Netflix have announced that there will be a second series of the global hit Infamous: The Chameleon Girl. Journalist John Penrose, who wrote and presented the original show, has been recommissioned to front and produce the six-part follow-up. The new episodes will re-examine the original ‘Milly Liar’ investigation in the light of recent revelations, and provide ‘fascinating insights into how Thames Valley Police finally solved the 20-year-old case’. It is understood the series will also explore the circumstances that led to the tragic death of Rowan’s son last month, including the discovery of his true identity, as well as a dramatic reconstruction of what really happened to him after he was last seen leaving hospital with Rowan, when he was only a few hours old.
Mac McQueen, Netflix’s Head of Factual, said, ‘There is overwhelming interest in this case from across the world, and we are delighted John has agreed to return to it. His 2016 investigation played a crucial role in finally getting to the bottom of what really happened to Camilla Rowan’s baby, and I can promise viewers an extraordinary and compelling show.’
Thames Valley Police told Broadcast Industry News they do not comment on media activity of this kind, and would not confirm whether serving officers would be taking part in filming.
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Adam Fawley
18 November
14.20
‘My round?’ says Gis.
‘No, it’s my turn. I’ll just wait till the queue dies down a bit.’
Sunday lunch at the Vicky Arms. We’re at a table by the window; there’s a fire in the hearth and a smell of woodsmoke, and two pints, nearly finished, in front of us. Outside, it’s bright but cold, and down by the river, Janet and Alex are braving the wind with the children to feed the ducks. Janet took a lot of persuading, and I don’t blame her – she wasn’t really dressed for it – but Alex has been on my case to talk to Gis about the christening and gave me a look that said OK now’s your chance as they got up to leave.
I’m fiddling with my glass, the way blokes do when they’re about to Have A Conversation. Though Gis, being another bloke, doesn’t seem to have noticed.
‘Won’t be as cold as this where you’re going, eh, boss? Where was it again?’
‘Caribbean. Leaving December 20th.’
Two weeks in the Grenadines. After the year we’ve had, I want Alex to have a proper holiday. Something special for our first Christmas as a family.
‘Look, Gis, there’s something I’ve been meaning to mention.’
He smiles. ‘Don’t worry, boss, I already know.’
‘You already know?’
The smile looks a little sad now. ‘A little bird told me. You’re going for Chief Inspector, right?’
Well, I definitely didn’t see that coming.
‘Look,’ he says quickly, ‘it’s OK, really. I’d do the same if I was you. We’ll just be sorry to lose you. All of us.’
I swallow. ‘Well, it might not mean a transfer – not necessarily –’
He picks up his glass. ‘It usually does, though, doesn’t it. Deputy Area Commander, something like that.’
Now there’s a thought. ‘Look, it’s months off. If it happens at all. And I might not get it.’
He grins and finishes his beer. ‘With a spanking new personal commendation from the Chief Constable on your file? I’d put money on it.’
There’s an awkward pause. ‘Does everyone know – I mean the whole team?’
He shakes his head. ‘Just me, I reckon. If Quinn had got wind of it he’d be beating a path to the Super’s door.’
I laugh and turn to look down towards the water. Alex is rocking Lily against her, the wind catching her hair, and Billy’s down by the water with Janet, flinging bread at the flotilla of ducks, scattering and plashing as the pieces hit the surface.
I nod towards them. ‘Reckon you’re raising a cricketer there, Gis, not a footie player.’
He grins. ‘Nah, Chelsea all the way, my Billy.’
I reach for the glasses. ‘Do you want to join them for a bit while I get the drinks in? Give Billy a hand with his bowling technique?’
He starts a little. ‘Well –’
I get to my feet. ‘It’ll be a chance to get to know your new god-daughter.’
He gapes at me, and then, as realization dawns, his face spreads into a huge grin.
When I look back from the bar a few minutes later he’s still sitting there, shaking his head a little, smiling to himself.
Epilogue
21 October 2018, 9.35 p.m.
Gantry Manor, Wytham
The TV is on loud. Louder than his wife would prefer, but she knows he doesn’t hear as well as he used to, and it’s not as if they’d be disturbing the neighbours. One reason – among many – they like living this far out of town.
‘That was the doorbell,’ she says.
Swann grunts something non-committal; he didn’t hear anything.
A moment later she tries again. ‘Dick, that was the doorbell.’
He looks across at her. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’ He turns back to the television. ‘And in any case, it won’t be anyone. Just some religious nut. Or the Liberal Democrats.’
She gets up and goes to the window and squints down. ‘I can’t see anyone.’
The bell rings again. Insistently. Even he hears it this time.
She turns towards him, her hand still gripping the curtain. Her face has gone pale. ‘It’s a man. He’s going round the back.’
Now that he is absolutely not going to tolerate. It’s bloody trespassing, for a start. He reaches for his dressing gown and starts to shuffle on his slippers. ‘I’ll go. You stay here. No need to be alarmed. He’s probably just seen the light on and assumed there’s someone in.’
He knots his gown and goes out on to the landing, flipping the light on as he goes. The bulb hums and plinks into life, throwing a pallid glow down the stairs. When he gets to the bottom and pushes open the kitchen door he can see through the window that there’s someone outside. A young man, all in black, some sort of backpack over one shoulder. He looks for all the world like a burglar; only burglars don’t ring the doorbell. Probably one of those ex-cons trying to sell dishcloths. It would account for the persistence. He goes over to the glass. The man is mouthing something. He makes a ‘Go away’ gesture, but the man – boy – takes no notice.
He hesitates. A tiny moment, upon which – as he will later bitterly reflect – a whole life will hinge. And not just his own. There’s no chain on the back door, but the lad doesn’t look threatening. A little impatient, maybe, but not actually dangerous. He just needs to be told, firmly, to sling his hook.
He unlocks the door. ‘I don’t care what it is you’re selling, we don’t want it.’
‘I’m not selling anything.’
An American accent. Now that does throw him for a loop. His grip on the door loosens a little.
‘Look, it’s late and I don’t know who you are –’
‘I’m sorry about the time – the train was late. And you do know who I am – well, in a way –’
This isn’t making any sense. Swann starts to close the door, but the man sticks his foot in it. ‘Please, just hear me out. You owe me that at least. Both of you do. But especially you.’
‘What on earth –’
But it’s too late, the man’s pushed past, he’s in the kitchen, rounded on him, his eyes flashing now. This is all going horribly, frighteningly wrong.