Hope to Die

“Every day is like survival”

JOHN’S VOICE

Six months ago, I got a call from a woman. I’m going to call her Mandy, though that’s not her real name. She said she’d heard I was looking again at the Camilla Rowan case, and had some information for me. And so we arranged to meet.

Woman shown walking into shot and taking a seat with her back to camera, facing John. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, revealing tattoos on her arms and the back of her neck. Her face is out of shot.

‘MANDY’

My name is Mandy, and I shared a cell with Camilla Rowan in Holloway prison, from 2007 to 2010.

RECONSTRUCTION of two women in cell. Bunk beds, etc.

I was in for soliciting. It was my first stretch and I was shit-scared but Cam really looked after me. I guess you could say we became mates. Twenty-three hours a day cooped up with someone – you get to know them pretty well.

JOHN PENROSE

What did she tell you about the baby?

‘MANDY’

She said she never hurt it – that people had it all wrong. She wasn’t that sort of person.

JOHN PENROSE

So she still maintained that she handed the child to its father?

‘MANDY’

Yeah, she did. But I reckon it wasn’t as simple as she made out. There were things she told me – things she let drop – that made me wonder.

JOHN PENROSE

What sort of things?

‘MANDY’

She was abused. When she was a kid, by a family friend. She said she called him Uncle but he wasn’t a real one. He raped her for the first time when she was eleven, and it carried on the whole of the rest of the time she was living at home.

JOHN PENROSE

So he could have been the father of the missing baby boy? Is that what you’re saying?

‘MANDY’

She never said that – not in so many words. But if you ask me, that’s exactly what happened. It’d explain why she never said anything. Especially to her parents.

JOHN PENROSE

But we presumably know this man wasn’t the father of the first baby, given that that child was mixed race.

‘MANDY’

No, obviously she must’ve had other boyfriends as well. But the way she behaved – like the pregnancies didn’t exist – being in denial like that, it’s what happens if you’ve been abused for years. I should know. You get a weird relationship with your own body. Like it’s happening to someone else. It’s a survival mechanism – a way of getting through it. That’s what my therapist said.

JOHN PENROSE

She never mentioned anything about this alleged abuse during the trial, or – as far as I know – at any other time. In fact, the police specifically asked her if there’d been any kind of abuse and she was absolutely categorical that there hadn’t. How do you explain that?

‘MANDY’

I think she was ashamed. He made her swear not to tell anyone. And it can take years for abuse survivors to speak out – you know that as well as I do.

JOHN PENROSE

So she gave the baby to this man? You think that’s what really happened?

‘MANDY’

It’s the only thing that makes sense. And even that lay-by thing makes sense if this bloke lived local.

JOHN PENROSE

It would be difficult for him to hide a baby, though, wouldn’t it? A middle-aged man, presumably with a wife and family already, suddenly has a baby in the house? Someone was bound to have noticed.

‘MANDY’

I reckon he got rid of it.

JOHN PENROSE

You think he killed the child?

‘MANDY’

Why not? He had a lot to lose – he wouldn’t want it all coming out about him being a child molester, now would he?

JOHN PENROSE

But why didn’t Camilla tell the police all this? Especially when they asked her about possible coercion? Why come up with that wild story about Tim Baker or whatever his name was? If she’d been abused, the police would have been sympathetic. And they could have taken action against this man. As it is, he got off scot-free – assuming what you’re saying is true.

‘MANDY’

I think she was terrified of him. I think he had some sort of hold over her.

JOHN PENROSE

Did she ever tell you this man’s name?

‘MANDY’

No. Just that he was a friend of the family. That her father played golf with him. But with people like that, that probably doesn’t narrow it down very much, does it.

Cut to: panoramic drone shot over Shiphampton. Church, High Street, park, etc.

VOICEOVER – JOHN PENROSE

She’s not wrong. My own research has turned up several men in the Shiphampton area who played golf with Dick Rowan when Camilla was a child. Two are now dead, and my attempts to speak to some of the others have met with flat refusals, and in one case, a solicitor’s letter.

Cut to: exterior view of South Mercia Police HQ

I also contacted South Mercia CID, who likewise refused to speak to me, but did issue a statement saying that they had adhered scrupulously to the appropriate procedure when dealing with cases that might involve sexual abuse, that Ms Rowan had ‘never made any allegations of this kind’ even when explicitly questioned on the subject, and they would have investigated thoroughly had she done so. They also said they ‘had, and still have, no reason to believe this alleged abuser – or indeed any other third party – was involved in the disappearance and presumed death of Ms Rowan’s baby’, concluding, ‘should Ms Rowan make these allegations herself, we would, of course, take appropriate action’.

There was one person, however, we were able to talk to, and that was Sheila Ward. Remember her from episode one? She was Dick Rowan’s secretary for over two decades, and knew the family well when Camilla was growing up. We asked her about these allegations as part of our first and – as it turned out – only interview with her.

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

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

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

You knew the family back then – do you think it’s possible Camilla suffered abuse as a child? Abuse that may have affected her behaviour when she discovered she was pregnant?

SHEILA WARD

I don’t believe a word of it. It’s just another one of her lies. If that sort of thing was going on, she’d definitely have said something. She was that sort of girl.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

But you said yourself she was good at keeping secrets.

