The Child (Kate Waters #2)(24)

“I’ll probably do it on Friday,” he said eventually. “Get it over and done with. I’ll let the Major know and he can send an e-mail to everyone.”

He looked round at the office and his shoulders drooped. “Better go then.”

Terry walked over and the other reporters began to stand up.

“Good luck, mate,” the Major called across as the Crime Man picked up the bin bag containing the evidence of his career. Kate picked up her notebook and began banging the desk with it. The other reporters did the same and the subs and back bench joined in the cacophony, thumping the tables with their fists and whatever else came to hand. They banged the Crime Man out as tradition required. It was a roar of emotion in a gray new world and he wept as he left for the last time.

When the door closed behind him and the noise stopped, everyone looked shaken and teary.

“I’m going for a drink,” the Major said. “I need one.”





EIGHTEEN


    Kate


FRIDAY, MARCH 30, 2012

The Cheshire Cheese was a labyrinth of wood-paneled hidey-holes and snugs in Fleet Street. It had been the haunt of journalists—the scene of punch-ups, celebrations, and wakes—until the papers scattered to the four corners of the capital in the 1990s. Now, the Cheese sold itself as a colorful relic of those days. The new owners peddled anecdotes of historic scoops and back-slapping camaraderie to the tourists and city workers who had moved in. As if journalism belonged to another age.

But it still smelled the same, Kate thought, as she shook the never-ending rain off her umbrella and threaded her way through the standing drinkers to the private room upstairs. Stale beer and crisp breath.

The noise grew as she climbed the last stairs and burst over her when she walked into the party. The Crime Man was center stage, handing pints over the heads of his former colleagues, red faced, shouting, and sweating already.

She looked round quickly, a reporter’s scan. Who’s here? Who’s interesting? Who do I want to avoid?

Her eyes lit on the coppers in the corners. It was a real gathering of the clans. She could see the Met press office almost in its entirety—even Colin Stubbs on a late pass—and what looked like detectives from every big story the Post had covered.

“Bob,” she shouted above the din, working her way through the crowd. He hadn’t heard her.

Detective Inspector Bob Sparkes was deep in conversation with another officer. She hadn’t seen him since the Bella Elliott case. They’d spoken on the phone a few times but Kate hadn’t been on his patch in Hampshire since.

He suddenly caught sight of her and smiled. Kate felt a bit goose-bumpy. Ridiculous. How old are you? she told herself crossly. She suddenly wasn’t sure how to greet him. Handshake or kiss on the cheek?

DI Sparkes clearly had no such dilemma. The detective stuck out his hand immediately and she shook it warmly.

“Hello, Bob,” she said. “Great to see you.”

“Lovely to see you, too, Kate,” he said, still smiling. “Must be over a year.”

“More like two years,” she corrected him. She hadn’t let go of his hand yet. She gave it a final squeeze.

“This is Kate Waters, the reporter I was telling you about,” DI Sparkes said to a younger colleague. “Kate, this is Detective Sergeant Chris Butler.”

“Oh, I’ve heard all about you,” the young DS said. “The boss is your number one fan.”

Kate and Bob reddened and the DS grinned. Both started to talk at the same time, stumbling over each other’s words and then stopped. It was Bob who steered the conversation into calmer waters.

“What are you up to then, Kate? What have you got your teeth into now?”

She signaled her gratitude with her eyes and plowed on, grabbing at the details of the baby story for cover. She’d actually been working on a story about an MP’s expenses claim for the last couple of days—“An Editor’s Must,” Terry had said—but the baby had popped straight into her head. It seemed to be playing in the back of her mind like an annoying tune. Her earworm.

She started to change the subject to the MP’s sordid claims for “entertaining constituents,” but Bob stopped her, going back to the baby, asking about the progress of the forensics and the history of the area. The young DS began to glaze over and Kate could see he was looking for a getaway. Bob clocked it, too.

“Why don’t you get Kate a drink, Chris? She’s going to die of thirst, standing here with us.”

DS Butler nodded, took her order, and was sucked into the crowd.

They looked at each other. “It’s so noisy, Kate, I can hardly hear you. Old age . . .” Sparkes said. “Chris won’t be back for ages once Gordon gets hold of him. Let’s go downstairs and have a quiet drink.”

She followed him out, noting the gray hairs and growing bald patch on his retreating head. He was still sexy, though.

They sat at a small, sticky table, he with a Diet Coke, she with a warm white wine.

“So, this baby. Do they have any idea who it might be?” he said, immediately picking up the thread of their discussion.

Still not up for small talk, then, she thought, abandoning any idea of a cozy tête-à-tête.

“Not as far as I know, Bob. It’s not a recent burial, they say. Maybe historic, even, but tests are still going on. It was newborn and I’ve heard, unofficially, that the copper on the case thinks it was probably a desperate single mother back in the dim and distant past when illegitimacy mattered. I don’t think he’s that interested, really. They’re all up to their ears in the Olympics, the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, and terrorism threats.”