by Fiona Barton
“But you were the adult, Jude,” Emma said, their discussion returning to well-worn lines. “Anyway, I’m just surprised you want to see him again now. He did leave you.”
“Things are different now,” Jude said firmly as if closing the subject. But a voice whispered in her ear, And I am so lonely.
I should have carried on working. Stupid to have retired early.
She’d given up being a lawyer when her parents died and left her a bit of money. “I’m sick of it all,” she’d said. “I’ll be a lady of leisure instead. I’ll go to afternoon concerts and museums.” But she hadn’t got into the swing of having spare time. She chafed against it constantly. Against life, really.
“Well, it’s up to you, Jude,” Emma said. “But be careful.”
Afterwards, the phrase echoed in Jude’s head. But she silenced it. Things have changed, she told herself.
THIRTY-TWO
Emma
TUESDAY, APRIL 3, 2012
My head is full of Will Burnside, and I find I’ve doodled a stick man on my notepad. My pen has gouged deep into the paper as I rerun my final days in Howard Street. The house reeked of disappointment. It seemed to drip down the walls and taint the food.
I can remember the hiss of the whispers between Jude and Will, the staccato urgency of phone calls and the closing doors. My exclusion. How could Jude say I was in love with Professor Will?
The drawing is on the same sheet as the reporter’s name. Kate Waters. I trace over the letters with my pen as I think about how I can talk to her without showing my hand. I need to know what she knows. Maybe put her off the track. Away from me.
I could mention the drug addicts, I think, and stop drawing.
I scroll down through the chapter I’m working on and write down the first name I come to.
“Hello, I am Anne Robinson and I used to live in Howard Street,” I try it out. “Did you know there was a house of drug addicts in the street? I think the baby belonged to one of them.”
It sounds stilted and scripted so I have another go, trying to make it sound more natural. “Hello,” I say again, sounding even more forced.
“Oh, forget it,” I say, and throw my pen across the room.
But I know I’m going to do it. It’s a good idea. She’ll go looking for the sad kids. Since Jude mentioned them, I’ve tried to remember them—I think they must have lived at number 81—but I can only recall them as a group, not individuals, with their dirty hair and stick-thin arms tattooed with needle tracks. “The living dead,” Will used to call them.
What if she asks questions? I think, biting the skin round my fingers. I start writing down details I remember. There was a girl called Carrie. They were there for years. Or it seemed like years. They’d gone before I left in 1985, I think. The landlord cleared them out early one morning. All their stuff was on the pavement, smashed cups, spilled bags of pasta, stained sheets, and old jumpers. The addicts didn’t take anything with them. It all stayed until the next time the binmen came round and shoveled it aboard the lorry. I’d forgotten all that until today. Packed it away with everything else.
Okay, I’ve got my story, I chivy myself back to the task at hand. I dial the number for the Daily Post and wait.
“Daily Post, how can I help you?” a woman chirrups.
“Er, can I talk to Kate Waters, please?” I reply, already sounding like an imposter.
“Putting you through.”
“Hello, Kate Waters,” a voice says. And it begins.
My carefully crafted opening sentence vanishes from my mind and I stutter.
“Hello, is that Kate Waters?” even though she’s just said so.
“Yes,” the voice is crisper now.
“Sorry, it’s just I’ve never spoken to a reporter before,” I burble.
“That’s okay,” she says. “How can I help you, er . . . ?”
For a second I can’t remember the name I’ve chosen, then blurt: “Anne. Anne Robinson.”
“So, Anne, how can I help you?”
“It’s about the baby on the building site,” I say and I hear an “Oh” under her breath. “You see I used to live in Howard Street.”
“Did you?” she says. “When was that, Anne?”
“Well, early seventies to mid-eighties. I read your story the other week and I thought I’d ring you.”
“I am so glad you did, Anne,” she says. She’s using my name all the time and I keep thinking, Who’s Anne?
“How old were you then? Did it jog a memory, Anne?” she adds.
“Sort of,” I say. Mustn’t sound too sure. “I was in my teens when I left. We rented, my mum and me.”
I’m telling her too much. Adding details that aren’t on my pad. Need to keep to the plan.
“It’s just that there used to be a house full of drug addicts down the road—number 81, I think—on heroin and stuff, and I wondered if they could be connected to this. To the baby.”
“Right. That’s so interesting. Did you know any of them? Can you recall any of their names?”
The questions pile up in front of me and I sit and breathe deeply while she carries on digging into my lies.
“I think one was called Carrie,” I offer. “But I didn’t talk to them. No one did, really. They got thrown out by the landlord when the neighbors complained about the mess and the smell.”
“Which neighbors?” Kate asked.
“I’m not sure,” I say.
“Actually, it’s brilliant that you’ve rung,” Kate Waters says. “I’m tracking down people who lived in Howard Street in the seventies to ask them if they remember anything. Any births or disappearances.”
She’s beginning to talk about what she knows and I push for more information. “Tracking who down? Who have you found?”
“Hold on,” she says. “I’ve got a list. Would you mind if I read it to you to see if you recognize anyone?”
