The Child (Kate Waters #2)(8)

SIX


    Kate


WEDNESDAY, MARCH 21, 2012

The pub was already full of site workers, the sharp smell of wet cement mixing with last night’s beer slops, and she fought her way to the bar with a ten-pound note already waving in her hand.

“White wine spritzer,” she ordered. “What are you drinking, John?”

“Pint of bitter shandy, please.”

The man behind the bar, his eyes hidden behind heavy rimmed spectacles, pushed the full glasses forwards and gave Kate a handful of change without a word.

“He should get a refund from the charm school he went to,” she said, plonking the drinks down on a ring-stained table.

“He’s all right,” John Davies said gruffly, taking the first long gulp of his pint. “His pub is next to go if the second phase is approved. Must be hard serving us, the forces of destruction.”

“Yeah, must be. How long has the work been going on?”

“Months. Feels like years.”

Kate sipped her drink. The bastard had used lemonade instead of soda and its sweetness was setting her teeth on edge.

“It sounds like hard work all round.”

“And last week didn’t help. Awful thing.” Davies put down his glass and looked into its depths.

“It must’ve been. Was it you who found the body?”

“No, one of the laborers. Poor lad. He’s only nineteen. Been off ever since.”

“What happened?”

Davies emptied his glass.

“I’ll get you another,” Kate said.

When she returned, he was peeling the design off his beer mat, in a world of his own.

“Peter was clearing rubble behind where the houses were so the machines could get in there,” Davies said without looking up. “He was trying to move one of those old concrete urn things that they plant flowers in. He said he disturbed the ground shifting it back and forth. And he saw this little bone.

“It was so small, he thought it was part of an animal and went to pick it up to see. But there was more. When he realized what it might be, he screamed. I thought he’d cut his leg off or something. Never heard a scream like it.”

“He must have been so shocked. You all must,” Kate murmured encouragingly.

Her companion nodded wearily. “He’s very religious, Peter. Eastern European, you know. Always going on about spirits and things. Anyway, I went and looked. It was so small. Looked like a bird. It’d been wrapped in something and there were bits of paper and plastic stuck to it. I called the police and they came out.”

“Where was this?” Kate asked.

“Behind the terrace we pulled down a couple of months ago. Big, run-down old houses—four floors some of them. Bedsits and flats. The whole terrace looked like it would fall down by itself if we hadn’t given it a shove.”

He stood up. “Anyway, back to work. Thanks for the drink, miss. Remember, no quoting me.”

She smiled and shook his hand. “Of course. Thanks for the chat, John. It’s been a big help. Do you think Peter would talk to me? I just want to check some details.”

“Doubt it,” Davies said.

“Look, could you give him my number in case he wants to contact me?” she said, offering her business card.

Davies put the card in his trouser pocket and nodded his good-bye. The rest of the workers followed him out.

Kate sat in the suddenly hushed bar and began writing up her notes. The peace and quiet didn’t last long; the pub landlord ambled over to collect the glasses and interrupted her thoughts.

“Heard you were a reporter,” he said.

She looked up at him and smiled. “Yes, I’m Kate, from the Daily Post,” she said.

“Graham,” he said, suddenly matey now the lunchtime crowd had gone. “What are you reporting on, then?”

“The baby’s body found on the building site.”

Graham straddled the leatherette stool opposite her. “Oh. I see. Shocking thing. Burying a baby in the garden,” he said. “It makes you wonder what happened to the poor little thing. I mean, did someone murder it?”

Kate put down her pen and looked at him. “Exactly what I thought,” she said. “Who could kill a baby? It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

They sat for a moment in silence.

“Did you know the people who lived in those houses?” Kate asked. “The police must be busy tracking them down.”

“They’ll have a job. They were tenants mostly and they changed every five minutes,” he said. “The usual story: the owner didn’t live here—he had loads of property round here—rented out cheap. Those rooms were revolting inside. The sort of places people leave as soon as they can. Anyway, the baby wasn’t buried recently. A copper told me when he was asking around. It could have been put there forty or fifty years ago.”

“Really? I wonder how they know that? Long before your time, then?”

The pub landlord smiled, trying not to be flattered by the outrageous compliment. “Hardly,” he said. “Do you want another one of those?” He pointed to the sticky remains of the drink in Kate’s glass.

“Thanks. Can I have a soda straight up this time? I’m driving.”