immense credit, his face is completely impassive, but he knows as well as I do that we’re now straying well on to his turf.

‘Thank you, DS Quinn,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘That was an excellent summary. DS Gislingham will now allocate tasks for today.’

I don’t wait around to referee the next bit. I have things to do, and Gis has been managing Quinn for months; it’s down to him now.

* * *

‘Ah, Ichabod Crane, I presume,’ says Colin Boddie, surveying the corpse. The body has been stripped and laid out on the table, but there’s only a scatter of teeth and skull fragments where his head should be. The recovered brain matter is on the trolley, a gravelly bright-red sludge in a gleaming stainless-steel basin.

The CSI technician glances up from the other end of the table. ‘You do know Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman are two different people, right?’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ says Boddie tetchily, flushing a little under his mask. ‘Don’t be so literal, Giddings. It’s just a little light humour to start the day.’ He pulls on his gloves and gives the technician a heavy look. ‘One for that Instagram account of yours.’

Now it’s the CSI’s turn to flush – they’ve been posting Boddie’s special brand of mortuary humour on @overheardinthemorgue for months, but they didn’t realize Boddie knew.

‘So,’ says Boddie briskly, logging that as a win, ‘shall we get started?’

* * *

When Gis divvies up the tasks, Ev gets Gantry Manor. She gets Hansen too, who immediately offers to drive – an offer she politely but firmly refuses. She made the mistake of going to Eynsham with Baxter once and it was Country & Western all the way. Hansen looks more like an R & B man to her, but you can’t be too careful, not in such a confined space.

It’s a fine, clear morning, and with the trees on the turn it should be a pretty drive, as well as a useful chance to get to know Hansen a bit better. He was at Cowley for a couple of years before transferring to CID, but their paths never crossed and she knows nothing about him beyond that. She spent the odd idle moment trying to work out what his backstory might be, given neither his accent nor surname gave much of a clue, then overheard someone in the canteen one day mention that though he was born and brought up in Bristol, his father is Swedish and his mother Vietnamese. Which explains the glossy black hair, the blue eyes and the amazing bone structure. Ev’s also pretty sure he’s gay, but until he mentions it, she won’t be.

He certainly doesn’t mention it in the car, but in the half-hour they spend together she finds him funny, thoughtful and – praise the Lord – a cat-lover (which has never yet failed her as an indicator of decency in the male half of the human race). He obviously knows what he’s doing professionally too, judging by the one or two questions he asks about Gis’s briefing. So far, so good. It’s not that she had a problem with Asante, but one thing you could never accuse him of was being a team player.

When they pull up outside Gantry Manor there’s crime-scene tape across the gate and a young PC fending off a couple of journalists. But that’s all: both the weather and the location are on their side – it’s too far and too chilly for casual nosey parkers.

They leave the car on the side of the lane and make their way up to the house. Three uniformed officers in high-vis jackets are doing a fingertip search of the garden, supervised by a visibly tetchy Barnetson, his nose red with the cold, who tells them in terse tones that it has been, thus far, ‘a complete waste of bloody time’.

Their own mission, thankfully, is not only indoors but rather more likely to yield results. ‘Fawley wants us to get a feel for the Swanns,’ Gis had said as they left. ‘What sort of people they are. Neither of them will be there so take the opportunity to have a poke about in their dirty washing. And I do mean literally.’

‘But be careful,’ says Ev, as she sends Hansen off to the sitting room. ‘Make sure you leave everything exactly as you found it. I don’t reckon much gets past Margaret Swann.’

There are four bedrooms upstairs, two of them under dust sheets, and one little more than a box room, with a single bed and a faded candlewick counterpane. Though the stack of John le Carré paperbacks and half-empty packet of Rennie suggest it’s rather more than just a guest room.

There’s a lot more clutter in the master bedroom – more dried flowers, china ornaments of milkmaids and chubby Victorian urchins, an ancient TV and an old free-standing wardrobe rammed tight with flannel shirts, A-line skirts, sensible shoes and, at the far end, a dinner jacket and a dark-coloured evening dress in dry-cleaner bags that don’t look like they get out much.

There’s nothing on Richard’s side of the bed but Margaret’s more than makes up for it. A white plastic jewellery box, full water glass, wind-up alarm clock and a framed photograph of what must be the Swanns on their wedding day. Ev picks it up; Richard has slicked-back hair and a vague resemblance to the young Prince Philip, though that might just be the height; Margaret’s in a shiny high-necked ruffled dress that doesn’t look very comfortable.

Ev puts the picture frame back down but manages to jolt the table in the process, spilling some of the water. She reaches into her pocket for something to mop it up, hearing her mother’s voice berating her for her clumsiness. But something about the spill makes her pause, then raise the tissue slowly to her face. Well, well, well, she thinks. Who’d have thought.

When she goes back down she finds Hansen working his way methodically round the sitting room, taking notes and photos.

‘Anything?’ asks Ev, glancing round herself. She was in here last night, but it was too rushed and too gloomy for a proper look.

Hansen makes a face. ‘Not much, to be honest. They read the Telegraph and the Mail, they don’t have anything other than terrestrial TV and as far as I can tell they don’t have any kids, either. Though they did once own a brown cocker spaniel.’ He nods across at a now-yellowing photo in a pale-green papier-mâché frame. Benjy it says, in ornate, sentimental lettering.

Ev shivers a little. Even in her coat, it’s cold in here. The log burner has long since gone out and there’s evidently no central heating.

‘Just storage heaters,’ says Hansen, reading her mind. ‘I didn’t think you could still get those.’

‘They’ve probably been here since the 1970s,’ says Ev grimly. ‘Rather like the Swanns.’

Hansen smiles briefly. ‘Actually, according to one of those property market sites, the house last changed hands in 2005.’

Well, thinks Ev, they didn’t buy it as a do-over, that’s for sure. She doubts it’s even been redecorated; surely no one in their right mind would have actually gone out and bought this carpet.

‘Do we know where the Swanns were before?’

‘No. Sorry. I can try and find out?’

Ev shakes her head. ‘It’s not a high priority. That far back, it’s hardly going to make a difference.’

* * *

There’s nothing Somer likes about hospital, but visiting times are definitely the worst. She doesn’t actually want people coming and seeing her in this state, but everyone else assumes there’s no one here because she’s Billy No-Mates. She’s had enough surreptitious and/or kindly looks to last her a lifetime.

So when the pretty, sympathetic nurse comes over with a smile and announces she has a visitor, her heart sinks. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and poor Ev isn’t likely to be rushing back after the welcome she got last time –

‘Hello, Erica.’

Seeing him for the first time in all these weeks, and her breath catches painfully in her chest. She’d started to forget what a beautiful man he was. Is. The blue of his eyes. The smile that would catch her unawares and flip her heart. But he’s not smiling now.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Not said in anger. In sadness. Incomprehension.

She looks away, her eyes filling with tears.

‘I didn’t tell anyone.’

But Giles knows that’s a lie. He must do – otherwise how is he even here? Someone must have told him. Ev? Kath?

‘Your sister rang me. She’s worried about you. Especially with her being stuck in the US.’

So it was Kath. Kath who will be even more worried now she’s found out that Giles knew nothing about any of it. Giles – who Kath would have assumed was being the most tremendous support, because that’s the sort of man he is.

‘Can I sit down?’

And that’s the sort of man he is too. A man who doesn’t presume. Who doesn’t turn up with grapes because that’s just such a cliché. Who doesn’t bring flowers either because he knows that might be overwhelming.

She nods. They sit in silence. She can feel the eyes on them. That kind nurse who’s just glad someone’s come to see her; the women visitors who are envying her having a man like that; the other patients wondering why this bloke hasn’t turned up before. Or perhaps she’s imagining it. Perhaps no one else has even noticed.

‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

She can feel her lips trembling. ‘Not really.’

‘When are they letting you home?’

She shrugs. Easier than talking.

She’s trying to avoid looking at him. At the hurt in those sad blue eyes.

‘Look, I understand now. Why you were – well, you know. I get it. I just want to help. If you want me to.’

He reaches a hand across the bed, tentative, towards hers.

* * *

At the back of Gantry Manor, Clive Conway is on his hands and knees on the step, examining the door.

‘Mind yourself,’ says Conway distractedly as they approach, his voice muffled by his mask. ‘There’s still puke on those slabs.’

Hansen makes a face and looks down at his feet; he’s wearing rather nice shoes.

‘What have you got?’ asks Ev.

Conway straightens up. ‘Well, someone definitely jemmied this door. Pretty cack-handedly, in my opinion, but it did the job.’

Ev looks up at the security light on the wall a few feet away. ‘They wouldn’t have been put off by that? It was pretty bright last night when I was here.’

Conway shrugs. ‘Evidently not.’

Ev turns back to the door, her face thoughtful. ‘But it would be easy to stage this, wouldn’t it? If that’s what you wanted to do?’

