The Child

by Fiona Barton

  “Thanks, love. You’re so good to us.”

  “Rubbish. You’re my mum and I love you. That’s all.”

  Angela started to weep. The simple sentiment only amplified her feeling of loss.

  Why is this not enough? ran through her head. You’re a lucky woman. You’re surrounded by people who love you. You have two beautiful children.

  Louise was talking and Angela tuned back in to hear her say that she wanted to take her mother away for a weekend.

  “Oh, I couldn’t go away. Something might happen—the police might need me,” Angela said.

  “I’ve got my mobile phone. You don’t have to be here all the time. It’s making you ill, Mum.”

  “No, I’m fine,” she said, pulling a tissue out of her sleeve to blow her nose. “I need to be here. For Alice.”

  Louise’s face stiffened. “You need to do what’s best for you and Dad, Mum. You need a break from this. The police will do their job and you need to take care of yourself. For Paddy and me. Alice is gone, but we are still here. You do see that, don’t you?”

  “I am here for you,” Angela shouted at her daughter. Like the woman in Asda.

  Nick came back in. “What’s going on here?”

  “I’ve upset Mum. I shouldn’t have come,” Louise said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No. It’s not your fault. It’s me. I don’t know what I’m saying or doing at the moment,” Angela said.

  “I’m taking her back to the doctor’s,” Nick half-whispered to Louise. “She’s not coping.”

  Back to the doctor’s. Dr. Earnley must be dead by now. But it will just be more patting on the shoulder, more encouraging words.

  “You will get through this, Angela.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Kate

  FRIDAY, APRIL 20, 2012

  Toni practically shrieked with excitement when she rang Kate to say her big reunion was on.

  “I’ve found all sorts of people online. They all love the idea and we’re having a party next week at the Boys’ Brigade hall. It’s going to be brilliant. We’ve got an eighties DJ and everything. Say you’ll come.”

  Try and stop me, Kate thought. “Sounds unmissable, Toni. Who’s on the guest list?”

  Toni reeled off a string of names.

  “Oh, well done for finding all of them,” Kate said. “Must have been quite a task after all this time.”

  “Yes, some of them were hard to find, but I tracked them down. Even Harry Harrison. The girl we all thought would get herself mixed up in drugs. Actually, she’s done well for herself. Who’d have thought . . .”

  Toni almost sounded disappointed.

  “Where’s she living now?” Kate asked.

  “All very posh in Kensington. Mrs. Thornton now. She wasn’t sure about coming at first but I laid it on thick. You know: ‘Remember where you come from, Harry.’ The girls won’t believe it when they see her.”

  Kate noted it all down.

  “Ah, but will Malcolm be at the disco?” she asked, laughing.

  “Oh yes. And the Sarahs. Should be a hoot,” Toni said, breathless with the excitement. “I’d better go, got loads to do. It starts at eight. See you there in your glad rags.”

  Kate put down the phone and sat back in her chair.

  “Who was that?” Joe asked, ever alert. “You look really happy.”

  “For a change,” Terry said as he walked by. “Moody baggage, your boss.”

  Kate was too pleased with herself to rise to the bait.

  “I’ve been invited to a party,” she said and laughed. “Now I need an outfit.”

  The two men looked at each other, mystified.

  “I thought it was a story,” Joe said.

  “Of course it’s a bloody story,” Kate replied.

  She stood up and pulled her jacket off the back of the chair. Enjoying her moment.

  “Come on, tell us,” Terry teased.

  “Not in the mood,” she said and swung her bag over her shoulder, ready to flounce out. “Got to go and see someone. See you later.”

  • • •

  Outside, she rang Joe and told him to meet her by the main doors.

  “We’re going to talk to Harry Harrison,” she told him. “No driving this time. We can walk from here.”

  • • •

  The door was opened by a middle-aged woman with a cigarette in her hand.

  “Hello, Mrs. Thornton? I’m Kate Waters from the Daily Post.”

  “Really? The press? What do you want?” the woman said, her tone instantly dismissive. “Look, I’m on my way out.”

  She’s lying, Kate thought. She’s only just lit that cigarette and she’s got her slippers on.

  “It won’t take a minute, I promise,” Kate said. “I’m hoping you can help me. I’m trying to contact Suzanne Harrison from Woolwich.”

  The woman on the doorstep narrowed her eyes and hesitated.

  Gotcha, Kate thought automatically.

  “Who wants to know about her?” Harry said, a little flustered.

  “Look, I’m sorry just to turn up, but could you give me five minutes of your time so I can explain?”

  “You’d better come in, then,” Harry said and then spotted Joe. “And who are you? You don’t look old enough to be a reporter.”

  Joe grinned shyly. “I’m a trainee. I’ll sit quietly, I promise.”

  She wafted them in with her free hand, crashing the front door closed, and herded them into her designer kitchen where it appeared she had, moments earlier, been reading a paper. Kate noticed it was the Post’s main competitor and put her handbag down on it.

  “Well, you obviously know I’m Suzanne Harrison,” Mrs. Thornton said, stubbing her cigarette out in a bowl of long-abandoned granola. “Harrison was my maiden name—and I was Harry to everyone who knew me.”

