Hope to Die

* * *

‘Hold on a sec, let me write that down.’

Hugh Tomlinson notes down the registration number and finishes the call, then turns to Malloy. ‘You were bang on – a Mrs Noreen Sullivan has lived upstairs in that block for the last ten years. She was recently disqualified from driving due to failing eyesight, but she is still, at this precise moment, the registered owner of a grey Vauxhall Nova.’

Malloy feels a little surge of triumph, almost despite herself.

‘So I’m going to pop over to the car park and look for that car, which I’d lay a good deal of odds isn’t there.’

‘What about me?’ says Malloy, feeling suddenly useless again.

‘You,’ says Tomlinson with a grin, ‘are going to go straight back in there and stop Sullivan giving her girlfriend a heads-up that we’re on to her. And then you’re going to phone DI Adam Fawley of Thames Valley Police and tell him what a bloody clever copper you are.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

29 October

12.45

‘She set him up,’ says Quinn. ‘“I’m sorry if that makes you angry”, my arse. She sent him bowling in all guns blazing to a couple of paranoid old gits who were terrified about intruders. And the kid didn’t need sodding Companies House to find them, either. She laid it out on a bloody plate. “Swanning around”, “a manner like gentry” – she knew he’d work it out.’

‘All guns blazing wasn’t just the kid,’ says Gis grimly. ‘She knew better than anyone about that incident with her dad and the shotgun after the trial. On top of which the train was late, so the Swanns had already gone to bed and would’ve been even more jumpy. That poor bastard, how unlucky can you get.’

Barnetson shakes his head. ‘I still can’t believe she did that to her own son.’

I turn to him. ‘But what other explanation is there? She deliberately inflamed the situation, then told him how to find her parents, knowing exactly what the consequences might be.’

‘All she cared about was herself,’ says Gis. ‘She thought that baby had been dumped in landfill twenty years ago. And suddenly, out of the blue, he’s not just alive but knows what she did and is threatening to talk. She had to shut him up.’

‘“Don’t tell your mom”, yeah, right,’ mutters Quinn.

Gis turns to me. ‘So what now, boss? I assume we don’t believe that crap about her father abusing her?’

‘Well, we know from the DNA that he wasn’t the father of the baby,’ I say. ‘But even without that, no, we don’t. It’s just another one of her lies – what she did was so horrific, the only possible excuse was something even more appalling. Saying her father had raped her was the one thing Noah might just, conceivably, forgive.’

‘So where does that leave us? We can try and bring her in but is there any point? It’s never going to go anywhere – she’s already served fifteen years.’

‘That’s not up to us. We apprehend people who’ve committed a crime, regardless of what time they’ve already served. As far as I’m concerned we now have pretty conclusive evidence of attempted murder, which Rowan never stood trial for. So we find her, and we bring her in, and after that it’s up to the CPS.’

‘Easier said than done, though,’ says Quinn. ‘Given the start she’s had, she could be bloody anywhere by now.’

‘Right, so let’s get on with it, shall we? Starting with an All-Ports Warning –’

My phone is ringing, a number I don’t recognize.

‘Adam Fawley, hello?’

A woman’s voice, slightly breathless at first but then she gets into her stride.

‘I see – you think they were in a relationship? What’s the reg number?’ I grab a pen. ‘Right, and what does this prison officer look like? Yes, I think I saw her when we were at Heathside. Could you ask her to produce her passport, and if she won’t – or can’t – get a search warrant. Brilliant, thank you. Good work. And keep me posted.’

I put the phone down and turn to the others. ‘That was Surrey. Seems Rowan was involved with one of the prison officers at Heathside – a woman called Andrea Sullivan –’

‘Using her, more like,’ mutters Quinn.

‘Either way, this woman just so happened to be on shift when Rowan was released this morning and Surrey are pretty sure she gave her a lift. Not just a lift, in fact, but quite possibly a car as well.’ I rip out the sheet and hand it to Gis. ‘A grey Vauxhall Nova. Let’s get an ANPR alert out on that, straight away, please.’

‘Right, boss.’

He’s already leaving, but I call him back. ‘And that All-Ports Warning – add Sullivan’s name to it.’ He gives me a questioning look. ‘I think she may have given Rowan more than just a car. I think she may have given her a new identity.’

* * *

She used to love driving. Funny how easily it comes back, even after all these years. It’s cold outside, but she winds the window down anyway, just to get the wind in her face. That’s something she hasn’t had for a while. She glances in the rear mirror but the road behind is clear, at least as far as she can see; no one following. She pushes a hand through her hair – Sullivan actually did a reasonable job, given all she had was kitchen scissors. She might even keep it short. But blonde, obviously. There’s no rush though, there’ll be plenty of time to decide on stuff like that. She checks the phone again but there’s nothing since the last message. All this new techy stuff is going to take a bit of getting used to, but Sullivan showed her how to use WhatsApp (‘only use that, nothing else – it’s encrypted’), and set her up with an email address. In fact, she’s done everything she said she would – tankful of gas, bag of food on the back seat, suitcase of clothes in the boot. Everything she needs for now. Certainly enough to get her where she’s going, even if she is being forced to go on fuck-boring routes to stay under the radar. Whatever. She’ll still get there with time to spare, and after that there’ll be no way the plod can track her down, even if they do catch on. And as she’s taken care to ensure, exactly the same applies to Sullivan. She’s been great and all that, and she couldn’t have done this without her, but there’s no way she wants her trailing around after her like a wet weekend; she wasn’t that good a shag. In any case, this needs to be a clean break – the chance to ditch Camilla Rowan for good and be someone else. Lose a few pounds, buy a new passport, get a life. And no risk of the past catching up with her. Not again, not ever.

She’d thought to start with that he was just another chancer, pretending to be her long-lost kid – she’s had more than her fair share of that shit over the years. And let’s face it, what were the odds on that baby ending up in bloody New York, for fuck’s sake? She’d chucked the letter, guessing – wrongly, as it turned out – that he’d just give up. Only he didn’t. He was stubborn, he wouldn’t let it go. Yeah, well, she knows now where he got that from. But even in that last letter, with its barely veiled threat, there was nothing that proved he was legit. So why not offload him on her fucking parents? Let them sort it out. After the way they’ve treated her, they deserve all they get. At least, that’s what she told herself. And if things wound up getting a little heated, well, that was hardly her fault, was it? She never harmed that kid in the first place, and she hadn’t harmed him now.

