by Fiona Barton
“How did she sound?” Kate said.
“How do you think?” Harry snapped.
The three women got into Kate’s car. London was almost empty; the normally congested roads rang with the sound of the engine, the streetlights bouncing off the road surface all round them, and they didn’t talk again until they pulled up outside the building site.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Kate asked.
“Not really, but I think you’d better. I might need backup,” Harry said.
They found Emma sitting on an upturned bucket in what had once been the garden, surrounded by heavy clay clods and lit by the security lights she’d triggered. She looked up when Harry called her name, but didn’t rise from her seat.
“I’ve been trying to think about what happened. Trying to make sense of it,” she said. “I thought I’d come back to where it began. With the baby . . .”
“I’ve been trying to persuade her to come away,” a woman’s voice came from the gloom.
“Barbara?” Kate said. And the older woman walked into the glow of the arc lamps.
“I saw the lights go on—I’m not sleeping well,” she said. “And John has been saying there have been problems on the site, with kids getting in, so I came over to see. And found her. Found Emma.”
Jude looked in disbelief at her old friend. “What are you doing here?” she said. It all felt like a strange dream.
“I moved back to Howard Street, Jude. After we’d lost touch.”
After you made a play for Will, Jude thought automatically, then stopped herself. That was what Will had said. But he had lied about everything, hadn’t he?
Harry had crouched down beside Emma and touched her arm.
“You’re cold, Emma,” she said. “We need to get you in the warm.”
“I live just across the road. We can go there,” Barbara said and Jude stiffened. She’d wanted to take Emma home with her, but it was out of her hands.
Emma let herself be led to the flat and sat beside a sleeping Shorty on the sofa. She looked numb, her eyes frozen with shock.
“Do you know everything?” she whispered to Harry.
“We don’t have to talk about it now, Emma,” Harry said.
“I tried to tell you once. That day when you turned up in the pub.”
“I remember. I didn’t listen, did I? I jumped to conclusions. I’m so sorry, Emma. But why didn’t you tell me at the time? When we were kids?”
Jude had to lean forwards to catch the answer.
“I couldn’t then. Will said everyone would hate me.”
The two friends put their arms around each other. Jude struggled to stay in her seat. It should have been her comforting her child, but Emma hadn’t reached for her.
When they finally let go and sat, leaning against each other, Kate turned in her seat to face them.
“The police will get Will for what he did,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “To you, Emma.
“He may think he’s untouchable after all this time, but there is evidence now, photographic evidence—and I’m sure Soames will have no hesitation in taking him down with him. I’ve met him. He’s a scumbag,” she added.
“She’s right,” Harry said. “We’ll have the bastard’s head on a stick.”
“And for what he did to you, Barbara,” Emma said. “I know he did the same to you.”
Jude stared from her daughter to her former friend.
“How do you know?” Barbara whispered. “Did he tell you?”
“No, I saw your photo in Will’s desk. I thought you were asleep, but it had been taken when you were drugged. I was too young to know what people were capable of, then. I asked Will about it and he said you had sent it to him because you wanted him.”
Barbara gasped.
“He raped me the next day. To shut me up,” Emma said. “He must have known that I could be shamed into silence. I believed him when he said everyone would blame me. I didn’t know any better.”
Jude squeezed her eyes shut. It’d all been lies. His lies, her own lies. She’d done this. She couldn’t blame Emma or Barbara anymore. She’d brought this man into their lives. She was guilty of this. Everything was unspooling in front of her.
SEVENTY-NINE
Kate
TUESDAY, MAY 1, 2012
Emma shook her head when Kate told her she ought to ring DI Sinclair. That there was news about the tests.
“I know what the result will be. I don’t need to ring him,” she said. “I put my baby in the ground, under the urn. I don’t need him to confirm it.”
Kate rang him, instead, to tell him she was with Emma in Howard Street and to alert him to Will Burnside’s second victim, Barbara.
“I’m coming over now, Kate,” he said. She couldn’t tell if he was angry that she’d got there first. Didn’t matter, did it? As long as Emma was safe.
When he arrived, with his sergeant, a woman in her thirties, they all crammed into the front room and the dog was put in the kitchen.
“Now then,” DI Sinclair said. “This is all getting very complex, but I would like to start with the baby. It’s where all of this began for my investigation. Okay?”
Emma nodded and the others sat back, out of the detective’s gaze.
“I think you probably already know, Emma, that a match has been found between you and the baby’s body uncovered on the Howard Street building site.”
“Kate told me the test results had come back,” she said.
“I’ll discuss that with you later,” he said to Kate, raising his hand to silence her explanations. “Later . . .”
“We are waiting to verify Angela Irving’s DNA results, but it looks like there must have been an error in the tests,” he said. “I’m talking to Mr. and Mrs. Irving in the morning. What I would ask is that you do not reveal the results of your test to anyone, Emma, until all results are in and we can make a proper statement.”
He looked over at Kate to underline his meaning.
