Hope to Die

CONFIDENTIAL

5th March 2003

Marcus Townsend QC

Beauchamp Chambers

Grandison Court

Temple

London WC2J 9GB

Dear Mr Townsend,

I have, as requested, carried out a full psychiatric assessment of Camilla Rowan. It was, I have to say, one of the most difficult assignments I have ever undertaken – I have never encountered a subject who resists normal psychological classification methodology to such an extraordinary extent. I enclose my conclusions, such as they are; frankly, I do not envy you your task.

Should you have any questions, please do not hesitate to get in touch and I will do my best to assist.

Yours sincerely,

Diana Whittingham

Dr Diana Whittingham

MBBS FRCPsych

Consultant Forensic Psychiatrist

Encl:

PSYCHIATRIC REPORT

Name:    Camilla Kathleen Rowan

Gender:    Female

Ethnicity:   Caucasian

Date of birth:  30th September 1980

Date of report: 4th March 2003

The subject is a 22-year-old woman who has been charged with the murder of her newborn child in 1997. She has no previous criminal convictions. This report has been prepared as part of the pre-trial assessment process. I conducted three interviews, two at my office, and one at her parents’ address, where I was able to observe the home environment and family dynamic. I also administered an MMPI-2 test (Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory 2), the full results of which are given in the annexe. This is a standard psychological diagnostic test.

Executive summary

The subject comes from a stable and socially advantaged background, and has had a private education. She is an only child, with attentive and supportive parents. She has no history of mental illness, nor any other significant health issues beyond minor childhood ailments, nor is there any family history of psychiatric issues. She was well presented at interview, well groomed and neatly dressed in slightly formal clothes. When questioned about this, she said her mother had chosen them. She was polite and co-operative, exhibiting neither aggression nor impatience with the process. Throughout the interview she was calm and self-possessed, apart from on certain specific occasions as detailed below. Her affect was normal and congruent.

MMPI-2

This test assesses a subject’s mental health on ten scales, including depression, paranoia, and schizophrenia. In this case the data gave no indication of any of the above, and found no evidence that the subject is experiencing psychopathology. However, it is important to note that the subject scored extremely highly on both the ‘L’ and ‘K’ scales. In twenty-two years of practice, I have rarely seen scores of this magnitude. High answers on the L scale (commonly referred to as the ‘Lie’ scale) indicate that the subject is hyper-sensitive to their public image, to the extent of refusing to acknowledge traits or responses that might paint them in a poor light. In respect to the subject, these scores were amply borne out by the observations made in interview. The K scale questions are designed to measure defensiveness, and again, in this case, indicate the subject has an abnormally strong need to be seen positively.

Interview

Based on my observations at the parental home, the subject’s family milieu has clearly been problematic: the mother masks profound social insecurities under an assertive, almost brusque outward demeanour, and has clearly fetishised social standing almost to the point of mania (a trivial but telling example: on my arrival at the house she made a rather lame joke about being relieved I wasn’t wearing a white coat ‘so the nosey parkers won’t find out’). Numerous items in the house attested to the value attached to the family’s position in the local community: photographs of the subject’s father with dignitaries such as the Mayor and MP, a cabinet of the subject’s sporting medals and trophies, framed cuttings from the local press featuring the family business and charitable events organised by the subject’s mother. The immediate community context also served to inculcate a habit of secrecy: the subject described her small rural town as ‘the sort of place where everyone wants to poke their noses in – you learn pretty quick how to mind your own business’. The fact that she used this particular phrase was instructive: I note from police transcripts that when the subject’s mother was asked by a teacher from another school whether her daughter might be pregnant she replied ‘it’s none of your business’ (I note also that the mother denies this incident ever occurred).

The subject would thus have grown up in an environment in which it would be not only unacceptable but unthinkable to bring shame or embarrassment on the family. This was clearly a major factor in the subject’s decision to hide the pregnancies, not just from her parents but from the world in general. However, I believe the issue is more complex than that; I believe there was, in fact, no real ‘decision’ or thought process at all. Becoming pregnant out of wedlock (and especially, in the case of the first pregnancy, with a mixed-race child) was literally ‘unthinkable’: she was unable to think about it, or, therefore, do anything about it. The subject herself described the pregnancies as feeling ‘unreal’ and ‘like it was happening to someone else’. Likewise, when asked why she did not arrange to have terminations, especially after the first live birth, she could not give a coherent answer.

However, it must be noted that while she did not see either a doctor or midwife during any of the pregnancies, and behaved in ways which she must have known would put the unborn children at risk (regular and fairly heavy drinking, playing contact sports), she did appear perfectly capable of thinking rationally about her situation and acting accordingly as soon as labour began. In the case of the missing child, she travelled immediately to a maternity unit, and presented herself in plenty of time – indeed, her behaviour at this point was so prompt and decisive one can only conclude she had researched which hospital she intended to attend some time before, though the subject herself would not be drawn on this. By contrast, women suffering genuine ‘pregnancy denial’ often fail/refuse to recognise the onset of labour and as a result give birth in traumatic circumstances, such as in bathrooms or lavatories. Likewise, unlike most such women, the subject appears to have had no problem establishing a basic bond with all the children immediately after the birth (both the two she had adopted and the one she is alleged to have killed), with nursing staff attesting to the fact that she held them and breastfed them in the normal way.

I was particularly intrigued to learn that the subject and her two closest friends were known at school as the ‘chameleon girls’. Even though this was clearly the result of nothing more than an accidental combination of Christian names, the subject does indeed appear to have developed a form of psychological ‘cryptic colouration’, adapting her self-presentation to what she believes other people want of her: the Dutiful Daughter, the Good Sport, the Fun Friend, or, in the context of my interaction with her, the Compliant Interviewee. I also noted her adopting some of my own mannerisms as the interview progressed, possibly in a subconscious attempt to ‘please’ me. Though it should be noted that there is also research suggesting that people are more likely to use mimicry of this kind – again, usually unconsciously – when telling complex untruths.

The only time the subject became distressed was when questioned about the events leading to the disappearance of her second child. She vehemently denied harming the baby in any way, and insisted that as far as she is concerned the child is safe and happy with its biological father. When pressed on the subject of the lies she told the police, and entered on a series of official documents (some 36 in all) she became evasive, looking around the room and failing to maintain eye contact. I was interested, but not surprised, that she also lied at least five times to my knowledge during the course of the three interviews; when challenged on some of these she merely changed the subject. I also raised the issue of the false address she gave at the time of the first birth, suggesting that choosing an anagram of her own name and the number 13 gave the message – whether consciously or not – that she was ‘mixed-up’ and ‘unlucky’. She replied merely that ‘it hadn’t occurred to her’ and she was ‘no good at crosswords or stuff like that’, a comment which is likewise patently untrue.

Summary

The subject proved extremely hard to assess. She is not mentally ill (within the meaning of the Mental Health Act 1983), she is not a psychopath, she is not a narcissist, and she is not delusional; and while she lies repeatedly, and is clearly comfortable doing so, I am not convinced she is a ‘pathological’ liar. I believe there may be a degree of psychological ‘segmentation’ at play, but certainly not to the extent of schizophrenia or Dissociative Identity Disorder (previously known as Multiple Personality Disorder). Many normally functioning people compartmentalise their lives, whether out of fear, self-interest, convenience, or in the interests of privacy; the subject merely does so to an unusually high degree.

I was unable to come to a conclusive opinion as to whether the subject is, or was, capable of intentionally killing her baby. I do, however, believe she is capable of lying about any harm that might have come to the child (whether as the result of an accident or deliberate intent), and doing so convincingly and consistently. It is also perfectly possible that the child is indeed alive and well, as she maintains. That said, I did discern a profound psychological equivocation in relation to the missing child. The version of events the subject gives does not ring true, and while the child must – of course – have had a father, I am unconvinced that the person she describes as ‘Tim Baker’ is that man. It is worth noting in this context that she continues to assert – as she did in police interviews – that there was no sexual assault, and no element of coercion involved in any of her pregnancies. When pressed on the events of the day the child disappeared, both her words and body language became vague and evasive. I was unable to elicit any more information on this than the police have already ascertained.

Appendix: MMPI-2 analysis

* * *

Adam Fawley

24 October

15.45

We have the visiting area to ourselves. Walls a dull sage green, industrial tiling, a tired-looking children’s play area in the far corner. It smells of disinfectant and bad food. We cool our heels for a good five minutes (literally – it’s bloody freezing in here) before the door clangs open at the far end and two warders appear. The woman following them is so different from the image in my head that I have to look twice to be sure it’s her. She must be two stone overweight on starchy prison food, her hair undyed and dark now, hanging in a greasy ponytail, and a blurry tattoo visible on her neck. But the arrogance is the same: the lift of the chin, the head held high. No wonder they call her the Duchess. As she comes towards us the look on her face is hardened, wary, even cruel; the dark shadow of the Shiphampton princess. But whatever she looks like now, this woman is still that girl – the girl they called the chameleon. Perhaps this is just another, even more necessary, change of camouflage.

She drags out the chair opposite us and bangs it down as far back as the space will permit. One of the warders rolls her eyes. I gesture to Quinn and he takes out a small voice recorder and puts it on the table between us.

‘Who are you and what do you want?’

