Hope to Die

29 October

11.30

‘What the hell is it, Sargent?’

OK, that sounds a bit tetchy. My bad. It’s just that ‘no interruptions’ is Interviewing 101 – a rule you just don’t break –

She flushes. ‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s just that we’ve had a call from Heathside. Camilla Rowan’s release has been brought forward. I thought you’d want to know –’

‘When?’

‘Later today –’

There’ll be time to apologize to Sargent later – time to commend her for taking the initiative – but not right now. Right now I have other priorities.

I drag my phone out of my pocket and fumble to find the Heathside number.

‘Victoria Winfield, please. DI Adam Fawley. She’ll know who I am.’

I turn to Sargent. ‘Get on to Surrey police – tell them to get someone over to the prison – they’ll get there quicker than we will.’

She nods. ‘Right, sir.’

‘And when you’ve done that, find DS Gislingham and DS Quinn and tell them what you told me.’

There’s someone on the other end now.

‘Is that the governor’s office? I need to speak to her. Yes, it is bloody urgent and no, I don’t care if she is in a meeting, just get her. Right now.’

* * *

The object in the evidence bag is coated in thick brown slop. ‘Like chocolate sauce,’ Puttergill had quipped when Tull finally dragged it out. But it doesn’t smell like chocolate sauce, and in here, with the windows closed, it’s near-nigh unbearable.

Richard Swann is standing on the other side of the table. He didn’t say anything when he came to answer the back door, and he hasn’t said anything since. He’s just staring down at the bag.

‘I assume you know what this is, Mr Swann?’

The old man flickers a look at them but that’s all they get.

‘It’s the backpack your intruder was carrying. When you shot him.’

Still nothing. Barnetson and Puttergill exchange a glance, then the sergeant reaches for the backpack and starts to unfasten it. Not for the first time, he gives thanks for the sturdiness of forensic gloves. The zip sticks once or twice, but – hallelujah – the inside is almost clean.

Passport, wallet, keys. Everything they expected to find.

And something they didn’t.

* * *

Cathy Doyle is only three months out of prison officer training, and days like this are making her wonder whether this job is really a keeper, after all. First Sullivan throwing her (frankly, considerable) weight around, and now the bloody police. Two of them. The bloke looks quite nice, but the woman he’s got with him just looks bored out of her brain. Perhaps she’s regretting her career choices too.

‘As I explained,’ says the male officer, ‘we’ve had a call from Thames Valley re Camilla Rowan –’

‘And as I explained,’ says Doyle, ‘there’s nothing I can do –’

‘What’s going on?’

Even without turning, Doyle knows that voice. What’s the governor doing down here? She hardly makes a habit of waving prisoners off at the gates, so why today, of all shitty days? Doyle takes a deep breath and turns round.

‘Doyle, isn’t it?’ says Winfield, with a frown.

Doyle is about to reply, when the police officer steps in. ‘PC Hugh Tomlinson, Surrey Police, Governor. As I was explaining to your colleague, we’ve had a call from Thames Valley –’

‘I know,’ says the governor quickly. ‘I’ve had one too. That’s why I’m here. Apparently we need to put a temporary hold on Camilla Rowan’s release – I gather TVP are talking to the MoJ as we speak.’

‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ says Doyle, ‘but it’s too late – Rowan left half an hour ago.’

The governor’s frown deepens. ‘Left? What do you mean, left?’

Doyle’s shit day is clearly about to get a whole lot shittier. She feels herself going red, even though none of this crap has anything to do with her.

‘I know the email said noon, ma’am, but Officer Sullivan said she’d handle it before she went off shift.’

And ‘handle it’ was the operative phrase, thinks Doyle. That full search that even Doyle knows was totally unnecessary. The two of them giving each other furtive looks when they thought Doyle wasn’t watching. But they’re not fooling anyone – the whole bloody prison must know by now. Except, by the looks of it, the governor.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but given it was only an hour or so early I didn’t think it would make much difference, and Officer Sullivan kept saying we needed to do it before the press started turning up –’

‘Where is Officer Sullivan now?’

‘Like I said, ma’am, she went off shift.’

‘Can I see the release form, please.’

Doyle hands her the sheet of paper; even the bored policewoman looks interested now. ‘Rowan’s been given a hostel place in Dorking – she said she was going straight there –’

‘Call them, please. Now.’

She can feel the three of them staring at her as she finds the number. As if she’s the one who fucked up – frankly, even if she had tried to stop Sullivan she wouldn’t have got anywhere, there’s never any reasoning with her when she’s in that mood –

‘Hello – HMP Heathside here – just checking that prisoner Rowan has arrived as scheduled? Ah, I see. Could you call us when she does? No, no cause for alarm.’