Songs of Innocence: The thrilling third book in the Hannah Weybridge series

by Anne Coates

  “It was strange seeing your sergeant, Mike Benton, in Peckham Park.”

  Claudia didn’t comment.

  “He looked different. Smartened himself up. Looks healthier too. Mind you his antipathy towards me hasn’t changed.”

  Claudia laughed. “Two out of three isn’t bad.” It didn’t escape Hannah’s notice that she had offered no explanation.

  They finished their coffee just as Elizabeth called out.

  “I won’t keep you. Why don’t we catch up over a drink soon? I could come here if it makes it easier with babysitting?”

  Hannah smiled. “That would be nice.” Her lack of a social life meant that even a visit from Claudia was a welcome distraction.

  They stood awkwardly, facing each other in the narrow hallway. Claudia touched Hannah’s arm. “Take care, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” Hannah closed the door behind her and let out a deep breath.

  Now what was that all about, Hannah wondered as she sat down and had lunch with Elizabeth. Why should Claudia make a special visit to tell her about the Somali girls? Was she checking up on her? Had someone asked the DI to look in on her?

  A half-eaten cherry tomato landing on her plate, followed closely by a shriek of laughter, ended all speculation. Elizabeth in her own inimitable way was right – she should focus on the here and now and count her blessings. Her daughter had also been a target. A fact that she would never forget.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hannah finished keying in her copy and sat back from the computer, stretching her arms above her head. She smiled. This was definitely a feel-good story. A real TOT. Triumph over tragedy. Although in this case the tragedy had been averted. She’d been to interview a woman whose son was born prematurely weighing less than two pounds. Amazing. Seeing the little boy, Alistair, now at school and looking like any other energetic and adventurous five-year-old, was heart-warming.

  Maybe The News editor, Georgina Henderson, was going soft, giving her this story. Or perhaps she was trying to edge her back to work gently. Her new contract meant she was tied to the newspaper, but it didn’t specify how many articles she had to write, which seemed a trifle odd. However Rory assured her that it was in the newspaper’s interest to keep her away from other news outlets. And them away from her. Hannah was happy with the arrangement. She didn’t want to become the story. Her monthly fee had been increased so her finances were secure – for the time being.

  Bizarrely, for the miracle baby feature, she had been paired up with Mike Laurel, the photographer she’d worked with on the first prostitute story at King’s Cross. He’d just nodded at her when he arrived and, much to her astonishment, he was brilliant with the little boy. The photos were going to be stunning. The mother had blond hair cut in the style of Friends star Jenifer Aniston and was naturally good looking. Even so it was obvious she’d taken a lot of trouble over what she was wearing and her make-up was immaculate.

  “I’ll pop a set of prints in the post for you,” Mike had said to her. That’s nice, Hannah had thought; and then remembered how he’d probably sold on photos of Princess and given her an extra tenner for her trouble. Always an eye to the main chance.

  “Can I give you a lift anywhere?” he’d asked as they left together.

  Hannah hesitated. She preferred her own company but it was a long walk to the tube station in this north London suburb, and the quicker she got home the sooner she’d see Elizabeth.

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate a lift to the station.”

  “I can do better than that,” he said as he unlocked the car. “My next job’s in Sydenham so I can drop you home en route.”

  Inwardly she groaned but forced a smile on to her face.

  “Perfect, thank you.”

  As it turned out, Mike wasn’t up for conversation either. As soon as they set off he turned on the radio. LBC. Not her favourite station but it did keep listeners up to date with any traffic problems.

  They were crossing Blackfriars Bridge, when Mike said, “You’ve had a rum deal lately. How’re you bearing up?”

  “Okay – one day at a time.” She forced herself to relax into the seat. The breathing exercises the doctor had given her helped too.

  “Don’t let yourself get bullied by that lot at The News. They may seem as though they’re looking after you, but it’s their own interests they’re protecting.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it. What makes you the expert?” She knew how ungracious she sounded but she’d had enough of people giving her their opinion.

