* * *
Adam Fawley
30 October
14.25
‘I spoke to the fleet manager’s secretary and she’s emailing me the list,’ says Ev, putting down her phone. ‘She said she’d do it straight away, but I can’t promise – I couldn’t afford to sound too keen.’
There must be a dozen of us round her machine now, watching for a bloody email like it’s a new Pope. The machine pings, but the way my luck’s going it’ll be HR banging on about changes to pension entitlements. But no – that secretary is as good as her word.
It’s one of those Gantt charts that give me a headache just looking at them. But Ev’s good at this sort of thing – she leans forward, scanning down the tiny type. ‘Looks to me like there’s three possibilities. There’s an A. Cameron on a boat that left Immingham at five this morning going to Brevik – don’t know where that is –’
She looks round quickly but no one else does either.
She turns to the screen again. ‘Well, wherever it is, it takes thirty-six hours –’
‘Scandi somewhere,’ says Baxter. ‘Taking that bloody long.’
‘Then there’s a J. Ford going out of Tilbury at ten this morning, due in at Zeebrugge at six tonight our time. And finally –’
She takes an in-breath. ‘B. Hudson on the Newhaven to Caen this morning, which left at eight fifteen.’
‘When does it get in?’
She glances at her watch. ‘Ten minutes ago.’
* * *
The truck’s picking up speed now, changing gear. Rock is singing along to the radio, tapping the steering wheel, slightly out of time. But who cares.
They’re moving.
She hears the clang clang clang as they go down the ramp, and then the dull rumble of concrete under the wheels.
Dry land.
Freedom –
* * *
Adam Fawley
30 October
14.35
‘Si, c’est très très urgent. Oui, oui, je tiendrai – merci –’
Sargent puts her hand over the receiver and looks up at me.
‘The boat’s just unloading now, sir – like the sarge said, the weather was bad on the Channel last night so it was twenty minutes late getting in. They’re checking to see if Hudson’s load has already left.’
My blood pressure can’t stand much more of this. I turn to Gis. ‘What do we know about this woman Hudson?’
‘She did time at HMP Foston Hall for knifing someone she said tried to rape her. Judge must have believed her, though, because she only got five years even though the bloke nearly died.’ He gives a dry smile. ‘Apparently she was known as Rock. Mainly because of the surname, but I gather she’s not exactly a gazelle, either.’
‘If it was Foston Hall I assume there’s no direct connection to either Rowan or Sullivan?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, the only link’s through Ronnie Harmsworth.’
‘What about the other two drivers?’
Baxter looks up. ‘Still checking, sir.’
* * *
Something’s wrong – they’re slowing down –
Stop bloody catastrophizing – it’ll be traffic lights or a roundabout or some completely bloody ordinary thing –
But then the radio goes off and they’re shuddering to a complete halt.
The hiss of brakes, then a voice outside – barking something –
She can’t hear – she can’t hear – there’s too much noise –
But now the engine’s thudded to silence and Rock’s yelling, ‘OK, OK, it’s off, all right?’
And the doors are opening and they’re telling Rock to get out and she can hear noises at the back of the truck and the rear doors banging open and her heart is beating so hard her chest hurts –
And the voices are closer now and louder and the duvet is pulling away and there are rough hands gripping her by the arms and dragging her up and she knows – she knows –
It’s over.
* * *
BBC News
30 October 2018 Last updated at 16:34
BREAKING: Camilla Rowan ‘could stand trial again’
The BBC has learned that an arrest warrant for Camilla Rowan has been issued by Thames Valley Police. Rowan, who served fifteen years for the supposed murder of her newborn son, was released from HMP Heathside early yesterday morning, but apparently did not report to her probation officer as required by the terms of her licence. Her current whereabouts are not known. Thames Valley Police have not confirmed the exact nature of the new allegations, but it is understood that new evidence has come to light which would potentially justify a new trial.
More news on this as we hear it.
* * *
* * *
‘Home sweet home,’ says the prison officer, thudding the cell door open with a smile. A smile that could curdle milk.
They took her to Oxford to start with, after another stomach-emptying ferry and three hours in the back of a security van. The cell there wasn’t too bad. Only it came at a price. As in endless interviews with that smug bastard Fawley and the other one who clearly thinks he’s God’s gift. And the two of them laid it all out about Renee Seidler and that bloody social worker poking her nose in and she just kept on saying ‘No Comment’ and all the while she could sense that stuck-up lawyer of hers sitting on the next chair, rigid with disapproval, just going through the motions, desperate to drop her like a hot turd.
The prison officer jerks her head towards the cell door. ‘Come on, look sharp.’
Not Sullivan, of course. They told her – and clearly enjoyed doing it – that she’s been suspended. Will probably lose her job. Either way, she won’t be coming back. Rowan’s never met these arse-faced cows on the Segregation wing but they don’t look like a very good prospect.
She goes into the cell and stands there, staring. The bedding’s on the floor, lying in a pool of something that definitely isn’t water, and across the far wall, smeared in stink, two words.
BABY KILLER
* * *
Adam Fawley
12 November
14.00
There are only two of us at the service. Aside from the minister. A hired-by-the-hour suit who clearly knows nothing about Noah and will do three more of these things before the day is out.
Renee is sitting in the second row. She’s wearing the same wrap she wore on the plane. Probably because it’s the warmest thing she has. It’s icy in here.
When I told Alex where I was going she was surprised Renee wanted to have the cremation here, until I pointed out how expensive it is to ship a body internationally. An urn is a lot more portable, but it makes for a grim and lonely funeral that’s barely a notch up from industrial. No music and no reading, just a single white rose on a plain wooden box. When the curtains close finally across the coffin I get to my feet, but Renee remains absolutely still, staring somewhere I can’t see.
Outside, the wind is getting up, but the sky is clear. High white clouds gusting across the bleached blue. I fish out my keys and walk down towards the car. It’s only then that I realize there’s someone here. Someone else as well as me.
On the far side, beyond the banks of flowers from an earlier service, a tall figure in a long dark coat, keeping his distance.
But he’s not a stranger.
He’s family.
Richard Swann.
* * *
Broadcast Industry News ONLINE
15 November 2018
Netflix commissions second series of Infamous: The Chameleon Girl
New episodes will explore the shocking revelations that led to Camilla Rowan’s re-arrest