Conway clearly hadn’t anticipated that, but takes it in his stride. ‘Yes,’ he says, after a moment. ‘Like I said, I’d hardly call this a professional job. Pretty much anyone could have done it. Probably not the old dear, admittedly, but the husband, definitely.’

Ev is silent, staring at the door.

Hansen frowns. ‘You think that’s what they did? Faked it?’

Ev’s turn to shrug. ‘I don’t know. I just think we need to keep an open mind. At least until we get the results back from the lab.’

Conway nods slowly. ‘Well, it would explain one thing, that’s for sure.’

Ev looks up at him. ‘As in?’

‘As in, if it really was your vic who did this door, what sort of tool did he do it with? And, rather more to the point, where the hell is it now?’

* * *

Swann’s lawyer is old school. A heavy Harris tweed jacket, well-worn tie, well-shined shoes. He looks like he’s just walked straight out of a gracious Georgian office on Woodstock High Street, which perhaps he has.

Gis shows him into Interview Two, where Richard Swann is waiting, babysat by Chloe Sargent.

‘Good morning, Mr Swann,’ says Gis briskly, taking his seat and gesturing to the lawyer to do the same. ‘I won’t bother asking how you slept.’

‘I assume this won’t take long?’ interjects the solicitor. ‘I have another meeting I need to get back to.’

‘It’ll take as long as it takes,’ says Gis genially. ‘The sooner we get a full account of what happened last night, the better it will be for all of us. Including your client.’

Swann looks up, his eyes beady under his heavy brows. ‘I’ve already told you. What part of “he broke in” do you not understand?’

Gis grins. ‘No, the big picture is pretty clear. It’s the little picture I’m a bit hazy on.’

Chloe Sargent suppresses a smile.

‘But before we begin,’ he continues, ‘I need to remind Mr Swann that he remains under caution, and that this interview is being recorded. As he was advised last night, he does not have to say anything, but anything he does say may be used in evidence, and it may harm his defence if he does not mention when questioned something which he later relies on in court. We’re all clear on that?’

He looks at the two men opposite: Swann hesitates then nods; the lawyer checks his watch and opens his notebook with a sigh.

Gis reaches for the recording machine. ‘Interview commenced at 11.35, those present, DS Chris Gislingham, DC Chloe Sargent, Mr Richard Swann and Mr Timothy Unwin, Mr Swann’s lawyer.’

He turns to Swann. ‘So, let’s start at the beginning, shall we?’

* * *

Telephone interview with Jonathan Martin

22 October 2018, 11.39 a.m.

On the call, DS G. Quinn

GQ: Ah, Mr Martin, Detective Sergeant Quinn, Thames Valley. Glad I finally got through – we’ve been struggling to reach you.

JM: Sorry about that – I’ve been on the motorway – the phone was off. What’s up?

GQ: I believe you made a call to the emergency services at 9.52 last night, is that right?

JM: Yup, I was up near Wytham Hill.

GQ: And what were you doing there? It’s a pretty odd place to be at that time of night.

JM: Not if you’re a photographer it’s not. I was hoping to get some shots of the Orionid meteor shower. The weather conditions were damn-near perfect, and I needed somewhere elevated without much light pollution. Hence, Wytham.

GQ: Right, OK, so can you talk me through what happened? The 999 operator didn’t get much by way of detail.

JM: Yeah, sorry about that, my battery gave out. I’d been listening to a podcast on it and didn’t realize. Bloody thing. Why can’t you carry a spare like you used to? They just want you to keep on buying new models –

GQ: Mr Martin?

JM: Sorry – right – I was just putting my kit together when I heard it. A bang, like a gunshot.

GQ: You’re sure – you recognized it?

JM: Well, I don’t own a gun, but I’ve watched enough crime stuff on telly. And whatever it was, it had to come from that house – it’s the only one for miles.

GQ: And you called 999 immediately? I’m just trying to get a fix on the timings.

JM: Yes, pretty much straight away.

GQ: You didn’t go down to the house? Didn’t you think they might need help?

JM: I couldn’t – there was a bloody great electric fence in the way. I did hang about for a bit, you know, to make sure the police did actually turn up, but then I saw the old boy come outside and he looked fine, so I realized they must be OK –

GQ: You saw him?

JM: Yeah. Sorry, I should have said.

GQ: And you could tell how old he was?

JM: Well, I had my telescopic with me, and the night-sight, so yeah, it was pretty easy to see.

GQ: What was he doing?

JM: I think he was taking out some rubbish – he was holding a plastic bag.

GQ: What sort of bag?

JM: You know – one of those black refuse ones.

GQ: Did it look full? Heavy?

JM: Hard to tell, but he definitely wasn’t struggling with it. I remember thinking that he must’ve shot a rat or something, and he was getting rid of it.

GQ: So he comes outside – what happened then?

JM: He went down the garden with the bag.

GQ: You’re absolutely sure about that?

JM: Oh yeah. He went across the lawn and disappeared into the trees.

GQ: And did he have the bag with him when he came back?

JM: No idea, I’m afraid. I stopped watching after that. I mean, it was obvious there was no harm done. I was a bit embarrassed, actually – if the phone hadn’t died I’d have called you back and told you not to bother –

GQ: Have you not seen the news this morning?

JM: No – like I said, I’ve been on the road –

GQ: That shot you heard – it wasn’t just a rat that got killed.

JM: [pause]

Someone died?

GQ: Afraid so. You didn’t see anyone arrive at the house by any chance? Before the shot, I mean. You were probably in the vicinity at the time.

JM: No, like I said, I was there for the Orionids – it was only after the shot that I focused on the house. Shit –

GQ: We’ll need you to come in and make a formal statement.

JM: Sure, of course. But hang on a minute, this whole thing – it makes no sense – if someone had just been shot, what was the old boy doing pissing about in the garden?

GQ: Right now, Mr Martin, that is the million-dollar question.

* * *

Safe to say, Ian Barnetson has had more enjoyable days. It’s the worst kind of weather for this sort of palaver. Heavy with damp and a vicious chill that grits your bones, no matter how many layers you put on. As his team assemble on the gravel outside Gantry Manor for the second time in a few hours, they look as demoralized as he feels, stamping their feet and breathing gusts of painful cold air.

‘OK,’ he says, trying to get some authority, if not enthusiasm, into his voice. ‘Let’s just get this over with as quickly and efficiently as we can, shall we?’

One of the PCs mutters something under his breath, but not quite quietly enough.

‘And yes, Grover, you’re right,’ says Barnetson, fixing him with a stare. ‘I don’t see how we could have missed it the first time either. But what we know now, and didn’t know then, is that “it” actually exists. Richard Swann was seen out here with a black plastic bag after the shooting took place. A black plastic bag that isn’t in the bins, hasn’t been burned and wasn’t put out for recycling, which by a process of elimination means it must be up here somewhere. So we’re looking for any areas where the soil looks like it might have been disturbed. And if we don’t find anything in the garden, we’re going to widen the search to the woods at the back and the paddock down this side, that all right with everyone?’

Murmurs of ‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Right. Simmons and Anjali, you start at the back; Grover, you’re with me.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

22 October

13.45

‘How are you feeling now, Mrs Swann?’

She’s staring resolutely out of the window, even though the only thing visible is grey sky. And I know she saw us arrive. There’s just the one chair by the bed, and Baxter gets the short straw.

She still hasn’t acknowledged my presence, so I pull my warrant card from my jacket. I don’t usually bother doing routine interviews like this, but after what Ev said at the meeting I decided pulling rank may actually haul something out of this woman. And then Quinn called when I was on the way here and told me we have a witness. A witness who actually saw Richard Swann after the shooting. That’s a line of questioning his lady wife won’t be expecting.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Adam Fawley,’ I say. ‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer on this case. This is my colleague DC Andrew Baxter.’

She looks across, sniffs, and turns away again. Baxter didn’t even merit a glance.

I drag the chair out, making as much noise as possible and earning myself a disapproving tut from one of the nurses.

‘Your doctor said you were well enough to speak to me, so I’m hoping you’ll be able to give us some more details about what happened last night.’

‘Where’s my husband?’

‘He’s being interviewed by my colleague. He has a lawyer with him.’

She lifts her chin and looks away. ‘He’s done nothing wrong.’

I nod to Baxter, who gets out his notebook.

‘So perhaps you could tell me your version of what happened?’

Maybe I put a little too much emphasis on ‘version’ because she gives me a sour look.

‘We were upstairs. I was reading and Richard was watching television. We heard a noise downstairs, and Richard went down.’

‘Do you know where the gun was at that time?’

‘I have no idea. Presumably in the safe. He is always extremely careful about that.’

‘I see. So he goes downstairs, then what?’

‘I heard him shout something, and then a shot. I’ve already told that woman all of this.’

I try my most charming smile, the one that gets Alex giving me side-eye. ‘I really do appreciate your help.’

Another sigh. ‘Yes, I heard the shot.’

A silence. A silence I’m perfectly comfortable with. I’m not so sure about her.