SHEILA WARD

When it was in her own interests, yes. That’s a very different kettle of fish. If someone was doing something to her she didn’t like she wouldn’t have suffered in silence. She wouldn’t have let them get away with it.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

Many abuse victims take years to get to the point where they feel able to speak out. Especially in cases where the abuser is a member of the family or a family friend.

SHEILA WARD

That’s as may be. I’m just telling you that I knew her back then and I simply don’t believe she’d have kept something like that to herself. She’s only coming out with it now because she thinks it will get her off the hook. The minute anyone gets arrested these days the first thing they say is that they’ve been abused – you see it all the time.

(puts on whiny voice)

It’s not my fault – I was a victim – poor little me -

You see it all the time.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

Perhaps you see it all the time because so many people who find themselves in the criminal justice system have indeed been abused.

SHEILA WARD

I’m not in a position to judge those people. But I am in a position to judge Camilla Rowan, and I’m telling you, she’s a born liar. A pathological liar.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

The psychiatrist who assessed her says not.

SHEILA WARD

Yes, and Camilla didn’t say anything to them about this so-called abuse either, did she? Doesn’t that tell you something?

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

Let’s assume for a moment that it did actually happen – that she was indeed abused as a child. Do you have any idea who it could have been?

SHEILA WARD

Of course not. The whole idea is ridiculous.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

You were friends of the family yourself, weren’t you? You and Nigel, your husband?

SHEILA WARD

I was Dick’s secretary.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

But you socialised with them as well, didn’t you?

Intercut: montage of images showing the Wards at social events with the Rowans – Rotary Club, dinner dances, Christmas parties. Camilla Rowan is clearly in view in the last image, standing with Nigel Ward. He has his hand on her shoulder. She’s about eleven.

SHEILA WARD

We met up occasionally.

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

I think it was rather more than that, wasn’t it? And didn’t your husband play golf with Dick Rowan too?

Intercut: picture taken at Shiphampton golf club, showing Nigel Ward and Dick Rowan with their bags of clubs. Two other men standing with them have their faces blurred out.

SHEILA WARD

(becoming agitated)

They played together once or twice. Hardly at all.

(Producer hands her the same picture)

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

This was taken in 1996. They played in the same four-ball all that year. Indeed, they came second in the club league.

SHEILA WARD

I hope you’re not suggesting –

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

What did Camilla call your husband, Mrs Ward?

SHEILA WARD

I don’t know what you mean –

JOHN’S VOICE (off)

It was ‘Uncle’, wasn’t it? She called him ‘Uncle Nigel’.

Can we speak to him, Mrs Ward? Can we speak to your husband about this?

SHEILA WARD

(gets up and puts her hand against the camera lens)

That’s enough – turn that thing off right now –

Cut to: John, at desk

JOHN PENROSE

We never were able to talk to Nigel Ward, and Sheila Ward refused to speak to us any further after that last exchange. And in a way you can’t blame her – no one likes having questions of this gravity raised about their loved ones. But there are questions, all the same.

Cut to: over the shoulder PoV, looking at what John has on his desk

Remember this picture? It’s the Shiphampton Rotary Club Christmas party 1997. The same party Camilla went to the day she left hospital with her baby son.

And this man, standing just behind Camilla and her father -

(pointing)

- is Nigel Ward.

But you’re probably thinking – hang on, if he was at that party, he couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the disappearance of the baby. There simply wouldn’t have been enough time. And it’s a good point. But I’ve tracked down a number of people who were at the event that night, and no one can remember him being there before nine thirty. And if that’s correct, it would definitely have given him enough time. But as far as I’m aware, he has never been questioned about his whereabouts that night, either then, or since.

Cut to: image of Camilla, her parents and the Wards at the Christmas party. Gradual close-up to focus on Camilla and Ward.

So was Camilla Rowan really abused as a child? She herself has never said so, not even to the court-appointed psychiatrist. And it would clearly have been in her interests to divulge something like that, if it were true: it could have been a significant mitigating factor. But as of now, we only have ‘Mandy’s’ word that it ever happened.

And even if it was true, we have no way of knowing who the man was, unless Camilla herself chooses to tell us. Some things appear to point to Nigel Ward, but in the absence of any sort of police investigation he is, of course, innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. And as I said, there are a number of other potential candidates as well, and to my knowledge none of them has been questioned either.

Which leads me on to the one thing I think we do know about this case.

It’s unfinished business.

Camilla Rowan has been proved, again and again, to be a liar. A brazen, persistent and accomplished liar. But has she been proved to be a murderer? Because, frankly, I’m not convinced. In fact, the more I learn about the actions – or rather inactions – of South Mercia Police, the less convinced I am. And let’s not forget, the baby has never been found. The police and the CPS say he’s dead, and the jury believed them. But is there cast-iron proof of that? No. No body has ever been located, despite what appears to have been an extensive and exhaustive search.

Though there are some places that I know for a fact were not searched. Like the Ward family garden, which backs on to a nature reserve. Or the Shiphampton golf club – nearly 200 acres, including several areas of woodland and a small lake.

Intercut: drone footage of Shiphampton golf club

And why wasn’t Nigel Ward questioned at the time? Why did he arrive at the Christmas party so late? Where had he been? Was he the man who abused Camilla? Was he the father of her missing baby?

Intercut: series of shots of Nigel Ward – in local paper, at other golf events, ending with one with his father when he was a teenager. His father is in police uniform.