And now she’s free and clear and not looking back. Sullivan said that with fifteen years done they’d have struggled to send her back anyway. Maybe she’s right. Maybe she’s not. But why the fuck take the risk.

She reaches for the radio and flicks it on. It’s one of those 1980s nostalgia stations. She turns it up and sings along happily to the last few verses of ‘Sisters are Doin’ It for Themselves’, until the next song cues up and she’s suddenly laughing out loud and turning it up as loud as it will go.

There’s a loving in your eyes all the way

If I listened to your lies would you say …

* * *

Adam Fawley

29 October

14.15

‘What’s Sullivan saying?’

There’s a crackling on the other end of the line.

‘Not a lot, surprise, surprise.’

Surrey have clearly escalated this one: the person I’m talking to now is another DI.

‘She can’t produce the passport but claims it must have been mislaid in her house move.’

‘Did she report it as lost?’

‘No,’ he says, ‘but since she still hasn’t unpacked half her boxes it’ll be hard to pin her with that one. And before you ask, I have two uniforms going through those boxes right now, as well as a CSI team on-site. Whose task is being made a sight harder by an irritable old lady badgering them every five minutes about her washing.’

‘So they haven’t found anything?’

‘Nope – at least nothing that ties Sullivan to Rowan. If they’re communicating by text it’s not on her main phone. And if there’s another one we haven’t found yet, we do at least know she isn’t using it where she is right now, i.e. in Elmbridge nick.’

‘Are you checking Sullivan’s finances? If Rowan’s trying to get out of the country –’

‘We’re on it,’ he says, slightly tetchy now. I suppose I can’t blame him. ‘Look, we may not be the Met but we have done this sort of thing before. And rest assured, if we find something, you’ll be the first to know.’

* * *

Importance: High

Sent: Mon 29/10/2018, 16.13

From: NickyBrown@CPS.gov.uk

To: DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk

Subject: Camilla Rowan – CONFIDENTIAL

We’ve just had a meeting to review your new evidence, and I agree that there is a prima facie case to answer. The question, of course, is whether a prosecution for attempted murder passes the public interest test, given Rowan has already served fifteen years. However, the judge’s original recommendation was for a minimum of seventeen years, which she clearly has not served, and her release on licence was predicated on the reappearance of the child, which invalidated the original murder charge. Should the public come to learn what Rowan actually did to her baby there is likely to be a considerable backlash, accompanied by calls (informed or otherwise) for her to – at the very least – serve out the rest of her recommended minimum sentence. Taking all these factors into account, we believe there should be a second referral to the CCRC, pending which Rowan should be arrested and returned to custody: she has clearly breached her licence conditions by failing to turn up to the meeting with her probation officer.

Please do not hesitate to get in touch if you have any further questions.

Regards,

Nicky

* * *

Adam Fawley

29 October

17.10

The DI from Surrey calls me at five. What he has to say barely qualifies as ‘news’, but it’s just about enough to force me on to my feet to go and update everyone. Just as well, to be honest, because I’ve been sitting at this bloody desk for three hours now and my arse has gone to sleep. And, frankly, the atmosphere in the main office isn’t much livelier. If you graphed the collective mood since we realized Rowan had slipped through our fingers the line would be straight down.

‘OK, everyone,’ I say, raising my voice a little, ‘I’ve just had a call from DI O’Neill at Surrey Police. The team that did the search for Sullivan’s passport also noticed a few cut hairs on the kitchen floor, so it looks like we could be right that Rowan’s altered her appearance to look more like Sullivan.’ I look round the room. ‘I’m assuming there’s still no trace of either Rowan or the Nova?’

Baxter shakes his head. ‘Nothing on ANPR, so she’s probably avoiding motorways. Doesn’t help that we have no idea where she could be going.’

‘Channel Tunnel has to be the most likely, surely?’ says Carter.

‘Also the most obvious,’ replies Gis. ‘And if we’ve learned one thing about this woman it’s not to underestimate her.’

There’s a silence, then Ev sits back in her chair. ‘I think we missed her, boss. I think somehow or other she got out of the country.’

I shrug. ‘Perhaps. But maybe they anticipated this happening and planned for it – they’d have had long enough, after all, and unlike Rowan, Sullivan’s been on the outside and free to do whatever she likes. Maybe she’s fixed it for Rowan to go to ground – hole up somewhere until it all dies down.’

Quinn scowls. ‘And meanwhile she gets a new ID, a new car –’

‘I know. But all that costs money. We’ll have to hope Surrey find something in Sullivan’s financials.’

‘Well, they’ve not found diddly yet,’ says Baxter.

‘No, they haven’t. But she may have other accounts we know nothing about.’

‘Actually,’ begins Chloe Sargent, ‘I was thinking about that –’

She stops. Everyone is looking at her.

‘Go on,’ says Hansen.

‘If Sullivan’s been looking after her mum – doing her washing and that – isn’t it possible she manages her money as well? She could even have power of attorney – I mean, when my gran –’

‘You could be right. Let’s see what we can find in the mother’s accounts. And make sure Surrey are in the loop – we don’t want to piss them off, not if we don’t have to.’ She’s nodding and flushing and making a note all at once. ‘And well done, Sargent. Good for you.’

On my way out I turn at the door; Gis is making a big thing of clapping Sargent on the back in front of everyone. Good for him.

* * *

Transcript out-of-hours 101 call

Essex Police

29.10.2018 18:52:08

Operator: Essex Police, can I help you?

Caller: There’s a car on fire.

Operator: Is anyone in danger?

Caller: No, it’s on waste ground – abandoned. I can’t see anyone there. But it’s the third time this month and our councillor told us to report it.

Operator: And where are you?

Caller: Bromness, just off the main road.

Operator: And it’s waste ground, you say?

Caller: Kids go there to joyride. Place is a bloody eyesore.

Operator: I’ll get someone to attend. Please don’t put yourself in any danger, or confront anyone –

Caller: Confront who? Those tykes’ll be long gone by now.

