Hope to Die

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

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

CR: [staring from one officer to the other]

What? What?

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

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

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

CR: [muffled]

It’s not fair! It’s not fair!

LK: Interview terminated at 11.25.

* * *

Adam Fawley

24 October

17.28

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

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

I point. ‘Let’s come off there.’

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

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

* * *

‘You don’t recognize him?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Adam Fawley

24 October

18.15

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

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

‘Yes?’

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

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