The voice has hardened too. And rasped with years of cigarettes; I can smell smoke on her, even from here.

I flip out my warrant card. ‘DI Adam Fawley, Thames Valley. This is DS Quinn.’

She looks him up and down, openly scornful. ‘Fuck me, look at the state of that. Are you gay, or what?’

Quinn gapes, opens his mouth to reply, but she’s too quick for him. She turns to me; I can see the warder with the spiky hair laughing.

‘Thames Valley? You’re a long way from home.’

‘Not so far from your parents’ home.’

She shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been.’

‘Have you heard from them lately?’

She looks sardonic. ‘I’m sure the Jailhouse Frock has filled you in on my recent communications, such as they are.’

The Governor, evidently. So the Duchess gives nicknames, as well as takes them. I smile a little. ‘Not bad. Did you come up with that?’

She raises an eyebrow by way of answer.

‘So you’re unaware why we’re here?’

‘Unaware and, frankly, indifferent.’

I let the pause lengthen. Most people will fill a silence eventually, but not this woman. Then again, all these years, she’s had a lot of practice. Quinn shifts beside me. I can hear gates clanging somewhere. The sound of a van engine.

‘Food delivery,’ she says, watching my face. ‘Tuesday chilled, Wednesday ambient, Friday fresh. Not that it usually merits the term. I used to work in the kitchen.’

Another silence.

‘There was an incident at your parents’ house. Involving your father.’

She leans back, crosses one ankle over the other leg, man-style. ‘If you’d been in prison as long as I have, DI Adam Fawley, you’d know that “incident” can cover anything from a bowel movement to a disembowelment, and pretty much anything in between. So what – did the old boy shit himself?’

‘No,’ says Quinn sarcastically. ‘He fucking shot someone.’

A smile ripples across her mouth, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s Quinn or her father who’s amusing her so much.

‘Well, well, well. Who’d have thought the old man had so much spunk in him.’

She’s swaggering now, referencing Macbeth, flaunting her intellectual superiority over a pair of clodhopping cops. But two can play at that game, and I’m going to do it on my own terms.

‘It doesn’t surprise you? I’d be staggered if someone told me that about my father.’

‘Your father’s probably an accountant. My dear old dad is an arsey old bugger with a hair-trigger temper and a shotgun.’

She sits back and starts drumming her fingers against the base of the chair. She’s desperate for a fag; trust me, I know the signs.

‘And in any case, what’s any of this got to do with me? I haven’t seen either of them for months. In fact, it might well be years. If I could be fucked to work it out.’

‘The man who was shot was in his late teens or early twenties. According to your parents, he was a random intruder – a burglar.’

She shrugs. ‘Yeah, and?’

‘And, at first, we thought so too. Until, that is, we ran DNA tests on the victim.’

I pause again, scanning her face. Nothing. Her eyes are blank.

‘They were related. This man and your father.’

She swallows, frowns. ‘Related? How?’

‘He’s your son, Ms Rowan.’

Her eyelids flutter and she looks away, drawing a deep breath. Oxygen without benefit of nicotine.

All I can hear now is breathing. Hers and mine.

She swallows. ‘Is he OK?’

Because – as you might have noticed – I’ve made sure not to say. And if she wants to know, she’s going to have to work for it.

‘Who? Your father?’

A flicker of anger, but only a flicker. She’s on the defensive now. ‘No – the other –’

I leave a long pause. ‘No, Ms Rowan. I’m afraid he’s dead. He died at the scene.’

‘Tends to happen,’ snipes Quinn, ‘when you’ve had your fucking head blown off.’

She’s clearly getting under Quinn’s skin. I wouldn’t have said what he did, but now it’s out there I’m intrigued to see how she reacts. Shock, surely. Then what? Anger, sorrow, disbelief? But whatever she’s feeling, her face gives nothing away. She lifts one hand and starts gnawing at the skin around her thumb.

‘Is there anything you’d like to say?’

Her voice is stronger now. ‘When am I getting out?’

‘That’s not up to me. But we’ll need a whole lot more information first. Information I’m sure you’ll be able to give us.’

Her eyes narrow. ‘Like what, for fuck’s sake?’

‘Like where your son’s been for the last twenty years. You know, small details like that.’

‘Ha fucking ha,’ she says. ‘Think yourself quite the fucking comedian, don’t you.’

The sudden rash of expletives is telling.

I smile. ‘Not at all. I’m just doing my job: asking questions.’

‘I’ve answered a million fucking questions already. I told those goons at South Mercia I gave the kid to its father. I don’t know what the fuck happened to either of them after that, and I don’t know where the fuck the kid’s been since. Satisfied?’

‘Not by a long way. You still claim the father was Tim Baker? Despite what came out in that TV series?’

Her eyes narrow. ‘Yeah, well, none of that came from me, did it.’

‘You’re dissociating yourself from it? You never made any of those allegations?’

She smiles; the balance of power has evidently been restored. ‘No comment.’

But I’m not playing that game, not with her. Time to take back the initiative. ‘Do you know how we can contact Tim Baker?’

She gives me a withering look. ‘Don’t you think I’d have mentioned it before now if I did? Like fifteen fucking years ago? And in any case, you must know his name, right? You know, from a credit card or something.’

I play dumb. ‘I thought his name was Tim Baker?’

There’s colour in her cheeks now.

‘Not him. You know. My – son.’

I shake my head. ‘I’m afraid there was nothing to identify him. No cards, no wallet, no phone. Nothing.’

She frowns. ‘That’s crap. It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘I agree. Especially when we know for a fact that he had all those things with him when he arrived.’

It’s trick-bait, but she doesn’t take it. She doesn’t ask how I know that, she doesn’t ask anything at all. She just sits there, gnawing. The skin around her thumbnail is starting to bleed.

‘But you can rest assured we’ll get to the bottom of it, Ms Rowan. It may take a while, but we’ll work it out. We’ll find out what really happened to your baby all those years ago.’

She looks up, meets my gaze, and I smile.

‘It really is only a matter of time.’

‘Christ, she was a hard-faced cow,’ says Quinn, slamming the car door shut behind him.

‘Prison will do that to you.’

We sit for a moment in silence. It’s starting to rain. A fine drizzle misting the windscreen.

‘What do you think?’ he says after a long pause.

‘About what?’

‘Do you think she was surprised? That the kid was still alive, I mean.’

I’ve been asking myself the same question. Asking, and finding it startlingly hard to answer.

‘Not enough,’ I say eventually. ‘News like that, dropping from nowhere after all this time – she should have been reeling. And vindicated. Triumphant, even.’

Quinn laughs. ‘Right – she should have been rubbing our faces right in it. I would have, if it was me.’

‘Exactly. So it’s obviously not that simple. There’s something else in there too. Something muddying the waters.’

‘Like what?’

I turn to face him. ‘I have no idea.’

‘You all right, Rowan?’

She turns and looks back at the prison officer standing in the doorway, her hand on the bolt. She’s frowning. Behind her, people are moving past across the landing.

‘Bad news, was it?’

Rowan turns away. ‘You could say that.’ Her thumb is still bleeding and she lifts it to her mouth and starts to suck it.

The officer takes a step closer; in the bottom bunk, Rowan’s cellmate turns over and settles again.

‘Anything I can do?’ says the officer in a low voice.

Rowan glances at her and their eyes meet.

‘Maybe.’

* * *

Interview with Camilla Rowan, conducted at Calcot Row Police Station, Gloucester

27 August 2002, 11.00 a.m.

In attendance, DI H. Lucas, DS L. Kearney, Mrs J. McCrae (Appropriate Adult)

LK: We’ve asked you back today, Miss Rowan, because we’ve still been unable to locate your missing son.

CR: He’s not missing, he’s with his father.

LK: So you say, but we haven’t been able to track him down either.

CR: [shrugs]

It’s a common name. Must be hundreds of them.

LK: Fifty-six, to be precise. Fifty-six men called Timothy Baker, born in the UK, who would have been between the ages of 17 and 30 at that time. We’ve spoken to every single one of them and none of them has your child, or knows anything about you.

CR: [silence]

LK: Do you have a photograph of this man?

CR: No.

LK: Can you describe him?

CR: Brown hair, brown eyes – he was just ordinary.

LK: Are you prepared to sit down with a police artist and draw up an e-fit of this man?

CR: Yeah, whatever.

LK: Did he have an accent? Birmingham, say?

CR: No, he just sounded ordinary. Like everyone else.

LK: And you’re sure you have the right name?

CR: [silence]

*Duration of silence confirmed as 27 seconds*

It could have been Dacre.

LK: You’re saying his name was Dacre?

CR: I’m saying it could have been.

LK: Tim Dacre?

CR: Or Tom. Maybe.

LK: You don’t know the first name of the man you were sleeping with?

CR: Slept with twice. Five years ago.

HL: I think most women would remember the name of the man who fathered their child, even if they did only have sex with them twice.

CR: [silence]

LK: So let me get this straight. It could have been Tim Baker, Tim Dacre, Tom Baker or Tom Dacre. That’s what you’re now saying? Or are you just deliberately throwing sand in our eyes?

CR: I’m trying to help you.

HL: You’re not helping yourself, Miss Rowan.