Operator: If you can hold on I’ll get you a reference number for the incident for your records.

* * *

Adam Fawley

29 October

19.40

‘Did you get the email?’ I’m on the phone to DI O’Neill, practising what I preach. ‘It’s the mother’s bank statement.’

‘I’m just opening it now.’

Most of it’s the usual stuff: outgoings to Tesco, BT, British Gas, Southern Electric; incomings that look like pension payments. The same things, week in, week out. But then you get to a cash deposit three days ago, and an outgoing one of exactly the same size immediately afterwards. An electronic transfer to ‘Select Country Cottages Ltd’.

‘So, what?’ says O’Neill. ‘She arranged accommodation for Rowan?’

‘A cottage just outside Plymouth. And you’re going to like this bit. It’s listed as “a recently renovated property on one of Devon’s most scenic stretches of coast, the idyllic Bluff Cove”.’

I can hear him sigh. ‘They’re pissing us about.’

‘They most certainly are. The cottage is owned by the pub next door. It’s called the Wild Goose. My DS thought it was a coincidence.’

But I knew better, because I remember Leonora Staniforth on that Netflix show talking about how Rowan was the one who came up with the ‘chameleon girls’, and how she was ‘always really clever about things like that’. This has the same supercilious little fingerprints all over it.

O’Neill sighs again and then takes me by surprise by starting to laugh. ‘You’ve got to hand it to her. It’s pretty fucking funny.’

Only I’m not laughing.

I finish the call and get to my feet. Time for a change of scene. Or, even better, a bloody beer.

* * *

Voicemail

DI Brendan O’Neill

Mobile

Transcription

Sorry I missed you – maybe you’ve done the sensible thing and gone home. This is just to say l’ve heard back from Devon and Cornwall. No one’s turned up yet but apparently Sullivan emailed them to say she could be a day or so late and not to worry. Local uniform will keep an eye. Cheers.

* * *

Adam Fawley

30 October

01.28

It’s bad enough getting up for the baby; I’m definitely too old to pull all-nighters. I must have dozed off because I jolt awake when the door opens. It’s Gis.

He grins when he sees me. ‘Sorry.’

I sit up. ‘Don’t be. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.’ I glance up at the clock. ‘Shit, is that the time? Why are you still here?’

I thought he’d gone home; everyone else has. None of them wanted to be the first to throw in the towel, or at least not in front of me. But when I picked up the last voicemail from O’Neill I decided enough was enough and told them to go and get some sleep.

‘I was just checking some stuff,’ says Gis. He takes a step closer. ‘And I found something.’

‘Go on – make my day.’

‘I found the car. Or rather, Essex Police have. Looks like Rowan dumped it and some local wags took it out for a ride then torched it.’

‘Essex? What’s it doing there? I thought that rental place was in Plymouth?’

‘It is. The car was about as far in the opposite direction as you can get in this country without falling off the side. Somewhere I’ve never heard of called Bromness.’

I sigh; more bloody Rowan mind games.

‘And Essex are sure it’s the right car?’

Gis nods. ‘I just had a chat with one of their uniforms and she said they’ve been having a spate of joyriding round there. You know what it’s like – bit of wasteland off the beaten track, they’re on it like wasps on jam. And as we both know, those old Novas are pathetically easy to nick.’ He gives a wry smile. ‘We should be grateful old Mrs Sullivan had such crap taste in cars.’

I nod. ‘First thing to go our way.’

‘The second, actually, boss. Seems this particular site has become so much of a problem the locals have a Neighbourhood Watch thing going, to try and put pressure on the Council. So we have a bunch of sharp-eyed old biddies to thank for the fact that Essex got there quickly enough to ID the reg plate on the Nova before it went up like Guy Fawkes.’

‘Or that they bothered turning up at all.’

He nods; we both know how low down the list that sort of petty thuggery usually is.

‘Still doesn’t answer the question, why Essex? Unless of course there’s a twee little rental nearby with a name like “Fuck You, Fawley”.’

Gis grins. ‘I think I can do better than that. Bromness – it’s less than half an hour from Harwich.’

I’m having trouble jump-starting my brain, but even I can make the connection on this one.

‘Harwich as in bloody massive port?’

His grin widens. ‘The very same. And Felixstowe is within striking distance too.’

‘Judging by your face, I’m assuming you’ve got hold of passenger manifests?’

‘Essex are on it. Shouldn’t take long.’

‘How many crossings a day?’

He hands me a sheet of paper. ‘Even taking into account driving time and not using motorways, Rowan could easily have made it in time for the Harwich to Hook of Holland sailing at eleven p.m. There were also three freight crossings to Rotterdam: one from Harwich at ten thirty, one from Felixstowe at eight and another from Felixstowe coming up at two thirty.’ He checks his watch. ‘In almost exactly an hour, in fact.’

I’m looking at the list. ‘You said the Rotterdam crossings are freight only? You think she could be on a lorry?’

‘On one or in one,’ says Gis drily. ‘Why risk being in the cab and having that “borrowed” passport checked?’

Fuck, why didn’t I think of that.

‘You’ve spoken to Customs?’

He nods. ‘They didn’t pick up anything at the Border, but apparently outgoing freight isn’t routinely searched, not unless there’s intelligence and that’s pretty much always about contraband or drugs, not people. I mean, it’s not the Channel, is it, plus it’s going the wrong bloody way.’

‘But we can get Dutch Police to pick it up the other end? When do the boats dock?’

‘First one gets in at four thirty our time, so don’t worry – we’re on it.’

‘Bloody well done, Gis. That was great work. The whole team’s pulled a blinder on this.’

‘Thanks, boss.’

He heads for the door, then turns suddenly, his face troubled now. ‘But what if all this is just another diversion? Rowan sends us careering off across the North Sea like the Keystone Cops and all the while she’s just quietly changed cars and headed off God-knows-where in a pair of sunnies and a pink wig?’

I smile, despite myself. ‘They don’t call her the chameleon girl for nothing. But she’d need to get that new car from somewhere, wouldn’t she, and we haven’t found any record of Sullivan getting her one.’

He considers. ‘She could have just rolled up and asked for a rental?’