And was the reason why he was not questioned at the time down to the fact that he had a number of friends within the ranks of South Mercia Police? Men in the Rotary Club, men he played golf with …

We just don’t know. All we have is questions. And right now neither Ward, nor Camilla herself, are saying anything.

What we need now is a proper investigation by the one body who can insist on answers: the police.

Cut to: MONTAGE of headlines from the trial, finishing with a picture of Camilla in tears outside the court.

- freeze frame -

Why? Because I no longer think Camilla Rowan’s conviction is sound. So much so, that I believe we could be looking at a miscarriage of justice. A significant and serious miscarriage of justice.

Throughout the trial there were headlines screaming ‘Milly Liar’ on an almost daily basis. Has the time now come for another slogan?

Has the time come for ‘Free Milly’?

TEXT OVER: South Mercia Police were contacted during the making of this programme, but declined to comment.

FADE OUT

FADE IN: Do you have any information about the disappearance of Camilla Rowan’s baby? Call Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111 or email Infamous@Netflix.tv.com

- ends -

* * *

‘I think you could do it, Sarge.’

Hansen has a printout in his hand and that ‘got it’ look Gis has started to recognize.

‘Show me.’

Hansen spreads the printout down on the desk. ‘This is from Companies House. Rowan’s main company was Rowan Holdings, which he wound up in 2005, but there were a lot of subsidiary companies, which he appears to have used to manage specific projects.’ He points. ‘Pine Developments, Oak Properties, Poplar Homes –’

‘That’s enough trees, Ed,’ says Gis with a sigh.

Hansen grins. ‘Right. Most of them were wound up with the parent company. All except one. Beech Management Ltd. That still exists, though it’s been all but dormant for at least two years. But because it’s still technically trading it has to list its directors and give a current contact address for them.’ He points again. ‘And there he is: Richard Swann, Gantry Manor, Wytham.’

Gis looks up at him. ‘So the boss was right – you could track the Swanns down. As long as you knew where to start.’

‘Exactly, Sarge. If the dead man suspected Camilla Rowan was his mother, he could have worked it out from there. Though, to be fair, it’s fiddly and he might not have known about Companies House if he’s been living overseas.’

‘But he could do it.’

Hansen nods. ‘He could do it.’

* * *

Just finished bingeing Infamous. What do people think of that last ep? Pretty explosive stuff eh?

submitted 6 days ago by HickoryDickory77

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Yup, sure is. I still can’t believe the police didn’t pursue that bloke Ward at the time

submitted 6 days ago by Danny929292

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Wasn’t his dear old Dad in the police? That wd explain a lot

submitted 5 days ago by sweetrubette55

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This whole abuse angle – I mean, OK, if she was abused it could have been this Nigel Ward bloke, but aren’t these things always really close to home? Like *really* close to home? Does anyone know if the police ever had the father down as a suspect?

submitted 5 days ago by timeforcrime1998

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I’m not sure I buy the abuse thing – it’s all too easy to come out with this stuff years later when you’re accused of something. She never said a word about it before, did she? And not every single person who commits a crime has been abused. Just saying

submitted 4 days ago by digginforthetruth

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You shd try working in victim services. People just bury an experience like that. It happens all the time. Believe me.

submitted 4 days ago by MakeanewplanStan44

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And she was really young wasn’t she. And completely under the parents’ thumb as far as I can tell

submitted 3 days ago by SusieClarke1818

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Camilla Rowan is a pathological liar. I don’t think Nigel Ward had anything to do with it. Or her father. Just because the baby hasn’t been found doesn’t mean she wasn’t responsible. It just means she’s clever. Very very clever.

submitted 3 days ago by AllieCatz76

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Re Dick Rowan, no, as far as I can find out no-one ever said anything about him. Certainly not the police. Maybe they missed a trick? Has anyone ever bothered asking what time HE got to that Xmas party?

submitted 3 days ago by ProofofLife

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Well South Mercia ballsed up the rest of the investigation so why not that? Bloody idiots cdnt find their arses with both hands and a map

submitted 3 days ago by LongJohnSilver

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* * *

Adam Fawley

25 October

16.15

I was half expecting a scrum of hacks at the gate, but she’s moved since 2016 and they probably haven’t been able to trace her. Yet.

She’s expecting me, though, to judge by the look on her face when she opens the door. Or if not me, someone like me – someone with a warrant card.

‘What do you want?’

‘DI Adam Fawley, Thames Valley, Mrs Ward. Could I come in for a few minutes?’

Her face hardens. ‘He’s dead –’

‘I know, and I’m very sorry –’

‘He had a heart attack – it was the stress – the newspapers. It killed him. She killed him. And now it’s all starting up all over again –’

‘That’s what I’d like to talk to you about.’

She hesitates, her hand gripping the door.

‘I know what the press put you through, Mrs Ward. I’m trying to avoid that happening again, not make it worse. You have my word on that.’

She sighs heavily, then stands back and waves me in.

It’s not the sitting room I remember from Netflix, though the furniture and knick-knacks are no doubt the same. The garden visible from the back window is different too. Thirty feet of tired autumn grass ending in a wooden fence topped with trellis, not the sweep down to trees and a stream they had before. I know, I’ve seen the pictures. But not on Netflix; in the South Mercia Police file.

* * *

Daily Telegraph, 14 August 2016

* * *

She fiddles with a cushion on the armchair then sits down, gesturing me to do the same. The TV is on, muted, but she doesn’t turn it off. A shopping channel. A woman with too much smile demonstrating a food mixer that looks like it could run the National Grid.

