The Child (Kate Waters #2)(72)

So that night, she was surprised and happy to hear him come through the door.

Steve whistled when he saw her.

“Wow, look at you,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“I told you last night. I’m going to a party in Woolwich. I’m trying to find women who might know how Alice Irving ended up in their neighborhood.”

“’Course you did, sorry, love. Awful day. Nothing but bad news. Mrs. Telling’s cancer has spread. I’d only just told her she was in remission. It’s so bloody unfair.”

“Oh, Steve,” she said and put her arms round him. “How awful. It makes my day sound pathetic. I’ve been tinkering with a Sunday-for-Monday story about the Queen’s Jubilee. Guess who’s playing at the concert?”

“Is it Paul McCartney?” he said and they both laughed.

“Of course. No big occasion complete without Macca,” she said. “Anyway, I’m hoping I get somewhere with a real story tonight.”

“Hmm,” Steve said, rooting in the fridge for something to keep him going until dinner. “Is there any more Brie?”

? ? ?

He had his feet up in front of the telly when Kate emerged from the bathroom, and he wished her good luck in that maddeningly casual way he had sometimes when it came to her work.

“It’s not about luck, Steve. It’s about hard work and persistence,” she said.

“’Course it is. It’s just difficult to take it completely seriously when you have to dress up and go to an eighties disco. Doesn’t really happen in my world . . .”

He meant that his world, the oncology department of Lewisham hospital, was more real, more important, somehow. Kate bit her lip and tasted the essence of strawberry.

“I’m investigating the kidnap and death of a baby, Steve. It doesn’t get much more serious than that, does it?”

“Oh, Katie, always on the defensive. You look brilliant, by the way.”

“Sod off. I can’t be bought off with a few lame compliments,” she said. Kissing him hard.

“Hmmm. Yummy. Tastes of my youth. Make sure you put that on before you come to bed tonight,” he said.

“Later,” she called as she left with a cheeky wave, tottering out to her car on three-inch platforms and clambering in quickly so next-door Bet didn’t see her.

? ? ?

Now, here she was with an hour to kill. She didn’t fancy the pub in full eighties gear so switched on her radio and listened to Radio 4. There was an item about global warming and some old duffer was talking over the interviewer. She smiled. It was always a challenge to control gasbags in an interview. No one liked being interrupted and it could ruin the rapport.

She’d learned to silence people with body language—lean forwards to encourage and back to halt them. She hadn’t believed it when an old hand gave her the technique. But it worked time and time again.

Losing eye contact and putting your pen down were also effective but a bit obvious. Radio reporters raised a hand to stop a long answer. Interesting how we interpret signals.

Kate jumped when Barbara Walker knocked on her window. She lowered the glass, smiling at her surprise.

“Goodness, you scared me to death—I was miles away,” she said.

Miss Walker shook her head. “Sorry, dear. I saw you, sitting there, from the window and wondered if you wanted a cuppa? Bit sad sitting here on your own.”

“Love to,” Kate said and levered herself out to tower over her new friend. Miss Walker looked up at her and then at her boots.

“Look at you. Are you going to a party? Love the platforms. Where’d you find them?”

“A secondhand shop,” Kate said. “Historical footwear department.”

“Come on, then, before you fall over and snap an ankle.” Miss Walker laughed.

She made Kate put on the big hat and give her a twirl in the front room. The fuss disturbed Shorty, who barked at them both.

“Hush,” Miss Walker said, tapping his nose. “It’s only a bit of fun. Now then, do you want a Cinzano instead of tea? Seeing as we’re going all retro.”

“Have you really got some? I didn’t know they still made it,” Kate said, collapsing into an armchair. “Thank you, Barbara.”

“I’m not sure how old the bottle is, but I’ll stick some lemonade in it to jazz it up. I might even have some ice. Come on, Shorty, I’ll feed you at the same time.”

Kate sat back and wriggled her cramped toes, willing the blood to circulate again. Suffering for her craft, Steve would say if he was here. She laughed out loud as Barbara emerged with a tray bearing two tall glasses, a dusty bottle of Cinzano, a can of lemonade, and a bowl of ice cubes.

She made a big to-do of mixing the drinks and then the two women clinked glasses and took a sip.

“Wow, I’d forgotten what this tasted like. Cheers,” Kate said. “What did you used to do in the eighties, Barbara? John the foreman said you were a model.”

“Well, I did that part-time—amateur stuff, really, but I did some photo shoots for a friend who was a magazine photographer. I was really a legal secretary.”

“Photo shoots! How exciting. I bet you met some interesting people, heard some stories,” Kate said, taking another gulp of her drink.

“Yes,” the older woman murmured.