‘True, but she’d need documentation, which seriously ups the chances of getting caught. And in any case, remember what my old governor used to say about the simplest possible explanation?’

He smiles. ‘Osbourne’s Razor.’

‘Right, so let’s rule these crossings out first before we go looking for any more trouble.’

As soon as the door closes I reach for my phone. It’s a bloody antisocial time to call anyone, but I don’t have much choice.

‘DI O’Neill? Adam Fawley. Sorry if I woke you. I need you to check something for me. Got a pen? Yes, it’s about Andrea Sullivan. Can you see if she has any links to the haulage industry? Brother, father, mate, anything.’ A pause. ‘In one – we think she could be on a lorry.’

* * *

It’s pretty basic, as accommodation goes, but after all those years inside, one-star counts as deluxe, and a three-foot divan feels like queen size. She tosses her bags on the floor and flings herself down on the bed, feeling her shoulders start to relax. There’s a stain on the ceiling, and a vague smell of diesel, and a throbbing sound from somewhere nearby, but she doesn’t care. It’s her own space, for as long as she’s here. Hers alone. There’s even a bathroom en suite, Sullivan made sure of that. She sighs at the thought of a proper bath, all to herself, that she can stay in all night if she chooses. And with that special bath oil Sullivan gave her –

A knock at the door. She sits up, feeling her heart rate go into long-learnt overdrive. Stop it, she thinks, it’ll be nothing. Just some routine check or shit like that.

She slides to the edge of the bed and gets to her feet. Another knock, more insistent. The sound of someone just beyond the door.

She moves as quietly as she can to the door, and slips the chain on. Then she takes a deep breath and opens it a crack.

She’s never seen this person before, but she’s seen pictures; she knows who they are.

A raised eyebrow, a half-smile.

‘I think you’re expecting me?’

* * *

Adam Fawley

30 October

02.47

I was going to go in the spare room, but when I get home there’s a light on in the nursery. Alex is sitting in the old chair her mother gave her when she was pregnant with Jake, Lily nursing quietly in her arms, the lamp on the table throwing gentle golden shadows.

I stop in the doorway and just stand there, watching. She looks up and beckons me over, but I shake my head; I don’t want to break the moment. ‘You look like a Vermeer.’

She smiles. ‘Wonderful what soft lighting can do,’ she whispers.

‘How is she?’

‘Fine, the health visitor came today and was really pleased with her.’ She looks down at her daughter and reaches a hand to touch her cheek. Lily gazes up at her, her eyes huge in the half-dark. I remember reading a description once of what newborn babies can see. Not in one of those childcare manuals, it was a novel. Something about how eyes unfocused and washed with newness see the world only as a kaleidoscope of colour and shape, but can still recognize, from a sense even deeper than sight, the warm glow of their mother’s face and the halo of her hair.

And then I remember Noah. The first Noah, who would have been twenty-one now, who barely got to see his mother except through the glass wall of an incubator; and the second, whose last sight of the woman who bore him was as the suffocating black plastic closed over his face.

* * *

‘There’s a bed, and a telly, though obviously keep that off until we’re through. Some people find it claustrophobic in there with the partition shut, but it’s never bothered me. Figure you’ll probably be the same, eh?’

It’s a fair assumption about anyone who’s been inside. As Rock evidently has. Rowan didn’t need to see the tatts to know that.

They’re sitting on the bed at the B&B, eating McDonald’s. It was the only place open this early; it’ll be at least an hour before it gets light. Rowan has a breakfast flatbread, Rock has a double sausage and egg McMuffin. Twice. Rock has a big appetite. In fact, most things about Rock are big. The hands, the gut, the shoulders under the Iron Maiden T-shirt.

‘What time do we need to leave?’ Rowan asks, checking her watch. Again.

‘Sevenish, I reckon. We’ve a way to go yet.’

‘Doesn’t bother me. Sooner the better.’

Rock laughs. ‘That figures too.’

‘You don’t think there’ll be a problem?’ She tries to make it sound matter-of-fact but if this goes wrong –

Rock watches her face. ‘It’ll be my fat butt hung out to dry as well as yours if there is.’

Her heart rate is still painfully fast. ‘But what if they want to search the cab?’

Rock gives a snort, sending a spray of crumbs over the bedspread. ‘They won’t. Trust me, they can’t be arsed to do that, not without good reason. Coming back, now, that’ll be a different matter. Specially with a full load. But that’s my problem, not yours.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ She pauses. ‘And thanks again. I couldn’t do this without you.’

Rock shrugs. ‘Don’t thank me, thank Sullivan. The boss owed her one.’

Rowan finishes her food and starts clearing up. Rock eyes her, then reaches for a napkin. ‘Though I guess you’re the one who owes her now, right?’

* * *

By the time the rest of the team get in, Gis has already been there an hour. He managed not to wake Janet last night by the simple expedient of sleeping in the spare room, but he still got a bollocking this morning. ‘You’ll get an ulcer at this rate, haven’t you got DCs to do the late ones?’ But being up first and doing breakfast (egg and bacon for the two of them and pancakes for Billy, which he loves but Janet hardly ever does because of the time and the mess) means he got off pretty lightly, all things considered.

It’s an interesting exercise, watching the team arrive. Bradley Carter at 8.15, always on the alert for brownie points; Ev and Sargent soon after, coffees in hand from the same shop, which leaves Gis wondering if Ev gave her a lift; then Baxter, moaning about traffic, then Hansen, and finally Quinn, in that Luther-style greatcoat of his, with a silk scarf and an almond croissant from the posh place in Jericho.

‘What time did you get away?’ he says, coming up to the front, where Gis is pinning the latest on to the board.

‘Must have been two-ish in the end. Boss left just after.’

‘Fuck.’

Gis makes a face. ‘That’s one word for it.’ He looks back over Quinn’s shoulder. ‘Looks like we’re all here. Eyes down for a full house.’

Quinn starts to unwind his scarf. ‘You’re not waiting for Fawley?’

Gis shakes his head. ‘He said to carry on if he wasn’t here by eight. He’s up to speed on most of this, anyway.’