Ward folds her hands. ‘I gather you found him. Her child.’

I sit down opposite her. ‘Yes, we believe we have.’

‘So what’s this about?’

‘My superintendent thinks there’s something to be gained by getting the facts out there, insofar as we know them. He’s proposing an exclusive interview with one journalist.’ I take a breath, wondering if she’s got there already. ‘John Penrose.’

A sneer passes across her face and doesn’t go away. ‘That ghastly man? I am never speaking to him again and that’s final –’

‘No, no, Mrs Ward, he wouldn’t be talking to you. That’s not what I meant. The interview would be with us. The police.’

She makes a contemptuous pffting noise.

‘My superintendent thinks it’s a good idea, and I agree with him –’

‘No, you don’t,’ she says quickly. ‘It’s written all over your face.’

‘Either way, Mrs Ward, the interview’s going to happen.’

‘So you came all this way just to tell me that?’

‘In part. Obviously we wanted to warn you in advance, as a courtesy. But it’s not just that. Before the interview happens there are things we need to do. Things we need to be able to say. To put this story to bed once and for all.’

Another scornful snort. ‘Good luck with that.’

‘I understand where you’re coming from, but it’s different now. There are things we can do we couldn’t do before. Like a DNA test. If your husband was not the father of the child, we’re now in a position to prove that. Categorically. And then we can say so.’

Her eyes widen. ‘And how precisely are you proposing to –’ She stops, takes a breath. ‘You mean take something from his body? You want to dig him up? After all they did to us?’

* * *

Guardian, Metro, Daily Express, 21, 25, 27 August 2016

* * *

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ward. I know how painful this must be. And, believe me, an exhumation would be absolutely the last resort. We all hope it won’t have to come to that –’

‘It won’t come to that because I’m not going to let you – you hear me?’ Her fury is coming at me like a hail of needles. ‘Not after everything we’ve been through. Do you know why we moved here? Because they made our lives a living hell, that’s why. All those busybodies who said there’s no smoke without fire –’

‘I know there was some vandalism –’

‘Vandalism? Vandalism? You call having “child molester” painted on your garage door vandalism? You call having a brick through your window in the middle of the night vandalism? We loved that house – Nigel put twenty years into that garden and you people, you just trashed it – it was like the bloody Somme – you dug up our dog –’

‘I’m sorry, that must have been –’

‘We were hounded out of our own home. And it wasn’t just the abuse – we got letters, phone calls, week after week for months on end. People saying Nigel had been seen burying the baby and we had to pay up or they’d go to the police. The same thing happened to Dick and Peggy after the trial – people claiming to know where the baby was and asking for money – trying to cash in on other people’s misery. It was all too much for Peggy in the end. No wonder she ended up in hospital. And all of it – all of it – was down to that little bitch Camilla and her vicious lies. She doesn’t care how much damage she does – how many lives she wrecks –’

‘Mrs Ward –’

She’s spitting now, a line of drool hanging from one side of her mouth. ‘She didn’t even have the courage to say those vile things herself – she got that nasty little cow with the tattoos to do it for her –’

‘Like I said –’

But she won’t stop – can’t stop – all these years of simmering in silence suddenly unleashed. She leans forward, pointing, drilling her anger home. ‘And that night – the night of the party – do you know where Nigel was? I’ll tell you where he was – he was visiting his mother – just like he did every Tuesday. She had a funny turn and that’s why he was late back – he was looking after his eighty-four-year-old mother, not murdering a baby –’

I know that. And not only because it’s clear now that no one was murdering that baby. Not Camilla Rowan, not Nigel Ward, not anyone. His mother was long dead by the time Infamous came out, but when all that shit hit the fan and South Mercia were forced to try to eliminate Ward as a suspect, they went looking for the old lady’s carer. And she backed Ward up: she said he did indeed go and see his mother in Banbury every Tuesday and would administer her evening medication before he left. He never missed a week – the carer would have remembered, and all the more in the week before Christmas. So there was no way he could have met up with Camilla that night, either on the A417 or anywhere else – the distances involved were simply too great.

‘I’m not trying to open it all up again, Mrs Ward,’ I say gently. ‘The opposite, in fact. That’s why we’d like to do the DNA test. So you can draw a line under all this.’

Her face is flushed, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

‘I was hoping you still had something of your husband’s that might give us a usable sample. A hairbrush perhaps.’

She gapes at me. ‘He died two years ago –’

She sits back in the chair. All the irritation, all the affront, suddenly drained away; she just looks exhausted. Exhausted and lost and old. And I feel like a shit. For the second time today.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says eventually, reaching into her sleeve for a tissue and dabbing at her mouth. ‘I can’t help you.’

‘What about his family – I believe he had a brother?’

When she speaks again her voice is paper-dry. ‘Jeremy. We’re not in touch. We fell out after that wretched programme. The press were harassing him – not as bad as they did to us, but bad enough. He blamed Nigel.’ She swallows. ‘He didn’t even come to Nigel’s funeral. His own brother. No one did. His friends, the golfers, his old colleagues – nobody. He’d turned into a leper.’

I have a brief mental picture of a bleak winter churchyard with only her and the vicar by an open grave. The Wards never had any children. I wonder now if that was choice, or chance.

‘Do you know how we could contact Jeremy?’