  “Seen it all before.” The smile he directed at her seemed more like a leer.

  Good for you, Hannah thought but managed a tight smile. She wondered what, exactly, he’d seen before. Hardly likely to be that many journalists who’d escaped abduction, had a bomb planted in their house, and when that failed were shot at by a US hitman. But she said nothing.

  They had reached the Elephant and Castle and miraculously the roads were clear. Not too much longer trapped in his car.

  “I wouldn’t trust that police officer you’re friendly with either.”

  “Oh? Which one?” Hannah feigned indifference.

  Mike crashed the gears as he changed down when the traffic lights moved to amber.

  “I thought you were seeing that Tom Jordan guy?”

  DI Tom Jordan – the man who had twice turned up to save her and Elizabeth’s lives. Tom, the man who’d made her feel…

  “I’d have a job, he’s working in New York.” Hannah smiled to cover the fact that she’d cheerfully like to wipe that supercilious smirk from Mike’s face.

  The lights changed. “Fancy a drink some time, then?”

  By now they were at Camberwell Green. Hannah remained silent.

  “Thought not. My loss.”

  The silence continued until they reached Lordship Lane.

  “Could you drop me off here? I need to get a few things from the supermarket.”

  He slowed to a stop but had to double-park so Hannah could make a quick exit.

  “Thanks for the lift, Mike.”

  “Pleasure. Let me know if you change your mind about that drink.” He gave her a salute and was off.

  Hannah crossed the road and went into the supermarket. Just in case he was watching her in the rear-view mirror.

  Mike had made her feel unclean. She didn’t like him and couldn’t help feeling he was giving her some sort of warning. And it had only just occurred to her that he knew where she lived, or at least the area; and she certainly hadn’t told him. Still that would have been easy to discover. She didn’t find that thought reassuring.

  Hannah reread what she had written and made a few changes, corrected a couple of typos. She decided to have a break before sending the story in. Plenty of time. Janet was playing with Elizabeth in the garden. She watched them from the window and smiled. More sand was being thrown around the lawn than was being used to build castles.

  She made some coffee in her study rather than risk disturbing them from the kitchen. While Elizabeth didn’t know she was in the house she was happy being with Janet, but she was getting to the demanding stage – when she saw her mother she wanted to stay with her.

  Hannah checked her watch. Two o’clock. So nine in the morning in New York. Perhaps Tom had sent an email. She clicked on the dial-up for the Internet and waited for her emails to come through. Only one from Rory asking when her premature baby article would be ready.

  Nothing from Tom. What was he working on that was so important to keep him in the US? A niggling thought crossed her mind that he was prolonging his stay. Maybe they didn’t have a future and he was putting off telling her?

  As she watched her own daughter playing in the garden, she thought about the teenager who had drowned in Peckham Pond. Her family must be devastated. There had been nothing on the news and Rory said he’d heard nothing when she asked him. Suicides obviously weren’t high on the news agenda. Unless it was a celebrity or a public figure.

  Her th
oughts turned to the envelope which was burning a hole in her bag. Inside was a visiting order. To visit Paul Montague. The father of her child who had been involved in a plot against them. To his credit he had saved Elizabeth and Janet at the eleventh hour. But could she breathe the same air as a man who had involved himself with such a murderous syndicate?

  In the years they had been together, she knew he’d sailed close to the wind on some of the deals he made. Although she was never quite sure what it was he actually did. Buying and selling he’d always said. How could she have been so wrong about someone? Had love blinded her? Now she wasn’t even sure she had ever loved him. They’d had a fairly relaxed relationship. Liked doing similar things. Holidays were fun. However she realised there was something always missing. And when she became pregnant it became apparent. No real commitment.

  Hannah finished her coffee. One last read through and she’d email her article to Rory then spend some quality time with Elizabeth. She wasn’t going to waste her time worrying about Paul.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “That sounded like a heartfelt sigh.” Hannah had walked into the sitting room from the garden through the open French windows.