He turns to the rest of the team and raises his voice slightly. ‘OK, so here’s where we got to overnight. Essex Police have found the Vauxhall Nova – and yes, I did say Essex. Looks like Rowan left it on a side street somewhere and hoped it would go unnoticed, at least for as long as it took for her to get away. Luckily for us,’ he continues drily, ‘the local joyriding fraternity had other ideas.’

He points to the map. ‘This is where it was found – place by the name of Bromness. Obviously we don’t know exactly when or where Rowan dumped it, but it’s a fair bet it wasn’t that far away and, that being the case, we made an educated guess that she could be on a ferry either out of Felixstowe, here –’ he points again – ‘or Harwich, here. As you can see from the list I just circulated, there were four sailings last night, one from Harwich to the Hook of Holland, one from Harwich to Rotterdam, and two from Felixstowe to Rotterdam.’

‘Hang on,’ says Ev. ‘Those were all passenger ferries?’

‘No, only the Hook of Holland one. The rest are just freight.’

Ev stares at him. ‘You think she’s on a lorry?’

Gis shrugs. ‘We couldn’t rule it out. And one thing we know about this woman is better safe than sorry.’

Baxter’s looking openly sceptical. ‘What, she breaks into a truck to leave the country – like the Channel Tunnel in reverse? I guess it’s possible, but can you really see the Duchess slumming it in the back of a forty-tonner –?’

‘Yup,’ says Quinn. ‘I sure can. You haven’t met her. She’d be up for almost anything, frankly, as long as there was enough in it for her. And blagging in is way more likely than breaking in, if you ask me – I’m sure she’d be prepared to “make it worth their while”. I mean, look at how she’s been using that poor cow Sullivan.’

‘But it’d be a huge risk, wouldn’t it?’ says Ev, turning to him. ‘Just turning up on the off-chance, and risking getting either spotted or reported? The way they’ve planned all this – her and Sullivan – it’s way more organized than that.’

Hansen nods. ‘I agree. I think she went there because she was meeting someone. Someone who’d agreed to give her a lift, no questions asked.’

Gis is smiling. ‘Which is exactly why the boss called Surrey last night – they’re checking any links Andrea Sullivan might have to the trucking industry. Anyone who might be prepared to do her a favour.’

Quinn finishes his croissant and wipes his fingers. ‘How far have they got?’ He’s frowning slightly, evidently wondering how to get himself back on the front foot.

Gis makes a face. ‘Nowhere, last I heard. Father was a postman, no uncles, no brothers, no obvious family links at all. But they’re interviewing her again this morning.’

‘And have Dutch Police checked those overnight crossings?’ asks Sargent.

‘They searched the Hook of Holland one that got in at four thirty and came up empty.’ He checks his watch. ‘We should be hearing about the eight and eight thirty arrivals any time now.’

‘And the passengers?’ asks Bradley Carter, not to be outdone. ‘We don’t know she was on a lorry.’

Gis shakes his head. ‘No Camilla Rowan or Andrea Sullivan on any of the manifests, and no one answering the description. Apparently it wasn’t exactly busy.’ He gives a wry smile. ‘Not sure I’d fancy the North Sea at this time of year either. Not for eight bloody hours, anyway.’

Quinn is up by the map now. ‘I’m assuming we’re ruling out airports?’

‘The APW should catch that,’ says Gis steadily. ‘That is why they call it an All-Ports Warning. But we can do a follow-up with Stansted and Southend if you think it’s worth it. They’re the closest.’

Ev looks at the map. ‘But both of those are still over an hour away. She’d need transport. Maybe she picked up another car?’

‘I talked about that with the boss – he didn’t think a rental was much of a runner. Too much documentation.’

‘Sullivan could have left another car for her in Felixstowe?’ offers Carter.

Quinn snorts, but Gis is keeping a straight face. ‘That’s a possibility, of course, but in the scheme of things, pretty unlikely.’

Carter flushes. ‘I just meant I couldn’t see her wanting to go by train – too much risk of getting spotted.’

‘Coach?’ suggests Ev. ‘Not so much surveillance there.’

Gis nods and turns to Carter. ‘OK, why don’t you pick up on that? Get on to the coach companies?’

Quinn grins. ‘Careful what you wish for, Carter, eh?’

* * *

She hears the cab door bang open and then the swing of weight as Rock climbs in. The partition is drawn across, but there’s no doubt who it is. The smell’s a giveaway, for a start. Coal tar soap. Her father always used that stuff. Brings it all back. And not in a good way.

‘You OK in the back there?’

Rowan fights down the nausea; seasickness was one thing she hadn’t bargained for.

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘I’ve got some mints if you want them. It might get a bit rough later.’

What do you mean, later? she thinks.

‘We’ll lose mobile signal too, just so you know.’

She didn’t, but it makes sense.

‘I’ve been checking the news,’ continues Rock. ‘Nothing about you. Not that I can find, anyway.’ There’s a pause, then, ‘Have you heard from her?’

‘Who, Sullivan? No, not since yesterday.’

‘You think the filth are on to her?’

‘Maybe. They were asking questions. But she knew it’d probably happen sooner or later. And she’ll be OK. She’s a tough cookie.’

Rock laughs. ‘I bet.’

There’s the sound of the glovebox opening and then the partition slides back an inch or so and a packet of Extra Strong Mints drops on to the end of the bed.

‘I’d better go. We aren’t supposed to be down here when we’re at sea. You gonna be OK?’

‘It’ll be a long day tomorrow, I’m going to try and get some sleep.’

A laugh. ‘It’ll be worth it. All the cheese you can eat, eh.’

Yeah, well, she thinks, I need to be losing a few pounds, not putting them on.

‘It’ll do,’ she says. ‘For now.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

30 October

10.40

‘Sorry, boss. We’re coming up empty.’

Looks like our run of luck has run aground.

The whiteboard is covered with red crossings-out: not on the Harwich passenger ferries, not on any of the freight ones, not on any known flight. We’re running out of options, and we’re running out of time.

‘So,’ I say, forcing some energy into my voice, ‘anyone got any other ideas?’

‘I think we should widen the search, sir,’ says Sargent. ‘To other ports.’

Quinn’s smirking but I ignore him. ‘Why do you say that?’