She stares at me now. ‘Well?’

‘What did you do then?’

She frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

I shrug. ‘Did you go downstairs? Call the police, what?’

She gives me a withering look. ‘You know perfectly well that I didn’t call the police.’

‘But you did go downstairs.’

‘No, I went to the head of the stairs. I was concerned about Richard.’

‘But you told my officer that you put your husband’s pyjamas in the wash – you must have gone downstairs at some stage.’

‘That was later.’

‘So you went into the kitchen at that point – you saw the man?’

‘No,’ she says firmly, ‘I did not. For your information, the washing machine is in the scullery.’

I do my best not to smile. The rest of the world has a utility room; Margaret Swann has a scullery. It’s like something out of Downton Abbey.

‘So you never saw the man – you have no idea who it might have been?’

‘As I told that woman, we don’t make a habit of fraternizing with that sort of person.’

‘And while you were doing the washing, what was your husband doing?’

She frowns again. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Was he with you, in the sitting room, upstairs?’

‘Oh, I see. He got changed upstairs and came back down.’

‘And then?’

‘And then what?’

‘Did he stay in the house?’

She reaches for the water jug beside her bed and pours herself a glass. Her hand is shaking slightly. I sense Baxter stir behind me, but he says nothing.

‘Mrs Swann? I’m asking if your husband went outside at all before the police officers arrived. It’s a straightforward question.’

But I don’t get an answer. In fact, I don’t get anything at all. She calls to the nurse, says she’s feeling ‘unwell’, and we’re summarily ejected.

I turn to Baxter as we make our way down the corridor. ‘What was that all about – with the water?’

He gives a wry smile. ‘I was just wondering what was really in the jug.’

I glance across. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I just got a text from Ev. Apparently the old buzzard has a jug like that by her bed at home, only that one’s neat gin.’

I nod slowly, wondering whether it’s significant or just a red herring. Though it might, at least, account for all those hospital admissions. I make a mental note to chase up on Margaret Swann’s medical records.

I leave Baxter in the lobby, telling him I’m going to visit Somer, and though he offers to come with me he looks relieved when I say it’s best I do this alone.

It takes me ten minutes to find the right ward, time I don’t really have, but I’d feel bad coming here and not seeing her. And it’s not just that: Gis took me aside as I was leaving the station.

‘Can you look in on Somer while you’re at the JR, boss? Ev’s worried about her. I don’t think she’s doing so well.’

I doubt I would be either, in her position. She hasn’t told me what’s wrong with her – not officially – but she’s in an Oncology ward. Enough said.

I give my name at the nurses’ station, and they point me in the right direction, but when I round the corner I see there’s someone with her. I’ve only met him once but I recognize him. Giles something. A DI with Hants.

I check my pace and turn. I don’t want to intrude, and I can’t see my presence adding anything useful. Not now.

The last thing I see as I turn the corner is Somer’s face. She’s smiling. Not the broad smile of real joy, but a smile all the same.

* * *

Margaret Swann does her best to conceal her irritation with the nurse. She was useful enough when it came to repelling those tiresome police officers but now it’s all fuss, fuss, fuss. No, she doesn’t have the pain any more; no, she doesn’t need a drink of water; no, she doesn’t want the nurse to ‘pop across’ and get the doctor. This place, it’s all ‘popping’ this and ‘slipping’ that. As if the patients are all halfwits. It drives her mad.

She flaps her hand at the nurse, who finally gets the message and goes away. Margaret turns over and puts her back to the rest of the ward. Those stupid policemen with their supercilious smiles and ponderous heavy hints, they clearly think she really is a halfwit. But that sort of nonsense she can handle. Richard – now that’s another matter. She’s still worried about what he might say. Not deliberately, no, he wouldn’t do that: he’s good at keeping secrets. They both are; they’ve had a lot of practice. But there are things he doesn’t know, things he might hint at without even realizing. She purses her lips. She’d been in two minds whether to tell him all those weeks ago, but she told herself it was nothing: they’d been so careful, no one could possibly have found them. It was just a mistake – a random coincidence. She wishes now that she’d checked, that she’d made sure, but in the moment she’d acted without thinking, out of instinct and from bitter lessons learned too well: the only way to survive this is to turn your back. Walk away. And she’d been vindicated – or so she thought – because there’d been nothing after that. No follow-up. No repetition.

Until last night. Until this.

And now the police will be going around lifting up old stones just to see what’s underneath them, and it’s absolutely imperative that Richard doesn’t say anything that might give them away. They’ve spent too long – and too much – covering their tracks for all that to come out now.

She pulls the thin blankets up around her shoulders.

She isn’t cold. But she is trembling.

* * *

‘Did you see the email?’

Nina Mukerjee is standing at Alan Challow’s door. He looks up and then turns to his laptop and opens his inbox. It’s a blizzard of technical language, like all reports from the lab, but he knows his stuff.

He takes a breath. ‘Well, well, well,’ he says, half to himself. ‘Who’d have thought.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

22 October

14.25

I’m with Gis and Quinn when Boddie’s call comes through.

‘Hold on, Colin, I’ll put you on speaker.’

He’s obviously still in the mortuary; there’s a tinny echo and I can hear the sound of water sluicing in the background.

‘So what have you got?’

‘Well,’ he says. ‘It had a certain lurid Grand Guignol appeal, I’ll give you that.’

Quinn rolls his eyes and I know what he means; this is classic Boddie.

‘Go on.’

‘But the bad news is that there’s absolutely nothing either on or in the body that’ll help you ID him. No tattoos, scars, birth- or otherwise distinguishing marks; no helpful metal plates or healed breaks. No obvious indication of drug use either, though I’ll need to wait for the tox screen for confirmation. Other than that, no sign of disease, excellent muscle tone, and all major organs in good working order. He’d be a remarkably healthy specimen – if he still had a head. And he was clean and well nourished too – he wasn’t living on the streets, that’s for sure.’

‘Age?’

‘Late teens, early twenties. Certainly no older.’

‘So that’s it?’

There’s a pause. I can almost hear that ‘I know something you don’t know’ smile of his. Quinn mouths ‘prick-tease’ at the phone.

‘Come on, Colin,’ says Gis cajolingly. ‘Don’t keep us on tenterhooks.’

‘There may not be anything to ID him, but there was something, all the same.’ He laughs. ‘Must be your lucky day, Fawley. Someone up there likes you.’

‘Care to elaborate on my good fortune, Colin?’

‘It was when I was doing the skeletal dissection. I noticed it at once, of course.’

He stops. Waits.

‘Go on,’ I say heavily.

‘The left humerus is slightly wider than the right.’

Another pause. But this time I know what he’s getting at.

‘He was left-handed.’

Boddie gives another brisk laugh. ‘Wonders will never cease – you’ve been listening to me all these years, after all. But yes, you’re right. Now take a look at your crime scene photos.’

Quinn reaches for his tablet, pulls up an image of the victim, then twists it to face us.

‘The knife,’ says Gis, pointing, ‘it’s in his right hand.’

* * *

Importance: High

Sent: Mon 22/10/2018, 15.05

From: AlanChallowCSI@ThamesValley.police.uk

To: DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk

Subject: Case no EG2508/19J Gantry Manor – urgent

Quick heads-up pending the full report. We just got preliminary results back from the lab re the knife recovered at the scene. The blood on it derived from two different sources. Most of it was Swann’s but there were other traces on the inner side of the handle that were clearly transferred from the victim’s palm. I take it you’ve done this enough times to know what that means, but call me if you need a refresher.

AC

* * *

Barnetson looks down at the sorry pile at his feet. It’s not much to show for three hours’ work. A lager can that was almost certainly tossed in from a passing car, a trowel with a bent blade, an old gardening glove with holes in the fingers and a furred-up tennis ball that’s probably been here since the dog died. But no screwdriver, no mobile phone, no wallet and no rogue black plastic bag. There’s no sign that anything’s been buried recently either – in fact, there’s not much sign of anything at all having been done in this garden for a good long while. The lawn is ankle-high in leaves and ivy is crawling through the broken greenhouse glass. Plants, shed, fence: everything is brown and rotting and slowly coming to pieces in the damp.

Grover is still poking listlessly at the borders with a stick. ‘I just don’t reckon that bag’s out here, Sarge. We’ve been through the whole place twice now.’

‘It has to be somewhere,’ counters Barnetson. ‘It didn’t just vanish into thin air.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

22 October

15.47

Sometimes evidence is like buses: it all comes at once.

Quinn picks up a stack of photocopies and hands them to Chloe Sargent, indicating to her to pass them out.

‘OK, people,’ he says now, raising his voice above the chatter. ‘Let’s get started.’

He looks round. ‘Things are moving pretty fast, so this is just a quick update on where we are. First, DS Gislingham has interviewed Swann again, this time in the presence of his lawyer.’