CR: [silence]

LK: We can’t find the baby, we can’t find the baby’s father. You must know how this looks.

CR: I don’t care how it looks – I’m telling the truth.

LK: I should tell you we are now conducting a systematic search along the route you say you took from Birmingham and Solihull General Hospital to Shiphampton. Lay-bys, parks, woodland, disused ground, anywhere you might have disposed of the body or buried remains. We’re searching it all.

CR: Search all you fucking like, you won’t find anything.

LK: It doesn’t concern you that your own child – your own flesh and blood – has disappeared off the face of the earth and no one can find him?

CR: Tim told me that he’d get in touch if there was a problem, and I’ve never heard anything.

LK: The mobile number you gave us for him – is that the only way you have of contacting him?

CR: He said he was going to be moving house so that was the best way.

LK: You’re aware that mobile number is out of service?

CR: [shrugs]

LK: In fact, it has never been in service. No one in the UK has ever had that number. If I was of a suspicious turn of mind I might be thinking you just made it up.

CR: [silence]

LK: Why did you say you lived in Cambridge?

CR: What?

LK: When you gave your first child up for adoption you gave your address as 13 Warnock Road, Cambridge.

CR: So what?

LK: That was a lie, wasn’t it? You were still living at your parents’ home in Shiphampton.

CR: What difference does it make?

HL: It makes a difference, Miss Rowan, because you knowingly gave false information on an official document. One can only infer that you did so in order to avoid being contacted.

CR: Look, I didn’t want my parents finding out, OK? I didn’t want a letter arriving and my mum or dad getting hold of it.

LK: So why Cambridge?

CR: [shrugs]

I’d just been there. It was nice.

LK: ‘It was nice’? That’s it?

CR: [shrugs]

LK: [turning to file]

But that wasn’t the only untruth on that form, was it? The GP practice you gave, the email address – eleven lies in all.

CR: They weren’t lies –

LK: What would you call them, then?

CR: I told you – I didn’t want anyone to find out –

LK: Do you lie a lot, Miss Rowan?

CR: [indignant]

No, I do not!

LK: Doesn’t look like it to me. Looks to me like you do it all the time. Indeed, I put it to you that you lie so often and so readily that you don’t even know you’re doing it any more –

CR: That’s not true!

LK: In fact, I’d go so far as to say that I can tell when you’re lying because your lips are moving –

JM: Detective Sergeant, that’s hardly fair –

CR: [to Mrs McCrae]

He can’t talk to me like that, can he? I’ve done nothing wrong.

HL: We’ve yet to establish that, Miss Rowan.

CR: I’ve told you – I don’t know where the baby is – I don’t know where Tim is – but I didn’t do anything to the baby – I didn’t, I didn’t –

HL: We’ve done our best to help you, Miss Rowan, but I’m afraid you leave us with no choice –

CR: [staring from one officer to the other]

What? What?

LK: Camilla Rowan, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned –

CR: [puts her head in her hands on the table and begins to sob]

LK: – something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.

CR: [muffled]

It’s not fair! It’s not fair!

LK: Interview terminated at 11.25.

* * *

Adam Fawley

24 October

17.28

There’s a jam on the M25 just south of Byfleet. Ten minutes later we’re still sitting there, edging painfully forward, uncomfortably close to the trapped humans either side. A kid in the back of the SUV next to us is chewing and making faces through the window, his parents arguing in the front. The bloke in the van on the other side is smoking, looking at his mobile. It always feels doubly uncomfortable – not just the physical proximity, but the fact that the one thing these metal boxes are supposed to give us is the freedom to distance. I remember being stuck on the A40 once, back in the nineties, heading into London. Nose to tail for half an hour. And the person in the car next to me was Princess Diana. No – I didn’t believe it either. Not at first. But it was her. On her own, driving herself. Desperate for privacy but forced instead into an uneasy unforeseen intimacy with a nobody like me.

The truck in front inches forward, then the brake lights come on. Quinn mutters something under his breath. But now the lorry’s moved I can see the sign ahead. We’re less than a mile from the A3 turn-off. Cobham one way, Wisley the other.

I point. ‘Let’s come off there.’

Quinn frowns. ‘Are you sure? It’ll be a crap route across country from there.’

‘That’s not why I’m suggesting it. Melissa Rutherford lives in Cobham.’

* * *

‘You don’t recognize him?’

The woman sighs and takes the picture again. ‘It’s not very clear, is it?’

Bradley Carter gives her a weary look. ‘I’m afraid it’s all we’ve got.’

The hotel’s called the Park View, but unlike Heathside, it’s not living up to its name. The only vista on offer is the kebab house and bookmaker’s on the other side of the street, which is solid now with rush-hour traffic. Park View is a four-storey Victorian building and must once have been quite an impressive family house, but hard times have fallen and it has a down-in-the-mouth feel; grimy, peeling, faded, cracked.

The receptionist hands him back the picture. ‘I don’t think he was here, but I can’t be a hundred per cent sure. Sorry.’

‘Did any of your guests leave at the weekend without letting you know?’

She gives him an arch look. ‘I don’t keep tabs on ’em, love. It’s not the bleeding Ritz. They pay up front and I don’t ask questions. If they want to leave early then that’s fine by me.’

‘Is there anywhere else round here you can suggest I try?’

She shrugs. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. There must be fifty places like this within shouting distance – you’re going to be at it all night.’ He looks dejected now, exactly the same face he must have had as a chocolate-deprived twelve-year-old. She smiles briefly. ‘We have a vacancy, if you need a place to crash. I can do you it for thirty quid – special discount.’

Carter slides the picture back into his jacket. ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I’ll check with the office and get back to you.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

24 October

18.15

I knew Melissa Rutherford had money – that corner office on the documentary was a bit of a giveaway – but the house still manages to be impressive. Big windows, lots of glass and timber and light. It looks like it should be on Grand Designs. Perhaps it was; because something tells me she didn’t just buy this, she had it built.

She doesn’t answer the door, though. It’s another woman, wearing a black crew neck and dark trousers. She’s barefoot, so I guess the swanky spec included underfloor heating.

‘Yes?’

I haul out my warrant card. ‘DI Adam Fawley, DS Quinn. Is Ms Rutherford in by any chance?’

A frown flickers across her face, but she doesn’t say anything, just steps back. Only a little. Just enough to call back into the house, not enough to let us in. ‘Mel? There are some police people here for you.’

Her voice is soft Scots. There’s music playing somewhere in the house. Jazz. If they have kids they must be in bed, but I suspect they don’t. It’s all too pristine. Then there’s a soft creak of footsteps on the wooden floor and I see Rutherford emerge from what must be the kitchen end of the house, holding a tea towel. She looked impeccably professional in the documentary – tailored suit, cream blouse, wire-rimmed glasses. But now she’s in pale-grey sweats with her hair in a loose topknot. She’s the same age as Camilla, but she looks ten years younger.

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘We’re from Thames Valley Police. Could we come in for a moment?’

The other woman makes herself scarce, leaving us in their double-height sitting room with its reconditioned timber ceiling and view down the garden in the thickening dusk. A scatter of golden lights among the borders picks out a water feature, topiary and a pale owl, its wings reared to land, which for half a second I think is actually real.

Rutherford drops on to one of the black leather sofas and gestures us to do the same.

‘So what’s this about?’

‘Camilla Rowan.’

Her face freezes and she sits up, reaching to grip the edge of the sofa. I feel suddenly and overwhelmingly sorry for her – she must have hoped all that had finally gone away.

‘Has something happened?’

Quinn suppresses a sardonic snort. Rutherford looks at him and then at me.

‘We’re awaiting final confirmation, but we believe Camilla’s son has turned up.’

Her eyes widen. ‘You found the body? After all this time?’

I shake my head. ‘No. I’m sorry – I should have been clearer. Camilla didn’t kill her baby.’

She’s staring at me. ‘He’s alive?’

This is getting complicated. Too bloody complicated.

‘He was. There was an incident at the weekend, just outside Oxford. I’m afraid he was killed.’

I can see her rearranging her mental apparatus, retrofitting all this to what she’s always assumed. But she’s bright, she’s a lawyer; it won’t take her long. And it doesn’t.

‘So where’s he been all these years?’

I manage a wry smile. ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. He was identified only by his DNA – there weren’t any documents or other ID on him. We don’t even know what name he’s been using.’

She frowns; she knows as well as I do that there’s something odd going on here, but like I said, she’s a lawyer.

‘So what do you want from me?’

‘Anything you have. Anything you didn’t tell the first investigation. Anything you’ve remembered since.’ I pause. ‘Anything this news might have triggered.’

She raises her eyebrows, then looks away.

‘Do her parents know?’ she says, after a moment.

‘Yes, they have been told.’

There’s a silence.

‘Why did you ask about her parents? I must admit, it’s not the first question I thought you’d have.’

She shrugs. ‘I was just wondering how they’d reacted. I felt so incredibly sorry for them at the trial – the press, the abuse, people crawling all over their lives. Peggy was a wreck.’

I must look surprised because she continues quickly, ‘I mean, yes, I didn’t like her much when I was younger – she was a terrible snob, always going on about keeping up appearances and what other people would think. But for someone like that – having your daughter accused of infanticide and having to admit you didn’t have a clue what was going on in your own house – it doesn’t get any worse than that.’