She looks a little nervously at Quinn, then back at me. ‘I know you said it’s unlikely she’d rent a car, and public transport was probably too much of a risk –’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, if we’re right and she’s on a truck, then isn’t it possible it picked her up at Bromness –’

‘We’ve already ruled that out,’ says Carter, with a Quinn-like sigh. Not sure if he’s consciously copying or just imprinting. Like baby geese. Come to think of it, with that tufty hair of his, he does look rather like a gosling. ‘They’ve checked – she wasn’t on any of the ferries.’

‘Not those, no,’ says Sargent. ‘But that’s not what I meant. I meant maybe she picked up the lorry there – a lorry that’s now on its way somewhere else. To another port.’

Quinn frowns. ‘Yeah, OK, maybe, but it’d be like looking for a needle in a bloody haystack – where the hell would we even start? She’s already got at least twelve hours’ head-start on us, we have no idea who this hairy-arsed bloke is she’s with, and we can’t start searching every bloody lorry leaving the country –’

‘Actually,’ says Hansen, looking up from his screen, ‘I had a thought about that. I checked a couple of websites and apparently commercial driving’s a popular job option with ex-cons. As long as they haven’t been done for dangerous driving –’

I stare at him; everyone stares at him. And no wonder: it’s been right under our noses this whole time.

‘Call Heathside – we need the names of all prisoners released in the last three years and then cross-reference that list with DVLA – and tell them it’s urgent. I’ve got a contact there if you hit a jobsworth.’

He opens his mouth to ask why but I get my answer in before the question. ‘You can’t drive an HGV without an advanced driving cert, Hansen, con or no con.’

I look round the room. ‘Seems we may not be looking for a hairy-arsed bloke after all. We’re looking for a woman.’

* * *

Voicemail

DI Brendan O’Neill

Mobile

Transcription

Just to say still nothing useful from Sullivan. We’ve asked her about any contacts in haulage but she just smirked and said No Comment. Again. Though one thing I did notice was that she kept checking the time. I think you may be right about a ferry.

* * *

Adam Fawley

30 October

14.15

‘Sir – do you want to join us? I think you’ll want to see this.’

It’s Hansen, at my door.

I get to my feet. ‘I’m coming through.’

The office is crowded now, and buzzing. People on phones, someone from the press office. Harrison, of course; talking to Quinn, of course.

I nod to him. ‘Sir.’

‘Good work, here, Fawley. Very impressive.’

‘She’s not in custody yet, sir. But thank you. The team have done very well.’

I turn to Hansen, just to emphasize the point. ‘So where are we?’

‘We’ve identified a driver she could be travelling with.’ He turns to his screen and brings up the DVLA record. ‘Woman by the name of Teresa Grant. She was at Heathside for eighteen months for social security fraud, released late last year.’

‘Did she ever share a cell with Rowan?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, not as far as we can tell. But she would have known Sullivan, that’s for sure.’

‘Who does Grant work for now?’

‘Company called Ronnie Harmsworth Freight Ltd – it’s an all-female outfit and makes a big thing about giving opportunities to ex-offenders.’

‘You’ve spoken to them?’

He nods. ‘Grant was booked on this morning’s ferry from Newhaven to Dieppe –’

‘Was?’

‘It left at ten and it’s a four-hour crossing.’

I check my watch. ‘Shit, it’s gone two already –’

Gis looks up from his desk and indicates his phone. ‘I’m on to them now, boss. We were lucky – the weather on the Channel was shite this morning so it’s only just docked.’

‘We’re in time?’

He makes a face. ‘Still waiting to confirm – I’m not making much headway – this bloke’s pretending he doesn’t understand me –’

‘Want me to try, Sarge?’ says Sargent. ‘My French isn’t too bad.’

‘Be my guest,’ says Gis heavily, handing her the phone.

* * *

They’ve been docked at least fifteen minutes now, and the nausea is finally starting to ease down. The last couple of hours were grim. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t throw up – that those paper bags Rock left in the pocket by the bed were just for wusses – but in the end she had no choice. Jesus, it was bad. She doesn’t know how Rock does this, week in, week out. She’s clearly even tougher than she looks.

There’s a clanging now, a groaning of metal against metal, and then a draught of cold diesel air as the cab door swings open. Rock says nothing, but there are probably other drivers about. Rowan pulls the duvet over her head, more from instinct than anything else – it’s hardly going to stop anyone spotting her, if they decide to search the cab. But Rock says they won’t, Rock says they won’t …

* * *

Adam Fawley

30 October

14.22

Sargent’s been talking to the port official for a full five minutes and I can tell you one thing: her French is a hell of a lot better than ‘not bad’. Trouble is, you don’t need much grasp of the language to realize it’s bad news.

‘Vous en êtes sûr? Il n’y a aucune possibilité d’erreur? Je vois. Merci beaucoup. Je vous rappellerai dès que possible.’

She puts the phone down and turns to me. ‘I’m sorry, sir, nothing doing. They pulled over Grant’s truck as it disembarked and carried out a full search. There was no one there. And Grant’s claiming complete ignorance. French police are holding her just in case but it’s looking like a dead end to me.’

Gis shakes his head and walks off up to the whiteboard.

‘I’m sorry,’ begins Sargent, but I hold up my hand to stop her. One thing this isn’t is her fault.

‘What a fucking disaster,’ mutters Quinn, turning away. ‘She’s run bloody rings round us.’

Maybe. Maybe not. Because something’s nagging at me.

I join Gis at the board. Because if there really is a ‘something’, it’s here. Somewhere.

I scan the accumulated ten days of work. Maps, photos, lists, theories, question marks. Trying to see it all for the first time, waiting for something to snag. A good half of me is wondering if I should get someone like Ruth Gallagher in here, purely for the sake of a fresh pair of eyes –

But I don’t need to. Because there it is. On a bloody Post-it.

I yank it off and hold it out to Gis.

‘This trucking company – what’s that about?’

He frowns. ‘I don’t get you.’

‘You said it was an all-female outfit, right?’

‘Right.’

‘So why’s it called Ronnie Harmsworth Freight?’

Gis nods. ‘Good point – certainly worth a look.’

We turn to Baxter but he’s heard us; he’s already on it. ‘I’m checking Companies House,’ he says. ‘Give me a sec.’

