by Fiona Barton
SIXTY-SIX
Kate
SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 2012
Kate got lost as she drove home. She missed her turn but didn’t realize until twenty minutes later when the landscape became leafier instead of neon-lit.
“Shit,” she yelled at the road ahead. She pulled over but couldn’t let go of the steering wheel. She looked at her whitening knuckles as if they belonged to someone else.
Kate could still see Emma’s face, bright with shock in the darkness of her car, her lips trembling, making her trip over her words when she told her story.
When she shouted that it was her baby . . . Kate thought.
It had really frightened her. The noise and the pain in her voice. That was real. But was her story?
Reporters were often the first call for the delusional or attention-seekers. The sad people who want to be part of the news at any cost.
Kate shivered. Her head was all over the place, scrambling over the questions and answers, looking for what she must have missed.
“Two babies? Two bloody babies? It can’t be,” she said out loud. “What the hell do I do now?”
It was all happening so fast. She felt she was losing control of the situation. Of the story.
When Kate had first read the tiny cutting about the baby’s body, she’d hoped she’d be able to write a moving piece about a forgotten child and the personal tragedy behind its death. A Saturday read, she’d thought. A chance to get away from the treadmill of online news. But disturbing the surface had triggered an eruption of unexpected secrets.
She ought to be thrilled to have landed such a huge story, but Kate felt caught up in the torrent of information.
She knew she was the keeper of secrets: the drugging and possible sexual assault on Barbara Walker, the teenage pregnancy of Emma Massingham, the adultery of Nick Irving. She was entrusted with their hidden stories because she had asked the right questions. But what could she tell? Could she tell anything?
What she ought to do, she knew, was ring Terry to bring him up to speed, but that would mean letting go of the minute amount of control she still had. It would be snatched from her, dissected, discussed, pawed over by people who had never met Barbara, Emma, or Angela.
That’s journalism, Kate, she could hear a former boss saying. You’re there to tell their story, not to be their mother. You get too close.
But you had to get close to get the full story. The college lecturers who taught Media Studies to kids like Joe Jackson banged on about objectivity and balance, but she’d like them to sit down with a rape victim or the mother of an abused child and remain unaffected. Without empathy, without feeling someone’s pain, how could you tell a story like that and capture the truth of the situation?
The problem came when you couldn’t tear yourself away from the feelings and start writing.
She needed a moment. She needed an adult voice to tell her everything was going to be okay. I need my dad, she thought and almost laughed. Pull yourself together, for God’s sake.
She phoned her husband’s mobile and crossed her fingers he would still be up. Steve answered immediately.
“Hello, Katie,” he said. “Is everything all right??”
She burst into tears. She hadn’t known she was going to but the sound of his voice triggered a release of the emotions she had been keeping in check all day.
“What’s happened? Are you okay?” Steve said, anxiety rising in his voice. She never cried.
“Everything’s fine. Sorry, love, it’s just been an incredibly stressful day and it was so brilliant to hear you.”
“So brilliant that it made you cry?” Steve laughed. “I have that effect on far too many people.”
She calmed down and told him what had happened, listening carefully for his reaction, alert for censure. She needed his reassurance that she hadn’t gone too far.
“You must talk to the police, Katie,” he said. “This is getting way beyond an investigation by a reporter.”
He was right. Of course he was right.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it now.”
She looked at the display on the dashboard. It was just before midnight. Just after. Could she ring Bob Sparkes? Eileen would kill him. She dialed the number and held her breath.
He picked up on the second ring. Police training. His voice was blurry with sleep as he said “DI Sparkes,” but he clicked into gear as soon as she spoke.
She heard him put his hand over the phone and say, “It’s work, love. I’ll go downstairs.” Eileen neutralized.
“Kate, it’s the middle of the night,” he said as he walked downstairs. “This had better be important.”
“It is, Bob. I’m sorry it’s late, but I had to talk to you.”
“Go on then,” he said.
“I’ve just spoken to a woman who says she had a baby when she was just fifteen. In 1985. No one else knew. She hid the pregnancy. She was living at 63 Howard Street and she buried it in the garden.”
“The same garden that Alice was buried in?”
“Yes.”
“Christ. Do you believe her?”
“It sounded very real, Bob,” Kate said. “But we only have her word.”
“So was it Alice she buried? Did she take her?”
“She can’t have done, Bob. She wasn’t born when Alice was taken.”
“No, of course not. Sorry, it’s the middle of the night—brain not working. But she could have buried her in 1985. She could have found her body and buried it.”
“A fifteen-year-old? Really? I don’t know what to think, Bob,” Kate said.
“Well, how likely is it there were two babies buried in that garden? For goodness’ sake, ring Andy Sinclair now, Kate. Don’t try to work it out yourself. This is too complex. Ring him now, or I will.”
Kate clutched the phone tighter. “I will, Bob. Thanks for listening to me.”
“Text me after you’ve spoken to Andy.”
He doesn’t trust me to call it in, Kate thought as he hung up.
