The Next Girl(Detective Gina Harte #1)(4)
Back then, he’d had his first real dance with Lillian to ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus’. How his Lillian had loved The Beverley Sisters. The night ended with him having his first proper kiss. He’d brushed lips with a girl before, but hadn’t felt anything special. Kissing Lillian had been real. He remembered the moment her soft lips first touched his.
Her rose-scented perfume filled his nostrils. He wanted to hold her tight and caress her smooth skin, but he’d been brought up properly. He held his arms out behind her, not daring to touch her back. She broke away from their kiss, reached behind and pressed his hands onto the small of her back before letting a little chuckle slip as she continued kissing him. Fifty-eight years later, any mention of Lillian still made his heart flutter. There would never be another.
He crossed the road, heading towards the library. One quick look, for old time’s sake. He placed his stick on the kerb and stepped up. The street lamp above flickered before finally staying off. He stared at the door as he adjusted his focus. Back in 1954 he’d seen a sign on that very door advertising the local dance, the only local dance that year.
‘Love you always, Lillian,’ he whispered as he smiled. He squinted at the small white bag of rubbish that lay on the doorstep, sheltered by the canopy above. ‘Damn litterbugs. Why use the floor when you have a bloomin’ bin right there?’ He placed his stick against the door and held his back as he bent down. His knees creaked and crunched as he reached for the rubbish. Why was there a red sash tying up the bag? He leaned further down until his fingers reached the mass. It was a towel. He reached again and tugged at the material. Whatever it was, it was going in the bin. He was sick of his streets and community being disrespected by the youth that congregated on the streets.
He grabbed the mass and the material fell open to reveal a doll. He squinted again and reached down. His trembling hand trailed across the head of the doll. It didn’t feel like plastic. It felt like skin – cold skin. His tremble turned into a full-on shake as he stepped back and tumbled into a puddle, wetting his backside. He tried to yell for help but his heart felt as though it was beating out of his mouth. Tears fell as he thought of the little bundle that lay before him. If only it was a doll. It should’ve been a doll. He rubbed his damp backside and crawled open-mouthed towards the bundle as he reached out once again. It was the tiniest and coldest baby he’d ever seen. The streetlight above hissed and flickered back on, revealing the baby’s delicate facial features. He had to get help. It might be too late to save the poor mite but he’d damn well try his best. As he steadied his frail body against the doorway, he managed to stand and grab his stick.
‘Help,’ he whispered. He tried again and again to call out. ‘Help!’ he finally yelled, hitting the doors of the terraced houses with his stick. The light behind the third door came on and a woman answered. ‘Call an ambulance and the police,’ he said as he panted in her doorway.
‘What’s happened? Here, come in. You’ll catch your death,’ said the woman as she assisted the soaking-wet man through the front door.
‘There’s a baby. You have to check on it. Get something warm. Please,’ he replied, grabbing her arm for support as he caught his breath.
‘A baby? Look, are you okay?’
‘Yes. I’ve just found an abandoned baby in the library doorway. Please go and help it,’ he said as he collapsed on the sofa, wetting all the cushions. The woman grabbed her mobile phone and ordered her teenage daughter to sit with Albert. The girl placed a blanket over his shoulders before heading over to the window and watching her mother from the comfort of their lounge. Albert shuddered at the thought of the stone-cold baby. It reminded him of the same stony coldness he’d felt after finding Lillian’s body in bed, back in 1985, after she’d passed away in the night from pneumonia. His heart missed a beat as he gasped for breath again and wept.
Two
Gina combed her damp brown hair with her fingers. As she stepped out of the car, she pulled an elastic band from her pocket and scooped the tangled mop into a ponytail. Another bath disturbed by the job, another emergency that would more than likely be followed by another sleepless night. She spotted Detective Sergeant Jacob Driscoll’s slim, tall figure. He was talking to a woman under the canopy outside Cleevesford Library. Curtains twitched, hallways cast light onto the street and people began to migrate towards the scene. A paramedic held the tiny parcel, wrapped in a towel. He stepped into the ambulance and closed the doors. Gina shivered. That towel might be all the little one would have when they grew up. A scrap of material, holding secrets that might never leave the closely knitted fibres.
Jacob turned to face her as she approached. His thin, fair hair stuck to his wet forehead, making him resemble an Action Man figure. ‘Mrs Craneford, this is DI Harte. Mrs Craneford looked after the baby until the emergency services arrived. The paramedic stated that the baby is suffering from hypothermia and a low pulse rate.’
‘Oh, that poor baby was freezing. What an awful state of affairs. There’s an old guy in our house. He found the baby and knocked at our door. He was frantic. He’s not in a fit state for much though, seems in shock. My daughter’s making him a cuppa,’ Mrs Craneford said.
Gina looked up and down. She watched as the fine droplets of rain crossed the lamplight. Her ponytail stuck to the back of her neck, wetting her shirt. She shivered and turned to Jacob. ‘Right, ask PC Smith to knock on the doors along this street and get statements?’