Hope to Die

He must be at least a decade younger than his dead brother. Or perhaps he’s just had an easier life. Tank top, plaid shirt, cords. Glasses perched on the top of his head, which immediately gets my goat.

‘What can I do for you, officer?’

‘I take it you’ve seen today’s news?’

‘Hard to avoid it.’

‘We believe Camilla Rowan’s missing child may have been found, and we’d like to eliminate your brother as the father. All I need from you is a simple mouth swab, for DNA. We can do it right now – it won’t take more than a couple of minutes.’

And then I can stop cluttering up your hallway like a hairy-arsed artisan. Though I don’t say that.

I’m expecting him to agree at once – he has as much to gain as Sheila if they can put all this behind them – but he looks troubled. Unaccountably troubled.

‘As I said, it’s purely for elimination purposes – the DNA won’t be stored or used for anything else –’

‘It’s not that,’ he says quickly. Then pauses, heaves a breath. ‘Look, I think you’d better come through to my study. Fiona – perhaps you could get us some tea?’

From the look on her face, he’s going to pay for that later, but what’s intriguing me far more is the fact that she clearly has no more idea than I do why he’s reacting the way he is.

She turns, distinctly crisply, and I follow Ward back down the hall to where he came from. The study is floor to ceiling with leatherbound books that anywhere else I’d assume were fake, but I wouldn’t risk betting on that here. He gestures towards a chair, one of those pompous buttoned things with a hood over the top. Porter’s chairs, I think they call them. I’ve never been less tempted to sit down.

His chair, on the other hand, looks rather comfortable. Unlike him.

‘Is there a problem, sir? With the DNA test?’

He shakes his head slowly. ‘With the test? No. I have no problem with the police taking my DNA.’ He sighs. ‘The issue is rather with what you’ll find.’

I frown. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

He nods. ‘That my brother could have been the father? Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.’ He shakes his head a little and looks away. ‘I’ve been dreading a day like this for years. Someone like you turning up and saying they’ve found the body.’

I sit forward; to be honest, I’m worried that if I lean too far back in this contraption I may never get up again.

‘What makes you so sure it was your brother? Was it something he said?’

‘That’s the point,’ he says quickly. ‘I’m not sure. If I had been, my conscience would have compelled me to say something long ago.’

But instead of that his so-called ‘conscience’ managed to find a loophole just about big enough for him to protect his brother and safeguard his own comfortable life into the bargain. Like I always say when they get me to talk to new recruits: when it comes to this job, abandon faith in human nature all ye who enter here.

Ward’s cheeks are slightly flushed now, as if he knows what I’m thinking. ‘I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t paint me in a very good light, but –’

‘So if you’re not “sure”, I’m assuming he never actually spoke to you about it?’

He shakes his head again. ‘No.’

‘So where did it come from?’

He looks genuinely distressed now. ‘It was something I saw.’ He stops, clears his throat. ‘It was 1994, I think, maybe ’95. Nigel and Sheila had a party in their garden for her birthday. Nigel’s golf mates, the Rotary Club, the whole shebang.’

‘The Rowans?’

He nods. ‘Camilla was about fourteen. Peggy always had her dressed very prim whenever she was on show but it wasn’t fooling me. Or any of the women there.’ He makes a face. ‘Including my wife. She referred to her later as a “first-class prick-tease”. Anyway, Nigel was doing the barbecue most of the afternoon, but by about four Fiona had got bored making small talk with Tory wives and wanted to leave, so I went looking for him to say goodbye.’

‘And where was he?’

‘Upstairs. With Camilla.’

‘In one of the bedrooms?’

He nods. ‘The door was ajar. They were sitting on the bed and he had his arm round her. She seemed to be upset.’

He stops again. I wait.

‘I heard him saying something about “sorting it out”. That she “wasn’t to worry”.’

‘I see. And what did you think he meant?’

‘At the time? I wasn’t sure. I mean, it could have been anything, some problem at school, a row with her mother. Some teenage angst or other. Though I was surprised she’d gone to him with it – I didn’t think they knew each other that well.’

‘Did they see you?’

He hesitates, then shakes his head. ‘No. And I didn’t mention it. Either to him or to Fiona – it would just have been a red rag to a bull where she was concerned. But later, when it all came out about the baby – when Camilla was arrested – I started to wonder whether she might have been pregnant then too. Whether that’s what he’d meant about “sorting it out”.’

‘And she went to him because he was the father.’

He nods. Looks away.

‘Why didn’t you say anything to the police?’

He’s not meeting my eye.