The Child (Kate Waters #2)(88)

“What you know, I imagine,” she said. “Emma lived there with her mother, Jude Massingham, and another lodger, Barbara Walker. Barbara lives over the road now. Number 16. You went to see her—or one of your blokes did.”

“Yes, that’s right,” he said and underlined something heavily in his notes.

“Barbara said there was a boyfriend there all the time. Jude’s boyfriend. Will Burnside,” Kate offered, spelling the surname for the officer.

“Right, thanks for that,” Sinclair said, flicking through the file. “Okay. We know the house belonged to a man called Alistair Soames. He’s got form. Sex offender. Minor stuff. Touching women on the tube, hands up skirts, that kind of thing. Put on probation in the late seventies, it says. Just before he bought the Howard Street houses.”

“A convicted sex offender?” Kate said. “I went to see him a couple of weeks ago.”

Sinclair’s eyes widened.

“He lives in a seedy flat in south London,” Kate said. “I tracked him down to see if he knew anything about the case.”

“Bloody hell, Kate, is there nowhere you haven’t been?” Sinclair said.

Kate glanced quickly at the lawyer, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. She was sure Andy Sinclair had clocked it.

“The thing is, Andy,” Kate began, “Soames gave us some photos from the eighties—to help identify people—and there was an envelope of Polaroids.”

He looked interested.

“The pictures are of women and girls who look like they’ve been drugged,” she said. “You can see Soames in some of the pictures.”

Sinclair pushed his chair back and whistled softly to himself.

“And I suppose you still have these photos?”

Kate reached into her bag and pulled out the envelope. She spread the Polaroids on the table.

DI Sinclair and Kate studied each face carefully, reverently. Giving the victims the attention they deserved.

Kate was wondering if he would recognize Barbara Walker, and she searched for her in the pictures. But another face came into focus. She stabbed her finger at a photograph and twisted it round to see it better.

“My God, it’s Emma,” she said. “Emma,” she repeated. She looked away to compose herself.

Sinclair had picked up the picture and was studying it. “This is our girl?”

“Yes, I am sure. I spent most of yesterday evening looking at her,” she said, then blew her nose. “Sorry.”

? ? ?

She was sipping a consoling cup of tea when a young copper put his head round the door.

“Sir, there’s a woman—actually, a couple—to see you. They’re in the front office.”

“What’s it about, Clive?” Andy Sinclair said. “Can it wait?”

“Not sure, sir. Says it’s about the baby.”

Kate and Andy both snapped round to look at him properly.

“Who are they?” Sinclair asked. “Names, Clive.”

“Emma and Paul Simmonds,” he said, consulting a piece of paper in his hand.

“Bloody hell,” Sinclair said. “Put them in interview room 9. And give them a cup of tea or something. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Kate looked at him. “She’s come to you. She’s got something to say. God, don’t suppose I could . . . ?” She’d heard of colleagues being allowed to watch interviews through one-way mirrors.

“Forget it, Kate. This is a police matter,” Sinclair said. “We’ll talk later.”

She picked up her things and started shoveling them into her bag.

“Hang on,” he said. “Leave the Polaroids. We’re going to need them.”





SEVENTY-TWO


    Emma


SUNDAY, APRIL 29, 2012

Paul is next. He needs to know. I can’t let him find out when the police come. It wouldn’t be fair.

I don’t take my coat off when I get in. I ask him to come for a walk, to the park down the road, telling him I need some air.

“You do look pale, Emma,” he says. “It’s a bit blustery outside, but it’ll blow the badness out.”

We walk without saying much; he occasionally points out the freshly planted flower beds and dogs chasing sticks. When we get to the park gates, we buy a coffee from the kiosk and sit on a bench.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yes, thanks,” I say. “I need to tell you some things, Paul. Things that are going to come out about me.”

He looks so worried, I want to stop, but I must say it all now.

“Paul,” I say, “I had a baby.”

“But—” he starts to say but I hush him.

“Just wait, Paul. I know you think I am making this up. But I’m not. I had a baby when I was fifteen. No one knew because I hid my pregnancy. But I gave birth. And I buried the baby in our garden in Howard Street.”

Paul puts down his coffee and takes my hands while I tell him about Will. He is pale and he doesn’t move once while I talk.

At the end, he sits still, like a statue.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to bring this sort of unhappiness into your life.”

He looks at me with tears in his eyes.