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
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.’