He taps his keyboard for a moment then scrolls down. ‘According to this, the MD and majority shareholder of Ronnie Harmsworth Freight is a Veronica Harmsworth, DOB 14 March 1974.’

‘Am I right in thinking you can still be a company director if you’ve been inside?’

The energy in the room jolts up a notch; they know where I’m going with this.

Baxter taps again, then nods. ‘Yup, you can. As long as it wasn’t for something like fraud.’

Hansen’s at his screen now too. ‘Veronica Christine Harmsworth,’ he says, glancing up. ‘Did three years in Holloway for ABH from 2009 to 2011. Went for her husband with a hammer – claimed he’d been beating her up.’

‘Did Sullivan ever work at Holloway?’

He does another check, then looks up and nods. ‘Eight years – 2008 until it closed in 2016.’

It’s as if the whole room is holding its breath.

‘Who spoke to Harmsworth Freight before?’

‘Ev,’ says Gis. ‘We thought it would be better coming from a woman –’

I turn to her but she’s already picked up her phone. ‘Get a list of all the drivers they have scheduled on ferry crossings, both last night and today. But keep it low-key – I don’t want a message getting through to Rowan.’

Quinn comes up to me. ‘You think Sullivan fixed it with this bird Ronnie?’

‘It has to be a possibility. And right now, it’s all we have.’

* * *

Rock warned her it might take a while. That it isn’t as simple as rolling off a car ferry, so not to rush to panic. So that’s what she’s telling herself. Don’t panic. These places are huge, there’s a ton of lorries to process, you know what the bloody French are like. Being stuck in this stuffy cab under the duvet isn’t helping. Nor is the smell. She’s going to have to get Rock to stop as soon as they’re through so she can dump the sick bag. As soon as they’re through, as soon as they’re through …

Voices now, close by; that hasn’t happened before. Someone outside talking to Rock. She tries to gauge Rock’s tone from the dribs and drabs she can hear. It doesn’t sound like she’s concerned. Some admin crap? There must be a ton of that to do. She’s just being paranoid.

Of course she is – because suddenly there’s the sound of the ignition. A rumble of engine noise, then the hiss of air brakes and – hallelujah – the truck shudders into life.

* * *

Adam Fawley

30 October

14.25

‘I spoke to the fleet manager’s secretary and she’s emailing me the list,’ says Ev, putting down her phone. ‘She said she’d do it straight away, but I can’t promise – I couldn’t afford to sound too keen.’

There must be a dozen of us round her machine now, watching for a bloody email like it’s a new Pope. The machine pings, but the way my luck’s going it’ll be HR banging on about changes to pension entitlements. But no – that secretary is as good as her word.

It’s one of those Gantt charts that give me a headache just looking at them. But Ev’s good at this sort of thing – she leans forward, scanning down the tiny type. ‘Looks to me like there’s three possibilities. There’s an A. Cameron on a boat that left Immingham at five this morning going to Brevik – don’t know where that is –’

She looks round quickly but no one else does either.

She turns to the screen again. ‘Well, wherever it is, it takes thirty-six hours –’

‘Scandi somewhere,’ says Baxter. ‘Taking that bloody long.’

‘Then there’s a J. Ford going out of Tilbury at ten this morning, due in at Zeebrugge at six tonight our time. And finally –’

She takes an in-breath. ‘B. Hudson on the Newhaven to Caen this morning, which left at eight fifteen.’

‘When does it get in?’

She glances at her watch. ‘Ten minutes ago.’

* * *

The truck’s picking up speed now, changing gear. Rock is singing along to the radio, tapping the steering wheel, slightly out of time. But who cares.

They’re moving.

She hears the clang clang clang as they go down the ramp, and then the dull rumble of concrete under the wheels.

Dry land.

Freedom –

* * *

Adam Fawley

30 October

14.35

‘Si, c’est très très urgent. Oui, oui, je tiendrai – merci –’

Sargent puts her hand over the receiver and looks up at me.

‘The boat’s just unloading now, sir – like the sarge said, the weather was bad on the Channel last night so it was twenty minutes late getting in. They’re checking to see if Hudson’s load has already left.’

My blood pressure can’t stand much more of this. I turn to Gis. ‘What do we know about this woman Hudson?’

‘She did time at HMP Foston Hall for knifing someone she said tried to rape her. Judge must have believed her, though, because she only got five years even though the bloke nearly died.’ He gives a dry smile. ‘Apparently she was known as Rock. Mainly because of the surname, but I gather she’s not exactly a gazelle, either.’

‘If it was Foston Hall I assume there’s no direct connection to either Rowan or Sullivan?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, the only link’s through Ronnie Harmsworth.’

‘What about the other two drivers?’

Baxter looks up. ‘Still checking, sir.’

* * *

Something’s wrong – they’re slowing down –

Stop bloody catastrophizing – it’ll be traffic lights or a roundabout or some completely bloody ordinary thing –

But then the radio goes off and they’re shuddering to a complete halt.

The hiss of brakes, then a voice outside – barking something –

She can’t hear – she can’t hear – there’s too much noise –

But now the engine’s thudded to silence and Rock’s yelling, ‘OK, OK, it’s off, all right?’

And the doors are opening and they’re telling Rock to get out and she can hear noises at the back of the truck and the rear doors banging open and her heart is beating so hard her chest hurts –

And the voices are closer now and louder and the duvet is pulling away and there are rough hands gripping her by the arms and dragging her up and she knows – she knows –

It’s over.

* * *

BBC News

30 October 2018 Last updated at 16:34

BREAKING: Camilla Rowan ‘could stand trial again’

The BBC has learned that an arrest warrant for Camilla Rowan has been issued by Thames Valley Police. Rowan, who served fifteen years for the supposed murder of her newborn son, was released from HMP Heathside early yesterday morning, but apparently did not report to her probation officer as required by the terms of her licence. Her current whereabouts are not known. Thames Valley Police have not confirmed the exact nature of the new allegations, but it is understood that new evidence has come to light which would potentially justify a new trial.

More news on this as we hear it.

* * *

* * *

‘Home sweet home,’ says the prison officer, thudding the cell door open with a smile. A smile that could curdle milk.