• • •
DI Sinclair wasn’t asleep. Kate wondered if he was still at work when he picked up his phone with a crisp “Sinclair.”
“Andy, its Kate Waters,” she said. “Sorry to bother you at this hour.”
“That’s okay, Kate. You’re working late. But so am I. Catching up on paperwork. You didn’t wake me.”
She told him exactly what she’d told Sparkes and he let her come to the end before he spoke.
“Who is she, the woman who says she buried the baby?” he said.
“Emma Massingham—well, that’s her maiden name. She’s Emma Simmonds now.”
He scribbled down Emma’s name and address, checking the house number twice.
“Did you tape the conversation?”
“My tape was running—I switched it on while she was talking—but I haven’t listened yet.”
“Please do that now,” he said. Kate pulled the recorder out of her bag and rewound. The sound wasn’t great but Emma’s voice was audible. She put the recorder to her phone so DI Sinclair could hear.
“It’s my baby in the garden. My baby,” the voice shrieked.
“She sounds distraught. What state was she in when you left her, Kate?” he asked.
“Calmer but fragile,” Kate said.
“And do you think she’s telling the truth about her pregnancy?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Andy. I mean, how can she be? There can’t be two babies, can there?”
“Extremely unlikely. She may be an attention-seeker, Kate. It happens. Look, leave this with me, but you need to come in and make a statement tomorrow—God, today—and keep that recording safe.”
“What are you going to do, Andy?” she asked.
“I’m going to talk to my boss. What about you?”
>
“I’m not writing anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I am,” he said. “This is clearly a vulnerable woman. We mustn’t push her over the edge.”
Kate swallowed hard. She’d pushed her, hadn’t she? Was this “dabbling her fingers in the stuff of other people’s souls”—the Press Complaints Commission’s verdict on the media’s treatment of Princess Diana?
“Will you let me know what you decide to do, Andy? Please,” she said.
“We’ll speak tomorrow. I’ll ring you. Good night.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
Jude
SUNDAY, APRIL 29, 2012
Emma didn’t ring before she appeared. She just turned up at the door at the crack of dawn. Said she knew Jude would be up.
“Lucky I’m a creature of habit, then,” Jude said, her voice prickly. She’d wanted to sound pleased, but her nerves got the better of her. Why has she come? was rattling round her brain. She had to practically beg her daughter to visit usually.
She ushered Emma in and hurried into the kitchen to make her a cup of coffee. She hadn’t even waited for the kettle to boil, slopping warm water onto the instant coffee in her haste to hear what was coming.
She plonked the cup of grayish liquid down beside her daughter and stood over her, unable to settle anywhere.
“Sit down, Jude, for goodness’ sake,” Emma said. She looked different today. No soft edges. No blurred eyes. Jude perched on the arm of a chair.
“Look, I can see you are working yourself up to say something, Emma. Just say whatever it is,” she snapped.
Emma looked up from the table but did not speak.
“Is there a problem with Paul?” Jude asked, trying to keep the anticipation out of her voice. “You know he rang me, in a state about the things you were saying. About the baby in Howard Street. I told him it was nonsense. Is he leaving you? Is that what this is about?”
“No, Jude. Of course not. He loves me,” Emma said quietly.
And Emma had looked at her. Fixing her with her eyes as if she was seeing her for the first time.
“I want to talk about what happened when I was fourteen, Jude.”
Jude’s stomach turned. “For goodness’ sake, Emma. Do we have to revisit that? Again?” she said. “I’d have thought you would want to put it behind you, not pick over it obsessively. It was a nightmare. Let’s not go there.”
Emma’s gaze didn’t falter.
“It was,” she said. “But did you never ask yourself why my behavior was impossible? Why I changed from being the good daughter?”
“Hormones and adolescence. You were a difficult teenager. You just had it worse than others,” Jude said, her pat response, and started knitting her fingers together.
“No,” Emma said firmly. “Something happened to change me.”
“What? What happened?” Jude said.
“I was raped.”
There was a beat before Jude spoke. “Oh God, why are you saying this? Is this another one of your stories?” She closed her eyes against the answer.
“Will did it,” Emma said, as Jude knew she would.
She tried to keep control of the outrage screaming in her head and stay calm.
“Of course he didn’t. Don’t be ridiculous, Emma,” she said. “Will was very fond of you. He couldn’t do enough for you and he put up with all your nonsense. You are obsessed with him. You are not well. Have you taken your pills today?”
Emma didn’t react; she simply carried on, her eyes burning into her mother’s.
“He raped me on July 21, 1984. In his car, Jude. Do you remember his car? That red Cavalier with the black stripe down the side and the traffic light air freshener hanging from the mirror. Do you? I’ll never forget it.”
“Of course I remember it. I was in it hundreds of times. So were you. That doesn’t mean anything.”
Emma’s expression didn’t change. Her refusal to react was scaring Jude.
