Hope to Die

‘And as I said, I don’t have a good answer to that. That’s why I have to ask these questions. However irritating they might be.’

There’s a pause.

‘Where was he, that night, Mr Ward? When he wasn’t at your mother’s and you stood in for him? You never said.’

‘I never said because I don’t know.’

‘You didn’t ask?’

‘He just told me someone needed his help – that it was important and he couldn’t get out of it.’ He sighs again. ‘And yes, it has occurred to me that that’s a pretty good description of what you think he was up to with Camilla.’

‘I didn’t say I thought that; just that it was possible.’

Another pause.

‘Was he having an affair?’

‘Not that I knew.’

‘Did he have other relationships? Either before that or afterwards?’

‘If he did, he kept it to himself. He certainly never told me. Look, Sheila could be a difficult woman to live with but I never saw any suggestion that he had anyone else.’

‘So you have no idea who this “someone” was he needed to help?’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, your guess is as good as mine.’

* * *

‘If he doesn’t stop fucking smirking soon,’ mutters Quinn, ‘I swear I’m going to nut him.’

Gislingham glances across at Carter, then grins at Quinn. ‘Well, I guess you can’t blame him. It was pretty impressive.’ Quinn’s still frowning and Gislingham just can’t resist. ‘Bit of a surprise, though – him coming up with that. I mean, it’s not the sort of thing I’d expect him to know about – shoes and that. Fashion. More your area, I’d say.’

Quinn flashes him a look. ‘I’d never spend that much on a pair of sodding trainers.’

‘What’s this about trainers?’ says Chloe Sargent, dumping her bag on her desk. She’s just back from lunch and there are splatters of rain on her jacket. ‘Have I missed something?’

Baxter looks up. ‘Carter just bagged a humungous wodge of brownie points by working out that the vic’s shoes must have been bought in America.’

Her face falls. She glances towards Carter. ‘Really?’

‘Quite the little detective,’ says Quinn, raising his voice. ‘Aren’t you, Carter?’

Carter looks up and flushes. ‘Not really –’

‘Oh, come on,’ begins Quinn, but there’s a sharp edge to his sarcasm that Gis knows only too well. People are looking up, trying to work out what’s going on. Time to dial it down.

‘Ignore him, Carter,’ says Gis, deliberately jovial, ‘we’re all just jealous – me included. Credit where credit’s due, but –’ turning to the rest of the team now – ‘we’ve got a long way to go yet.’

It’s another five minutes before Carter pushes back his chair and goes out towards the coffee machine, by which time everyone’s returned to what they were doing. Apart from Ev, who’s just got back from lunch herself. Which is why she’s the only one who notices Chloe Sargent get up and follow Carter out.

* * *

Adam Fawley

26 October

14.15

I have to drive into London for the BBC interview so I go via Risinghurst and get a change of clothes. I wouldn’t have bothered because I don’t particularly care how I look, but Alex does. She would anyway, but as she’s already reminded me, this is about more than just making sure I don’t have baby sick down my sleeve.

‘You need to look like you’re at ease with yourself,’ she says as I stand staring at my tie rack. ‘In control.’ And an obvious choice for Thames Valley’s next new Chief Inspector. Which, of course, we’re both studiously avoiding mentioning.

‘I don’t feel like I’m in control. I’m not even in control of my bloody tie.’

She smiles. ‘All the more reason to look like you are.’ She pulls one out and threads it round my collar. It’s not the tie I’d have chosen – I’d have gone quieter, more conventional – but that’s why she’s better at these things than I am.

‘What would I do without you?’

She laughs. ‘Forget to pay the bills? Run out of clean socks?’

‘You know what I mean.’

I pull her into my arms, and her hands slip under my jacket and round my waist.

I put my lips to her hair. ‘I should come home at lunchtime more often.’

‘Harrison would notice,’ she whispers. ‘You’d never make it back in the afternoons.’

A laugh now, but not mine, and not hers. I swing round to see Lily staring at us from her cot, her little fists gripped on the bars, her face lit up in a smile.

Alex drops her hands. ‘Oh. My. God. Adam – she’s pulled herself up.’ She stares at me. ‘She’s never done that before – she’s only three months old and she’s pulled herself up.’

She rushes over to the crib and lifts Lily out, and now Lily’s laughing and Alex’s laughing and kissing her, and telling her how clever she is, and all I can think is, who gives a stuff about Camilla Rowan, or the bloody BBC, or the promotion, or any of it, because I’m the luckiest bastard in the whole wide world.

* * *

‘No, if he was brought up in the US it would make no difference to the familial search results. If the biological father was born in the US – or somewhere else overseas – then yes, that would definitely give us a significantly different gene pool, but that’s not what you’re talking about, is it?’