  Linda was marking piles of books at the dining table. She looked up and smiled but her expression was tired and troubled.

  “I was just thinking about how some girls don’t stand a chance even in this day and age. It makes me want to weep…”

  Hannah handed her a glass of wine and sat opposite her. “Looks like I arrived at an opportune time.” She raised her glass. “What’s the problem?”

  Linda was quiet for a moment. “You know our daughters will still have to fight to be treated as equals in society but they won’t have one arm tied behind their backs.” She took a sip of wine. “I have a girl in my class who’s really bright. She could do well in her GCSEs and go on to take A levels, maybe go to university. But she won’t. She’ll be lucky to scrape a D on her current performance.”

  Hannah studied her friend. It was unlike her to be so negative. She was a dedicated and inspired teacher, or so she always seemed.

  “So what’s holding her back?”

  Linda closed an exercise book and scraped back her chair. The sound of the children playing in the garden with David filtered through. Such a beautiful and unexpectedly warm spring afternoon after a period of heavy showers.

  “Her family. They come from India and have a huge network of relatives living here. If one of her younger cousins is ill, that auntie will phone and demand she looks after the child while she goes to work. Believe me it happens with monotonous regularity. This girl misses so many lessons. And when she is in school, she often struggles because she needs to catch up and she’s tired. She has to help with all the cooking and cleaning at home. It’s so unfair. Her brother is in the year above and he’s a real high-flyer. Her two younger sisters are doing better.”

  “So can’t the school do anything? Follow up on her absences and so on?”

  “Believe me we’ve tried. Nothing works. She’ll end up leaving school with virtually no qualifications and will be married off whether she likes it or not.”

  “What a depressing scenario.” Hannah sipped her drink and stared out into the garden, lost in her own thoughts.

  “You ought to write about it.”

  “What?” Hannah turned to focus on her friend. “Sorry I was miles away.”

  “The other side of the Atlantic?”

  Hannah sighed. “Am I that transparent?”

  “Yes.” Linda paused and wondered if she should say anything more, but they had been friends for years. Sometimes the truth could be unpalatable. “One thing I’ve always admired about you is your resilience and how you focus on what’s important. You cope with motherhood on your own brilliantly and in spite of everything that’s happened recently you’ve bounced back.”

  “But – I know there’s a but coming.” Hannah could feel a flush creeping up her neck. It wasn’t that she couldn’t take criticism, it was the knowledge that Linda was justified in taking her to task.

  “Well, yes. You seem to lack a sense of proportion regarding Tom. I know what you’ve been through has brought you together, but you haven’t spent a lot of time in each other’s company. You don’t really know much about him.” She smiled hoping to soften her comments. “You’ve always been so fiercely independent that it’s weird seeing you distracted by…” Linda let the thought hover between them.

  “I know what you’re saying,” Hannah said at last. “It’s just he seemed to offer an alternative to…” She didn’t want to say “being on my own” which sounded feeble.

  “And he may well still do so.” Linda placed her hand on her friend’s arm. “but you can’t put your life on hold. Waiting for something which might not happen.”

  Hannah stared into her wine glass. Tom and she hadn’t really had the chance to discover if they really did have something going for them. She took a large gulp of her drink and remembered her mother’s words: “No one will want to take on another man’s child”. That simply wasn’t true. Lots of men became stepfathers. Then she remembered Caroline and what her stepfather had done to her. But her mother’s situation was so different to her own.

  “Which is why,” Linda continued having warmed to her subject, “you should concentrate on something else. Like the plight of these young girls.”

  Hannah looked at her blankly.

  “Hello. Earth to Hannah – the journalist who wrote that brilliant piece on FGM?”

  Hannah flushed. Being reminded of that article made her think of Mia, James’s cousin who had shared her own heart-rending and traumatic experiences. And had given her valuable information. She hadn’t seen James recently and that hurt her more than she’d like to admit.

  “But I don’t know anything about these communities.”

