The Child (Kate Waters #2)(42)

“Yes, sorry. But I can’t help it. You can’t imagine what it feels like, after all these years, to be so close to finding out.”

“Of course. But the news may not be good, Angela,” Kate said.

Angela paused.

“I know. I’m trying to keep calm. But it is so hard. And I’m not even sure what would be good news. Whatever the results show, it’ll be bad news, really, won’t it? If it is her, my baby is dead. And if it isn’t, I am still in this terrible limbo. But there may be some hope. Oh God, I can’t think straight.”

“Of course you can’t. You must be going through hell,” Kate soothed. “It must be so emotional for you. And your husband.”

“Nick? Oh yes, he’s as anxious as I am,” Angela said.

Kate noted the change in tone.

“Is your husband coming with you tomorrow?” she asked.

There was another pause. “I haven’t asked him yet. I think he’ll be too busy,” Angela said.

She hasn’t told him, Kate thought. How interesting.

She moved the conversation on swiftly: “Who did you talk to in the Met, Angela?”

“A DI Sinclair.”

“And how did he sound when he spoke to you?” Kate wondered how seriously the Met were taking this new lead.

“Friendly. But he didn’t give anything away. Just said they would do swab tests and come back to me.”

“Nothing about any forensics so far?”

“No. I’m not sure they’ve even started, to be honest. That’s what DI Sparkes said,” Angela added. “He’s a nice man.”

“He is. So would you like to meet afterwards for a coffee?” Kate said. Keep her close. Just in case.

“Lovely, thanks. The appointment is at ten. Mr. Sinclair said it would only take a few minutes.”

“But they’ll want to talk to you about Alice as well, Angela. It won’t just be a mouth swab. It would be a good idea to take all the documents you’ve got. Everything helps.”

“Yes, I will. Shall I give you a call when I’ve finished?”

“Great and I’ll come and meet you.”

? ? ?

When Kate rang Bob Sparkes back, he answered immediately.

“Kate,” he said. “All sorted?”

“Yes, thanks, Bob. Angela is coming up to town tomorrow. She’s in a terrible state. I hope they’re nice to her. What did DI Sinclair say when you called him?” she asked, throwing in the name to show she was on the case.

“Not very hopeful. He thinks it’s pretty impossible—identifying an infant after what is probably decades underground is incredibly difficult. Newborn babies don’t have fully formed bones so there isn’t much material to test for DNA. And what there is might be too degraded to be useful. And with a newborn you know that he or she won’t be on the database and so we are straight into the imprecise world of familial DNA, trying to find parents from, effectively, half a profile. It really doesn’t look likely that a match will be found.”

“Have they done any tests yet?” she asked.

“The basics, but lots more to do. He did say there were what looked like shreds of paper and a plastic carrier bag sticking to the remains so can’t be earlier than the sixties—that’s when plastic carriers first appeared in the UK—but nothing more concrete on dates. Look, don’t get your hopes up on this one, Kate. Let’s see.”

She refused to join in with his negativity. “Of course it’s an outside chance but I’ve got a feeling about this, Bob,” she said and heard him laugh at the other end of the phone.

“You’ve always got a feeling, Kate. Speak to you soon.”

And he was gone.

“What did he say?” Joe asked.

“Hey, are you earwigging my every conversation?” she snapped.

“Couldn’t help overhearing. And I am working on the story with you,” he said. He’s learning, she thought.

“Okay. In a nutshell: The Met hasn’t started the full forensics yet; the copper with the file thinks it’s an impossible case; babies are difficult to test; blah blah. Onwards and upwards, I say.”

Joe smiled and nodded.

“Look, while the detectives are buggering about with the DNA, why don’t we look at the Howard Street residents from the sixties and seventies?” Kate said. “I had a funny phone call the other day from a woman who called herself Anne Robinson. Pretty sure it wasn’t her real name, but she said she lived in Howard Street around the right time and there was a house full of drug addicts in the road. She wouldn’t leave a number or anything, but it’s worth checking out. We have no idea what happened to that baby or who was living round there. And we can get out of here for the rest of the day.

“Thought I’d show Joe some old-style investigation tricks, if you don’t need me,” she called across to Terry.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” he said, waving her good-bye. “Don’t lose him . . .”

? ? ?

Parking near Woolwich Library was murder, but Kate finally found a space and reversed, badly, into it. I hate bloody parallel parking, she screamed in her head and tried to have cooling thoughts before peeling herself off her seat.

“Come on,” she said to Joe, who was still scrolling through Facebook on his phone. “We’re going to look at something made of paper for a change.”