She turns back to her screen. ‘Oh, not much. I spent some time with DC Baxter earlier looking at the birth records South Mercia put together back in 2002.’
Carter grimaces. ‘I bet that was fun. Not exactly the life and soul, is he.’
‘He’s OK,’ she says, perhaps a little too firmly. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’
Carter shrugs. ‘If you say so.’
He watches her for a moment then wanders over. ‘What are you on now?’
She looks up and flushes, quickly changing her screen. ‘Nothing, just arranging that interview with the doctor who delivered the first baby, Adrian Morrison.’
‘He’s not likely to know much about the second kid, though, is he?’
She flashes him an irritated look. ‘It still has to be done. Who knows, he might have remembered something since then that could be relevant.’
Carter gives her a ‘Yeah, right’ look. ‘I’m calling Penny Curtis this afternoon. The midwife who helped blow the lid on the whole thing.’
This time, she doesn’t look up. ‘Good for you, Carter.’
‘I might ask DS Gislingham if I can sit in on the Steve McIlvanney one too. Bet that’ll be interesting –’
He stops; there’s a phone ringing. Sargent reaches quickly to answer it; anything to shut Carter up.
‘Hello, CID?’ A pause. ‘OK, I’ll come down straight away.’
She gets to her feet. ‘What is it?’ says Carter.
‘Someone in reception. One of Rowan’s old boyfriends we want to eliminate as the baby’s father.’
Carter rolls his eyes. ‘Whoop whoop.’
She gives him a heavy look, then turns, rather pointedly, and heads out towards the stairs.
Carter watches her go, his face thoughtful.
* * *
Adam Fawley
25 October
14.10
‘Ah, there you are, Adam.’
The other person in the office is Elaine Challoner from the press office, and judging by her empty coffee cup, she’s been here quite a while.
‘So,’ says Harrison, as I take my seat. ‘Media. And dealing therewith.’
‘I read the draft holding statement on the way back, sir. I think it pretty much covered the key points –’
‘Yes, well,’ he says quickly, ‘we’ve been doing some brainstorming in your absence. Seeing if we can’t think outside the box a bit on this one.’
Shit. This doesn’t bode well.
‘As in?’
‘As in getting on the front foot. Being proactive.’ He shifts a little in his seat. ‘Elaine has suggested – and I agree with her – that on this occasion there would be value in us agreeing to an interview.’
‘An interview?’ I stare at him and then at Elaine. ‘Do you really think that’s a good idea?’
‘This story isn’t going away any time soon,’ she says. ‘One of the Sundays is planning a major feature, rehashing the whole case. And it won’t be very long before someone works out who the Swanns really are – all they need is a quick look at Companies House –’
‘I know,’ I say, ‘I have an officer on the way to warn them they could be in for a tough few days with the press.’
‘Exactly,’ she says, drilling in the point. ‘And so could we. So whatever we can do to pre-empt it –’
‘All the same –’
But Harrison isn’t listening. ‘I agree with Elaine. An interview would also allow us to put the whole story in context. Fend off any suggestion that the original inquiry was in any way slipshod or deficient.’
‘With respect, sir, we don’t know that. Not until we find out what happened to the child. If South Mercia want to defend their own investigation, that’s one thing – but you don’t want to be seen doing that, not at this stage –’
‘I’ve spoken to the Chief Constable,’ he says heavily, ‘and we’re agreed. While we wouldn’t normally comment on an active case, this is an exception. After all, the circumstances are fairly unique.’
I can see Alex rolling her eyes, saying, ‘How many more times – something’s either unique or it isn’t – you can’t shove on a bloody qualifier.’
But, on the other hand, I know what the Super’s like when he’s in this mood and if he’s going to force this through regardless, far better to make a virtue of necessity than an obstreperous arse of myself.
‘Actually, sir, we’ve just received some new information that may be relevant here.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘We’ve spoken to the postman who covers Wytham and apparently the Swanns had a handwritten letter about a month ago. A letter with a foreign postmark. Unfortunately, we don’t know which country it came from. But if we do an interview –’
‘Exactly,’ says Harrison quickly, his face lighting up. ‘We can show the still from Oxford station – increase the chance of someone recognizing him.’
If you ask me, the press are doing a pretty good job on that already without needing any help from us. But he’s not asking me. And like I said, if you can’t beat ’em …
‘Yes, sir. Absolutely.’
Elaine sits forward. ‘I’m proposing we give one journalist exclusive access – someone who we know will do a balanced and objective job.’
‘Who do you have in mind?’
She hesitates. ‘John Penrose.’
I stare at her. ‘The Netflix bloke?’
She nods. ‘He’s already been in touch, asking for comment. No surprises there, of course. He’s working for the BBC now –’
‘But he’s the one who got the case reopened – he’s just going to bang on about how he was right all along –’
‘I agree he has an axe to grind, but no one knows the case better than he does. He’s also an old-school pro who’ll feel duty-bound to give both sides. And, of course, giving it to him will guarantee maximum impact. Especially internationally. And given what you just said –’ She’s watching my face, trying to read my thoughts. ‘So you’ll do it?’
‘Me?’ I stare at her, then turn to Harrison. ‘I thought it was you we were talking about, sir.’
‘No, no, Adam,’ he says briskly. ‘You’re running this investigation. You’re the person the public will want to see.’
* * *
The man reading a copy of The Times in reception is well-dressed, dark hair greying at the temples, white shirt, royal-blue suit. He has the physique of someone who used to take his sport quite seriously but no longer has the time: he’s thickened round his gut and the waistband of his trousers is showing the strain.
‘Mr Crowther?’ says Chloe Sargent, walking up to him. ‘I believe you’re here for a DNA swab?’
The man looks up from his paper, does a quick double-take and then smiles. ‘Yes, that’s right. I spoke to a DC Hansen?’
She nods. ‘He’s a colleague of mine. We work as a team.’
‘I had to drop off something in Kidlington so I thought I may as well come straight here, DC –?’
‘Sargent.’
He flushes. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. God, how embarrassing –’
‘No, no,’ she says, ‘it happens all the time. Sargent – it’s my name. And you were right first time: I am a DC.’
He looks ridiculously relieved. ‘Phew, thank God for that. So what’s the drill – what do you need me to do?’
‘If you can follow me, we’ll go into an interview room and I’ll take a swab from the inside of your cheek. It’ll only take a minute.’
‘Just like on the telly, eh?’ He smiles.
‘Right,’ she says, returning the smile almost despite herself. ‘Just like on the telly.’
* * *
Ev breathes a sigh of relief as she pulls up outside Gantry Manor. She’s in time: no sign of the press yet. No sign of anyone at all, unless you count the fox crossing the lane in front of the car who stops and gives her a long stare before evidently deciding she’s of no particular interest and continuing on his way. Ev drags her jacket from the passenger seat and gets out of the car. The cloud is too low to see the top of Wytham Hill – no star-gazing tonight, that’s for sure. She locks the car and starts up the drive, feeling the first drops of rain in the cold air.