The Child (Kate Waters #2)(44)

Joe nodded enthusiastically from the other side of the table, and Angela half-smiled.

“Shall I tell you what Joe and I have been doing?” Kate said, moving things along.

“Yes, do,” Angela said and picked up the biscuit from her saucer.

“We’ve been looking at the people who used to live in Howard Street, where the baby was found,” she said.

“From the sixties and seventies,” Joe chimed in.

“Will you have a look at the list of names we’ve got, to see if you recognize any of them, Angela?” Kate said. “You can say no,” she added.

She pushed the list across the table. She had included the name Marian Laidlaw, Nick Irving’s girlfriend. Kate wanted to see if Angela had known her.

Angela seemed happy to be distracted from the gathering gloom. She scanned through the names quickly and then went back through slowly, her mouth working silently as she tried them out.

“No, nobody,” she said, looking up. “I am so sorry.”

“Well, it was worth a try,” Kate said, swallowing her disappointment with a mouthful of coffee.

“Anyway, what else did the detective say?”

Angela talked about the differences in dealing with the police in 1970 and 2012, and Kate drifted back to the names.

“Walker,” she said out loud, stopping Angela dead and making Joe slop his coffee into the saucer.

“Walker?” he said. “What do you mean?”

“Sorry, thinking out loud. I spoke to a Miss Walker in Howard Street the first time I went there. Old lady with a horrible dog. She could be one of the Walkers who used to live at number 61.”

The other two looked at her.

“Drink up,” she told Joe. “We’ll go back. And we can drop you off at the station, Angela. What time train did you plan to catch?”

Angela took hold of her arm. “Please can I come with you? I want to see where the baby was found.”

Kate nodded. “Of course you do. Sorry, I should have thought. I don’t suppose we could do some photographs there, Angela? We’ll need them for the story if the police tests are positive, and we might not have time on the day.”

Angela looked doubtful.

“And it could prompt someone to phone in,” Kate added.

That clinched it and Angela nodded her assent.

Kate put a quick call into the picture desk as they walked back to her car.

? ? ?

Mick the photographer rang her while she was driving, but she didn’t want to put him on loudspeaker.

His use of the F word was legendary and she suspected Angela was not the sort to be impressed by casual swearing. Let’s not scare anyone off, she thought, handing her phone to Joe to deal with.

“Hello, Mick,” he chirped. “Er, how’s what hanging?”

Kate pulled a “You boys!” grimace in the mirror, hoping to catch Angela’s eye.

“Yes, we’re on our way now. Howard Street. Okay. See you there,” Joe said, muttering “I will” before turning the phone off.

“You will what?” Kate asked.

“Nothing,” Joe said, his telltale cheeks glowing. “Just Mick mucking about.”

? ? ?

Miss Walker was out and the machines on the building site had been silenced.

“Lunchtime,” Kate said. “Let’s go to the pub and wait for Mick—he won’t be long.”

The bar at the Royal Oak was three deep in damp donkey jackets and a forest of arms was waving at the staff.

“We’ll never get a drink,” Kate said. “Let’s sit down and hope the rush is over quickly.”

Joe laughed. “I bet I can get us one,” he said. Finally, in his element.

“Okay, off you go. What do you want to drink, Angela?”

“An orange juice, please,” she said, tucking her coat under her as she perched on a stool.

“I’ll have a fizzy water—and bring some crisps. You must be starving, Angela,” Kate added.

Joe threw himself into the throng and, five minutes later, emerged with a tray of glasses and three bags of ready salted.

“I’m impressed,” Kate said and Angela laughed with her. “Now, for lesson two in being a reporter . . .”

“Actually,” Joe said, “it was easier than I thought. The pub landlord spotted you and served me first.”

Kate grinned and raised her glass to the man behind the bar. He bowed back at her.

When Mick bowled in, he clocked them and stopped at the bar first, slopping his pint as he set it down on the teetotalers’ table.

“Hi, Kate,” he said. “How’s it going?”

Kate introduced Angela and he shook her hand warmly.

There was a silence while he took a long draft of his beer, then the conversation restarted. Kate kept glancing at the door, behind Angela, to keep an eye out for John Davies, the site manager. They’d need his help to do the photos on the spot where the baby was buried.

John strolled through the door ten minutes later and nodded to Kate when she stood to greet him.

“John,” she called. “Good to see you. Can I get you a drink?”

He nodded. “Wouldn’t say no,” he said. “Saw your story.”

“Yes. Peter’s a lovely bloke,” she said. “How is he doing?”