Gis turns to face the room. ‘Let’s just say he wasn’t in a very talkative mood – it was basically “No comment” all the way. He did give us a prepared statement, but that just repeated everything he said the first time. Including, for the record, absolutely no mention of the fact that – as we now know – he went walkies down the garden straight after the shooting.’

‘Did you ask him about that?’ asks the DC who’s covering for Somer while she’s off. Bradley something. Carter. Bradley Carter. He has one of those perky-at-the-front haircuts and a chubby, schoolboyish look, but he’s ambitious, as I can tell by the glance he slides in my direction.

‘No,’ says Gis, ‘we didn’t. For the very good reason that we only found out about it afterwards.’

Carter’s frowning. ‘So we’ll talk to him again?’

‘Not yet,’ replies Gis. ‘The boss –’ a nod to me – ‘wants to hold off on that.’

I look up. ‘That’s because we have a hell of a lot of blanks to fill in first. The next time we sit down with Richard Swann I want us to know as much about this crime as he does.’

‘So as at now,’ says Gis, ‘Swann’s been sent back to the cells while we try to work out what the heck we’re dealing with here.’

‘Speaking of which,’ says Quinn, holding up the handout, ‘everyone’s favourite subject: forensics.’

There’s a rustle of activity as people turn to the right page.

‘We knew Swann must have washed and changed his clothes before Uniform got there, so surprise, surprise, there was no gunshot residue on his hands. The PJs we dug out of the washing machine didn’t yield anything either. Not even any residual blood.’

Gis gives a wry grin. ‘Guess those stain-remover things actually do what they say on the tin. Who knew, eh?’

Subdued laughter. I don’t think Gis is actively trying to piss Quinn off, but he seems to be managing it all the same.

‘Far more significant,’ says Quinn, raising his voice a little, ‘the knife. The blood on the blade was Swann’s, but there was also blood on the handle – blood that came from two, repeat two, different sources – both Richard Swann and the victim. And given the vic still had his hand round the knife when we found it, there’s only one way that could have got there –’

‘They faked it,’ says Hansen, almost too quickly. ‘To make us think Swann had been attacked.’ And now he’s looking awkward, either because he doesn’t want to look like a swot, or didn’t mean to cut across a DS. And especially not this DS.

‘Right,’ says Quinn, staring at him.

‘But what about a previous injury?’ Carter again. Who clearly has no problem looking like a swot. I’m guessing this must happen around him a lot because a couple of people are suppressing smiles. ‘Before the gunshot?’

Quinn frowns. ‘Like what, exactly?’

Gis is shaking his head. ‘There was nothing on the body, according to the PM. No injuries at all, not even bruising. And no defensive or other injuries on the hands that could have caused any sort of bleeding.’

Carter frowns. ‘But it could have been a head wound – before the shot, I mean. We can’t exactly check for that now, can we.’

Quinn snorts. ‘What sort of head wound? You think Swann gave him a clip round the ear and then asked him to hang on a minute while he got his gun? “Hold my beer while I nip down to the cellar?”’

Gis cuts across him because Carter’s gone very red. ‘OK, Carter, it was a good point and you’re right that we need to be careful not to get blinkered in a situation like this, but I tend to agree with DS Quinn: it’s pretty unlikely. Especially given what else Boddie found.’ He nods again to Quinn, who holds up the next sheet of paper.

‘The PM report,’ he says. ‘Most important thing to note here is that the vic was left-handed. And as you can see,’ he says, gesturing back at the photos on the whiteboard, ‘the knife was found in his right hand. Proof, if anyone still needs it,’ a pointed glance at Carter, ‘that the Swanns staged that scene. Swann cut himself, then put that knife in the vic’s hand after he was dead so we’d find his prints on it. Unfortunately for him, that wasn’t all we found.’

‘So,’ says Gis. ‘To sum up – right now everything is pointing to the victim never having broken into that house at all. That whatever this was, it wasn’t a burglary.’

Chloe Sargent is clearly still processing all this. ‘So the Swanns faked the break-in as well?’

Ev turns to her. ‘Clive Conway said the damage to the back door was pretty basic. Anyone could have done it. And there was no screwdriver or anything like that in the victim’s pockets. In fact, there was nothing in his pockets, period.’

‘It’s probably all in that black placky bag,’ says another DC, to murmurs of agreement.

Gis smiles. ‘Yeah, well, Barnetson is on the case on that, so watch this space.’

Baxter now. ‘So the knife wasn’t the vic’s either – is that what we’re saying?’

Ev gestures at the picture on the whiteboard. ‘That looks more like something from a kitchen drawer.’

The implication is clear.

Hansen looks up. ‘I checked that, actually. The Swanns have only one set of matching knives – some heavy old-fashioned things in the dining room, obviously kept for “best”. The cutlery in the kitchen was just a mishmash of different stuff. That knife could easily have been one of theirs – trouble is, we’ll never be able to prove it.’

But Baxter isn’t convinced, not yet. ‘We’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves, though, aren’t we? Even if he wasn’t a burglar, doesn’t mean it wasn’t self-defence. There could have been an argument – Swann’s a stroppy old git – he loses his rag, next thing you know – bam –’

‘So why not admit straight up that that’s what happened?’ says Hansen. ‘Did he think we wouldn’t believe him?’

‘What I think we can all agree,’ I say carefully, ‘is that right now we have a lot of theories and very few facts. We don’t know what this man was doing there, we don’t know if they were expecting him and we don’t know how or why he ended up dead. They could even have lured him there with the express intention of killing him.’

General murmurs of demurral here, and I get it – I find that hard to believe too – but we can’t afford to close down any possibilities. Not yet.

I wait for the noise to settle. ‘But whatever the answers to those questions, in my opinion they all point to the same conclusion: they knew him. Even though they’ve flatly denied it, they knew who he was.’

I look round, drilling down the point. ‘There’s a connection between these people – there has to be. If we can establish what that is, we’ll find out why he’s dead. And that means finding out who the hell he is.’

Gis makes a face. ‘Easier said than done, though, boss. We can hardly put his picture in the paper.’

‘So let’s find some other way,’ I reply, over a couple of ghoulish wisecracks. ‘Starting with how he got to Gantry Manor in the first place. It’s miles from anywhere and he had no car.’

‘Unless the Swanns moved it?’ asks Sargent.

Baxter’s shaking his head. ‘There wouldn’t have been time – not with all that laundry they were doing.’

I nod towards him. ‘Right. So no car and I doubt very much he was on foot. Not at that time of night, down an unlit lane. So what does that leave us with? A cab?’

Quinn nods. ‘That’d be my bet.’

Gis turns to him. ‘I guess I could get the Oxford Mail to run a follow-up based on that.’

Ten minutes later Gis has nearly finished doling out tomorrow’s tasks and the room is starting to clear, but I’m still at the whiteboard.

‘What is it?’ says Quinn, appearing at my shoulder. My first assumption is that he just wants to get an inside track Gis doesn’t have, but I check myself. It’s all too easy to treat Quinn like a cliché, largely because he spends so much time acting like one. But there’s more to him than that, all the same.

I gesture towards the pictures of Swann and his wife. ‘Make sure someone’s doing some digging on these two as well, will you?’

He nods. ‘OK, I can do that.’ He hesitates. ‘Any particular reason?’

I shake my head. ‘Nothing specific. I just can’t shake the feeling I’ve seen them somewhere before.’

* * *

Oxford Mail online

Monday 22 October 2018 Last updated at 16:44

Police appeal for witnesses in relation to fatal Wytham shooting

Thames Valley Police have issued an appeal to anyone who might be able to help them identify a man who was shot dead at Wytham last night. Officers were called to an isolated property on Ock Lane, on the outskirts of the village, after a member of the public reportedly heard gunfire emanating from the property.

Detective Sergeant Chris Gislingham told us: ‘We do not know who this man was, or how he travelled to Wytham last night. He was a young man, probably in his early twenties, and he must have friends and family who are concerned about his whereabouts. That’s why it’s important we identify him as soon as possible. We’re particularly interested in hearing from any taxi or minicab drivers who might have dropped off a male passenger in Ock Lane yesterday evening. You can contact us in confidence on 01865 0966552, or at the TVP social media feeds.’

DS Gislingham declined to comment on the circumstances that led to the victim’s death, or on reports that the shooting was the result of a burglary gone wrong. The identity of the householders has not been made public, but neighbours have said they are an elderly couple who have lived at the property for at least ten years. ‘They seem like very respectable people,’ said one neighbour, who asked not to be named. ‘They keep themselves very much to themselves. They must have been terrified, at their age, finding an intruder in the house at that time of night. I mean, it’s everyone’s worst nightmare, isn’t it?’

DS Gislingham advised anyone with concerns about their home security to download the Thames Valley Home Security Guide at https://www.thamesvalley.police.uk/police-forces/thames-valley-police/areas/advice/home-security-guide/.

* * *

Telephone interview with Suresh Gupta

22 October 2018, 6.15 p.m.

On the call, DC T. Hansen

TH: CID, DC Hansen speaking.