She sighs. ‘I have his address somewhere. Assuming he hasn’t moved. I doubt he’d have bothered telling me if he had.’

She gets up, slowly and heavily, and goes over to a bureau on the far wall.

‘Here,’ she says a few moments later, handing me a slip of paper. ‘This is all I have.’

An address in Burford. The sort that doesn’t need a number. I look up at her. ‘Thank you.’

She folds her arms. ‘And now, I’d like you to leave.’

* * *

‘I’m not leaving and that’s flat.’

Margaret Swann is perched on the edge of the sofa, her hands gripped in her lap.

Ev looks at her and then at her husband, who’s skulking behind the furniture where Margaret can’t see him.

‘I appreciate this is inconvenient – annoying, even – but it really would make sense. As Mr Swann himself pointed out, you’re a long way from the nearest police station, and if a lot of press suddenly turn up and start causing you difficulties it’s going to be a little while before we can get to you –’

Margaret gives her a dark look. ‘We’ve been through all this once before, young lady, in case it’s slipped your mind. There is nothing, believe me, that the likes of you can tell us about the depths to which the media will sink – doorstepping, telephoto lenses, lights trained on the house all night – we were prisoners in our own home –’

‘All the more reason, surely, to go somewhere else for a few days? Just until things die down?’

Ev turns to the old man, hoping he’ll be more amenable to reason, but he’s refusing to meet her gaze.

‘It wasn’t just the press,’ he says eventually, ‘last time. There was graffiti, paint on the car, that sort of thing. Excrement, once. Through the letterbox. The police advised us to move out, just like you are, and we did, but with the place left empty, there was a lot of damage.’

Ev nods. She knows; she’s seen the file, read the police reports.

‘Not that we were living in this house then, of course –’

Margaret glances up at him. ‘I’m not prepared to go through all that again, Dick – I just can’t face it.’

‘I can talk to DI Fawley,’ says Ev gently, ‘see if we can have a uniformed officer stationed here while you’re away. To keep an eye on the house.’

Margaret stares down at her hands. She seems on the brink of tears.

Swann sighs and comes round to the front of the sofa and sits down next to her. ‘It’s not the damn house I’m worried about, Peggy, it’s you. You’re not as young as you were. Neither of us are.’ He takes hold of one of her hands. ‘You’ve been in hospital three times already this year and again this week – you know what the doctor said.’

Ev takes a breath, remembering they never did get permission to see Margaret Swann’s medical records. ‘What did the doctor say, Mr Swann?’

He looks up at her. ‘My wife suffers from panic attacks, Constable, has done ever since the trial. They put a strain on her heart. We do our best to avoid stressful situations.’

‘I’m very sorry, that must be very worrying. For both of you.’

‘It is.’ He bends closer to his wife. ‘Which is why I’d like you to do what the officer says and go somewhere else for a few days.’

She looks up at him, tears in her eyes. ‘Where would we go?’

He looks at her gently. ‘Not we, you.’ She starts to protest but he shakes his head. ‘No arguments, Peggy. Not this time. I’ll stay to look after the house – there’ll be a policeman here so I won’t come to any harm. You won’t need to worry about me.’

He squeezes her hand and some wordless communication passes between them. ‘All right,’ she whispers eventually. ‘All right.’

Swann nods and squeezes her hand again, then turns to Ev. ‘There isn’t really anyone Peggy can stay with, I’m afraid –’

‘It’s OK,’ she says quickly. ‘We can arrange a B&B for you – just for a few days.’ She tries a weak smile. ‘Not as grand as this, of course, but at least your wife will be able to get some peace.’

Margaret stares at her, all anger spent. ‘That’s why we came here. To get some peace. But it’s always going to find us, isn’t it? Wherever we go, however far we run. They’re never going to let us forget.’

* * *

When Sargent comes back from dealing with Crowther, the office is filling up. Hansen’s staring intently at his screen, clearly absorbed in something, Gislingham’s standing at Baxter’s desk, and Carter’s talking to Quinn, no doubt making sure he’s fully aware of that terrific insight of his about the hotels. Only Ev is missing. Sargent goes over to her desk and sits down, then immediately realizes something is wrong. Someone’s used her chair – the height’s been changed.

But who, who would even –?

She looks up, her eyes drawn – almost without thinking – to Carter.

He’s talking animatedly, his back to her.

* * *

Adam Fawley

25 October

17.17

Notwithstanding his run-ins with the fourth estate, Jeremy Ward is still in situ. And I’d be reluctant to move myself, if I lived where he does, even if I did have a press mob on my tail. A double-fronted Georgian house on The Hill is about as desirable as Burford gets. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Newly painted too, at a guess; the rich may get the cream but it’s a high-maintenance colour. There’s one of those Victorian iron things for scraping your shoes by the front door and topiary box in lead planters either side. Real lead, not that faux stuff. The security cameras are real too.

I didn’t phone to warn them I’d be coming, so the woman who opens the door greets me with the standard upper-middle ‘now who might you be’ look. She’s wearing black trousers and a blue-and-orange geometrical print shirt that looks like it’s hoping to be a kaftan when it grows up.

‘DI Adam Fawley, Thames Valley Police. Could I speak to Mr Ward?’

I suspect she’d like to pretend he isn’t at home, but I can actually hear him, somewhere close, talking on the phone. She asks to see my warrant card – not that I can blame her for that, in the circumstances – then gives a heavy sigh.