“This is a very sensitive matter, especially for the Irvings. They have waited a long time to find out what happened to their child and we must be fair to them,” he added.
Around the room, heads nodded in unison. “So, we understand each other?” he asked. “And that obviously includes you, Kate.”
“Of course,” she muttered crossly.
“It’s late,” DI Sinclair said, “and I think we should meet again in the morning. Could you come to Woolwich police station tomorrow, Mrs. Simmonds? And you, Miss Walker? I understand you both have matters you want to discuss with regards to Professor Burnside. We need to do this properly, not on this ad hoc basis.”
Emma and Barbara said they would, and Kate avoided his eyes.
“Perhaps we could have a quiet word, Kate,” he said. “Outside.”
She followed him out, leaving the women to say their farewells.
“You’ve completely overstepped the mark, Kate,” DI Sinclair said as soon as they reached the pavement. “You’ve put this investigation in jeopardy with your cowboy antics. It was not up to you to tell Emma Simmonds about the DNA test results. It could have caused all sorts of damage.”
Kate knew she’d only told Emma the results were in, but DI Sinclair wasn’t interested in excuses. She should try to defuse the situation by apologizing, but the stress of the evening had left her raw and ready for a fight.
“I have only done my job, Andy. This is what I’m paid to do. I’ve followed up leads and chased down people who might be able to help with your inquiries. And I’ve passed them on to you when asked. My paper has done everything it can to help find out what happened to Alice Irving. Hardly my fault you got the tests wrong . . .”
“I’ll be speaking to your editor,” DI Sinclair said, turning on his heel and marching off into the night, his DS scurrying behind
him.
“Bugger,” Kate said out loud. “Another contact bites the dust.”
EIGHTY
Kate
WEDNESDAY, MAY 2, 2012
Joe was hard at work when she arrived in the office the next day, focusing on his screen with the sort of attention that gave her an instant headache. Kate was too tired and dispirited to be bothered to ask him what he was doing. She slumped down in her chair and waited for the next bollocking.
It only took thirty seconds to arrive.
Terry beckoned her over. The slow, angry finger beckon.
“Right, my star reporter, where are we then?” he said, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Have you stood this story up yet?”
“Well,” Kate started.
“Yes or no?”
“No,” she said. “And I think Simon is going to get a complaint from the police. I got an earful from my contact on the case last night and was told not to write anything until an official statement is released. I think our love affair is over.”
“Great,” Terry said, winding himself up. “So we haven’t got the exclusive I promised Simon? And he’s going to get an earful from the commissioner? Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.”
She thought about saying sorry, but it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
“I’ll try another route,” she said and slunk back to her desk.
Joe looked up. “Shall I get you a coffee, Kate?” he said and she could have hugged him.
“Yes, my lovely boy. Have I told you I’m going to adopt you? And get a brandy if they’ve got one.”
She switched on her screen to appear in work mode and got her notebook out.
I wonder what Simon will say, she thought, the threat of redundancy fluttering at the back of her mind. He’ll back me, won’t he?
Joe returned with caffeine but no strong liquor. “They were all out of brandy,” he said.
“What are you looking at?” Kate asked when he screwed his eyes firmly back on his computer.
“A thing about DNA,” he said. “It’s really interesting. Did you know if you test the mitochondria, our DNA can be matched with our ancestors? Well, through the maternal line to our great-grandmothers. And if you do Y-STR profiling, you can do the male line. It’s fascinating.”
“Fascinating,” Kate said. “Haven’t you got a story to get on with?”
“No, you don’t understand. All our closest relatives—parents, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, cousins, grandparents—will match. They share the same DNA markers.”
“Okay. So what you’re saying is more than one person could match the baby’s DNA?”
“Yes, I think so,” Joe said. “That’s what it says on Wikipedia.”
She leaned over his shoulder and read the entry for herself.
“Not two babies, then,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “Two relatives.”
She rang Andy Sinclair’s mobile, but he didn’t pick up. Still sulking, she thought.
Bob Sparkes answered immediately. “Oh dear, Kate. Not DI Sinclair’s favorite reporter, I hear.”
“You hear right. Has he called you? He threw a hissy fit last night and marched off.”
“Not the description he gave me, but he is extremely fed up with you. And they are having to run all the tests again because they keep getting the same results. He’s under huge pressure. Cut him some slack, Kate.”
“Cutting slack won’t solve this case, Bob,” she said and he laughed.
“You just can’t leave things alone, can you? Like a terrier with a bone.”
“That’s what makes me a good reporter, Bob. Anyway, Andy won’t take my calls. But I’ve got something to suggest. Can I run it past you, first?”
“Go on, then,” Sparkes said.
She told him about Joe’s discovery, omitting the fact that the information was on Wikipedia, and waited for him to digest it.
“So both Angela and Emma could be related to the baby?”
“Could be if I’ve understood the science properly . . .”
“I’ll ring him now,” Sparkes said and rang off before Kate could ask him to call her back immediately.
She took a mouthful of coffee, swilling it round thoughtfully. Joe perched on the edge of her desk.