SG: I’m ringing about that bloke – the one at the station, yeah?

TH: I’m sorry – I’m not sure –

SG: That story on the Oxford Mail website? My brother-in-law saw it and showed it me. It said to ring if you’d picked him up.

TH: Oh, I see, hold on a moment, let me get a pen. What’s your name, sir?

SG: Suresh Gupta – I’m on the cab rank at the station.

TH: And the number you’re calling from is the best one to contact you on?

SG: What? OK, right, yeah, it’s my mobile.

TH: Thank you. Now, perhaps you can explain exactly what happened?

SG: Right, OK. I picked him up, like I said, and took him out to that place. Gantry Manor or whatever it’s called. Out by Wytham. Twenty quid it was.

TH: And this was Sunday night?

SG: Yeah.

TH: What time?

SG: I reckon I picked him up around 9. But he’d have been there a bit before that. There was a bloody enormous queue.

TH: OK. So you wouldn’t know which train he’d been on?

SG: Nah. No way.

TH: Did he say anything in the cab? About where he’d come from – where he was going?

SG: Nah, barely said a word the whole time. Just stared out of the window and did stuff on his phone. Though he gave me the address on a piece of paper so I got the impression he hadn’t been there before.

TH: And what happened when you got to Gantry Manor?

SG: He got out and paid. Didn’t say anything – just paid.

TH: From a wallet? Or just loose cash?

SG: A wallet.

TH: How did he seem?

SG: How d’ya mean?

TH: Did he look apprehensive? Excited?

SG: Perhaps a bit pissed off? But I wasn’t really looking, to be honest.

TH: And what happened then? Did you see him approach the house?

SG: I had to turn the cab round so, like I said, I wasn’t really looking, but I deffo remember him walking up the drive.

TH: You’re sure – he went right up to the front door?

SG: Last I saw – but he’d stopped to get something out of his backpack, so I can’t be sure –

TH: He had a backpack?

SG: Yeah, didn’t I say? Sorry, mate –

TH: Can you describe it?

SG: Just a dark-coloured thing. Black, maybe. Not that big.

TH: You didn’t see any logos – anything like that?

SG: Nah. Those things all look the same. And in any case, I wasn’t really looking.

TH: Thank you, Mr Gupta. That’s incredibly helpful –

SG: So can I go now, only my shift’s starting in half an hour –

TH: I won’t keep you much longer, I promise. Just a couple more questions. Can I ask if you recognized him – had you ever seen him before?

SG: [laughs]

You’re joking, right? I see hundreds of blokes look just like him.

TH: How would you describe him?

SG: Well, it were dark and, like I said, I weren’t really looking. Just an ordin’ry bloke, yeah?

TH: So if we asked you to come in and help us with an e-fit –

SG: Well, I’m not sure – like I said, I’ve got work –

TH: We can sort out a time that suits you. It would be really helpful.

SG: [pause]

Yeah, OK. I suppose so.

TH: Excellent, I’ll check when the e-fit artist is available and call you back.

* * *

Hansen puts the phone down and looks across the office. He was hoping DC Everett was around – she’d be a useful sounding board. Because he’s still getting the hang of the whole Receiving/Resourcing DS thing, and something like this seems to land smack in the grey area right in the middle. Probably more ‘receiving’ than ‘resourcing’ but as it happens DS Quinn isn’t here. Unlike DS Gislingham, who’s at DC Baxter’s desk, looking over his shoulder at something on the screen. Hansen gets to his feet and goes over.

‘Sarge?’

Gis looks up and smiles. Hansen likes Gis – he gets the impression most people do. He doesn’t dislike DS Quinn, but he’s definitely trickier. Brighter, but trickier.

‘We just had a call passed through from the switchboard. A cab driver from the station rank. He picked up our dead guy on Sunday night.’

Gis frowns a little. ‘He’s sure?’

‘Oh yes, he dropped him at Gantry Manor.’

Gis exchanges a glance with Baxter; this sounds promising.

‘Can he describe him?’

Hansen makes a face. ‘Not well. But he’s agreed to come in and talk to an e-fit operator.’

Baxter shrugs. ‘Better than nothing.’

‘And it’s not just that,’ says Hansen, aware he sounds a bit too much like an over-eager rookie. ‘He saw the vic walk up the drive. Hardly your standard housebreaker MO –’

Gis gives a grim smile. ‘Er, no –’

‘– and he had a backpack with him. A backpack that seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.’

Baxter raises an eyebrow sardonically. ‘Maybe that’s where all that stuff is that we didn’t find in his pockets.’

Gis taps the young DC lightly on the arm. ‘Good stuff, Hansen. Give Barnetson a call, will you? Get him to add the backpack to the MIA list. And in the meantime, we’ll get hold of the station CCTV.’

He turns to Baxter and flashes his widest smile. ‘Or rather, DC Baxter will. Given how much he loves that sort of thing.’

Baxter gives him a look, but it’s obviously an old joke. ‘Yeah, right.’

Hansen makes to go, but Gis stops him. ‘Not so fast, young Hansen, I’ve got a job with your name on it too.’

* * *

Barnetson ends the call and sticks his phone in his pocket. They’d all but finished, and still have nothing to show for it. Not a screwdriver, not a phone or wallet, and definitely not a bloody backpack.

He turns to Grover. ‘Apparently the dead man turned up with some sort of rucksack.’

Grover frowns. ‘Is that what they think was in the plastic bag?’

Barnetson looks round. ‘Maybe,’ he says distractedly. ‘It’s probably about the right size.’

Grover sighs. ‘Any suggestions where we look, Sarge, cos I’m all out of ideas.’

Barnetson stares at him, then looks away. He’s all out of ideas too.

* * *

First thing the following morning, Gis and Quinn are standing by Baxter’s desk, staring at printouts. It’s the Swanns’ phone records since the start of the year.

Gis shakes his head. ‘This is really all there is? In over nine months?’

Baxter nods. ‘That’s what I thought too. So I double-checked with BT that the line was working. Which it is. Though judging by that list, I don’t reckon the Swanns would even have noticed if it wasn’t.’

‘Three calls from the Swanns’ GP,’ says Quinn thoughtfully. ‘Most of them recent. Do we know why?’

Baxter shakes his head. ‘It’s a fair guess it’s about Margaret given how many times she’s been in the JR, but we’re still waiting on authorization for her medical records and, frankly, I can’t see her agreeing. Though it could be completely irrelevant to the case, of course.’

Quinn sighs. ‘I hope you have some good news, Baxter, because this isn’t doing it for me.’

Baxter gives a dry smile, turns to his screen and opens up a file. ‘How about this?’

It’s CCTV. From the station, by the looks of it. At the bottom of the screen it says 21/10/2018 20:41:06.

‘The cab driver says our vic could have been in the cab queue for anything up to half an hour,’ says Baxter. ‘So I went back to eight thirty and worked forward from there.’

He presses Play and the two sergeants lean forward, one over each shoulder like good and bad angels, a thought which may also have occurred to Baxter, judging by the small smile he now has.

The camera is trained on the ticket barriers, and the three of them watch as people come along the platform and through the doors. It’s obviously cold – everyone’s wearing scarves and gloves, quilted jackets and heavy coats. Groups of boisterous blokes wearing football scarves who’ve clearly had a few, one or two elderly ladies, a couple of priests in cassocks. Well, this is Oxford. But it’s mainly students. Alone, in groups, in pairs.

It’s Quinn who spots him first.

‘There,’ he says, pointing. ‘That’s him.’

He’s about the right height. Not tall – no more than the five foot seven which Boddie estimated in the PM. Dirty blond hair, dark trousers and jacket, and – there – a small backpack slung over one shoulder. He sticks his ticket in the barrier and collects it the other side.

‘He has a return,’ says Gis softly. ‘He was planning on going back.’

On the screen the man stops, looks round the concourse, then makes for the main doors. A few moments later he disappears out of sight.

Baxter winds back the footage a little way and presses Pause, then sits back. ‘I checked the cameras on the platforms and he got off a Chiltern train from Marylebone, so in theory there’s half a dozen places he could have got on between here and there –’

‘Nah,’ says Gis. ‘Most likely he came from London. At least let’s rule that out first. Have you contacted Chiltern for the on-train footage?’

Baxter nods. ‘On its way.’

‘Right,’ says Gis, ‘looks like we’re cooking with gas. Finally.’ He points at the screen; the man’s by the barrier, frozen in mid-gesture, one arm outstretched. ‘Get a still of that out to the press office pronto, will you?’

‘It’s not the best angle,’ says Quinn. ‘You can’t really see his face – it’s always the bloody same with these things.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ replies Gis. ‘It’ll be enough. If you know him, it’ll be enough.’

* * *

9.29

Thames Valley Police @ThamesValleyPolice

**APPEAL**

Do you know the man in this picture? He arrived at Oxford station at approx 8.45pm on Sunday, possibly travelling from London. We need to identify him in relation to a serious incident at Wytham later that evening.

