Hope to Die

‘It wasn’t just the press,’ he says eventually, ‘last time. There was graffiti, paint on the car, that sort of thing. Excrement, once. Through the letterbox. The police advised us to move out, just like you are, and we did, but with the place left empty, there was a lot of damage.’

Ev nods. She knows; she’s seen the file, read the police reports.

‘Not that we were living in this house then, of course –’

Margaret glances up at him. ‘I’m not prepared to go through all that again, Dick – I just can’t face it.’

‘I can talk to DI Fawley,’ says Ev gently, ‘see if we can have a uniformed officer stationed here while you’re away. To keep an eye on the house.’

Margaret stares down at her hands. She seems on the brink of tears.

Swann sighs and comes round to the front of the sofa and sits down next to her. ‘It’s not the damn house I’m worried about, Peggy, it’s you. You’re not as young as you were. Neither of us are.’ He takes hold of one of her hands. ‘You’ve been in hospital three times already this year and again this week – you know what the doctor said.’

Ev takes a breath, remembering they never did get permission to see Margaret Swann’s medical records. ‘What did the doctor say, Mr Swann?’

He looks up at her. ‘My wife suffers from panic attacks, Constable, has done ever since the trial. They put a strain on her heart. We do our best to avoid stressful situations.’

‘I’m very sorry, that must be very worrying. For both of you.’

‘It is.’ He bends closer to his wife. ‘Which is why I’d like you to do what the officer says and go somewhere else for a few days.’

She looks up at him, tears in her eyes. ‘Where would we go?’

He looks at her gently. ‘Not we, you.’ She starts to protest but he shakes his head. ‘No arguments, Peggy. Not this time. I’ll stay to look after the house – there’ll be a policeman here so I won’t come to any harm. You won’t need to worry about me.’

He squeezes her hand and some wordless communication passes between them. ‘All right,’ she whispers eventually. ‘All right.’

Swann nods and squeezes her hand again, then turns to Ev. ‘There isn’t really anyone Peggy can stay with, I’m afraid –’

‘It’s OK,’ she says quickly. ‘We can arrange a B&B for you – just for a few days.’ She tries a weak smile. ‘Not as grand as this, of course, but at least your wife will be able to get some peace.’

Margaret stares at her, all anger spent. ‘That’s why we came here. To get some peace. But it’s always going to find us, isn’t it? Wherever we go, however far we run. They’re never going to let us forget.’

* * *

When Sargent comes back from dealing with Crowther, the office is filling up. Hansen’s staring intently at his screen, clearly absorbed in something, Gislingham’s standing at Baxter’s desk, and Carter’s talking to Quinn, no doubt making sure he’s fully aware of that terrific insight of his about the hotels. Only Ev is missing. Sargent goes over to her desk and sits down, then immediately realizes something is wrong. Someone’s used her chair – the height’s been changed.

But who, who would even –?

She looks up, her eyes drawn – almost without thinking – to Carter.

He’s talking animatedly, his back to her.

* * *

Adam Fawley

25 October

17.17

Notwithstanding his run-ins with the fourth estate, Jeremy Ward is still in situ. And I’d be reluctant to move myself, if I lived where he does, even if I did have a press mob on my tail. A double-fronted Georgian house on The Hill is about as desirable as Burford gets. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Newly painted too, at a guess; the rich may get the cream but it’s a high-maintenance colour. There’s one of those Victorian iron things for scraping your shoes by the front door and topiary box in lead planters either side. Real lead, not that faux stuff. The security cameras are real too.

I didn’t phone to warn them I’d be coming, so the woman who opens the door greets me with the standard upper-middle ‘now who might you be’ look. She’s wearing black trousers and a blue-and-orange geometrical print shirt that looks like it’s hoping to be a kaftan when it grows up.

‘DI Adam Fawley, Thames Valley Police. Could I speak to Mr Ward?’

I suspect she’d like to pretend he isn’t at home, but I can actually hear him, somewhere close, talking on the phone. She asks to see my warrant card – not that I can blame her for that, in the circumstances – then gives a heavy sigh.

‘Is it that ghastly Camilla again? All that nonsense in the papers?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

She gives me a ‘here we go again’ look, then ushers me in and closes the door before calling to her husband, ‘Jerry – there’s a policeman here for you.’

The hall is black-and-white paved and yellow walled; a staircase bending away on the right with light streaming down from somewhere above; a line of white-painted doors on the left, from one of which her husband now appears.