Quinn looks sceptical. ‘You really think her mother didn’t know? Or did she just not want to know?’

But the answer is immediate. ‘I know she didn’t know. If she had, she’d never have let it happen a second time.’

‘But she had a lot of opportunities to observe her daughter, didn’t she?’ I ask. ‘And not just at home. She helped with the hockey team, went on day trips with the school. It’s hard to believe a mother wouldn’t notice.’

She makes a face. ‘Well, I don’t disagree with you, but it does happen.’

‘They asked you on the documentary whether you knew about the pregnancies. I was interested in your reply – you said “she never told me”. You didn’t say “I didn’t know”. That strikes me as a lawyer’s answer.’

She gives me a quick, dry look. ‘Well, maybe they shouldn’t have filmed me in the office.’ It’s half a joke, but only half.

‘So did you actually know?’

She sighs. ‘Let’s just say I suspected.’

‘Enough to say anything?’

She hesitates, then nods. ‘Yes, I said something.’

Silence.

‘Who to? Your mother? A teacher?’

She swallows. ‘I spoke to Cam.’

* * *

Interview with Peggy Rowan, conducted at Calcot Row Police Station, Gloucester

13 September 2002, 9.05 a.m.

In attendance, DI H. Lucas, DS L. Kearney, W. Gilmour (solicitor)

LK: Thank you for coming in today, Mrs Rowan. As I explained to you outside, this interview is being taped, to assist us with our enquiries, but you are not under arrest and can leave at any time. You have also elected to bring a legal representative with you, which is, of course, your right. So, can we start by talking about your daughter’s first pregnancy, in 1996.

PR: I’ve already told you, I didn’t know anything about any of it.

LK: She was sixteen, and living under your roof – you didn’t see her getting out of the bath, in her nightclothes?

PR: We’re not that sort of family.

LK: Did you know she had a boyfriend?

PR: As far as we were concerned she didn’t. She was always home by eleven. And she never brought anyone home, I can tell you that.

LK: So you don’t know who the father might have been?

PR: I have absolutely no idea. I didn’t even know she knew any boys like that.

LK: Black boys?

PR: Exactly.

LK: How would you and your husband have reacted if she’d brought home a black boyfriend?

PR: [pause]

I think we’d have been surprised.

HL: You wouldn’t have had a problem with it?

PR: [shrugs]

LK: [passes across a photo of Camilla Rowan and two friends]

She’s pregnant with that baby in this picture. Eight months pregnant.

PR: [pushing the picture away]

Well, exactly. That’s my point. She doesn’t look pregnant. Any more than those other girls.

LK: Why do you think she didn’t tell you?

PR: How am I supposed to know?

LK: She didn’t usually confide in you? As her mother?

PR: Like I said, we’re not that sort of family. Those women who try to be their daughters’ ‘best friends’, it’s never a good idea. In my opinion.

LK: What about the second pregnancy, the baby that was born in December 1997?

PR: I didn’t know about that either. Not a thing.

LK: How does that make you feel now – all this going on under your nose and you didn’t notice?

PR: She was obviously very good at hiding it, wasn’t she?

LK: Did she do that a lot – keep secrets from you?

PR: Not as far as I knew. Seems I was wrong, doesn’t it.

LK: Have you spoken to her about it since we arrested her?

PR: Briefly.

LK: What did she say?

PR: [shrugs]

That she didn’t say anything at the time because she wanted to protect us.

HL: Protect you from what?

PR: [silence]

HL: Embarrassment? Shame? Loss of face? What?

PR: [shrugs]

LK: Do you know who the father of the second baby was?

PR: Not a clue.

LK: Did she ever mention a Tim or a Tom?

PR: Not that I recall. It’s five years ago.

LK: Does the surname Baker mean anything to you?

PR: No.

LK: I believe you were quite active with Camilla’s school – helping out with events and so on?

PR: I wasn’t the only one.

LK: No, I understand that. But we’ve been told you were particularly active with the hockey team? That in fact you travelled with the Burghley Abbey team to the 1997 UK national under-18s hockey championships?

PR: Yes, so?

LK: It was the night of the final that Camilla went into labour. She drove herself, alone, to Birmingham and checked into hospital.

PR: Well, I didn’t know that.

LK: You were with her for three days, watching her play hockey – a vigorous and occasionally aggressive game, might I add – and you didn’t suspect she might be pregnant?

PR: I told you –

HL: My officers have also spoken to someone else who was at that tournament. A teacher from Lady Elspeth Haskell’s School in Shropshire.

PR: So?

LK: She said it was perfectly obvious to everyone that Camilla was pregnant. That both her colleagues and the girls on the Lady Elspeth team had mentioned it. Girls who had shared changing rooms with her.

PR: [silence]

LK: She also said she spoke to someone from Burghley Abbey – she was worried about Camilla’s well-being, and extremely concerned that a young girl in such an advanced stage of pregnancy should be playing at all.

PR: [silence]

LK: She said she approached someone she saw watching on the touchline. She thought it was a teacher. But it wasn’t. It was you.

PR: I don’t remember that.

LK: She said she pointed Camilla out – not knowing she was your daughter – and asked if there was any possibility she could be pregnant.

PR: [silence]

LK: You don’t remember what you said?

PR: [silence]

LK: You said it was ’none of her business’.

PR: [silence]

LK: So you did know.

PR: No, I told you.

LK: Someone points out your daughter and says she looks pregnant and it doesn’t give you pause?

PR: [silence]

LK: Did you speak to Camilla?

PR: No.

LK: Why not?

PR: [to Mr Gilmour]

Do I really have to answer all these questions?

WG: No, you don’t. And I think that’s enough for today, officers. My client has made it perfectly clear that she knows nothing about the baby, or what happened to it –

LK: Her own grandchild –

WG: Should you have any further questions, please contact me to make an appointment.

LK: Interview terminated at 9.40.

* * *

Adam Fawley

24 October

18.25

‘You spoke to her? What did you say?’

‘I asked about her weight gain. I mean, I didn’t put it quite that way, but that was the gist of it. God, it was embarrassing. It’s a massive no-no, talking to another girl about her weight.’

‘How did she react?’

‘She laughed. Said something about having eaten too much Häagen-Dazs.’

‘Was she just fobbing you off?’

She spreads her hands, at a loss. ‘I genuinely don’t know. It’s possible she really didn’t know she was pregnant.’

‘Was this the first time or the second?’

A pause, a frown. ‘The second.’

‘Then how could she not have known? Surely she’d have recognized the signs the second time.’

She shrugs. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you.’

‘Did you ever have any suspicions about who the father of that baby was? I know you said you didn’t in your original statement, but if there’s anything you might have thought of since, however vague, it might really help.’

She gives a lopsided smile. ‘’Fraid not. Your guess is as good as mine. Better, probably.’

There’s a silence.

Quinn clears his throat. ‘Sorry to have to ask this, Ms Rutherford, but were you and Camilla ever sexually involved?’

Her mouth drops open. Only a little, but enough.

She swallows. ‘How did you know?’

He spreads his hands. ‘I didn’t. Not till now – what I mean is, you’re obviously in a same-sex relationship now, aren’t you? And then it struck me that Leonora Staniforth said something in the documentary about you and Camilla having been particularly tight around then.’

She sighs. ‘Well, since you’re asking, then, yes. We did have a thing. Briefly. No one knew – not even Leo. I think it was just experimenting – for Cam, I mean. It was different for me.’

‘Different in that you already knew you were gay?’

‘Partly. Cam certainly didn’t take it very seriously. It was just a bit of fun. For her. A sideshow to the real event.’

I sit forward. ‘And it wasn’t for you? It was serious?’

She sighs. ‘I thought so. For a time. She has that effect on people.’

‘You never mentioned this during the original investigation.’

She flushes a little. ‘I was just a junior in the firm then. And people weren’t as “open-minded” fifteen years ago, especially not in Magic Circle law firms. And like I said, I didn’t know who the father of the baby was. Letting the whole world poke about in my private life wasn’t going to change that. My relationship with Cam – such as it was – was entirely irrelevant.’

I leave a pause. ‘Not “entirely” irrelevant, surely?’

She frowns. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘If you were having a physical relationship with Camilla you’d have been better placed than anyone to know that she was pregnant. In fact, it’s hard to see how you couldn’t have known.’

She flushes and looks away.

‘Ms Rutherford?’

She turns back to face me. ‘OK. What I said before – about asking her about her weight – that did happen. The only thing I left out was that it was in bed. On a memorable Sunday afternoon when her parents were lunching with friends.’ She stares at me. ‘Happy now?’

‘And even in those circumstances – those intimate circumstances – she still managed to convince you she was telling the truth?’

She laughs grimly. ‘Well, I’m not the only one she fooled that way, now am I?’

* * *

When Quinn finally gets home he’s feeling pretty pleased with himself. Tired, but pleased. The lights are on in his top-floor flat and as he walks across the piazza and looks up he can see Maisie moving about. It’s the first time he’s seen her like that – at home, in his place – and he’s sideswiped by a little surprise of joy. He spent weeks persuading himself that asking her to move in was the right thing to do, and was then completely wrong-footed that she didn’t say yes straight away and he had to put even more effort into persuading her. He’d worried there’d be loads of girly crap about the place, and he’d be nagged, and not be able to just veg in his joggers, but apart from some make-up stuff on her side of the bed and a few more toiletries in the bathroom (some of which he’s actually tempted to try), things haven’t changed much. Visible things anyway. As for the rest of it, that’s fine too. Pretty good, actually.