  “So many names—what shall I call you?” Kate said, laughing.

  “Call me Harry. Short and sweet.”

  Unlike you, Kate thought. The woman at the table was tall and chic. Harry might speak in the bored drawl that moneyed people use, but the tattoo on her breastbone, peeping above the neckline of her expensive blouse, told a different story.

  “Actually, you’re lucky to catch me in. I’m normally at the office by now, but I’m lunching out of town today.”

  “Great,” Kate said. “Where do you work? In the city?”

  “No, at Thornton and Coran—the publishing house.”

  “Oh, they do a lot of the celebrity memoirs, don’t they?” Kate said. “Actually, we serialized one of your books last year—the actress who survived cancer.”

  Harry smiled. “Yeah, that’s right. I remember,” she said. “You gave it great coverage—the books were flying off the shelves. Do you want a coffee?”

  Harry poured coffee from the percolator into exquisite hand-painted cups, chatting about current projects and dropping in bits of celebrity gossip as she found the matching milk jug and sugar bowl.

  “So,” she said as she sat back down. “What’s all this about then?”

  “Well, I’m writing about something that happened in the area where you grew up.”

  Harry stirred her coffee. “Christ, it’s been a long time since I was living in Woolwich—decades. Nothing to go back for now . . .”

  “No family there?” Kate asked, reaching for a biscuit.

  “A mother.”

  Harry’s eyes slid over to Joe, who was writing in his notebook. “What are you scribbling about? This isn’t an interview.”

  Kate had forgotten about her work experience child and she hadn’t noticed him get out his notebook. Fatal bloody schoolboy error.

  “Sorry, Harry. He’s just making notes on how I do my job. Aren’t you, Joe?”

  The edge to her voice worked and he quick
ly put down his pen and beamed at Harry.

  “Homework!” he said.

  But the connection had been broken. Harry started clearing the cups, balancing the expensive china like a waitress in a beachfront café. Kate got up to help her, sliding saucers into the dishwasher as she worked out how to rebuild trust. They were running out of time.

  “Look, we haven’t talked about why I’ve come. I’m hoping you can help me,” Kate said. “I’m doing a story about the discovery of Alice Irving’s body in Howard Street. I expect you’ve seen my stories about it?”

  The shutters fell. Harry’s eyes went blank. “No, I hadn’t heard anything about it,” she said stiffly. “In Howard Street? Well, I didn’t live there. Not sure I remember it.”

  “It’s where your friend lived.”

  “Don’t think so,” she snapped.

  “Toni at the Royal Oak,” Kate prompted.

  “Toni? Toni Baker. God, she rang me the other day. Did she tell you where to find me? Look, I don’t know. It was all so long ago. I can’t really help. Must get ready. You’ll have to go,” she said, picking up her handbag.

  “Can you see yourselves out? Thanks.”

  Kate bundled Joe out into the hall. “I’ll leave my card here on the table, Harry. In case you want to contact me,” she called back and quietly closed the door behind her.

  “There we are, then,” she said as she and Joe walked back to the office.

  Joe looked at her, mystified. “Where are we? Wasn’t that a disaster? She asked us to leave.”

  “But what did she tell us before she asked us to leave?”

  “Nothing. She said she didn’t know anything.”

  “Joe, for Christ’s sake, don’t you know anything about reading people? As soon as I mentioned the baby, she closed down. Telling a silly lie about Howard Street.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  “She knows something,” Kate said. “We’ll have another chance to talk to her at the disco. And Joe. Don’t take notes when you are trying to persuade someone to trust you. Golden rule of interviewing.”

  “But you said the golden rule was to take notes every time,” he said.

  Kate sighed. Baby steps.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Emma

  MONDAY, APRIL 23, 2012

  Kate picked up immediately.

  “Hello, it’s Anne Robinson,” I say. I’ve closed the door of my office so I don’t get disturbed by Paul.

  “Hello, Anne,” she says. “Nice to hear from you again. How are you? What are you up to?”

  I’m a bit taken aback. She’s talking to me as if she knows me. I look at my crib sheet for reassurance.

  Number one on the sheet is Drug addicts?

  “Oh I’m fine, thanks. I thought I’d just give you a ring to see if you tracked down the addicts in Howard Street.”

  “No, drew a blank, I’m afraid. No official records for them—expect they drifted from place to place. Anyway, everything has changed a bit since we last spoke, hasn’t it? The baby was buried in the 1980s, the police say.”

  “Yes, I saw that.”

  “So that would have been more your era. Can you think of anyone who was behaving strangely at the time? Any gossip among the neighbors about what people were up to?”

  “Not that I can think of,” I say. “People kept to themselves, really.” Well, they did.

  Kate Waters sighs. “If I had a pound for every time someone said that,” she says and laughs. “People love to keep things secret, don’t they?”

  I need to move on. Number two on the sheet is How do they know it’s her?

  “I wanted to ask you how sure they are about the identity of the baby. The police, I mean. I think they’ve made a mistake.”

  “Do you? Why? Do you know something about the baby? Anne?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “I just think they’ve made a mistake. They should look again.” I am veering off script. Stop.