Contact the force with info/footage – reference 7713954632

* * *

By mid-morning, Thomas Hansen has been on the task Gislingham gave him for nearly three hours and is actually rather enjoying himself. He read I’ll Be Gone in the Dark when it came out and was absolutely engrossed – the idea that familial DNA could catch a killer who’d evaded capture for nearly fifty years had him deciding there and then to retrain as a forensic scientist. Though it only took a couple of days of cooler reflection to realize that the idea was, in purely practical terms, a complete no-no. He’d never be able to fund himself through a course like that, for a start. But all the same, his interest hasn’t waned, and in the last six months he’s done a lot of reading, and listened to a few podcasts, and ended up a bit of a self-confessed wonk on the subject. And even though what he’s doing now isn’t, strictly speaking, the same thing, the pleasure it offers has to be darn close. The kick of the hunt, the tracking down, the elimination of false positives, the final, conclusive identification. Because he’s worked it out. He knows. More than that, he knows he’s right.

He gets up and wanders round to Gislingham’s desk. Only he’s not there.

‘In with the boss,’ says Ev as she passes him on her way back from the coffee machine. ‘I just saw him go in.’

‘Ah, right,’ says Hansen, already in retreat. ‘I’ll see if I can find DS Quinn.’

Everett eyes him. ‘Is it important?’

Hansen nods. ‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Then DS Gislingham will want to know. And Fawley will want to know.’ She smiles. ‘And in any case, why shouldn’t you get the credit? You’ve got to learn to blow your own trumpet a bit more, young Hansen.’

She smiles again, then goes on her way. Hansen, left to himself, takes a breath, squares his shoulders a little, then forces himself the few last yards to Fawley’s door.

* * *

Adam Fawley

23 October

10.20

Thomas Hansen looks like he’s been sent to the headmaster for talking in class. I’m all for having an air of authority, but I’d like to think I’m a bit more approachable than that.

‘Sorry to bother you, sir.’

‘That’s fine, Hansen. What is it?’

‘DS Gislingham said you wanted more info on the Swanns. I’ve been doing some digging.’

Gis and I exchange a glance. Promising? He wouldn’t be here otherwise.

‘What’ve you got?’ says Gis.

Hansen looks down at his notebook. ‘Gantry Manor isn’t actually owned by the Swanns – not directly. It belongs to a company called Alder Properties Ltd. Richard Swann is the main shareholder.’

‘OK. So where were the Swanns before?’

‘Ah, that’s where it got interesting. I couldn’t find them.’

Gis frowns. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘I couldn’t find any record of them living anywhere else. In fact, I couldn’t find any record of them at all.’

That bell that’s been ringing ever since I saw the Swanns? It’s clanging even louder now.

Thomas looks at Gis and then at me. ‘So I checked with DVLA. I mean, I knew he must have a licence, with that SUV out the front. And that’s when I realized what must have happened – I was staggered there’s no sort of central record of this stuff, but I’ve checked and I’m definitely right –’

‘Spit it out, Hansen,’ says Gis. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

Hansen swallows. ‘They changed their name. The Swanns. By deed poll. I mean, who does that, apart from Mafia?’

Gis gapes at him. ‘They changed their name? When?’

‘Just before they moved here, 2004. Their real name is –’

‘Rowan,’ I say, as it all finally falls into place. ‘Their name is Rowan. Dick and Peggy Rowan. At least, that’s who they used to be.’

Gis is staring at me. ‘Holy fuck,’ he says.

Hansen clearly has no idea what we’re talking about. Then again, the trial was fifteen years ago. He was probably still in short trousers.

Gis glances at him, not unkindly. ‘Google “Camilla Rowan”,’ he says.

Hansen scrabbles for his mobile. A moment later he’s raised his eyes to look at me. He’s gone rather pale.

‘They’re her parents?’

I nod. ‘You wanted to know why they changed their name? Well, there’s your answer. And frankly, who can blame them.’

* * *

Camilla Rowan

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Camilla Rowan (born 30 September 1980), a former physiotherapist from Gloucestershire, England, is serving a life sentence for the 1997 murder of her newborn baby. She served the first years of her sentence in HMP Holloway, London, but when that prison closed in 2016 she was transferred to HMP Heathside, an adult female/closed category prison in Esher, Surrey. She was born in Gloucester, England, to Richard (‘Dick’) Rowan, a property developer (born 1944), and his wife, Margaret (known as Peggy), née Cummings (born 1950). The family lived in Shiphampton, and Rowan attended Burghley Abbey, a prestigious private girls’ school. Rowan vehemently denied killing her child at her 2003 Old Bailey murder trial, but the jury returned a unanimous verdict of guilty, and Justice Sir Jacob Gordon sentenced her to life, with a recommended minimum term of seventeen years.[1] Rowan’s legal team have lodged various appeals against her conviction, and the Criminal Cases Review Commission reassessed the case in 2016,[2] after the journalist John Penrose conducted a re-examination of the evidence as part of the documentary series Infamous, which aired on Netflix in March 2016.[3]

Adam Fawley

23 October

10.29

‘There was a Netflix show about the case, wasn’t there?’ says Gis. ‘Couple of years ago?’

I nod. Alex watched it, but I tuned out most of the time. Too much like hard work. Or actual work. But there are some things I remember, things I hadn’t taken much notice of at the time. Like how mercilessly the Rowans were pursued after the verdict, and not just by the press. The abuse they suffered, the vandalism, and – far more important, given where we are now – the lengths all that finally pushed them to.

I glance up at Gis, and it’s obvious from his face he’s remembering the same thing.

‘So what do you think – could the vic be another journo?’

And he’s right to ask: it’s by far the simplest explanation. The Rowans manhandled mountains to stay under the radar: they moved house, they changed their name, they obliterated their old lives. And now suddenly, all these years later, without warning, there’s a ring on the bell one dark night and the whole ordeal starts up again. The idea that they’d take a gun to a random housebreaker strained everyone’s credulity, including mine; taking a gun to someone who brought that nightmare back to their door? That’s a theory that makes sense.

But it needs stress-testing, all the same.

I take a deep breath. ‘Wouldn’t a newspaper have reported one of their reporters missing by now?’

Hansen looks at Gis, and then at me. ‘Could be a freelance, looking to make a name for himself?’

‘Well, let’s just hope he’s not about to manage it. For all the wrong reasons.’

Gis nods grimly. ‘Careful what you wish for, eh?’

* * *

Channel:

Netflix

Programme:

Infamous, season 4

Number of episodes:

4

First shown:

09/03/2016

[THEME SONG – ’KARMA CHAMELEON’ [CULTURE CLUB]]

TITLE OVER:

INFAMOUS

FADE IN

THE CHAMELEON GIRL

MONTAGE: shots of Camilla Rowan – as a baby, as a toddler, on a swing, with her parents in the garden, building a sandcastle, with her pet dog, on her pony, etc.

VOICEOVER

She was a little princess. An only child from a wealthy and high-profile family, and the apple of her father’s eye. Smart, pretty, and popular, and so good at sport she played at county level. A responsible, kind-hearted girl who raised money for charity, and was trusted to babysit her neighbours’ children. Everyone agreed: Camilla Rowan had a bright future ahead of her.

So what went wrong?

How did Camilla the beloved daughter, happy student, and school captain – a girl who, by all accounts, had never put a foot wrong – turn, seemingly overnight, into Milly Liar the murderer? Reviled in the press, screamed at in the street, and charged with killing her own child.

MONTAGE: clips relating to the trial – newspaper headlines, people holding banners and shouting outside the court, Camilla trying to escape the cameras, her hand in front of her face, her parents trying to fight their way through journalists outside their house, the words ‘baby killer’ daubed in red paint across a garage door, interspersed with vox pops/news broadcasts/clips from later interviews:

VOICE 1

She deserved everything she got – anyone who could do that to an innocent child. If you ask me, in cases like that, life should mean life.

NEWS ITEM 1

There were dramatic scenes outside the Old Bailey today, as Camilla Rowan appeared in the dock for the first time. Protesters hurled abuse at the 23-year-old, who had arrived at court flanked by her parents and defence barrister.

VOICE 2

Rowan was given a full psychiatric assessment before her trial, and was deemed fit to plead. But the full results of that assessment have never been made public. Is she a sociopath? Is she a narcissist? Or is she just a pathological liar?

VOICE 3

The Camilla I knew – she just couldn’t have done anything like that. Not her own baby. Not any baby. I didn’t believe it then and I don’t believe it now.

NEWS ITEM 2

After six sensational weeks the trial of Camilla Rowan came to a shocking conclusion today, with the former head girl being sentenced to life for the murder of her newborn child.

VOICE 4

The reason why we’re still so obsessed with this case, even all these years later, is that it challenges so many of our basic human beliefs – about trust and truth, about our capacity for cruelty, and the sanctity of maternal love. I think we’re all terrified that if we dared look into the darkest corners of our own hearts we’d find Camilla Rowan staring straight back at us.

