The Child (Kate Waters #2)(43)

In the reference section he trailed behind her, his eyes fixed on his phone, as she asked for old electoral registers for Howard Street.

The woman librarian sniffed at the request—They must train them to do that, Kate thought—but brought her the voters’ lists for the area from the 1960s and 1970s without any further comment.

“Thanks,” Kate said to her departing back and pulled the bulky, unbound documents towards her. The pages had curled at the edges over the years and she wondered when they had last been turned.

The residents’ names were listed by roads and house number, and she went straight to Howard Street and the terrace where the baby had been found.

“We’re looking specifically at numbers 61 to 67, Joe. The houses that backed onto the building site area. Oh, for God’s sake, put that phone down!” she hissed.

He did as he was told and sat expectantly at a Formica table. Kate knew she was still glowing from her Top Gear rush-hour-parking challenge. It had triggered a flush and she could feel every inch of her skin pulsing with heat.

“Are you all right, Kate?” Joe said. “You look a bit red.”

“I’m fine. Bit hot in here, that’s all,” she said tetchily.

“Oh right,” Joe said.

She knew what he was thinking. Menopause. And for menopause, read old, irrational, past it, a woman. She bridled, furious that he was judging her professionalism on her estrogen levels. He probably couldn’t even spell “estrogen.” But the lecture would have to wait. She had work to do. She forced a smile and thought cold thoughts to make the flush recede. She’d read about it in a well-woman leaflet once. Nonsense but anything was worth a go.

She pushed the 1960s towards him. “You do this lot. Write down the names and dates of everyone who lived in the terrace. And at number 81—the drug den. Then we’ll look for where they are now when we get back to the office.”

She pulled the 1970s towards her.

After ten minutes, they had a list. It was shorter than Kate had thought—the folks of Howard Street had been long-term residents in the sixties and the transition from family homes to rented bedsits and flats had taken a few years after that.

“How many have you got?” she asked.

Joe counted them slowly. “Twelve,” he said. “Nobody moved in or out. Married couples, I think, with adult children, maybe.”

“Great,” she said. “Any names we know? Laidlaw for instance?”

“No. One of the families was the Smiths, at number 65.”

“Damn,” she said, too loudly, alarming the man reading the Times at the next table.

“Sorry,” she mouthed.

“Any more unusual names?” she asked Joe. “‘Smith’ is a nightmare.”

“Speering, Baker, and Walker,” he reeled off.

“Right,” she said, checking her notes. “I’ve got two of the same families in the early seventies. But everything was changing. Look, six different names for number 63 by 1974—and they are all singletons. People moved on every couple of years.”

“The people at 81 don’t look very interesting,” Joe said. “It’s the same couple throughout the sixties.”

“And then no names on my list. The woman who rang in said they were squatters or something, so there’s unlikely to be an official trace. We’ll ask around. We’ve got our hands full anyway.”

Joe ran his finger down the page. “There are loads of them. How will we find them?”

“We don’t need to find all of them. Just some. You’ll see. Find one person and they’ll lead you to others. Have a little faith, Joe.”

Kate tidied up her careful notes and Joe photographed the pages with his mobile phone.





THIRTY-FOUR


    Kate


THURSDAY, APRIL 5, 2012

Angela looked different somehow when she emerged from the revolving doors. She looked older.

“The tests have all been done. Now we just have to wait,” she told Kate. “I feel completely drained.”

Kate slipped her arm through Angela’s and squeezed it.

“It’s a big thing to do, Angela. You are being very brave. Come on, let’s get you a coffee and you can tell me all about it.”

Joe offered to carry her bag of documents and led the way round the back of Westminster Abbey to the café Kate had picked earlier.

Angela slumped down in her seat and wrapped her hands round her cup to warm them.

“Have I done the right thing, Kate?” she said finally. “I’m not sure I want to know the answer now. I’m scared.”

“It is going to be difficult whatever they find,” Kate said, leaning forwards. “But at least there is a chance the waiting will be over.”

Angela nodded. “Yes, that’s true. I need that to be over. It is killing me. Slowly.”

Joe pushed a pack of biscuits across the table towards her. “Have one of these, Angela,” he said.

He doesn’t know what else to do, Kate thought. Hasn’t done grief before, I suppose.

“Thanks, dear,” Angela said and took one. “I’m sorry I’m being so negative,” she added.

“You’re not, Angela,” Kate said. “What you are feeling is perfectly natural. I don’t know how you’ve kept going over all these years. You are amazing.”