“’Course,” I say. “It’s such a mystery, isn’t it . . .”
“Absolutely. The police seem to have no idea what happened,” Kate says and I breathe a little easier. But then she adds: “I’m pursuing quite an interesting line at the moment. A bit of a long shot but could be an amazing story.”
“Really?” I say, my voice all squeaky. But she interrupts, reading the list of Howard Street inhabitants before I can ask another question.
Jude is on the list and I hesitate—just for a beat—before saying no. I hope she doesn’t notice and I distract her with a bit of info about Mrs. Speering and ask her if she’s been to Howard Street.
“What? Oh yeah,” she says. “I’ve been there a couple of times—I’m going later, actually. To the pub there.”
“The Royal Oak,” I say.
“That’s it. Your old local, I imagine,” she says, and I mutter something about being underage.
She laughs and goes back to the names and when she gets to the end, she says: “That’s funny. There’s no Anne Robinson on my list.”
“No, well, like I said, I was just a child so I wouldn’t have been on the electoral register,” I say quickly.
“’Course. But you said you lived with your mum, didn’t you? She’d be on the list, wouldn’t she?”
“Umm, yes.”
“Let me have another look. No, no Robinson.”
“It’s my married name,” I blurt. I look at my pad, searching my script for answers, but there’s nothing left to say.
Must end this quickly before she asks any more.
I wrap my fist in my cardigan and bang on the desk.
“Oh, there’s someone at the door. Look, I’ll have to go . . .”
“But Anne,” she says. “I’ve got loads to ask you. Can I have your number and I’ll ring you back?”
“Sorry, sorry, I’ve got to go,” I repeat weakly and put the phone down.<
br />
I write down everything she’s said and start to plan what I’ll say the next time I ring.
THIRTY-THREE
Kate
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 4, 2012
It took another two days for Sparkes, Angela Irving, and the officer on the case to speak and for Angela’s DNA test to be booked.
“It’s only three phone calls,” Kate said to Joe. “How can it take this long to make an appointment?”
Her frustration was amplified by the cat-and-mouse game she was playing with the news editor and his sudden interest in putting Kate on every story that landed on his desk.
She had managed to kill off three of Terry’s ideas before Bob Sparkes finally left a message on her mobile. “Contact made with Angela Irving and have passed on her details to the London boys. Speak soon.”
Before she could call him back, Angela phoned. She was so agitated she forgot to say hello.
“Kate, I’m coming up to London tomorrow,” she said. “I said I’d rather come to them than do it here. They want to test me to match against Alice . . . the baby.”
“Hi, Angela,” Kate said, trying to sound neutral. She knew that, despite herself, her feelings for the bereaved mother had been affected by the new information from DI Rigby. He’d talked about an Angela she hadn’t known and the words “cold fish” had stuck in her head.
“It’s great that they are doing the tests but let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.”
“Yes, sorry. But I can’t help it. You can’t imagine what it feels like, after all these years, to be so close to finding out.”
“Of course. But the news may not be good, Angela,” Kate said.
Angela paused.
“I know. I’m trying to keep calm. But it is so hard. And I’m not even sure what would be good news. Whatever the results show, it’ll be bad news, really, won’t it? If it is her, my baby is dead. And if it isn’t, I am still in this terrible limbo. But there may be some hope. Oh God, I can’t think straight.”
“Of course you can’t. You must be going through hell,” Kate soothed. “It must be so emotional for you. And your husband.”
“Nick? Oh yes, he’s as anxious as I am,” Angela said.
Kate noted the change in tone.
“Is your husband coming with you tomorrow?” she asked.
There was another pause. “I haven’t asked him yet. I think he’ll be too busy,” Angela said.
She hasn’t told him, Kate thought. How interesting.
She moved the conversation on swiftly: “Who did you talk to in the Met, Angela?”
“A DI Sinclair.”
“And how did he sound when he spoke to you?” Kate wondered how seriously the Met were taking this new lead.
“Friendly. But he didn’t give anything away. Just said they would do swab tests and come back to me.”
“Nothing about any forensics so far?”
“No. I’m not sure they’ve even started, to be honest. That’s what DI Sparkes said,” Angela added. “He’s a nice man.”
“He is. So would you like to meet afterwards for a coffee?” Kate said. Keep her close. Just in case.
“Lovely, thanks. The appointment is at ten. Mr. Sinclair said it would only take a few minutes.”
“But they’ll want to talk to you about Alice as well, Angela. It won’t just be a mouth swab. It would be a good idea to take all the documents you’ve got. Everything helps.”
“Yes, I will. Shall I give you a call when I’ve finished?”
“Great and I’ll come and meet you.”
• • •
When Kate rang Bob Sparkes back, he answered immediately.
“Kate,” he said. “All sorted?”
“Yes, thanks, Bob. Angela is coming up to town tomorrow. She’s in a terrible state. I hope they’re nice to her. What did DI Sinclair say when you called him?” she asked, throwing in the name to show she was on the case.
