‘Well, I wouldn’t,’ she says, shaking her head, ‘not if I was in her shoes. No way.’
‘Yeah, but not everyone’s as crabby as you, Kimball.’
She grins and he reaches to pull the bell. They hear it ringing somewhere back in the house, but there’s no answering noise, no sound of footsteps. Gonzalez rings again, then steps back to stare up at the house. No curtains twitching across, no faces at the window.
‘Looks like no one’s home.’
Kimball takes a few steps down towards the street and glances up and down. ‘Shall we try the neighbours?’
Gonzalez shrugs. ‘I guess so.’
Next door is divided into apartments. There’s no response to the ground-floor bell, but down the steps the door’s answered by a woman in dungarees with a bright print scarf tied round her hair and a paintbrush in one hand.
Gonzalez shows her his badge. ‘Gonzalez and Kimball, NYPD. We’re looking for Mrs Seidler?’
‘Renee? Oh, I’m afraid you missed her – she left this morning.’
‘Do you know where she went?’
The woman pushes her hair out of her eyes, leaving a smudge of green paint. ‘JFK. She took a cab.’
Kimball is making notes. ‘Did she say where she was going?’
‘Europe, I think. It was all a bit rushed –’
‘So it wasn’t a planned trip, then?’
‘Oh no, definitely not. She just knocked on my door at seven and said she had to go away and would I feed the cat for a couple of days. I usually do it – not that she goes away that often –’
‘How did she seem to you?’
The woman blinks once or twice. ‘Now you mention it, she did seem rattled – I mean, it was stupid o’clock and I was half asleep but yeah, she was a bit antsy –’
‘Upset? Mad? Worried?’
‘Worried,’ she says. ‘She said something about Noah and it was all a mistake but she had to sort it out. Noah’s her son.’
Kimball’s scribbling. ‘Did she say anything else?’
‘No, not really. Just some stuff about the cat food. Like I said, it was all a bit rushed.’
Kimball smiles at her. ‘You’ve been a great help, Ms –?’
‘Truchan. El Truchan.’
Kimball hands her a card. ‘If Mrs Seidler gets in touch, let us know, OK?’
‘I can ask her to call you?’
‘No,’ says Kimball quickly. ‘We’d rather you just reached out to us. We’ll take it from there.’
Truchan is staring at the card, her face troubled. ‘Sure. She is OK, though? Renee?’
Gonzalez gives her a quick smile. ‘She’s fine. Don’t you worry about it. We just need to talk to her.’
* * *
‘So we checked with JFK and she left on Delta 4371, due to land in London at 20.05 your time.’
Gislingham notes down the flight number and checks his watch. Six fifty; plenty of time to arrange a welcoming committee.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘You’re lucky,’ says Gonzalez, who sounds to Gis like he’s straight off the set of Law & Order. ‘She could have been fleeing the jurisdiction. But instead she’s walking straight back into your arms.’
‘Saves me the mother of all admin headaches, anyway.’
‘You and me both,’ says Gonzalez with a dry smoker’s laugh. ‘You and me both.’
* * *
‘Mrs Seidler? Could you come this way, please?’
She’s a petite woman, with small wire-framed glasses and auburn hair with a tinge of purple that betrays the dye. Her thick fringed wrap looks almost too heavy for her, and the dark circles under her eyes won’t just be down to the long flight. The crowd coming off the plane parts and sweeps past them like river water round a rock. A few curious stares, one little boy who starts pointing and is dragged away by his father. But most people have other things on their minds after eight hours in a thin tin box – they just want to get through as fast as they can and go.
‘Who are you?’
‘Detective Sergeant Chris Gislingham and Detective Constable Thomas Hansen. We’re from Thames Valley Police.’
A flash of irritation, but it’s gone almost as quickly, to be replaced by resignation. She must have known there was a high chance of this.
‘Is it him? Are you sure it’s him?’
‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Seidler.’
‘Can I see him? I need to see him.’
Gis takes a deep breath. ‘Let’s talk about that once we’re back at the station.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
27 October
21.50
The first time I see Renee Seidler is on a video screen. In Interview One. She’s sitting calmly, an untouched cup of – admittedly ghastly – office-machine coffee on the table in front of her. She gives a strange impression of being shrunken, of having once been larger. And perhaps that’s true; she’s spent most of the last two years watching her husband die.
‘Did you offer her a lawyer?’
Gis nods. ‘Yup. And someone from US consular services to sit in, but she turned us down.’
So she’s either conscience-clear or spectacularly stupid. She doesn’t strike me as stupid.
‘OK. Let’s see what she has to say for herself.’
* * *
Interview with Renee Seidler, conducted at St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford
27 October 2018, 9.55 p.m.
In attendance, DI A. Fawley, DS C. Gislingham
CG: For the purposes of the recording, Mrs Seidler, we are interviewing you in connection with the disappearance of a baby in December 1997. We now know that you and your husband subsequently raised this child as your own son. You have been arrested, pending clarification of the circumstances that led to these events, and your involvement in them. You have been informed of your rights, and as you are aware, you can ask for legal representation at any time. Is there anything you need us to clarify at this stage?
RS: No. Thank you.
CG: So perhaps you could take us back to the beginning. To September 1997.
RS: [pause]
You don’t know what you’re asking, Detective.
AF: [quietly]
We do know what you went through at that time, and I’m sorry we have to ask. I know what it’s like to lose a child.
RS: [pause]
We’d almost given up – I’d had three miscarriages, I was almost 40. We’d even started talking to people about adopting. David had heard of a program to bring children to the US from Peru – orphans with no hope of a decent life. But then I got pregnant. Just after we arrived in England. I thought to start with it was just the disruption of moving, but when the doctor confirmed it we were beside ourselves. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier – not even when David and I first met.
AF: But the baby was premature.
RS: Thirty-two weeks.
[becoming tearful]
He was so tiny – all those machines – I couldn’t even hold him –
AF: I’m sorry.
RS: [wiping her eyes]
But then he started getting better and we thought – perhaps – just perhaps – it will be all right. And then they took him off the ventilator and he was breathing on his own, and we started telling people we thought it was going to be OK – that we’d be able to take him home –
[crying]
But then he had a relapse. Out of the blue – in the middle of the night. It was just so quick – we were still on our way to the hospital. I never forgave myself for that. Not being there – not being with him when he died.