He opens the door to music and a waft of cooking. Maisie is on the other side of the big open-plan living space, setting the table.

‘Hi,’ she says, looking up with a smile. ‘You OK?’

He throws his scarf and tablet on the side table and drops into the settee. ‘Yeah, fine. Pretty good, actually.’

‘What was she like – Rowan?’

He grimaces. ‘Right hard-faced cow.’

Maisie shrugs. ‘Well, fifteen years in prison and all that.’

‘Yeah, that’s what Fawley said too.’

‘So did she say anything?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nah. Nothing she hasn’t said before, that’s for sure. Now Melissa Rutherford, that was a whole different ball game.’

She pauses for a moment in what she’s doing. ‘You spoke to her as well?’

He starts easing off his shoes. ‘Yeah, well, it was almost on the way, so Fawley decided to go there on the way back. And I suspect he’s rather glad he did.’

He smiles at her, dangling the bait.

She makes a face at him. ‘Come on – spill.’

‘Well, let’s just say you were right. She’s shacked up with a woman.’

Maisie’s eyes widen. ‘I knew it – I told you – what that woman Leonora said about those two – I knew there’d been something going on –’

He’s grinning now. ‘Yeah, mega brownie points to you. Fawley didn’t make the connection at all, not until I asked her – even though we both knew by then she was gay. I think he was pretty impressed, actually.’

She drops her gaze to hide her smile – it doesn’t surprise her that Quinn’s taken the credit for what was actually her insight, but she really doesn’t care. She doesn’t give a toss about impressing Fawley, but she knows Quinn does. Far more than he’d ever admit, even to himself.

He loosens his tie. ‘So what’s for dinner?’

* * *

When Bradley Carter woke up the following morning it had taken him a few seconds to realize where he was. The light was coming from the wrong direction, the sheets felt strange. Not his own bed at his parents’ place in Marston (though he’s been careful not to let on to anyone at work that he still lives at home), but a pokey top-floor room in the just-as-bad-as-he-thought-it-would-be Park View hotel. It turned out the thirty-quid overnight stay was actually cheaper than the train up and back twice, so he washed his grots in the sink and had a night on a lumpy bed with a TV bolted to the wall and no Wi-Fi. It’s a demoralizing start to what will no doubt be another demoralizing day. He gives the instant coffee sachet and UHT milk a definite swerve and heads down the stairs, passing a couple of Chinese tourists at reception asking for directions to Buckingham Palace. He stops on the front step, assessing the various coffee options – at this time of the morning it’s going to be a trade-off between quality and speed, but when you factor in the weather, proximity is likely to win: there’s a thin, mean-spirited drizzle just starting, the kind that doesn’t seem to be that wet until you’ve been out in it an hour and realize you’re soaked. He checks his mobile for messages, then turns up his coat collar and heads down the street to the main road.

* * *

Upstairs at St Aldate’s, the office is surprisingly empty. Carter’s in London, Ev and Hansen are en route to interview Leonora Staniforth at her Cotswold stone pile, and Fawley and Quinn are halfway to South Mercia Police HQ for what’s likely to be an uncomfortable encounter. Which leaves Baxter in charge and Chloe Sargent on the coffee runs. And he’s going to need all the caffeine he can get: it took South Mercia six months to pull together the database he has in front of him, and he’ll be lucky if he gets that many days to go through it all. ‘Herculean’ isn’t in it.

He drags his chair a bit closer to the desk and opens the first file.

GENERAL RECORDS OFFICE, REGISTER OF BIRTHS

ENGLAND & WALES

1997

* * *

Even though she knew they were coming, Leonora still looks alarmed when she opens the door.

‘It’s about Cam, isn’t it – you found her son.’

Melissa has clearly phoned her. She was asked not to speak to anyone but she’s obviously made an exception for her old schoolmate. Ev puts on her ‘no need to panic’ face, first developed when she was a bobby on the beat and an invaluable part of her standard police kit ever since. Along with spare tissues, a packet of mints and a great deal of patience.

‘Good morning, Mrs Neville. DC Verity Everett, DC Thomas Hansen, Thames Valley Police. May we come in?’

She looks flustered now. ‘Yes, yes, of course, sorry. It’s all just been overwhelming, coming out of the blue like that.’

‘Don’t worry, I totally understand. It was bound to be a bit of a shock.’

They follow her down the hall into the same kitchen Ev remembers from the Netflix show, though it’s had a coat of paint since, and the clutter is rather less artfully arranged than it was on TV.

Leonora fusses about with coffee for a while, but they’re happy to bide their time: let the stress settle and they’ll get more out of her.

‘So, Mrs Neville,’ says Ev, when they’re finally seated at the table. ‘You’re obviously aware why we’re here. So is there anything you can tell us that may not have occurred to you before?’

She wraps her hands around her mug. ‘I’ve been thinking and thinking, ever since Mel called, and I just can’t remember anything.’ She lifts her hands. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Just take your time, Mrs Neville –’

‘You can call me Leonora. “Mrs Neville” makes me sound like my mother-in-law.’

‘OK, Leonora, like I said, there’s no rush, you may know more than you realize.’

There’s a silence, just the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner. It’s so tall they’ve had to dig out part of the ceiling to fit it in.

‘As I’m sure you’ll understand, our first priority is finding out where Ms Rowan’s son has been all these years, and unfortunately we don’t have any ID –’

‘Yes,’ she says quickly. ‘Mel said.’

‘So we’re starting on the basis that Ms Rowan was telling the truth and did, in fact, hand the child to its father. Have you had any contact with her since she’s been in prison?’

She shakes her head. ‘No. No way.’

Hansen’s turn. ‘Is there anything you can tell us about the boys she was seeing back then?’

She gives him a hopeless look. ‘I went through all this years ago – when she was arrested. I told those other police everything I knew. I didn’t know anything about that Tim or Tom whatever his name was. She never mentioned him to me.’

Hansen flips open his notebook. ‘She did have a boyfriend though, around that time?’

She fiddles with her mug again; she still hasn’t drunk any of it.

‘There was Peter Anderson, but it wasn’t him.’

Everett nods. ‘I gather they only started seeing each other some weeks after she must have become pregnant.’

‘And he definitely didn’t take the baby. He was on holiday with his family. They proved that in court.’

‘Are you still in touch?’

She makes a face. ‘On and off. Christmas cards, you know.’

‘Could you let DC Hansen have his address before we go?’

She looks anxious for a moment. ‘It’s in Dumfries somewhere. Look, it really wasn’t him. Honestly – I’d know. He has two daughters –’

‘He’s not under any suspicion,’ says Ev quickly. ‘We just need to eliminate him. No one could be ruled out when the baby first disappeared because we didn’t have its DNA, but now we do. It’d be in Mr Anderson’s interests, really. It’d let him draw a line under the whole thing once and for all.’

She drops her gaze. ‘OK. It’s just, you know – I don’t want him thinking I dropped him in it.’

‘That’s understandable. But we’d really rather prefer you didn’t talk to him about this until we have a chance to speak to him ourselves.’

She’s still staring into her coffee.

‘OK,’ she says eventually. ‘OK.’

‘So,’ says Hansen, ‘other than Peter Anderson, were there other boyfriends you can remember?’

‘I said all this the first time. There were a few boys she liked, but no one I’d call a “boyfriend”.’

Hansen consults his notes. ‘Marcus Crowther and Jamie Fox?’

‘Yes, she knew both of them.’

‘Do you think it’s possible,’ says Ev, ‘that one of them could have fathered the second baby?’

She shrugs. ‘You tell me. Camilla’s mother kept her on a pretty tight rein – she always had to be back home by eleven. There wasn’t exactly a lot of opportunity.’

‘That must have made it hard to get away – when she went into labour.’

Her eyes narrow; she knows what Ev’s getting at.

‘The second time was when we were at that hockey thing. It was the last night – it was just before Christmas – everyone went out – it would’ve been easy to slip away.’

‘Where did her mother think she was?’

She shrugs. ‘You’d have to ask her. She probably thought it was a sleepover with the team or something.’

‘And the first baby – what about when she went into labour then?’

She sighs. ‘Yes, well, I lied for her that time, didn’t I – told her mother she was staying at mine. You know that. Look, I was just a kid – I thought she wanted to bunk off down the pub – I had no idea what was really going on –’

‘It’s OK, Mrs Nev – Leonora – I’m not accusing you of anything.’

‘I’m sorry, I know you’re not. But it was bloody awful – being interrogated over and over again, and then that horrible prosecutor trying to get me to admit I knew something about that baby when I didn’t, and then being in the bloody papers –’

Her voice is getting shrill.

‘Like I said,’ says Ev quickly, ‘we’re just trying to find out what happened. That’s all.’

Leonora raises her mug to her lips. She’s trembling slightly, and pulls her cardigan closer round her shoulders.

Hansen takes the still from the CCTV footage from his pocket and places it on the table between them.

