The Child (Kate Waters #2)(41)

“Did you?” she says. “When was that, Anne?”

“Well, early seventies to mid-eighties. I read your story the other week and I thought I’d ring you.”

“I am so glad you did, Anne,” she says. She’s using my name all the time and I keep thinking, Who’s Anne?

“How old were you then? Did it jog a memory, Anne?” she adds.

“Sort of,” I say. Mustn’t sound too sure. “I was in my teens when I left. We rented, my mum and me.”

I’m telling her too much. Adding details that aren’t on my pad. Need to keep to the plan.

“It’s just that there used to be a house full of drug addicts down the road—number 81, I think—on heroin and stuff, and I wondered if they could be connected to this. To the baby.”

“Right. That’s so interesting. Did you know any of them? Can you recall any of their names?”

The questions pile up in front of me and I sit and breathe deeply while she carries on digging into my lies.

“I think one was called Carrie,” I offer. “But I didn’t talk to them. No one did, really. They got thrown out by the landlord when the neighbors complained about the mess and the smell.”

“Which neighbors?” Kate asked.

“I’m not sure,” I say.

“Actually, it’s brilliant that you’ve rung,” Kate Waters says. “I’m tracking down people who lived in Howard Street in the seventies to ask them if they remember anything. Any births or disappearances.”

She’s beginning to talk about what she knows and I push for more information. “Tracking who down? Who have you found?”

“Hold on,” she says. “I’ve got a list. Would you mind if I read it to you to see if you recognize anyone?”

“’Course,” I say. “It’s such a mystery, isn’t it . . .”

“Absolutely. The police seem to have no idea what happened,” Kate says and I breathe a little easier. But then she adds: “I’m pursuing quite an interesting line at the moment. A bit of a long shot but could be an amazing story.”

“Really?” I say, my voice all squeaky. But she interrupts, reading the list of Howard Street inhabitants before I can ask another question.

Jude is on the list and I hesitate—just for a beat—before saying no. I hope she doesn’t notice and I distract her with a bit of info about Mrs. Speering and ask her if she’s been to Howard Street.

“What? Oh yeah,” she says. “I’ve been there a couple of times—I’m going later, actually. To the pub there.”

“The Royal Oak,” I say.

“That’s it. Your old local, I imagine,” she says, and I mutter something about being underage.

She laughs and goes back to the names and when she gets to the end, she says: “That’s funny. There’s no Anne Robinson on my list.”

“No, well, like I said, I was just a child so I wouldn’t have been on the electoral register,” I say quickly.

“’Course. But you said you lived with your mum, didn’t you? She’d be on the list, wouldn’t she?”

“Umm, yes.”

“Let me have another look. No, no Robinson.”

“It’s my married name,” I blurt. I look at my pad, searching my script for answers, but there’s nothing left to say.

Must end this quickly before she asks any more.

I wrap my fist in my cardigan and bang on the desk.

“Oh, there’s someone at the door. Look, I’ll have to go . . .”

“But Anne,” she says. “I’ve got loads to ask you. Can I have your number and I’ll ring you back?”

“Sorry, sorry, I’ve got to go,” I repeat weakly and put the phone down.

I write down everything she’s said and start to plan what I’ll say the next time I ring.





THIRTY-THREE


    Kate


WEDNESDAY, APRIL 4, 2012

It took another two days for Sparkes, Angela Irving, and the officer on the case to speak and for Angela’s DNA test to be booked.

“It’s only three phone calls,” Kate said to Joe. “How can it take this long to make an appointment?”

Her frustration was amplified by the cat-and-mouse game she was playing with the news editor and his sudden interest in putting Kate on every story that landed on his desk.

She had managed to kill off three of Terry’s ideas before Bob Sparkes finally left a message on her mobile. “Contact made with Angela Irving and have passed on her details to the London boys. Speak soon.”

Before she could call him back, Angela phoned. She was so agitated she forgot to say hello.

“Kate, I’m coming up to London tomorrow,” she said. “I said I’d rather come to them than do it here. They want to test me to match against Alice . . . the baby.”

“Hi, Angela,” Kate said, trying to sound neutral. She knew that, despite herself, her feelings for the bereaved mother had been affected by the new information from DI Rigby. He’d talked about an Angela she hadn’t known and the words “cold fish” had stuck in her head.

“It’s great that they are doing the tests but let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.”