Cut to: John’s office. Files, desk, photos and docs from the case pinned on a board behind.

JOHN PENROSE

I covered the Camilla Rowan case for the Guardian back in 2003. I sat through every day of the trial, and I watched her that whole time. And I had no more idea of who she was at the end than I did at the beginning. The verdict didn’t come as a surprise, and at the time I definitely didn’t think there’d been any great miscarriage of justice. But there were still things that bugged me. Questions that neither the prosecution nor defence had managed to answer. So after I filed my last report I thought I’d spend a few days seeing what I could find. Thirteen years later, I’m still doing it.

Because this is the sort of case that, as a journalist, you only encounter once in a lifetime. It raises question after question after question, and yet the one person who could give us some answers still steadfastly refuses to do so. We all know she lied, but that doesn’t mean she lied about everything. Are there scraps of truth hidden in the bizarre and deeply disturbing story she told the police, and has never since deviated from? If there are, she’s not telling. But the truth, as they say, is out there. And to find it, I needed to understand not just the woman she became, but the girl she was before.

TITLE APPEARS OVER, TYPEWRITER STYLE:

Part one

“And you used to be so sweet”

Panoramic drone shot over Gloucestershire countryside. Summer sunlight. A village with a church, stone houses, a river winding through.

VOICEOVER – JOHN PENROSE

It all started here, in the small country town of Shiphampton, deep in the heart of the Cotswolds, one of the most beautiful and prosperous areas of the UK. Camilla was born in nearby Princess Alice Hospital, Gloucester, in 1980, by which time her parents, Dick and Peggy, had been married for seven years and almost given up having a child. Right from the start, she was their miracle baby, indulged and doted on, and given every advantage money could buy, including a pony, music lessons, and a private ballet teacher.

RECONSTRUCTION of little girl doing ballet movements.

When she was six, the Rowans entered a nationwide competition to find a little girl to front a new TV advertising campaign for My Little Pony. There were over 5,000 entries, and Camilla made it through to a shortlist of six. This is her screentest.

CLIP of Camilla Rowan in close-up, sitting at a table stroking a My Little Pony toy and smiling. She has her hair in bunches and is wearing a pink dress with a lace bodice and puff sleeves. She has a gap in her front teeth.

CAMILLA

I just love My Little Pony, and your little girl will too.

VOICEOVER – JOHN PENROSE

She didn’t get the gig.

Various shots of John on the phone, putting it down, leaving messages asking for a call back.

VOICEOVER – JOHN PENROSE

I contacted the Rowans a number of times through their lawyers while we were making this documentary, hoping they’d agree to take part, but they’ve refused to speak to anyone from the press ever since an incident a few weeks after the trial, when a journalist claimed Dick Rowan threatened him with a gun. The allegation was never substantiated and no charges were ever brought, but the extensive coverage of the incident provoked a fresh backlash against the family, along with threats of violence from certain quarters. So it’s perhaps understandable that the Rowans have tried to keep a low profile ever since. None of their other family members were willing to speak on camera either, probably for the same reason, but there was one person we were able to talk to: Sheila Ward, who worked for Dick Rowan for more than 20 years, and had a lot of contact with the family when Camilla was growing up.

Cut to: sitting room, gas fire, Border terrier on sofa, potted plants, etc.

TITLE OVER: Sheila Ward, Dick Rowan’s secretary, 1971–1996

SHEILA WARD

I knew Dick back when he was still just a builder. In the early days, when he’d just started out on his own and they were living in a semi in Gloucester. Back then he’d roll his sleeves up and plumb in a bathroom himself if he had to. But then he started to make money, and went into ‘property’ and they bought the house in Shiphampton. By the time Camilla came along they were moving in very different circles. I didn’t see them socially much after that. I’d babysit, but I didn’t get invited to many of their parties. Dick was a local councillor by then, and treasurer of the Shiphampton Rotary Club, and Peggy was doing a lot of charity work, and things for the school. She was always very much the power behind the throne.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

Were they good parents?

SHEILA WARD

Depends what you mean by good. They were quite strict. Peggy kept a big chart in the kitchen, showing what chores Camilla had done, and whether she’d got good marks at school or kept her room tidy. It had gold stars stuck to it and if she didn’t get enough stars by Friday her pocket money would be docked or she wouldn’t be able to have ice cream. And there was another big chart with her schedule. Brownies, ballet, swimming, piano. There were set times for everything. Of course when she was little Camilla didn’t mind – she just wanted to please them. She always wanted to please them. Especially her mother.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

What about as she got older?

SHEILA WARD

Oh, she still wanted to please them, so she kept to the rules. She just got cleverer about how she did it.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

And boyfriends – did the Rowans have rules about that?

SHEILA WARD

(laughs)

Oh yes – there were a lot of rules about that. Who she saw, where they went, what time they got back. But like I said, by that time Camilla had got a lot cleverer at bending them. And of course, they had no idea what she got up to at that school.

RECONSTRUCTION, soft-focus: girls playing hockey on sunlit playing field with Victorian buildings behind, girls walking in a crocodile wearing uniforms and straw hats, girls singing in a chapel choir, etc.

VOICEOVER

Burghley Abbey in Warwickshire is one of the most prestigious girls’ schools in England. Founded in the 19th century, it boasts celebrities and minor royals among its old girls. It’s very sporty, very musical, and very, very expensive.

Cut to: sitting room, evening. Lamps lit, fire in background, bookcases, oil painting on wall.

TITLE OVER: Marion Teesdale, Housemistress, Burghley Abbey School, 1986–2014

MARION TEESDALE

I sat in on Camilla’s admissions interview before she came to Burghley and I remember how confident she was, even at that age. She’d only have been around seven at the time, but she was very articulate, and very comfortable talking to adults. It was obvious that her parents had coached her – every time she answered a question she looked across at her mother for approval. Her father didn’t say a great deal – I got the impression he was quite reserved. Camilla started the following September as a day girl. It was a thirty-mile round trip to drop her off and collect her every day, and there was Saturday-morning school as well, but her mother insisted that she was too young to be living away from home.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

Aren’t the fees cheaper for day pupils as well?

MARION TEESDALE

Yes, of course, but Mrs Rowan made a point of saying that that wasn’t the reason.

MONTAGE: sequence of images taking Camilla from junior to senior school, her face being circled each time in red pen. School photographs, sports team photos, on field trips, on a French exchange, etc. Last photo, of a hockey team, shows Camilla with her friends Melissa Rutherford and Leonora Staniforth.

Cut to: kitchen. Aga, hanging rack of copper pans, kids’ drawings stuck on the fridge, view of countryside from the window.

TITLE OVER: Leonora Neville, née Staniforth, Camilla’s school friend

LEONORA STANIFORTH

Cam, Melissa and me were best friends right from our first or second week at school. They sat us alphabetically in the first year so we were all in a line together and that’s pretty much how it stayed. Then Cam said we should call ourselves the chameleon girls, you know, from Cam–Mel-Leon – she was always really clever about things like that – and the name just stuck, especially with that Culture Club song.

Intercut: footage of the three girls wearing T-shirts with chameleons on, and their names printed below. They’re singing, rather raucously, lines from ‘Karma Chameleon’: “Didn’t hear your wicked words every day / And you used to be so sweet I heard you say”.

And it was sort of fitting that Cam’s name came first – she was always the leader, always out in front. She just had that sort of personality. Everyone wanted to be in her gang. Not that we had gangs at Burghley Abbey – way too common – but you know what I mean. And Cam was the only one in our year who had a swimming pool. Mel lived in Shiphampton too and I was only three or four miles away so I’d bike over and we’d spend hours round the pool in the summer, just hanging out. And her parents were always very welcoming. I think they were concerned about her having lots of friends because she was an only child.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

You called her Cam just then. Did you always call her that?

LEONORA STANIFORTH

Oh yes – that’s what everyone called her, except her mother. That whole ‘Milly’ thing – the papers completely made it up. We kept telling them no one ever used that name, but they didn’t take any notice. They were just desperate to write a headline saying ‘Milly Liar’.

Cut to: office. A big sleek desk, shelves of legal books and framed certificates on the walls, views of the City skyline outside.

TITLE OVER: Melissa Rutherford, Camilla’s school friend

MELISSA RUTHERFORD

It was only after I left that I realised what an inward-looking place Shiphampton was. It was a real goldfish bowl – everyone knew everyone else’s business. I suppose that’s one reason why the whole Cam thing was such a bombshell. No one saw it coming, and they couldn’t believe something like that had been going on right under their noses and no one knew. And then there was the trial, and there were journalists crawling all over the place and people just closed ranks. They always call places ‘close-knit’ after something terrible happens, don’t they? I guess that’s why. I never thought of that before.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

So it was the sort of place where appearances mattered?