‘Is it that ghastly Camilla again? All that nonsense in the papers?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

She gives me a ‘here we go again’ look, then ushers me in and closes the door before calling to her husband, ‘Jerry – there’s a policeman here for you.’

The hall is black-and-white paved and yellow walled; a staircase bending away on the right with light streaming down from somewhere above; a line of white-painted doors on the left, from one of which her husband now appears.

He must be at least a decade younger than his dead brother. Or perhaps he’s just had an easier life. Tank top, plaid shirt, cords. Glasses perched on the top of his head, which immediately gets my goat.

‘What can I do for you, officer?’

‘I take it you’ve seen today’s news?’

‘Hard to avoid it.’

‘We believe Camilla Rowan’s missing child may have been found, and we’d like to eliminate your brother as the father. All I need from you is a simple mouth swab, for DNA. We can do it right now – it won’t take more than a couple of minutes.’

And then I can stop cluttering up your hallway like a hairy-arsed artisan. Though I don’t say that.

I’m expecting him to agree at once – he has as much to gain as Sheila if they can put all this behind them – but he looks troubled. Unaccountably troubled.

‘As I said, it’s purely for elimination purposes – the DNA won’t be stored or used for anything else –’

‘It’s not that,’ he says quickly. Then pauses, heaves a breath. ‘Look, I think you’d better come through to my study. Fiona – perhaps you could get us some tea?’

From the look on her face, he’s going to pay for that later, but what’s intriguing me far more is the fact that she clearly has no more idea than I do why he’s reacting the way he is.

She turns, distinctly crisply, and I follow Ward back down the hall to where he came from. The study is floor to ceiling with leatherbound books that anywhere else I’d assume were fake, but I wouldn’t risk betting on that here. He gestures towards a chair, one of those pompous buttoned things with a hood over the top. Porter’s chairs, I think they call them. I’ve never been less tempted to sit down.

His chair, on the other hand, looks rather comfortable. Unlike him.

‘Is there a problem, sir? With the DNA test?’

He shakes his head slowly. ‘With the test? No. I have no problem with the police taking my DNA.’ He sighs. ‘The issue is rather with what you’ll find.’

I frown. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

He nods. ‘That my brother could have been the father? Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.’ He shakes his head a little and looks away. ‘I’ve been dreading a day like this for years. Someone like you turning up and saying they’ve found the body.’

I sit forward; to be honest, I’m worried that if I lean too far back in this contraption I may never get up again.

‘What makes you so sure it was your brother? Was it something he said?’

‘That’s the point,’ he says quickly. ‘I’m not sure. If I had been, my conscience would have compelled me to say something long ago.’

But instead of that his so-called ‘conscience’ managed to find a loophole just about big enough for him to protect his brother and safeguard his own comfortable life into the bargain. Like I always say when they get me to talk to new recruits: when it comes to this job, abandon faith in human nature all ye who enter here.

Ward’s cheeks are slightly flushed now, as if he knows what I’m thinking. ‘I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t paint me in a very good light, but –’

‘So if you’re not “sure”, I’m assuming he never actually spoke to you about it?’

He shakes his head again. ‘No.’

‘So where did it come from?’

He looks genuinely distressed now. ‘It was something I saw.’ He stops, clears his throat. ‘It was 1994, I think, maybe ’95. Nigel and Sheila had a party in their garden for her birthday. Nigel’s golf mates, the Rotary Club, the whole shebang.’

‘The Rowans?’

He nods. ‘Camilla was about fourteen. Peggy always had her dressed very prim whenever she was on show but it wasn’t fooling me. Or any of the women there.’ He makes a face. ‘Including my wife. She referred to her later as a “first-class prick-tease”. Anyway, Nigel was doing the barbecue most of the afternoon, but by about four Fiona had got bored making small talk with Tory wives and wanted to leave, so I went looking for him to say goodbye.’

‘And where was he?’

‘Upstairs. With Camilla.’

‘In one of the bedrooms?’

He nods. ‘The door was ajar. They were sitting on the bed and he had his arm round her. She seemed to be upset.’

He stops again. I wait.

‘I heard him saying something about “sorting it out”. That she “wasn’t to worry”.’

‘I see. And what did you think he meant?’

‘At the time? I wasn’t sure. I mean, it could have been anything, some problem at school, a row with her mother. Some teenage angst or other. Though I was surprised she’d gone to him with it – I didn’t think they knew each other that well.’

‘Did they see you?’

He hesitates, then shakes his head. ‘No. And I didn’t mention it. Either to him or to Fiona – it would just have been a red rag to a bull where she was concerned. But later, when it all came out about the baby – when Camilla was arrested – I started to wonder whether she might have been pregnant then too. Whether that’s what he’d meant about “sorting it out”.’

‘And she went to him because he was the father.’

He nods. Looks away.

‘Why didn’t you say anything to the police?’

He’s not meeting my eye.

‘Mr Ward, you know as well as I do that it could have been crucial evidence in the trial. If there was any question of child abuse –’

‘If you must know, that’s precisely why I didn’t say anything. Because of the whole damn Pandora’s box that would have let loose if I had. And because, whatever went on between Camilla and my brother, it was not child abuse.’ He gives me a steady look. ‘You didn’t know Camilla back then. I did. And believe me, if they were having sex it’s because she wanted it just as much as he did.’

‘You said yourself, he was a grown man – she was fourteen –’

His jaw is set now. ‘All the same. She’d have had her reasons. She was very good at using people.’

