Hope to Die

He must have been holding his breath because it all comes out in a rush.

‘Thanks, sir, it won’t take long, I promise –’

‘That’s OK, Carter, just show me what you’ve got.’

He puts the laptop down and flips it open. There are three images on the screen.

I frown. ‘That’s the clothes the dead man was wearing, isn’t it?’

He nods, slightly flushed again. ‘I think we missed something, sir.’

‘Oh yes – what exactly?’

He clicks to enlarge the picture of the canvas training shoes, and I bend to look. Purple plastic heels, purple laces, the rest cream and pale brown. Originally, anyway. The leather is smeared with dark dried blood, the canvas black with it.

‘These are Nike Air Max Futura 270s.’

The inference is lost on me. My trainers are at least ten years old and I wore the last pair until they fell apart. I don’t know, and care even less, what bloody make they are. ‘I don’t see –’

‘This particular colourway – it’s only just been launched. You can only get them in the US.’

I’m frowning again. ‘So, what are you getting at? He got them on Amazon? Had them shipped over?’

Carter swallows. ‘Or bought them there.’

Because that’s where he was living.

Occam’s razor, my old Inspector’s favourite – in fact only – rule of policing. He cited it so often people called it Osbourne’s razor. The simplest explanation is invariably right.

I look up at Carter. ‘Speak to DS Gislingham and tell him we need to get on to the airports – see if we can establish when he entered the country. And find some images of current US postage stamps and show them to that postie at Wytham – see if they ring a bell.’

He’s flushed with pleasure now. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll get on it right away. And I’ll tell DS Quinn too.’

He snaps the laptop shut.

‘Well done, Carter. Even after we found out about the Rowans getting that letter I didn’t think to look at the clothes, and more to the point, no one else did either. Except you. Good work. I’m impressed.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He has the grace – or the sense – to leave without saying anything more, but judging by the grin on his face as he closes the door he’s probably off to ring his mum.

* * *

Voicemail

DI Adam Fawley

Mobile

Transcription

Mrs Ward, it’s Adam Fawley. I’m sorry to miss you but I wanted to let you know as soon as possible that I was able to get a sample from Jeremy, and the lab have run the DNA test. If you can give me a call back as soon as you get this I can talk you through it. Many thanks.

* * *

Adam Fawley

26 October

09.48

‘Mr Ward? It’s Adam Fawley. We’ve had the results. Your brother wasn’t the father.’

I hear him exhale. ‘Thank God for that.’

‘Yes, I can imagine you’re relieved. Let’s hope you’ll be able to move on now.’

‘What do you mean, “hope” – the results are conclusive, aren’t they?’

‘Oh yes, there’s no question about the paternity. But just because he wasn’t the father, doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved in some other way.’

‘Like what?’

I can’t believe I need to spell it out, but if I have to, I will.

‘He could have helped her with the baby.’

I can almost hear him frowning. ‘In what way, exactly?’

‘He could have arranged an illegal adoption. For example.’

‘Nigel? You can’t be serious.’

There’s a pause. I can hear his wife talking to him at the other end. It’s not loud enough to hear what she’s saying, just a sense of tension, of urgency.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector,’ he says now, ‘but I don’t understand. Quite apart from the fact that I can’t see Nigel knowing the first thing about something like that, why would Camilla even need to have the baby adopted illegally when she’d already put a child through the normal channels?’

Well, that’s one way of putting it.

‘I don’t have an answer to that question, Mr Ward. All I do know is that a baby boy disappeared and ended up being brought up by someone else. I don’t know who, and I don’t know where, but somehow, it happened. I’m just trying to connect the dots.’

‘Fair enough,’ he says, after a moment. ‘But, like I said, I just can’t see Nigel being any use to her. He had no links to that sort of world, no “dodgy connections” – the very idea is insane –’

‘He was a solicitor, though.’

‘A high street solicitor, not attorney to the Mob.’

‘But he did do criminal work, didn’t he, as well as the usual property and divorce stuff?’

‘Well, yes, but –’

‘Then he must have had some clients with less than savoury backgrounds – petty thieves, tax evaders –’

He takes a deep breath. ‘I have no idea. Probably. On occasion. But this sort of thing – it would be on a completely different scale.’

‘I’ve been doing this job a long time, Mr Ward, and in my experience crime is no different from a lot else in life: it’s all about contacts. Someone who knows someone who knows someone.’

He sighs. ‘Well, yes, I can see that, I suppose. But like I said, why go to all that trouble when the state will do it for you at zero cost?’