MELISSA RUTHERFORD

God, yes. All those twitching curtains and bitchy gossip dressed up as concern. There was a hell of a lot of keeping up with the Joneses. The Rowans really felt that, you could tell. I mean, there was no question that they were wealthy, but Dick Rowan was a self-made man, and some people were a bit sniffy about that, even in the 1990s. That’s why they had such high expectations for Cam – not so much academically but socially. It sounds like something out of Jane Austen, I know, but I got the impression there was definitely pressure for her to ‘marry well’.

(pause)

She had a lot to live up to. Seriously. I didn’t envy her.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

Did you know? About the pregnancies?

MELISSA RUTHERFORD

She never told me. She never said a word about any of it.

Cut to: Leonora

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

Did you know?

LEONORA STANIFORTH

No, I didn’t know.

Cut to: Marion Teesdale

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

Did you know?

MARION TEESDALE

No. No one at the school knew.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

You understand why people find that hard to believe?

MARION TEESDALE

Of course I understand. But that doesn’t alter the facts. And you need to remember she was a day girl. There wasn’t the same degree of proximity that there was with the boarders.

Clip of hockey match (actual footage).

VOICEOVER – JOHN PENROSE

But it’s hard to comprehend, all the same. And you only need to look at this clip to see why. This footage shows the 1997 UK national under-18s hockey championships. After three days of play-offs, during which the teams have all shared changing facilities and dorm rooms, Burghley Abbey are in the closing moments of a hard-fought semi-final against Cheltenham Ladies College. Camilla has already been instrumental in creating one goal, and is about to score the clincher. Watch.

Camilla scores, her team and coaches gather round her, hugging her and celebrating. Freeze frame and gradual close-up.

VOICEOVER – JOHN PENROSE

They called her a chameleon girl, little knowing how horribly apt that nickname would prove to be. Camilla Rowan turned out to be more of a chameleon than anyone around her could have possibly suspected. Because the girl at the centre of this picture is nine months pregnant. She has had no scans, seen no midwife, not even visited her own GP. But in less than 48 hours she will go into labour and present herself at the maternity suite of Birmingham and Solihull General Hospital, where she will have a healthy baby boy in the early hours of the following morning.

Later that same day, at around three o’clock in the afternoon, and without the knowledge of medical staff, she will leave the hospital, driving the car her parents bought her for her 17th birthday, and return home to Shiphampton, where she will arrive, alone, at just gone six o’clock, in plenty of time to attend a Christmas party at the local Rotary Club that evening. Indeed, it seems likely that her early departure from the hospital was dictated by the need to make sure she was at that party, so as to avoid raising suspicions with her parents.

MONTAGE: shots of Camilla at the party, dancing with her friends, smiling, drinking champagne, standing next to her father and his friends. She’s wearing a close-fitting sleeveless pale-blue dress draped with tinsel and a paper hat out of a cracker. There is nothing about her appearance that suggests she has just given birth.

She looks completely carefree, doesn’t she? And yet at some point that afternoon, Camilla Rowan did something to her newborn baby. If you believe the police, she killed that child and disposed of its body; if you believe Camilla, she handed it over to its biological father, a man no one has ever been able to identify with any degree of certainty.

What we do know, is that whatever happened to that baby happened very quickly. The drive from Birmingham to Shiphampton would have taken at least an hour and a half, leaving barely half an hour for the handover – or murder – to take place.

So did Camilla Rowan really give the baby to its father? Most young men would run a mile at the prospect of raising a baby single-handed. So it’s hard to believe, but not – of course – impossible. But if that’s really what happened, why has he not come forward? Why has he not produced the child and saved Camilla from a life sentence?

Or did Camilla kill her baby that day, as the police and Crown Prosecution Service still contend? It might be worth noting in this context that a week after these pictures were taken Camilla Rowan had a tattoo done on her left shoulder. It said ‘Dolce liberta’, which is Italian for ‘Sweet freedom’. Is that a clue? Did she decide that, at 17, she just wasn’t ready to be a mother? Anyone could understand that, and most people would sympathise. Or was she terrified of having to tell her parents? Again, no one would blame her for that, especially given what we know of the family dynamic. But if that’s what happened, why didn’t she just give the child up for adoption? After all, she must have realised that was an option. Indeed, we know for a fact that she knew all about it.

Because she’d already done it once before.

- freeze frame -

* * *

I’ve just been watching Infamous – can’t believe I never saw it when it first came out. Is it true they still haven’t found the body?

submitted 8 days ago by HickoryDickory77

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Yeah great series isn’t it? And no – the baby’s never been found. At least it hadn’t the last time I looked at any of the boards and in any case something like that would deffo have made the papers

submitted 6 days ago by Danny929292

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The Rowans were lucky there was no Twitter back then. I mean, the bloody shit they’d have got

submitted 5 days ago by santaclaws77

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They get enough now – try searching #MillyLiar and see what spews out. Just disgusting. Not that I imagine the family look at that garbage. I certainly wouldn’t. It’s all just trolls churning out abuse when they know sod all about any of it. Let’s face it, *all* families have secrets, and *everybody* lies.

submitted 4 days ago by Ifyouvenothingnicetosayzipit

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You think the parents were in on it? They helped her cover it up?

submitted 3 days ago by cabaretrenee008

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No, all I meant was that if the press crawled over *anyone’s* life they’d find some dirty washing somewhere, that’s all. I don’t think the Rowans had the first clue

submitted 3 days ago by Ifyouvenothingnicetosayzipit

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Wasn’t there some vandalism too, back in the day? I seem to remember pics in the press of graffiti on their house

submitted 4 hours ago by cabaretrenee008

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AND some sick shits who pretended to have the baby and demanded £££. How low can u get

submitted 4 hours ago by cabaretrenee008

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I don’t think the parents knew anything about it. What happened to that baby was down to Camilla and Camilla alone. Don’t be fooled by her little girl lost act. That’s all it is – an act. She deserved everything she got and right now, she’s exactly where she needs to be.

submitted 2 hours ago by AllieCatz76

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* * *

Adam Fawley

23 October

10.35

‘So what do you want us to do?’ says Gis. ‘Start calling some of the papers?’

It’s the obvious thing to do, but in this case ‘obvious’ doesn’t mean ‘simple’. The mere mention of Camilla Rowan’s name will be like stirring up a swarm. The Rowans will be kissing goodbye to their hard-won anonymity for a start, and it’ll just get worse from there. But what choice do I have?

‘My other half has a mate at the Express,’ begins Hansen tentatively. ‘I could get him to ask if she’s picked up anything on the grapevine.’

I didn’t realize Hansen was gay, but it figures somehow. ‘You’ve met her – the mate? Would you trust her?’

He thinks before he answers; I’ve noticed him doing it before; it’s a good sign. ‘Yes,’ he says eventually, ‘I think I would.’

‘OK, in that case go ahead. And can you also do a trawl for any recent online interest in Camilla Rowan, especially on places like Reddit – hacks often put out feelers in true-crime chat rooms if they’re on this sort of story.’ Hansen nods and starts making notes.

‘And in the meantime, I’ll chase Challow on the DNA.’

Hansen looks up and frowns. ‘That’s a bit of a long shot, though, isn’t it, sir? I mean, I doubt he’s in the National Database, not if he’s just some journo.’

I start dialling. ‘I’m not disagreeing. But we don’t know that’s what he is yet, do we? Not for sure. And I’m afraid there were plenty of other people who hounded the Rowans. People even further down the food chain than the press.’

Gis nods towards Hansen. ‘And trust me, some of those bastards will definitely be in the system.’

* * *

‘Won’t it look a bit odd, me ringing her up out of the blue and asking about this stuff?’

Jack’s at college, Hansen can hear voices in the background. Laughter, some sort of tinny music.

‘I was thinking about that – could you tell her you want to use it as a case study in a course you’re teaching? I don’t know, something about how the media report crimes against children?’

Jack laughs drily. ‘Or the female psychopath in popular culture, that’s always a slam-dunk crowd-pleaser.’

‘There you are, I knew you’d think of something.’

There’s a pause, then, ‘So did you mention me? To the great god Fawley?’

‘I did, actually.’

A quick laugh. ‘Yeah, but I bet it was just as your “other half” or something equally coy.’

‘Well, he knows you’re male, if that’s what you’re asking. And he didn’t bat an eyelid.’

Another laugh, warmer this time. ‘Ha, told you you’ve been worrying about nothing.’

Hansen smiles to himself; he wasn’t worrying at all, despite what Jack kept on saying. He knew Fawley wouldn’t give a toss.

‘So you’ll do it? Call Zoe?’

A theatrical sigh, but Jack’s milking it now, and they both know it. ‘OK, if it’ll get you some brownie points with the boss. When do you need it by?’

‘Like, yesterday. There’s a lot of pressure on this one.’

‘Yeah, right. Tell me something I didn’t know.’

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Voicemail

Alan Challow

Mobile

Transcription

Just had the DNA back on the Gantry Manor vic. Without wishing to sound unduly dramatic, this is going to blow the bloody doors off. Can you drop by ASAP?

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