  “‘These communities’? Oh come on, Hannah. You’re a journalist. What did you know about prostitutes? Or the homeless? Girl trafficking? Investigate. Do some digging.”

  Hannah knew Linda was right and with her new brief at The News – as a contributing editor – she had more say about what she wrote. And she was being encouraged to take on challenging subjects. The News, it seemed, liked her style and the other journalists seemed to accept her new role – however grudgingly – now that Judy Barton wasn’t there to egg them on.

  Judy had been transferred to work on the Scottish edition. Although she’d been the butt of the staff journalist’s spitefulness, Hannah couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for her. She’d been one of Paul’s victims as well and when push came to shove she’d alerted Georgina, the editor, about what was happening.

  Hannah still felt nauseous when she remembered the moment when she thought Elizabeth and Janet had been killed in an explosion…

  “I suppose I could ask around. One of my neighbours is Indian. Well she’s British, lived here all her life. Still it would be a starting point…”

  “It would. Now, how about a top-up?”

  Hannah passed her glass. As Linda poured more wine she asked, “Have you seen much of Joe since his elevation?”

  Hannah laughed. Joe Rawlington’s plan to stand for the local council had been turned on its head when a by-election was triggered by the sudden resignation of the sitting Tory MP soon after Hannah’s exposé on the trafficking of young girls from Somalia into Europe. The reason Liz had been murdered. And Father Patrick. And Sam Lockwood. The trail of deaths that was supposed to have included her own. Hannah’s laughter quickly faded at the memories.

  Joe had been persuaded, somewhat reluctantly it had to be said, to contest the seat. And he had decided to come out about his sexuality. No skeletons in his cupboard. Much to his amazement, he won by a landslide. Tory policies were not popular and John Smith looked set to take over the keys to Number 10 at the next election. A new era was emerging and Joe fit the bill perfectly in spite of his reservations.

  “No, but I’m going to meet him at the House next week. See how
he is faring in his new surroundings.” Hannah smiled at the thought. She was so pleased for him – and his new partner whom she still hadn’t met.

  “How about seeing me in mine?”

  Hannah looked perplexed. Linda was so much part of her home and family she couldn’t really imagine her anywhere else. Fortunately she realised how patronising that thought was and didn’t give voice to it.

  “You mean at school?”

  “Yes. Why don’t you come and give a talk about working as a journalist? I’m sure the pupils would be interested. I would.”

  Hannah hesitated only a moment. “Sounds like a plan – I’ll be able to see what you’re really like in front of a classroom full of kids instead of brandishing a red pen from behind a tower of exercise books.”

  Linda smiled. “I’ll check out some dates and get back to you.” She raised her glass. “My mission is accomplished.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  One of the men shoved her and her open-toed sandal caught on the uneven ground. She struggled to stay upright but had stopped fighting now. She had no energy left to resist. All she could do was pray – pray that it would be over quickly. Her body throbbed with pain in places she didn’t know could feel such agony. Each breath brought a new spasm. Her shirt was torn and her trousers had been ripped apart. Her hair had been shorn. She had no will to live now. She was dead inside. Whatever else they did to her could not be worse than what she had already suffered.

  She felt the prod of the ceremonial sword that they had used to chop off her hair. The tunnel must come to an end soon. She tried to remember where did it lead? Towards the pond in Sydenham woods?

  What had she done that was so offensive that she should be abused in this way? She thought of her mother. Such a gentle kind woman. Beautiful. Her father, tall and proud. Handsome. Everyone said that.

  Why hadn’t they protected her? Where were they?

  She fell. A sandaled foot kicked her in the groin. “Get up,” the perpetrator hissed.

  Rolling on to her hands and knees, she managed to stand and stagger forward. Her heart was drumming in her ears. Her nose was bleeding and she wiped a hand across her face, wincing as it touched one of the bruises on her cheek. She couldn’t go on much further. What more could they do to her? She sank to her knees then toppled forward descending into oblivion.