  “Do you think the baby is someone else, Anne?”

  I don’t trust myself to speak so don’t answer.

  Kate Waters sounds agitated. “Do you still live in the area?” she says. “I could pop round to see you.”

  “Oh, no,” I say too forcefully. “I live out of London.”

  I can hear Paul coming up the stairs and will him away. But he doesn’t stop. “Are you on the phone?” he calls through the door and I freeze. “Darling!”

  I put my hand over the receiver and hiss, “I’m busy.”

  “Your husband?” Kate says when I take my hand away.

  “Yes, I’d better go,” I say.

  “Anne,” she says carefully. “You rang me because you want to talk about the baby and I am really glad you did. If you think the police have made a mistake, it is important to say so. I know it may be hard for you, but we can talk about it. I can help you. It doesn’t matter what name you use. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I reply. “I’ll think about it.”

  I do nothing else for the rest of the day.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Jude

  MONDAY, APRIL 23, 2012

  Jude was doing her roots—painting out the gray with a color she’d bought at the local chemist—and thinking about which dress to wear. She might put on the black velvet one—if she could squeeze into it—but she’d have to buy tights. And nail varnish. She felt girlish for the first time in years. She was going on a date.

  Will had rung again. She’d almost not picked up the phone. She hadn’t recognized the number and thought it might be a cold call or a crook, trying to scam her out of her money. Well, it was, in a way.

  “Hello, my lady, how are you?” he’d said.

  “Fine, Will,” she’d said, hearing the simper in her voice.

  “Thought I’d give you a call to see if you’ve transferred your donation to the university centenary fund? We’re almost halfway to the total.”

  She’d forgotten. That’s why he’d rung in the first place. Not for her. For money. She’d pushed the ungenerous thought to one side. “Sorry, Will. I’ll do it today. It is lovely to hear from you again.”

  “Lovely to hear you, too. You don’t sound a day older, Jude,” he’d said. And she’d felt happier than she had for weeks.

  “Where are you living these days?” she’d asked. “Still in Clapham?”

  “No, moved when I retired. I’m in a little village in Kent. Bucolic retreat. Dead as the grave, actually.”

  “You sound in need of cheering up,” she’d said. “Why don’t you come up to town and we can go for dinner.”

  He’d hesitated and she’d felt ridiculous for having asked, but before she could make an excuse, he’d cleared his throat and said, “That would be a real treat.”

  The date had been set for Monday at one of their old haunts in Victoria. “Handy for the trains,” he’d said.

  • • •

  Tonight’s the night,” she told herself in the mirror as she fastened her earrings.

  She arrived first, leaving home early so she could walk slowly with her stiff hip, but he appeared in the plate-glass window minutes later and peered in.

  God, you look old, she thought as she caught sight of his face.

  He swept through the restaurant and bent to kiss her, then held her by her shoulders to get a proper look.

  “Still beautiful, Jude,” he said.

  “Still a smooth talker,” she said.

  “Yes, but it’s all talk these days,” he said and they both laughed.

  Ice broken, they cantered through decades of life during the tricolor salad starter. Shorthanding their experiences, hooting with laughter at shared memories, and skirting round the reason they hadn’t seen each other for almost twenty years.

  But, halfway through the melanzane alla parmigiana, Will asked about Em
ma. She’d wondered when he’d venture there.

  “So,” he said, as the waiter poured more wine, “did Emma ever get back in touch?”

  “Yes, actually. A couple of years ago. Out of the blue.”

  “I see. So how is she doing these days?”

  “So-so. Married to a man old enough to be her father.”

  “Right,” he said. “Working?”

  “Yes. She got herself together in the end. Took a while, but she went to university in her twenties. She’s a books editor. Working from home. Commercial rubbish, most of it, but she does it well.”

  “Do you see much of her?”

  “Yes. Well, sometimes. I told her you’d been in touch.”

  “Did you?” he said, his hand jerking and flicking a gobbet of tomato sauce off his fork. He rubbed it into the tablecloth with his finger. “What did she say?”

  “Not much,” Jude said, remembering Emma’s frozen expression. “Well, it must be difficult for her. She probably still feels guilty about coming between us.”

  Will carried on chewing.

  Jude knew what he was thinking. Will had tried to understand Emma’s moods and descent into teenage angst, but she had been impossible to read some days.

  “You used to say she’d grow out of it. But, of course, she left before she could,” she said, disarmed by the wine and his proximity.

  Will looked up quickly.

  “I sometimes wonder what would have happened if we’d got married back then, like we planned, Will,” Jude added. She wasn’t sure what she expected him to say, but she longed for a glimmer of the intimacy they’d shared. For old times’ sake.

  “Hmm,” he said. “Me, too.”

  She didn’t believe him. He was humoring her.

  He looked up and she tried to smile but it got stuck on her teeth.

  Will reached out a tomato-stained hand to pat hers.

  “Look, it was a difficult time for all of us,” he said. “I loved you, Jude, but Emma had soured everything.”

  “She had been gone for six or seven years when you left,” Jude said quietly.

  “Well, the damage had been done, I suppose. I had to get out of there,” he said, wiping his mouth with the napkin.