‘This is the man,’ he says. ‘The one we believe is Camilla’s son.’

She hesitates, then reaches out and pulls the photo closer. ‘It’s not very clear.’

‘I’m afraid it’s all we’ve got.’

There’s silence; she’s staring at the picture.

‘We were hoping he might look like someone you knew back then?’

She slowly shakes her head. ‘No, I’m afraid he doesn’t. He doesn’t even look like Cam.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

25 October

10.30

Turns out I’ve never actually been to South Mercia Police HQ. I’d definitely remember it if I had. It looks like a football stadium, all swooping rooflines and glass walls. And blue – a lot of upbeat, positive, here-to-serve blue.

We park up in the visitors’ area and make our way over to reception. It’s more like a hotel or a private hospital than a plod shop. There are even sofas. With cushions.

We’re on time, we’re expected, but they still make us wait. Quinn sits there messing about with his phone, grumbling every few minutes and checking his watch. But if that’s how Kearney wants to play it, fine by me. I’ve had a twenty-year-old case rise from the dead and bite me in the arse; I know how it feels.

A chipper young female PC arrives about ten minutes later and takes us upstairs, collecting coffee orders on the way. Judging by the list of options, their machine is way flashier than ours. Kearney has a big office on the third floor, with a picture window and a decent computer and his own set of armchairs round a small table. I find myself wondering idly about whether they might be recruiting.

‘Adam Fawley?’ he says, rising from his chair and coming towards me. ‘Lawrence Kearney.’

He’s older than me – fiftyish, with a bristle of thick grey hair, a rather darker moustache and a pair of intense blue eyes.

‘Take a seat.’

I let him choose his preferred chair, then take my own. I notice he pulls up his trouser knees before he sits down. Old school, then.

‘So,’ he says, ‘I gather the Camilla Rowan case has reared its ugly head again.’

‘I’m afraid so, sir. I suspect it’s the last thing any of us needs.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘I’m hoping we can make this as painless as possible, but –’

He waves a hand. ‘I know how it works.’ He doesn’t actually call me ‘laddie’, but it’s definitely a possibility. ‘You’ll go poking about looking under stones, seeing if you can catch us out, causing a whole lot of stress to decent hard-working officers, and end up with bugger all.’

‘That’s not our intention, sir.’

The door opens and the young PC comes in with a tray.

There’s a useful pause, fiddling about with cups, and by the time she disappears Kearney seems to have regained some of his composure.

‘So what next?’

‘We have the case files already, sir, and we’ll be re-interviewing the key witnesses, including the parents. Though that’s been complicated by the fact that they’re both now under arrest.’

He frowns. ‘So I heard. Did they know, do you think – that he was their grandson?’

‘They insist not.’

‘You believe them?’

‘Let’s just say the jury’s out.’ There’s a pause. ‘Oh, and DI Gallagher asked to be remembered to you.’

He smiles now. ‘Ruth’s a fine officer. I knew she’d go far.’

‘I agree, sir. We’re lucky to have her.’

I see Quinn roll his eyes but thankfully he’s out of Kearney’s line of sight.

‘So what do you need from me?’

‘If you have time now, I’d like to talk to you about the case, and I’d like DS Quinn to have access to any other officers who had a significant role in the investigation, both serving and retired.’

Kearney turns to him. ‘You’ll be clocking up the mileage.’

Quinn shrugs. ‘It’s no bother.’

Kearney bridles slightly and I shoot Quinn a dagger look. He flushes, just a little. ‘I don’t mind. I like driving. Sir.’

Kearney gets up, rather ponderously, and goes over to his desk. When he returns, he hands Quinn a sheet of paper. He knew exactly what we’d be after and he prepared. Just as I would have done.

‘These are the people you need. Start with Mick Havers. Retired now, but he lives local so I asked him to pop in today – thought you might want to talk to him. He’s in the meeting room downstairs.’

Blimey, they have meeting rooms too. There’s a knock at the door and the PC puts her head round; it’s clearly Quinn’s signal to leave. He gets up, nods to me and is gone.

The door swings slowly and silently shut and Kearney turns to me. ‘OK. Let’s cut the bull, shall we?’

* * *

‘Two sugars, right?’ says Chloe Sargent, sliding the cup on to Baxter’s desk. ‘And the machine’s run out of Twix so I got you a Snickers.’ She laughs nervously. ‘Hope you’re not allergic to nuts.’

‘Thanks,’ he mutters, barely glancing up. ‘I owe you.’

He’s staring so intently he doesn’t realize that she’s still there, five minutes later, looking over his shoulder.

He turns round properly this time. ‘Sorry, was there something else?’

She flushes. ‘I was just interested – in what you’re doing.’

He gives her a heavy look. ‘Most people run a mile from stuff like this.’

She tries a smile. ‘DC Hansen was talking about digital forensics and I was just wondering what it meant. In a real case.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘Was he now? Well, that’s a first round here.’

‘So can I see? Is that OK?’

He nods. ‘Sure.’

She drags over a chair and sits down.

He points at the screen. ‘This is basically what South Mercia did back in 2002 to try and find the baby. It was a bloody awful needle-in-a-haystack job, but they didn’t have much choice – murder cases without a body are always an effing nightmare, so the only way to prove the kid was dead was to prove it wasn’t alive, if you catch my drift.’

‘OK.’

‘So they started by looking at all baby boys whose births were registered in the six weeks after Camilla gave birth. She never registered the kid herself, so if it was still alive the father would have had to have done it. Only that came up with nothing, so the next thing they looked at was all boys born at Birmingham and Solihull General Hospital on or around the same date. There were thirteen other male babies delivered there that week, but they all checked out, so they widened the search out both by date and geography – to the rest of Brum and the West Midlands, and the two months before and after 23rd December.’ He flips to another file. ‘See?’

‘And they were physically checking out every single baby boy?’

He nods. ‘All the ones who fitted the profile, yeah.’ He flips through more and more files, each child tracked, traced and eliminated. ‘There were over a hundred uniforms on it at one point.’

‘Jeez. And there was no DNA?’

‘They had hers, obviously, but nothing else, because Rowan left before the hospital could do any blood tests on the baby. So yeah, they did do tests on some of the kids – certainly any of ’em where there was any sort of doubt. But they came up empty every time. And not having the kid’s DNA made identifying the father a non-starter.’

‘But we have it now, right?’

‘Right, and forensics are doing a full familial search.’

She looks thoughtful. ‘So what are you looking for?’ She gestures at the screen. ‘I mean, there’s so much of it.’

He pulls a face. ‘Tell me about it,’ he says heavily. ‘But yeah, it’s a good question. Sometimes you don’t know it till you see it. Could be something that pops now, with hindsight, but couldn’t have popped then. Or an obvious omission – like data that’s logged as being there but actually isn’t.’

‘Wouldn’t that have been spotted at the time?’

‘You’d think so, but by all accounts they were still pulling all this stuff together when the trial started. I gather the judge was none too pleased.’

He flips back to the page he was looking at when she arrived and sits back, reaching for the coffee.

She leans forward and reads the first entry: ‘Aaron William Dacre, DOB 6 January 1998, Cheltenham General Hospital, Father – Timothy Dacre, Mother – Phoebe Dacre, née Fenner.’

Baxter makes a face. ‘Tim Dacre, Tom Dacre, Tim Baker, Tom Baker, whatever his bloody name was. Though Tom Baker is pretty bloody apt because whoever he is, he must have fucking regenerated –’

She’s looking at him blankly, and he realizes he’s showing his age. ‘Dr Who,’ he says, a little lamely. ‘Tom Baker was Dr Who. When I was a kid.’

She’s smiling now and he shakes his head. ‘Yeah, yeah, don’t rub it in – you weren’t even born then, right?’

* * *

Hansen puts down his mobile and looks across to Ev. They’re on their way back to Oxford.

‘That was Peter Anderson. He said he’d go into his local police station this afternoon and give a DNA sample.’

‘Great. We’d better call Dumfries and Galloway – let them know he’s coming.’

He smiles. ‘Next on the list.’

His phone pings and he looks down to scan the message. ‘Ah, great – it’s an email from Marcus Crowther – he’s going to come into St Aldate’s tomorrow. Which just leaves us with Jamie Fox. He lives in Stockport, so we’ll have to ask Greater Manchester to pick up on that one. But it just so happens my ex works there so I’ll give him a call and see if he can get me a contact.’

There’s a tiny pause. ‘Great,’ says Ev. ‘Good stuff.’

He wonders if the hesitation was because she was waiting for the lights to change, or because she registered the ‘he’ and ‘him’ he slipped in there. He’s pretty sure she already knew, but it’s high time she did, either way. Though he doubts she’ll be fazed, any more than Fawley was. And then she glances across at him with a smile that leaves no room for doubt and he grins back and the smile is still there as she changes up a gear and puts her foot down.

* * *

Adam Fawley

25 October

11.05

Kearney pours me a coffee and sits back down. ‘So what do you want to know?’

‘What did you think happened? At the time?’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘To the kid? I thought she killed it. The lies, the evasions, the way she behaved – everything pointed to that. And the jury agreed with me.’

‘And now?’

He takes his time. ‘How did she react – when you told her?’

‘That he’d reappeared? Hard to be sure. Not as surprised as I would have expected.’

