Hope to Die

‘Yes,’ counters Ev, turning to him, ‘but most of all, hers. All those years inside – and for nothing?’

‘She claims,’ I say, ‘that she didn’t want the child taken from its adoptive parents.’

Baxter makes a face. ‘Even if you buy that – and she doesn’t strike me as that altruistic, in fact quite the bloody opposite – surely she could have said something once the kid got older? He was legally an adult at eighteen, that was over two years ago.’

‘I know. Yet again, it makes no sense. But what else can we do? Her story tallies with Renee Seidler’s, and she knew things about them that she couldn’t possibly have found out any other way, including what Renee looked like back then –’

‘And we’re absolutely sure, are we, that she hadn’t been in touch with Noah?’ says Quinn. ‘Because that makes a damn sight more sense to me –’

‘DC Carter checked. When we were at Heathside.’

Not an answer calculated to appease Quinn. He turns to Carter. ‘And what did they say – precisely?’

Carter starts a little. ‘Just what the boss said – that as far as they were aware, Rowan doesn’t get letters from people she knows, just sad losers with nothing better to do –’

‘Did they remember anything from the States?’

Carter shakes his head. ‘I did ask, but there’s no one person who handles the post so it’s hard to pin down. But she did say no one had mentioned anything.’

‘“She” being –?’

He glances at his notebook. ‘Prison Officer Andrea Sullivan.’ He looks up. ‘She was trying to help, but there wasn’t much more she could do – prison letters don’t have to have the sender’s address on the envelope and they don’t read all of them anyway.’

Quinn frowns. ‘What about outgoing mail?’

‘Same story,’ shrugs Carter. ‘Not as far as anyone could remember –’

‘Did you ask them to search Rowan’s cell?’

Carter blinks, glances at me. ‘Er –’

Time for me to intervene. ‘I’m not sure there’d have been much point, Sergeant. If Noah did write to Rowan, she’s hardly likely to have kept it – it’d be far too incriminating.’

Quinn’s frown deepens. ‘But –’

‘And as far as I’m concerned we’ve done as much as humanly possible to establish whether there was any such letter and come up with nothing. You can only go so far trying to prove a negative.’

Silence.

‘So what happens next?’ asks Baxter.

‘Rowan will be released. Apparently, she could be out of Heathside as early as the end of this week.’

Ev makes a face. ‘And straight from there to a TV station.’

But Baxter’s shaking his head. ‘Nah. Not yet. She’ll want to negotiate a big fat fee for that.’

Quinn glances across. ‘How do you know she hasn’t done that already? She has enough bloody lawyers.’

The exchange is getting tetchy and, more to the point, pointless: whatever Rowan chooses to do – whatever mud she chooses to throw – there’s sod all any of us can do about it.

‘Let’s just concentrate on our jobs, shall we? The next one being to try to close the case on Richard Swann. The CPS still have some questions before they can make a decision on charging, specifically what exactly he did or did not know. So we’re going to have another go at getting some answers, now he’s had time to consider his position. Uniform are picking him up this morning.’ I look round. ‘Anyone have anything else? No? In that case, can you wrap up the rest of the paperwork on this one ASAP, please. No point in hanging around.’

* * *

The problem with Wytham is that whichever route you take there’s always a risk of the Tractor Factor. A twenty-minute journey can easily take you twice that, and more in a downpour. Which goes most of the way to explaining Ian Barnetson’s less than sunny mood as they finally signal to turn into Ock Lane.

‘I actually feel quite sorry for him,’ says Puttergill, breaking the silence. The rain’s coming down so hard they can barely see, even with the wipers on full speed.

‘Who? Swann?’

‘Right. I mean, poor old sod – must be tough finding out you killed your own grandson by mistake. Even if you did think he was dead already.’

‘We don’t know it was a mistake,’ says Barnetson darkly.

Puttergill glances across at him. ‘That’s what they told you? CID?’

Barnetson turns to look out of the window. ‘Quinn gave me a pretty heavy hint. He reckons the wife definitely knew who he was. After, even if not before.’

Puttergill gives a low whistle. ‘Jesus.’

There’s a lorry coming towards them now and the lane isn’t wide enough for them both. Puttergill pulls over and comes to a halt.

‘But why would the old couple want him dead? Makes no sense.’

‘Nope,’ says Barnetson. ‘In that family – nothing ever does.’

The lorry up ahead isn’t moving and Barnetson starts cursing. ‘Stick the bloody siren on, can’t you? Get that bloody thing out of the way.’

Puttergill looks faintly alarmed. ‘I assumed we didn’t want Swann to know we were coming.’

Barnetson flashes him a look. ‘What’s he going to do? Make a quick getaway on his Zimmer frame?’

Puttergill suppresses a smile and reaches for the switch. ‘You’re the boss.’

* * *

BBC News

29 October 2018 Last updated at 10:09