Hope to Die

BUT EITHER WAY, CAN YOU JUST WRITE ME AND LET ME KNOW? I’VE PUT A PO BOX ON THIS – I DON’T WANT A LETTER COMING FROM ENGLAND AND MY MOM SEEING IT. SHE DOESN’T KNOW I’M DOING THIS AND I DON’T WANT TO HURT HER – NOT IF THIS IS ALL JUST A FALSE TRAIL.

THEY’VE BEEN GOOD TO ME, MY PARENTS, BY THE WAY. IN CASE YOU WONDERED.

IN CASE YOU CARE.

NOAH

* * *

AF: Talk me through the days before Noah left for Europe.

RS: He was doing a Renaissance arts program this fall and he talked me into letting him go to Florence.

AF: You had no idea he intended to come to the UK?

RS: None at all. I thought he was still in Italy.

AF: Do you think he’d already been in contact with Camilla Rowan by then?

RS: If he had, he hid it from me. I didn’t know.

CG: He’d obviously found out who his mother was.

RS: Like I said, I didn’t know that. I didn’t know about any of it. Look, I’ve answered all your questions – I want to see him –

AF: I’m sorry, Mrs Seidler, that’s not possible.

RS: He’s my son – I have a right to see him –

AF: I know how painful this must be –

RS: Doesn’t someone have to identify him? How can you even be sure it’s him? It could all just be a terrible mistake –

AF: We’ve done a DNA comparison with Camilla Rowan, and we’ve also identified him on CCTV footage at Stansted. There’s no mistake.

[hands across photo from Border Control]

This is your son, isn’t it?

RS: [begins to weep]

* * *

Adam Fawley

27 October

22.15

Bryan Gow has been in the adjacent room all this time, watching on the video screen. I suspect he’s had more enjoyable Saturday nights; I know I have. When I open the door he looks up and makes a face.

‘Grim.’

I nod. ‘She looks shattered.’

‘Small wonder. Keeping a secret like that all these years – it’s like living over an unexploded bomb, never knowing when it might go off.’

I take a step closer. ‘You think she was telling the truth?’

‘When she said she didn’t know where the baby came from? Yes, I do. I suspect that’s the defence mechanism she’s been clinging to all these years: “I didn’t know – it wasn’t my fault.” The human mind is extraordinarily good at self-exoneration.’

‘I wonder how the husband coped.’

Gow shrugs. ‘Perhaps he didn’t. Didn’t you say he died of cancer? There’s some truth in those old wives’ tales about the dangers of suppressed emotions. Perhaps the guilt got to him in the end.’

‘Yet the wife seems to have believed him when he said they were “rescuing” the child.’

Gow raises an eyebrow. ‘Well, what else could he say? What would you say? “Hi honey, I just snatched this child from a loving home”?’

‘Fair enough.’

He gets up and reaches for his notepad.

‘Oh, by the way, I had a look at those other tapes you sent me.’

‘The Swanns?’

‘Right. And I agree with you – I don’t think either of them knew Noah was coming that night. They definitely weren’t expecting him.’

‘And afterwards? Do you think they realized who he was?’

‘Ah, now that’s more interesting. If you ask me – and you are, of course – the old boy was still in the dark. I don’t think he had a clue. As for her – well, there, I’m not so sure. She’s very hard to read.’

‘Like mother, like daughter.’

He raises an ironic eyebrow. ‘Quite. I read Camilla Rowan’s pre-trial report. Now there’s someone I’d pay good money for a closer look at.’

I smile. ‘Funny you should mention that, Bryan. I think I’m about to make your day.’

* * *

‘What’s that?’

Baxter looks up. It’s Chloe Sargent, staring at his screen. He’s getting to like her – she takes an interest and she listens properly: he hasn’t had to repeat himself once, which is some sort of record.

‘Noah Seidler’s social media,’ he says.

She squints slightly. He’s spotted her doing it before. He suspects she needs reading glasses but isn’t fond of the look.

‘Lots of pictures of Florence,’ she says.

‘Yup. Even after we know he’d left Italy for the UK. Though he’s taken the location tagging off those. And I suspect he didn’t take a lot of these later ones himself. Looks suspiciously like a Flickr job to me.’

She glances at him. ‘So, what – they were just a smokescreen?’

Baxter gives her a heavy look. ‘Probably didn’t want anyone knowing where he was. Least of all his mum.’

She nods; makes sense. Baxter reaches for his keyboard and scrolls to the end of the feed. A shot of a plate of spaghetti and a beer; in the background, tourists throng a sunlit square.

Sargent sighs. ‘Look at all the comments. A lot of people liked him.’

‘It’s not just that, though, is it,’ says Baxter. He points at the screen. ‘Look at the time. Two hours after this was posted he was dead.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

28 October

11.15