‘And you still said nothing, even after the Netflix show came out and your brother was named?’

He looks away again. I can see a vein pulsing in his neck.

‘Why didn’t you say anything, Mr Ward?’

He takes a deep breath and turns to face me. ‘Because blood is thicker than water, Inspector, that’s why. And because that night – the night the baby disappeared – when he was late to the Christmas party and said he’d been at Mum’s – he was lying. He was never there.’

‘But your mother’s drugs were given to her as usual –’

‘I know. But he wasn’t the one who did it. It was me.’

* * *

Ev pulls up outside the B&B and turns off the engine. It’s the rather optimistically named Comfy Inn, a three-storey Victorian terrace just off the Cowley Road. She hasn’t been here for more than two years, but it hasn’t changed much. Though the general direction of travel is definitely down: a bit less paint on the window frames, a bit more rubbish bulging from the bins. The orange street light isn’t doing it many favours either. This was where she brought Sharon Mason and her son in July 2016, the night their house went up in flames. They were escaping an angry mob too. Perhaps that’s why the mere sight of this place has her stomach in knots. But this time, she tells herself firmly, things are different. Margaret Swann has a home to go back to, for a start. And even if – as Ev suspects – she was no better as a mother than Sharon Mason, there’s no question she’s a victim now.

She turns to Margaret, sitting huddled in the back. She’s been steeling herself for the old woman’s reaction the whole way here, waiting for the cutting remarks about the B&B being a dump and filthy and is this what she pays taxes for, but she’s just sitting there in silence, apparently not even aware that they’ve stopped. All the fight has gone out of her. Ev is reminded, suddenly, of her dad, the day she took him to the care home.

She gets out of the car and goes round to the boot for the bags, her throat tight with tears.

* * *

Adam Fawley

25 October

18.46

‘It doesn’t actually prove anything, though, does it?’

I’m on the phone, in the car. I’ve dropped off the DNA sample with CSI and I’m on my way home, about to hit the ring road, and (if I’m lucky) just in time to see my daughter before she goes to sleep.

‘Just because Nigel Ward wasn’t with his mum that night,’ says Quinn, ‘it doesn’t mean he had to be with Camilla. He could have been shagging someone else.’

Quinn’s always been a dab hand at devil’s advocate. But then again, he could pick a fight with the sky just for being blue.

‘I agree. But the one thing we do know is that someone took that child, and Ward was much more likely to know how to arrange an illegal adoption than Camilla. Added to which, South Mercia never found any evidence Ward was playing away with someone else, not as far as I know.’

I hear Quinn laugh. ‘Yeah, but by the time they started looking it was ten bloody years later.’

‘True, but if he really was with someone else that night he’d have had an alibi. Don’t you think he’d have mentioned that when people started accusing him of getting rid of a baby?’

‘But no one ever did accuse him of that, did they? That or anything else. Not officially. South Mercia accepted he’d been at his mum’s. End of. OK, maybe if they’d pushed harder Ward might have cracked –’

‘Or his brother –’

But even as I’m saying it I doubt it; the only reason Jeremy is talking now is that his brother is safely out of harm’s way.

‘But it didn’t happen, did it. Maybe because Nigel Ward was playing golf with half the South Mercia force. Or in the same bloody Lodge.’

There’s a silence. I can hear music in the background, the sound of a woman’s voice; Quinn must be at home.

‘So,’ he says, ‘what do you want us to do?’

‘Nothing yet. Let’s run the DNA and establish once and for all if Ward was the father, then I’ll do that damned interview and see what crawls out of the woodwork.’

‘And what if the lab says Nigel wasn’t the daddy?’

‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t arrange the adoption. If he’d “sorted it out” for her once before I can easily see Camilla turning to him again, even if he wasn’t the father.’

‘And she had one over on him too, didn’t she,’ says Quinn darkly. ‘He wouldn’t want all that coming out, now would he? I mean, a shagger’s one thing, a paedo’s quite another.’

* * *

When Ev gets back to the station almost everyone’s gone for the day. Bradley Carter’s still at his desk scanning CCTV footage, but other than that the office is empty. No Fawley, no Quinn, no Gis.

Bugger it, she thinks, I’m just going to call it quits on time for once. She dumps her paperwork on her desk and heads for the Ladies, only to half collide with Chloe Sargent coming out. She has trainers on and sports gear under her padded jacket.

‘Hi,’ she says, smiling, ‘I was wondering if you were coming back.’

Ev pulls a face. ‘I don’t know why I did. But I’m not going to hang around.’

‘Off out?’ asks Chloe.

‘No, just a hot date with Hector. My cat,’ she finishes quickly, seeing Chloe raise an eyebrow. ‘He’s marginally less trouble than a bloke. But only marginally.’

Chloe laughs. ‘I bet.’

‘What about you – gym?’

‘Ah, no,’ she says, gesturing at the racquet bag which Ev hadn’t spotted till now. ‘I’m playing tennis tonight. Better to take out my frustrations hitting a ball than anything – or anyone – else.’

She slides her eyes in Carter’s direction and they exchange a knowing smile.

‘So you play indoors? I mean – it’s dark already –’

‘Have to,’ says Chloe, ‘with this game.’

She sees Ev looking confused. ‘Sorry, I should have said – it’s real tennis.’

Ev’s eyes widen. ‘Blimey, I had no idea you could play that here.’

