Hope to Die

Gow can barely contain his excitement. The last time I saw anyone look that thrilled was when we got Jake a unicorn cake from the shop in the Covered Market for his ninth birthday. And perhaps the analogy isn’t actually that far off: Camilla Rowan must be the psychiatric equivalent of a horse with a horn. Gow drives himself because he’s going on to something in London afterwards, so DC Carter gets the short straw of working Sunday morning. Not that he seems to mind; he’s positively chipper. Like a dog getting an unexpected walk. With added mud. And yes, I know, Carter probably wouldn’t have been your first choice of bag-man – he wasn’t Gis’s either and Quinn made no secret of his scorn.

‘Why him? He’s just out for himself.’

I was tempted to ask if he was playing the role of pot or kettle on that one, but you don’t get anywhere with Quinn when he’s in that mood.

‘I’m taking Carter because he made a genuine breakthrough identifying those trainers and I want to give him some encouragement.’

Quinn gave me a dark look. ‘Just make sure he knows it’s you running the show.’

‘I have done this before, Quinn. And we have this useful thing called “rank” in the police force, just in case anyone’s ever in danger of forgetting who’s in charge.’

That last was actually meant for Quinn, but as usual with him, I suspect it didn’t land.

That said, and even though I wasn’t about to admit it to Quinn, I was more than a bit wary of spending so much time in the car with Carter, but he just seemed intent on impressing me with his driving skills, so there wasn’t much by way of conversation. And judging by the way he reacted when we got to Heathside, I’m pretty sure he’d never set foot inside a prison before. He was trying to look like an old hand, but managed to drop his car keys twice before we even got to security. Gow, on the other hand, was taking it like a regular. Which it turns out he is: one of the warders greeted him by his first name.

When they show us into a private meeting room – we’ve gone up in the world, evidently – Camilla’s lawyers are already in situ. A black woman and an Asian man. They introduce themselves (‘Madeleine Parrish’; ‘Dev Desai’) and I do the same. Gow is safely out of the way in an adjacent room. No point frightening the horses.

Parrish turns to me. ‘I’m not sure what you expect to achieve with this, Inspector. Ms Rowan is going to be released – all we’re waiting for is the paperwork.’

I’m about to reply when the door opens again and they bring in Camilla. She clearly has more perks, now she’s on the verge of freedom. Her hair looks washed and she has a can of Coke in one hand.

She makes a point of ignoring us, turning instead to Parrish. ‘Any news?’

The lawyer shakes her head. ‘It’ll be Monday now. But I’ll chase them again then.’ She glances at me and then back at Rowan. ‘Why don’t you sit down, Cam.’

Rowan does what she did before, dragging the chair backwards until it’s practically against the wall.

‘Perhaps you could begin, Inspector,’ says Desai, pen in hand, ‘by explaining exactly what you hope to achieve from this meeting?’

‘As Ms Rowan knows, we’ve been looking again at the events that preceded the disappearance of her baby. We’ve made significant progress, and I’d like to update her on that, and ask for her help in confirming certain facts.’

See, I can do police-lingo bullshit with the best of them, when I put my mind to it.

Parrish looks towards her client, but there’s no response. No words, no change of expression.

‘So I’m going to offer you a deal, Ms Rowan.’

A ripple at that. No more than a blink, but enough.

I sit forward. ‘I’ll tell you what I know, if you tell me what you know.’

A silence. A longer silence. But two can play at that game, and I’m an old hand.

She lifts her chin. ‘OK, I’ll bite. What exactly do you know?’

I make her wait. And she’s better at it than her lawyers, who look respectively unsettled and sardonic.

‘I know a number of things. I know, for example, that you did not, after all, hand the baby to its father as you’ve always insisted.’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘I see. So you’ve spoken to him, have you?’

‘We have.’

That stumbles her, though again, the flicker across her face is gone as quickly as it came.

‘Turns out his name’s Tin Boekker, not Tim Baker. He’s South African. But, of course, you knew that, didn’t you.’

She looks away.

‘You don’t want to hear what he said?’

She throws me a glance but says nothing.

Parrish clears her throat. ‘Well, I for one would like very much to know what he had to say.’

I turn to her. ‘Mr Boekker freely admits having had a – very brief – sexual relationship with your client but denies knowing she was pregnant. He can also prove that he wasn’t even in the country when the child was born.’

Parrish and Rowan exchange a glance. Rowan gives a minute shrug. So what?