‘Did she ask about him – where he’d been, that sort of stuff?’

I shake my head. ‘No. Nothing.’

‘You got kids?’

The minefield question. I had two; I have one. And the present-tense answer is – now and always – the only possible reply.

‘A daughter.’

‘How old?’

‘Three months.’

That clearly surprises him, though he does his best to hide it. He probably thinks I’m one of those second-time-arounders with a shiny new wife half my age.

‘And if your daughter turned up out of the blue after being missing for twenty years, wouldn’t you want to know where she’d been?’

‘Of course. But I wouldn’t have given my child to a virtual stranger in the first place.’

He points a finger at me. ‘That’s the crux of the Rowan case. Right there.’

I leave a pause, clear my throat. ‘She didn’t ask how he’d tracked her parents down either. Not that I could have told her. All she wanted to know was when she was getting out.’

He gives a quick, grim laugh. ‘Right. I bet she did.’

‘You still haven’t answered my question, sir.’

He sits back. ‘You want to know what I think now? I think this case is a bloody minefield. Let’s just say I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.’

I make a face. ‘Join the club.’

That gets a smile. A desert-level dry one, but a smile.

‘Is there anything you’d do differently now, sir, with the benefit of hindsight?’

He considers. ‘Nope,’ he says eventually. ‘I think we did pretty much what any competent investigation would do. Then or now.’

‘You and your team put in a hell of a lot of hours tracking down baby boys of the right age, and yet you never found him.’

His eyes narrow. ‘My lads did a good job. You won’t find otherwise.’

‘And I’m not suggesting otherwise. But the baby must have been there, all the same.’

He sits back again. ‘There’ll be an explanation. No bloody clue what, mind you. But there’ll be one.’

He picks up his coffee.

‘What would you do now, sir, if you were running this inquiry?’

He gives me a dark look. ‘Leave the country? No, seriously, I assume you’re doing familial DNA on your vic?’

I nod. ‘Underway.’

He shrugs. ‘Then you’re doing what I’d be doing.’

‘Did you consider – at the time – whether Rowan might have had the baby adopted? Illegally, that time?’

‘She sold the kid, you mean? Yes, we did look at that.’

‘I don’t remember seeing much about it in the files.’

His eyes narrow. ‘That,’ he says quickly, ‘is because there was sod all to say.’

I wait. Count to twenty. I suspect he may be too.

‘As I’m sure you’re aware,’ he begins, in a voice heavy with irritated patience, ‘the illegal adoption trade only really took off after the internet. Back in ’97 it was mostly just friends of friends type of stuff – someone who knew someone who knew someone. You know as well as I do that it’s near nigh impossible to run that sort of thing down, especially five bloody years later, which is what we were facing. We did have a few leads – West Mids had some contacts and put us on to one or two – but none of ’em came up with diddly.’

‘I see.’

‘And if Rowan did sell that kid she didn’t get much for it – she certainly never came into any significant cash around then; we checked. The only thing she did spend any money on was that bloody tattoo – “Sweet freedom”. Now there’s an irony.’ He’s getting into his stride again. ‘And remember how narrow the time window was – she left Brum at three and was at home for the Christmas party by five. She had half an hour, max, to get rid of that kid, so if she handed it off to someone she must have made all the arrangements beforehand. And how would a girl like her even find an illegal adoption agency? I mean, they could hardly put ads in the bloody paper, now could they? And she lived in Shiphampton, not bloody Sparkhill.’

‘But she did give birth in Birmingham, and the psychiatrist who assessed her pre-trial said she almost certainly researched the hospital sometime beforehand. As she probably did with the first baby as well.’

‘So?’

‘So she could have met someone that way. If she’d been hanging about the hospital she could have met another mother – another girl in her position. They might have given her a contact.’

Kearney shifts in his seat. He’s frowning.

I sit forward a little. ‘Then after the birth she calls them from a hospital payphone and arranges to meet to hand the child over.’

He raises an eyebrow, sardonic. ‘Let me guess – at a lay-by on the A417?’

I shrug. ‘Why not? We both know the best way to get away with a lie is to invent as little as possible. What if everything she said about that day was true, apart from the one central, crucial thing? She did meet someone at that lay-by, she did hand over the child, but the person who took it wasn’t its father, it was a backstreet baby broker.’

I wait, again, and eventually he nods.

‘Yes, I suppose it’s possible.’

‘It would also explain why the people who took the baby never came forward. Either the broker or the people who adopted him. They all had too much to lose.’

‘But she didn’t, did she – Rowan? Why didn’t she come clean? Perhaps not straight away, but at least once she was facing a murder charge? An illegal adoption would’ve been chicken feed by comparison.’

There’s a silence. ‘I know. That part doesn’t make sense.’

He pulls a wry face. ‘Welcome to the warped world of Camilla Rowan. None of it makes any bloody sense – it never did. Apart from her killing it. That always made sense. Trouble is, that’s the one thing we now know for an absolute fact did not happen.’

* * *

Importance: High

Sent: Thurs 25/10/2018, 12.10

From: DCVickyRoom@GMP.police.uk

To: DCThomasHansen@ThamesValley.police.uk

Subject: Jamie Fox

Mr Fox just attended at GMP Fairfax Road. We were in luck – he brought a blood donor card with him. According to what you sent over earlier, your vic is Group A and the mother is Group O. Since Fox is also Group O he can be excluded from paternity. We’ve taken a blood sample for verification purposes, but I thought you’d like to know straight away.

I’ll let you know as soon as we have the results.

Best,

Vicky Room

* * *

Adam Fawley

25 October

12.15

Quinn is waiting for me in the car park, leaning against his car, scrolling on his tablet. He looks up as I approach.

‘Did you get much from Havers?’

‘Nah,’ he says. ‘Nothing more than was in the files. He’s so far up Kearney’s arse all you can see is his shoes.’

Figures.

He unlocks the car with a flashy remote-control thing (as if you couldn’t guess) and we get inside.

‘I asked Kearney about the illegal adoption theory,’ I say, pulling the door shut.

Quinn nods. ‘And?’

‘He got a bit defensive – said they’d done their best to look at that, but five years after the fact it was an impossible task.’

Quinn starts the engine. ‘Well, he’s not wrong there.’

I turn and look out of the window. A couple of PCs walk past the car and up the steps, chatting animatedly. They look scarcely out of training college; even I think the police are looking younger these days.

‘I asked him whether they’d spoken to any of the other single mothers who gave birth at the hospital around the same time, in case one of them could have been the link to a backstreet adoption outfit.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Huffed and puffed a bit. They obviously didn’t do it.’

Quinn puts the car in gear and swivels round so he can see to back out. ‘Well, that’s the only hole in the case we’ve found so far. But how the hell we’re supposed to track any of them down now –’

‘There was a social worker, wasn’t there – based at the hospital? Isn’t she on the witness log?’

‘Yeah, but she only saw Rowan once for, like, ten minutes, so it didn’t seem that important.’

‘Push her up the priority list – if there were other girls thinking of adoption she’d be the one who knew.’

Quinn nods. ‘I’ll get someone on it.’

He reverses, so fast I’m risking whiplash, and then we move off.

‘There was one other thing Kearney said.’

‘Oh yeah?’ says Quinn.

‘He was joking – he said if he was in my position he’d leave the country.’

Quinn laughs.

‘But it made me think – if the baby really was adopted illegally, perhaps they took him abroad?’

Quinn glances at me, then back at the road. ‘But it’d have to have a passport, wouldn’t it? The kid? Or be put on one of the parents’? You can’t just rock up at Heathrow with a stroller and they wave you through.’

I’m surprised Quinn even knows what those things are called; perhaps Maisie’s softening him up for daddydom. Though the idea of him changing a nappy – well, think The Scream. On acid.

He’s right, though: no exit without a passport, and no passport without a birth certificate. And South Mercia already checked birth records. Of course, there is such a thing as forgery, and it was a lot easier to get away with back then when passports weren’t so high-tech, but it would still have entailed a hell of a lot of time and expense when there were easy and legitimate ways to achieve exactly the same end. Unless there was a reason why you couldn’t go the easy and legitimate way. It’s not a happy thought.

‘You want me to ask Baxter to check the airports? If you’re thinking our dead man might have come from overseas?’

I’m about to say yes, but then I start thinking about how many people churn through Heathrow alone on a daily basis and remind myself that all we have is a blurred face and a hunch.

‘No, I can’t justify the cost. Not without much better grounds. Or a name.’

Quinn nods. ‘Yeah, I think you’re right.’

‘Though it might be an idea to have a word with the Swanns’ postie. We know they didn’t get any calls from overseas, but maybe our vic wrote to them. I mean, he couldn’t exactly track them down on Facebook, now could he.’

Quinn smiles. ‘Yeah, good idea. I’ll get someone on that too.’

He signals, then pulls out, tyres screeching, on to the main road.

* * *

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 at the Old Bailey trial, interspersed with newspaper headlines –’Milly Liar: “I did not harm my baby”’, ‘What really happened to baby Rowan?’, ‘Lawyer says Camilla Rowan “receiving death threats”’, ‘Child-killer to serve life’.