“Not very hopeful. He thinks it’s pretty impossible—identifying an infant after what is probably decades underground is incredibly difficult. Newborn babies don’t have fully formed bones so there isn’t much material to test for DNA. And what there is might be too degraded to be useful. And with a newborn you know that he or she won’t be on the database and so we are straight into the imprecise world of familial DNA, trying to find parents from, effectively, half a profile. It really doesn’t look likely that a match will be found.”
“Have they done any tests yet?” she asked.
“The basics, but lots more to do. He did say there were what looked like shreds of paper and a plastic carrier bag sticking to the remains so can’t be earlier than the sixties—that’s when plastic carriers first appeared in the UK—but nothing more concrete on dates. Look, don’t get your hopes up on this one, Kate. Let’s see.”
She refused to join in with his negativity. “Of course it’s an outside chance but I’ve got a feeling about this, Bob,” she said and heard him laugh at the other end of the phone.
“You’ve always got a feeling, Kate. Speak to you soon.”
And he was gone.
“What did he say?” Joe asked.
“Hey, are you earwigging my every conversation?” she snapped.
“Couldn’t help overhearing. And I am working on the story with you,” he said. He’s learning, she thought.
“Okay. In a nutshell: The Met hasn’t started the full forensics yet; the copper with the file thinks it’s an impossible case; babies are difficult to test; blah blah. Onwards and upwards, I say.”
Joe smiled and nodded.
“Look, while the detectives are buggering about with the DNA, why don’t we look at the Howard Street residents from the sixties and seventies?” Kate said. “I had a funny phone call the other day from a woman who called herself Anne Robinson. Pretty sure it wasn’t her real name, but she said she lived in Howard Street around the right time and there was a house full of drug addicts in the road. She wouldn’t leave a number or anything, but it’s worth checking out. We have no idea what happened to that baby or who was living round there. And we can get out of here for the rest of the day.
“Thought I’d show Joe some old-style investigation tricks, if you don’t need me,” she called across to Terry.
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” he said, waving her good-bye. “Don’t lose him . . .”
• • •
Parking near Woolwich Library was murder, but Kate finally found a space and reversed, badly, into it. I hate bloody parallel parking, she screamed in her head and tried to have cooling thoughts before peeling herself off her seat.
“Come on,” she said to Joe, who was still scrolling through Facebook on his phone. “We’re going to look at something made of paper for a change.”
In the reference section he trailed behind her, his eyes fixed on his phone, as she asked for old electoral registers for Howard Street.
The woman librarian sniffed at the request—They must train them to do that, Kate thought—but brought her the voters’ lists for the area from the 1960s and 1970s without any further comment.
“Thanks,” Kate said to her departing back and pulled the bulky, unbound documents towards her. The pages had curled at the edges over the years and she wondered when they had last been turned.
The residents’ names were listed by roads and house number, and she went straight to Howard Street and the terrace where the baby had been found.
“We’re looking specifically at numbers 61 to 67, Joe. The houses that backed onto the building site area. Oh, for God’s sake, put that phone down!” she hissed.
He did as he was told and sat expectantly at a Formica table. Kate knew she was still glowing from her Top Gear rush-hour-parking challenge. It had triggered a flush and she could feel every inch of her skin pulsing with heat.
“Are you a
ll right, Kate?” Joe said. “You look a bit red.”
“I’m fine. Bit hot in here, that’s all,” she said tetchily.
“Oh right,” Joe said.
She knew what he was thinking. Menopause. And for menopause, read old, irrational, past it, a woman. She bridled, furious that he was judging her professionalism on her estrogen levels. He probably couldn’t even spell “estrogen.” But the lecture would have to wait. She had work to do. She forced a smile and thought cold thoughts to make the flush recede. She’d read about it in a well-woman leaflet once. Nonsense but anything was worth a go.
She pushed the 1960s towards him. “You do this lot. Write down the names and dates of everyone who lived in the terrace. And at number 81—the drug den. Then we’ll look for where they are now when we get back to the office.”
She pulled the 1970s towards her.
After ten minutes, they had a list. It was shorter than Kate had thought—the folks of Howard Street had been long-term residents in the sixties and the transition from family homes to rented bedsits and flats had taken a few years after that.
“How many have you got?” she asked.
Joe counted them slowly. “Twelve,” he said. “Nobody moved in or out. Married couples, I think, with adult children, maybe.”
“Great,” she said. “Any names we know? Laidlaw for instance?”
“No. One of the families was the Smiths, at number 65.”
“Damn,” she said, too loudly, alarming the man reading the Times at the next table.
“Sorry,” she mouthed.
“Any more unusual names?” she asked Joe. “‘Smith’ is a nightmare.”
“Speering, Baker, and Walker,” he reeled off.
“Right,” she said, checking her notes. “I’ve got two of the same families in the early seventies. But everything was changing. Look, six different names for number 63 by 1974—and they are all singletons. People moved on every couple of years.”
“The people at 81 don’t look very interesting,” Joe said. “It’s the same couple throughout the sixties.”