When the phone trilled, she gulped and spluttered and pointed to Joe to answer.
“Hello, DI Sinclair, I’ll just pass you over,” he said, handing it to Kate.
“Hello, Andy. Sorry, just choking on my coffee. Look, I’m so sorry about last night. It was all very stressful and I probably overreacted.”
DI Sinclair cleared his throat. His turn.
“Yes, well, I probably came over a bit heavy-handed. Let’s put it behind us, shall we?”
“Yes, let’s do that. Thanks for ringing me. I really appreciate it.”
“Bob Sparkes has just told me your suggestion,” DI Sinclair said. “I wanted to let you know that our forensic team is already comparing Emma’s and Angela’s DNA as a check on false positives. That would confirm their shared ancestry. And we’re about to talk to both women to try and establish a link. So please, do not get in contact with either of them until we have done so.”
“Oh God, Andy. Emma is Alice, isn’t she?” Kate said, the idea bursting in on her.
EIGHTY-ONE
Jude
WEDNESDAY, MAY 2, 2012
DI Sinclair was on his way to Pinner.
Emma had called her in a panic. “He’s just rung, Jude, to make sure I’m home. I think he’s coming to take me away. To lock me up. I just wanted to tell you.”
“Why would they want to lock you up?” Jude had said. “Try to stay calm.”
“I buried the baby without telling anyone. They might think I killed it,” Emma had sobbed.
And Jude had run down the stairs to find a cab. She had to be with Emma now.
She’d arrived just after the detective. He looked exhausted. Nearly as exhausted as Paul looked. Emma had packed a small bag in readiness and was sitting holding her husband’s hand.
“I’m glad you are here, too, Ms. Massingham,” DI Sinclair said to Jude. “I called your home, but there was no answer. I need to talk to both you and Emma.”
“Why?” Emma said. “Jude didn’t know about the baby.”
“Not your baby, Emma,” he said. “Alice.”
• • •
Jude knew immediately it was all over. The detective’s face was set. There’d be no dancing round the facts. Or new lies. The truth could no longer be many things.
So she told the story of how she’d lost Charlie’s baby at five months. How she’d fallen, tripped over the cord of her hair dryer in the bedroom as she rushed to get ready for work, and crashed face-first onto the floor. There was no one there to help as she grasped her stomach and tried to will away the burning pain, and the blood, lots of blood. She went and sat on the toilet as waves of agony took over her body. She’d flushed away all that came out of her, unable to look into the bowl and acknowledge that her pregnancy was over. She’d rung work from the pay phone in the hallway of her rented flat and said she was ill.
“I was going to tell Charlie that night, when he rang,” she said. “But his first words were so loving, calling me his angel and asking about the baby. And I said: ‘We’re fine’ and the lie was told. There was no going back.”
Emma wouldn’t look at her but the detective held her gaze steadily.
“Go on, Ms. Massingham.”
“I decided to pretend to lose the baby later. After he’d promised to marry me. He should have married me, then none of this would have happened,” Jude said, but the detective’s expression didn’t alter.
“I made layers of padding out of an old foam-rubber cushion, adding layers and wearing bigger maternity clothes. I told Charlie on the phone about how my legs were a
ching. I think I believed I was still pregnant.”
“And your boyfriend? Didn’t he suspect anything?” DI Sinclair asked.
“He was a musician and away in Europe, on tour with his band. And the dates kept being extended so he didn’t see me for months.”
“What did you tell your friends and family, Ms. Massingham?” Andy Sinclair asked.
“My parents stopped talking to me when I told them I was having a baby. An illegitimate baby was too much for them to bear. What would they tell their friends at the golf club? But I kept on working—I needed the money—and when I got to seven months, I took maternity leave. I told them I had to leave early because my blood pressure was up and I’d been told to put my feet up for the baby’s sake. The girls at work were disappointed. They’d wanted to have a party for me . . .” Jude looked across at her daughter. What are you thinking, Emma?
She told the detective she’d rung the medical center to tell them she would be away, abroad with Charlie for a while. So no more antenatal appointments were necessary.
And she’d waited at home and tried to work out what she was going to do. She could still summon up the dulling panic that had invaded every moment as D-day approached. Charlie was coming home in two weeks, expecting to find her heavily pregnant, about to deliver their child. He’d know as soon as he held her, wouldn’t he? Wild ideas presented themselves in the middle of the night. She’d say it was a tumor and hadn’t wanted to tell him. He’d be too shocked to question it. Wouldn’t he? She’d say the baby had died. Too many questions and then he’d leave her.
“I couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving me. I had to give him a child.
“I went to Waterloo Station and caught the first train south that came up on the board. I was out of my mind, I didn’t know where I was going—I just needed to find a maternity hospital.”
She remembered that someone had stood up to give her a seat and she had smiled her thanks, lowering herself down like a pro.
“I got off at Basingstoke,” she said.
“Had you ever been there before?” DI Sinclair asked.
