Hope to Die

Her voice is soft Scots. There’s music playing somewhere in the house. Jazz. If they have kids they must be in bed, but I suspect they don’t. It’s all too pristine. Then there’s a soft creak of footsteps on the wooden floor and I see Rutherford emerge from what must be the kitchen end of the house, holding a tea towel. She looked impeccably professional in the documentary – tailored suit, cream blouse, wire-rimmed glasses. But now she’s in pale-grey sweats with her hair in a loose topknot. She’s the same age as Camilla, but she looks ten years younger.

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘We’re from Thames Valley Police. Could we come in for a moment?’

The other woman makes herself scarce, leaving us in their double-height sitting room with its reconditioned timber ceiling and view down the garden in the thickening dusk. A scatter of golden lights among the borders picks out a water feature, topiary and a pale owl, its wings reared to land, which for half a second I think is actually real.

Rutherford drops on to one of the black leather sofas and gestures us to do the same.

‘So what’s this about?’

‘Camilla Rowan.’

Her face freezes and she sits up, reaching to grip the edge of the sofa. I feel suddenly and overwhelmingly sorry for her – she must have hoped all that had finally gone away.

‘Has something happened?’

Quinn suppresses a sardonic snort. Rutherford looks at him and then at me.

‘We’re awaiting final confirmation, but we believe Camilla’s son has turned up.’

Her eyes widen. ‘You found the body? After all this time?’

I shake my head. ‘No. I’m sorry – I should have been clearer. Camilla didn’t kill her baby.’

She’s staring at me. ‘He’s alive?’

This is getting complicated. Too bloody complicated.

‘He was. There was an incident at the weekend, just outside Oxford. I’m afraid he was killed.’

I can see her rearranging her mental apparatus, retrofitting all this to what she’s always assumed. But she’s bright, she’s a lawyer; it won’t take her long. And it doesn’t.

‘So where’s he been all these years?’

I manage a wry smile. ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. He was identified only by his DNA – there weren’t any documents or other ID on him. We don’t even know what name he’s been using.’

She frowns; she knows as well as I do that there’s something odd going on here, but like I said, she’s a lawyer.

‘So what do you want from me?’

‘Anything you have. Anything you didn’t tell the first investigation. Anything you’ve remembered since.’ I pause. ‘Anything this news might have triggered.’

She raises her eyebrows, then looks away.

‘Do her parents know?’ she says, after a moment.

‘Yes, they have been told.’

There’s a silence.

‘Why did you ask about her parents? I must admit, it’s not the first question I thought you’d have.’

She shrugs. ‘I was just wondering how they’d reacted. I felt so incredibly sorry for them at the trial – the press, the abuse, people crawling all over their lives. Peggy was a wreck.’

I must look surprised because she continues quickly, ‘I mean, yes, I didn’t like her much when I was younger – she was a terrible snob, always going on about keeping up appearances and what other people would think. But for someone like that – having your daughter accused of infanticide and having to admit you didn’t have a clue what was going on in your own house – it doesn’t get any worse than that.’

Quinn looks sceptical. ‘You really think her mother didn’t know? Or did she just not want to know?’

But the answer is immediate. ‘I know she didn’t know. If she had, she’d never have let it happen a second time.’

‘But she had a lot of opportunities to observe her daughter, didn’t she?’ I ask. ‘And not just at home. She helped with the hockey team, went on day trips with the school. It’s hard to believe a mother wouldn’t notice.’

She makes a face. ‘Well, I don’t disagree with you, but it does happen.’

‘They asked you on the documentary whether you knew about the pregnancies. I was interested in your reply – you said “she never told me”. You didn’t say “I didn’t know”. That strikes me as a lawyer’s answer.’

She gives me a quick, dry look. ‘Well, maybe they shouldn’t have filmed me in the office.’ It’s half a joke, but only half.

‘So did you actually know?’

She sighs. ‘Let’s just say I suspected.’

‘Enough to say anything?’

She hesitates, then nods. ‘Yes, I said something.’

Silence.

‘Who to? Your mother? A teacher?’

She swallows. ‘I spoke to Cam.’

* * *

Interview with Peggy Rowan, conducted at Calcot Row Police Station, Gloucester

13 September 2002, 9.05 a.m.

In attendance, DIH. Lucas,DSL. Kearney, W. Gilmour (solicitor)