They took her to Oxford to start with, after another stomach-emptying ferry and three hours in the back of a security van. The cell there wasn’t too bad. Only it came at a price. As in endless interviews with that smug bastard Fawley and the other one who clearly thinks he’s God’s gift. And the two of them laid it all out about Renee Seidler and that bloody social worker poking her nose in and she just kept on saying ‘No Comment’ and all the while she could sense that stuck-up lawyer of hers sitting on the next chair, rigid with disapproval, just going through the motions, desperate to drop her like a hot turd.

The prison officer jerks her head towards the cell door. ‘Come on, look sharp.’

Not Sullivan, of course. They told her – and clearly enjoyed doing it – that she’s been suspended. Will probably lose her job. Either way, she won’t be coming back. Rowan’s never met these arse-faced cows on the Segregation wing but they don’t look like a very good prospect.

She goes into the cell and stands there, staring. The bedding’s on the floor, lying in a pool of something that definitely isn’t water, and across the far wall, smeared in stink, two words.

BABY KILLER

* * *

Adam Fawley

12 November

14.00

There are only two of us at the service. Aside from the minister. A hired-by-the-hour suit who clearly knows nothing about Noah and will do three more of these things before the day is out.

Renee is sitting in the second row. She’s wearing the same wrap she wore on the plane. Probably because it’s the warmest thing she has. It’s icy in here.

When I told Alex where I was going she was surprised Renee wanted to have the cremation here, until I pointed out how expensive it is to ship a body internationally. An urn is a lot more portable, but it makes for a grim and lonely funeral that’s barely a notch up from industrial. No music and no reading, just a single white rose on a plain wooden box. When the curtains close finally across the coffin I get to my feet, but Renee remains absolutely still, staring somewhere I can’t see.

Outside, the wind is getting up, but the sky is clear. High white clouds gusting across the bleached blue. I fish out my keys and walk down towards the car. It’s only then that I realize there’s someone here. Someone else as well as me.

On the far side, beyond the banks of flowers from an earlier service, a tall figure in a long dark coat, keeping his distance.

But he’s not a stranger.

He’s family.

Richard Swann.

* * *

Broadcast Industry News ONLINE

15 November 2018

Netflix commissions second series of Infamous: The Chameleon Girl

New episodes will explore the shocking revelations that led to Camilla Rowan’s re-arrest

Netflix have announced that there will be a second series of the global hit Infamous: The Chameleon Girl. Journalist John Penrose, who wrote and presented the original show, has been recommissioned to front and produce the six-part follow-up. The new episodes will re-examine the original ‘Milly Liar’ investigation in the light of recent revelations, and provide ‘fascinating insights into how Thames Valley Police finally solved the 20-year-old case’. It is understood the series will also explore the circumstances that led to the tragic death of Rowan’s son last month, including the discovery of his true identity, as well as a dramatic reconstruction of what really happened to him after he was last seen leaving hospital with Rowan, when he was only a few hours old.

Mac McQueen, Netflix’s Head of Factual, said, ‘There is overwhelming interest in this case from across the world, and we are delighted John has agreed to return to it. His 2016 investigation played a crucial role in finally getting to the bottom of what really happened to Camilla Rowan’s baby, and I can promise viewers an extraordinary and compelling show.’

Thames Valley Police told Broadcast Industry News they do not comment on media activity of this kind, and would not confirm whether serving officers would be taking part in filming.

* * *

Adam Fawley

18 November

14.20

‘My round?’ says Gis.

‘No, it’s my turn. I’ll just wait till the queue dies down a bit.’

Sunday lunch at the Vicky Arms. We’re at a table by the window; there’s a fire in the hearth and a smell of woodsmoke, and two pints, nearly finished, in front of us. Outside, it’s bright but cold, and down by the river, Janet and Alex are braving the wind with the children to feed the ducks. Janet took a lot of persuading, and I don’t blame her – she wasn’t really dressed for it – but Alex has been on my case to talk to Gis about the christening and gave me a look that said OK now’s your chance as they got up to leave.

I’m fiddling with my glass, the way blokes do when they’re about to Have A Conversation. Though Gis, being another bloke, doesn’t seem to have noticed.

‘Won’t be as cold as this where you’re going, eh, boss? Where was it again?’

‘Caribbean. Leaving December 20th.’

Two weeks in the Grenadines. After the year we’ve had, I want Alex to have a proper holiday. Something special for our first Christmas as a family.

‘Look, Gis, there’s something I’ve been meaning to mention.’

He smiles. ‘Don’t worry, boss, I already know.’

‘You already know?’

The smile looks a little sad now. ‘A little bird told me. You’re going for Chief Inspector, right?’

Well, I definitely didn’t see that coming.

‘Look,’ he says quickly, ‘it’s OK, really. I’d do the same if I was you. We’ll just be sorry to lose you. All of us.’

I swallow. ‘Well, it might not mean a transfer – not necessarily –’

He picks up his glass. ‘It usually does, though, doesn’t it. Deputy Area Commander, something like that.’

Now there’s a thought. ‘Look, it’s months off. If it happens at all. And I might not get it.’

He grins and finishes his beer. ‘With a spanking new personal commendation from the Chief Constable on your file? I’d put money on it.’

There’s an awkward pause. ‘Does everyone know – I mean the whole team?’

He shakes his head. ‘Just me, I reckon. If Quinn had got wind of it he’d be beating a path to the Super’s door.’

I laugh and turn to look down towards the water. Alex is rocking Lily against her, the wind catching her hair, and Billy’s down by the water with Janet, flinging bread at the flotilla of ducks, scattering and plashing as the pieces hit the surface.

I nod towards them. ‘Reckon you’re raising a cricketer there, Gis, not a footie player.’

He grins. ‘Nah, Chelsea all the way, my Billy.’

I reach for the glasses. ‘Do you want to join them for a bit while I get the drinks in? Give Billy a hand with his bowling technique?’

He starts a little. ‘Well –’

I get to my feet. ‘It’ll be a chance to get to know your new god-daughter.’

He gapes at me, and then, as realization dawns, his face spreads into a huge grin.

When I look back from the bar a few minutes later he’s still sitting there, shaking his head a little, smiling to himself.