Hope to Die

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.