VOICEOVER – JOHN PENROSE

By March 2002, Camilla Rowan seemed to have put her old life and its troubles behind her. She’d left school with good A levels, done a course in physiotherapy, and then got a job working at a private clinic in Cheltenham. People who knew her back then describe her as ‘looking like she didn’t have a care in the world’. To those observing from outside, her future certainly looked bright. She had a new flat, a Yorkshire terrier, and a new boyfriend. She was also – unbeknownst to her colleagues, employers, friends or family – once again heavily pregnant.

Intercut: RECONSTRUCTION. Sequence of images: young woman walking small dog, working with patient, arranging flowers, drinking wine with man in restaurant.

Her boyfriend’s identity has been protected by the courts, but the investigation subsequently carried out by South Mercia Police quickly established that he was not the father of the child she was then carrying. Indeed this man has always claimed he had no idea that she was pregnant. Moreover, that she deliberately concealed this from him, in part by dictating the sexual positions they adopted in the later months of the pregnancy. It seems hard to believe, and there are many people who don’t believe it, even now.

But whatever the truth of it, the fact remains that he was not the father of that child, and – since he only met Camilla Rowan in the summer of 2001 – he could not have fathered the baby boy she gave birth to in Birmingham either.

That baby had last been seen on 23rd December 1997, being carried out of hospital in his mother’s arms. But it wasn’t until March 2002, nearly five years later, that anyone realised he was missing.

Indeed, it’s one of the most troubling and, frankly, horrifying aspects of this case that it only came to light through a combination of luck, happy accident and the sheer determination of a single council employee.

TITLE APPEARS OVER, TYPEWRITER STYLE:

Part three

“I’m a man who doesn’t know”

Interior, sitting room. Urban landscape visible through window. SM walks into shot and sits down, camera team adjust his mic, check he’s correctly in shot etc.

TITLE OVER: Steve McIlvanney, Manager, Gloucestershire Adoption & Fostering Service, 1993-2006

VOICEOVER – JOHN PENROSE

This episode is all about Steve. About his perseverance and his commitment, and the sort of professional instinct that ‘something isn’t right’ that only comes with 15 years’ experience in child services.

Because without Steve, there would have been no case. Without Steve we may never have known baby Rowan had existed at all.

STEVE McILVANNEY

First time I heard the name Camilla Rowan was when I got passed the case by my line manager in March 2002. All I knew then was that this woman had presented herself at the maternity suite of the Princess Alice Hospital, Gloucester, on 2nd March, and given birth to a baby girl the following day. According to the nurses she’d breastfed the child as normal. Everything seemed absolutely fine. Then later the same day she suddenly told the staff nurse she wanted to have her daughter adopted, and they got in touch with us to handle the case. When my manager gave me the file she said it was a straightforward case – ’you’ll be in and out in a couple of days’.

(laughs)

Yeah, right.

Intercut: RECONSTRUCTION: Young woman in hospital bed with baby in her arms; man in chair at her side filling in form on a clipboard.

STEVE McILVANNEY

I went in to see her the first time the day after the birth and she seemed fine – there were no red flags at that stage, that’s for sure. She seemed to have thought everything through very clearly.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

What reason did she give for wanting to have the baby adopted?

STEVE McILVANNEY

She said she wasn’t in any position to look after a baby. I asked her if she’d been the victim of abuse or assault but she was very insistent that that wasn’t the case. She said it was just a one-night stand and she didn’t know where the father was. She said she was in a different relationship now so there was no question of keeping the baby, but she wanted to ‘do the right thing’ for it. She was very insistent about that too. So I gave her all the paperwork, and explained what the process would be.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

Did she give any indication that she’d been through the same thing once before?

STEVE McILVANNEY

Absolutely not – in fact, she asked me several questions that made it sound like she had no idea at all what was involved.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

Do you think that was deliberate?

STEVE McILVANNEY

(shrugs)

Who knows. Based on what I’ve learned about her since, anything is possible. With Camilla Rowan.

Cut to: MONTAGE: sequence of images of Camilla Rowan’s adoption paperwork for this third child, annotated as previously, with ‘False’, ‘Untrue’, ‘Does not exist’, etc.

VOICEOVER – JOHN PENROSE

Camilla went about this second adoption process exactly as she had with her first baby, filling the official paperwork with lie after lie. Once again, she gave her real name, but neither the address nor email address she provided actually existed. Once again, the mobile number she supplied always went straight to voicemail.

But this time, she was dealing with a different adoption services department. And this time, there was someone handling her case who wasn’t about to take no for an answer.

STEVE McILVANNEY

We took the baby into foster care the day after she was born, and Miss Rowan left hospital later that same afternoon. I told her I’d be in touch to follow up and she said that was fine, and she was glad the baby was ‘going to a good home’. It made it sound like it was a puppy or something.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

Didn’t that set off warning signals that something might be wrong?

STEVE McILVANNEY

No, not then – like I said, I was under the impression she’d never done this before. I put it down to nerves.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

She seemed nervous that day?

STEVE McILVANNEY

To be honest no, not really. She was chatty, smiling – certainly not distraught. But thinking about it afterwards, I think she did sense that comment about ‘a good home’ was a bit crass. She made more of an effort after that. I think she was desperate for me to just tick all the boxes and let her go.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

What happened next?

STEVE McILVANNEY

She’d put on her forms that she lived in Brighton, and had only been in Gloucester visiting friends. Just like she had with the first baby, though of course I only found out about that a lot later.

Intercut: sequence of images of Brighton. Seafront, Royal Pavilion, etc.

I also had no idea the address she’d given me didn’t exist – that’d never happened to me in 15 years. With the benefit of hindsight, I think she deliberately chose Brighton because she knew I wouldn’t have either the time or the budget to go all the way down there to see her. Everything was going to have to be done by phone or email and, of course, I got absolutely nowhere with either. Six weeks later, we got to the point where we needed to complete the final paperwork, and I still hadn’t managed to speak to her.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

So what did you do?

STEVE McILVANNEY

It occurred to me she might have given the hospital a different email address – the one she’d given me was one of those Gmail ones with a name followed by a string of numbers, so I thought she could have written it down wrong by mistake. I was kicking myself, actually, that I hadn’t thought of contacting the Maternity Unit before.

Cut to: hospital office, charts on wall, computers, cupboards, files, etc.

TITLE OVER: Staff Nurse Penny Curtis, Maternity Unit, Princess Alice Hospital, Gloucester

PENNY CURTIS

I’d known Steve for a number of years by then – we didn’t get many babies put up for adoption, but when it did happen it was usually Steve who handled the process. He was very good at his job – always very thorough and conscientious. I was surprised when he contacted me about the Rowan baby, though – I thought that had all been sorted out weeks before. But then he explained that he kept leaving her voicemails and she never called him back, so did I have an email address for her he could try. I asked him to hang on a moment while I had a look, and while I was doing that he just happened to mention that she might be difficult to get hold of because she was finding the adoption process harder than she’d thought it would be. After all, she would have had no idea what to expect.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

And what did you say to that?

PENNY CURTIS

To be honest, I laughed. I said I didn’t know where he’d got that from but I knew for a fact she’d had at least one previous child. That’s not the sort of thing you can hide from an obstetrician. And it wasn’t only that either – just after the baby was born Miss Rowan told me it had been ‘easy, compared to last time’, and when I asked her about the previous child she said the baby had been adopted. She said that was why she was so convinced it was the right thing to do this time as well.

Cut to: Steve McIlvanney

STEVE McILVANNEY

I was gobsmacked when I heard that – there’s simply no other word for it. She’d explicitly stated on her forms that this was her first child. I started wondering what else she might be lying about, and whether this was the real reason she wasn’t answering her phone. I alerted my manager, and we decided to search UK adoption records for the first child. It took a while because we didn’t even know where to start, but we got there in the end. And there she was: Camilla Kathleen Rowan, listed as the biological mother of a baby born at the West Bromwich Women’s Hospital on November 9th 1996.

So I contacted their Maternity Unit and got put through to a hospital administrator.

Intercut: RECONSTRUCTION: Woman at computer screen in hospital office, talking on phone and gesturing at screen, etc.

I explained to her who I was and that I was looking for information about a Miss Camilla Rowan, who was listed as having given birth in their maternity unit in 1996. So she starts looking back through the Birmingham NHS Trust computer records and suddenly says, ‘1996, don’t you mean 1997?’ So I say no, it was a baby boy born in November 1996. And she says, ‘What I have here is a baby boy born in December 1997. And it wasn’t at West Bromwich, it was at Birmingham and Solihull General.’

Cut back to Steve McIlvanney

STEVE McILVANNEY

So, to cut a long story short, it turns out there were two previous births – the boy born in 1996 at West Bromwich, who had definitely been adopted, and another boy born in 1997 at Birmingham and Solihull who no one seemed to know anything about. There were no adoption records for that child that I could find, and I couldn’t believe Camilla Rowan still had it living with her. She’d mentioned having a dog; she never mentioned having a four-year-old son. So I did some more checks on the General Registrar database of births and couldn’t find any baby registered by Miss Rowan at any time in the six months after that child was born.

That’s when I knew we had a real problem on our hands. And that’s when I called the Child Protection team.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

And what did they do?

STEVE McILVANNEY

They called the police.

- freeze frame -

* * *