‘Yeah, I’m really lucky – there’s a court on Merton Street. I’ve been learning for about a year. It takes some getting used to – like a cross between ordinary tennis and squash.’ She hesitates. ‘Why don’t you come? It’s quite fun to watch, and we can walk to it easily from here.’

Ev’s turn to hesitate; she’d been wondering whether to go up to the JR to see Somer tonight, but you can hardly call that ‘fun’. She’s not even sure she’s doing any good – or if Somer actually wants people turning up and forcing her to make conversation.

‘We could have a drink at the Bear after?’ ventures Chloe. ‘Or Quod if you want to go fancy.’

Ev laughs. ‘Now you’re talking.’

* * *

When Ev gets to the office the following morning she’s one of the last there. She doesn’t usually go out on work nights and she’s paying for it now, but she had a bloody good time and she’s glad she went. The tennis was like nothing she’s ever seen before and, frankly, not for the faint-hearted. Chloe’s playing partner was a tall, striking-looking New Zealander with the face of a seraph and the devil of a backhand – the heavy little ball was flying everywhere, pinging off every hard surface, and (as Ev found out to her cost) sending it careering straight into the spectators’ gallery turned out to be one of the easier ways to rack up points, which made her wish she’d brought her riot shield. She got hopelessly lost trying to work out the rules, and had no idea who won in the end (Sarah, as it happens, though apparently it was close), but it didn’t matter, and afterwards the three of them went for fish and chips and a bottle of Prosecco, and all in all it was the best time Ev has had in ages.

Chloe’s already at her desk, and gives her a broad smile as Ev dumps her bag and starts to take off her coat. ‘OK?’

Ev grins. ‘Nothing a black coffee and a couple of paracetamol couldn’t fix.’

‘Has Hector forgiven you?’

Ev’s grin widens. ‘He’s reporting me to the RSPCA as we speak, but then again, he does that on a daily basis. In fact, pretty much every time I fail to give him prawns.’

Chloe laughs. ‘I’m coming back as a cat – no, correction, I’m coming back as your cat.’

Carter looks up and makes a face. ‘Christ, you haven’t got a cat, have you? I can’t stand the bloody things. They just look down their noses at me and scarper if I go anywhere near them.’

Ev suppresses a smile and turns to Chloe, dropping her voice so only she can hear. ‘Hate to tell you this, Bradley my old mate, but it isn’t just the cats.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

26 October

09.37

There was a broken-down lorry on Headington Road and tailbacks all the way back to the A40 roundabout, so I’m already in a less than perfect mood by the time I get in, and finding Bradley Carter waiting at my door with his laptop in one hand, looking for all the world like school prefect, doesn’t exactly improve my humour. Whatever it is, he should be taking it to Quinn or Gis, not me.

‘Oh, sir, there you are –’

‘What is it, Carter?’

‘I think I’ve found something, sir – something that could be important –’

‘Have you spoken to DS Quinn about it? He’s the Receiving DS.’

He hesitates, slides a glance down the corridor. ‘Yes, I know, but I’m not sure where he is –’

That’s a lie for a start – I just saw Quinn myself, heading towards the Gents.

Carter’s gone red now. He might as well have an arrow over his head saying ‘Busted’. But I suppose I should be encouraging him if he’s taking the initiative. And if he’s finding it bumpy getting on with Quinn, I shouldn’t be surprised: they’re both far too pushy – and too alike – to rub along easily.

I shunt open the door and wave him in. ‘OK, let’s hear it.’

He must have been holding his breath because it all comes out in a rush.

‘Thanks, sir, it won’t take long, I promise –’

‘That’s OK, Carter, just show me what you’ve got.’

He puts the laptop down and flips it open. There are three images on the screen.

I frown. ‘That’s the clothes the dead man was wearing, isn’t it?’

He nods, slightly flushed again. ‘I think we missed something, sir.’

‘Oh yes – what exactly?’

He clicks to enlarge the picture of the canvas training shoes, and I bend to look. Purple plastic heels, purple laces, the rest cream and pale brown. Originally, anyway. The leather is smeared with dark dried blood, the canvas black with it.

‘These are Nike Air Max Futura 270s.’

The inference is lost on me. My trainers are at least ten years old and I wore the last pair until they fell apart. I don’t know, and care even less, what bloody make they are. ‘I don’t see –’

‘This particular colourway – it’s only just been launched. You can only get them in the US.’

I’m frowning again. ‘So, what are you getting at? He got them on Amazon? Had them shipped over?’

Carter swallows. ‘Or bought them there.’

Because that’s where he was living.

Occam’s razor, my old Inspector’s favourite – in fact only – rule of policing. He cited it so often people called it Osbourne’s razor. The simplest explanation is invariably right.

I look up at Carter. ‘Speak to DS Gislingham and tell him we need to get on to the airports – see if we can establish when he entered the country. And find some images of current US postage stamps and show them to that postie at Wytham – see if they ring a bell.’

He’s flushed with pleasure now. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll get on it right away. And I’ll tell DS Quinn too.’

He snaps the laptop shut.

‘Well done, Carter. Even after we found out about the Rowans getting that letter I didn’t think to look at the clothes, and more to the point, no one else did either. Except you. Good work. I’m impressed.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He has the grace – or the sense – to leave without saying anything more, but judging by the grin on his face as he closes the door he’s probably off to ring his mum.

* * *