“But that time was different. You weren’t there. He’d told you a lie, Jude. He said he was going home to collect something. But he collected me instead. And after it was over, Will took me back to the bus stop at the end of Howard Street and told me not to say anything. Said I had made him do it and that you would blame me. That you would never forgive me.”
Jude sat forwards in her chair with her hands pressed over her eyes, as if to blot out her daughter’s face and the words coming out of her mouth.
“Emma, you know this isn’t true,” she said from behind her hands. “You just want to hurt me because Will has come back into my life. You’re jealous because you had a crush on him. You always did. You tried to split us up before with your nasty lies about him and the woman up the street. This is just another invention. Stop this.”
But Emma went on. Unstoppable now.
“Afterwards, he said I had led him on.” And she laughed. A low, mirthless sound. “I was fourteen and a virgin. I didn’t lead him on.”
Jude raised her head wearily. “Why would he do it, Emma? He had me.”
“Perhaps he did it because he could,” Emma said, her anger finally breaking through. “Perhaps he enjoyed the risk of being caught. Some men get off on that. Or on a whim or as a power game. I wouldn’t begin to seek his reasons. He was a twisted man. A monster, Jude. Your monster.”
Jude thought she was going to throw up. “You don’t know what you are saying,” she shouted. “You’re frightening me. I want you to go.”
Emma stood and picked up her coat. “All those years you blamed me for driving him away, but I saved you from him,” she said and laughed again bitterly. “You could have married a rapist.”
After Emma slammed the door behind her, Jude tried to get up but her legs failed her.
The anger she’d felt when Emma was making her accusations had disappeared and now she was too shocked to feel anything at all.
“Why would she say such things?” she said to herself. “Lies. Awful lies.”
But she was thinking back to that summer. The summer when Emma had disappeared and a sullen stranger had replaced her.
SIXTY-EIGHT
Kate
SUNDAY, APRIL 29, 2012
She was cooking breakfast—a Sunday ritual—when Emma rang. She’d pushed the spatula into Steve’s hand, dripping fat on his newspaper, and said: “Sorry, got to take this, sorry.”
“Emma, are you okay?” Kate said. “How are you feeling?”
“Not great. How about you?”
“It’s not about me, Emma. I was so worried when I left you last night. I think what you told me shocked us both,” Kate said. “It is an extraordinary story.”
“I’m sorry if I scared you,” Emma said. “The thing is, I’ve kept things hidden for so long, I think I just needed to tell someone.”
Kate hesitated, torn between returning to the story and telling Emma she’d told the police about the confession. She knew it could be the end of any trust between them. She’d see what Emma had to say first.
“What are you going to do next?” Kate asked.
“I’m not sure. But I need your help,” Emma said. “Can we meet?”
• • •
Kate walked back into the kitchen where Steve was flipping bacon like a pro.
“How many eggs, Katie?” he asked.
“I’ve got to go out, love. I’m really sorry,” she said. Steve pulled a face and put the pan back down on the hob.
“For goodness’ sake, this is your day off. The one day we can spend as a family. Is it too much to ask for one day together? I’d hoped we could sit down today and talk to Jake properly.”
“He’s not even awake yet. We can do that tonight,” Kate said. “It’s an emergency. Honestly.”
“It’s always an emergency, isn’t it? You can never put us first,” he said.
“That’s not fair,” she said, knowing it was.
“Anyway, Freddie will be pleased. He’ll get double bacon and egg.”
Steve was very unhappy, she knew. But what else could she do? She put on her coat and shouted, “Call you later” from the door. Steve didn’t respond.
“Bye, then,” she said into the silence.
• • •
Emma had instructed her to meet her at North Greenwich underground station and said she’d tell her more when she got there.
Kate arrived first and sat in the car park, wondering what she was getting herself into. She was going out on a limb. A very creaky limb. She still didn’t know what to make of Emma. She’d been caught before. Just the once, but it still rankled. The fantasist who’d persuaded Kate that she and her illegitimate baby had been abandoned by a famous businessman. She and the paper had spent a couple of thousand putting the mother up in a wonderful hotel and traveled halfway across the world to gather evidence before the grubby truth had emerged.
Kate had got hold of the baby’s birth certificate and found another man’s name was on it. She should have done it earlier. A call to the man named as the father had revealed that the woman was a serial con artist, and Kate had had to confess all to Terry. Luckily, they’d caught the lie before publication.
Her comfort was that the woman had gone on to persuade another paper to actually print her story. Egg on someone else’s face, but Terry still dragged it up if she got too out of line.
It was tricky but Kate felt she was edging towards some sort of truth about the Alice Irving case. She couldn’t stop now. She would see what Emma had to say. And keep her fingers crossed.
Emma was so bundled up in a hat and scarf that Kate almost missed her.
“Kate,” Emma said when she was practically next to the car window.
“Sorry, Emma, I don’t know where my head is today,” she said and smiled.
“Can we sit in your car again?” Emma said. “I need you to come somewhere with me.”
“To Howard Street?” Kate said.
“No. To see the father of the baby.”
