The Child(82)

“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.”