MONDAY, APRIL 2, 2012
The drive down to Winchester had been easier than she’d expected, with little traffic on the normally busy M3, but Joe’s excitement about “actually” going on a story—he used the word “actually” at least a hundred times a day, she noticed—had started to get on her nerves. She almost expected him to ask, “Are we nearly there yet?”
“What are we going to ask her?” he’d said as soon as his bottom touched the car seat.
“Will she cry?” as he did up the seat belt.
“Do you think it’s her baby?” as she turned the key in the ignition.
“Did she kill her baby?” had made Kate forget what gear she was in for a moment.
“For God’s sake, Joe, shut up,” she said, moving from second to third and back to second.
“If you barge in asking questions like that, she’ll throw us out immediately. We are going to let Angela Irving talk. An interrogation-style grilling doesn’t work in this sort of situation. She’s not a politician. She’s a mother whose baby was stolen. Can you imagine what that feels like?”
Joe cleared his throat. “Actually, I wouldn’t have asked that question,” he said.
Kate smiled to herself.
“Okay, when you arrive at a doorstep, what is the first thing you do?” she asked.
“Knock?” he ventured nervously.
“After that, you noodle.”
He looked as if he was flicking back through college notes in his head. Deep concentration.
“Tell her who we are? That we’re reporters . . .”
“Okay. And then?”
“Ask our first question.”
“At the door? Not if you’re hoping to be asked in. You need to build some trust, make a human connection.”
Joe fished his notebook out of his bag and started writing. Kate glanced at the page at the traffic lights. He’d spelled “connection” wrong. She sighed and turned up the radio.
The news was talking about a demonstration in Bangkok about something or other—she hadn’t really been listening—but the word “Thailand” stopped her random thoughts.
All she could think about was Jake and his wasted opportunities. Thailand is for losers, she told herself and felt tears pricking her eyes. Stop it, you’re at work. She tensed her shoulders and then let them relax. She would have done some deep breathing, but Joe was in the car. Mustn’t show out to the junior.
Joe showed no sign of noticing her distress. He chattered on about the Olympics, his favorite football team, and who would be playing at the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee concert in a stream of consciousness that washed over her.
“Have you been to Thailand, Joe?” she asked when he drew breath.
“Yeah, it was brilliant,” he said. “Great parties.”
“Right,” she said. “My son’s thinking of going.”
“Is he? On holiday?”
She hesitated. “No, not really. He wants to find himself, apparently . . . Jake’s a clever boy. He just can’t seem to get started,” she added.
Joe’s “Oh” spoke volumes.
When they finally got out of the London traffic, she put her foot down and made it to the turnoff for Winchester in illegal time.
“I wonder how many speed cameras we triggered,” Joe said cheerfully. “Actually, it might be a record for the M3.”
Kate ignored his remarks and put the address into the satnav. “Turn left,” the commanding voice instructed. And she did.
? ? ?
The house in Bishop Street was the neatest one in the road: semidetached, a square of grass at the front, pots of daffodils and winter pansies dotting the paving slab path to the door. Kate opened the gate and led the way, smile already in place.
“Tuck your shirt in, Joe,” she hissed at him as they got to the door. “We’re here as reporters, not for a party.”
He blushed, hastily shoved his shirt tail into his trousers, and pushed his fringe out of his eyes.
“Sorry,” he said.
Angela Irving opened the door almost immediately, as if she’d been standing behind it, ready.
She looked pale and serious, smoothing her shoulder-length gray hair back and taking her glasses off. She seemed to sway on her feet as she greeted them. She didn’t wait for Kate to speak.
“You must be Kate,” she said.
“Yes, that’s right. Hello, Mrs. Irving,” Kate said. “Thank you so much for seeing me. I know it must be a difficult time for you, but I hope we can help each other.”
“So do I,” Angela said and opened the door wide to let her visitors in.
“Go through,” she called from behind them. Kate could hear Joe breathing through his mouth behind her and cursed the fact that she’d brought him with her.
In the kitchen, Kate’s article had been laid out center stage on the table. Around it were piles of neatly folded cuttings, letters, and an official-looking file.
“Please sit down,” Angela said, stiff and formal as she moved around the room, adding a third cup to a prepared tray of coffee and biscuits.
“I got some of my stuff out to show you. In case you were interested in seeing the history . . .”
Kate immediately picked up an article to show she was willing, but she didn’t read it. It was one she’d already scanned through at the office, and she needed time to think.
TWENTY-TWO
Kate
MONDAY, APRIL 2, 2012
When Angela Irving had cried on the phone, Kate thought it was going to be an easy job. She thought she would be leading the conversation, but Angela’s tears had dried and Kate felt she was on the back foot. What she had misjudged was the fact that Mrs. Irving was an old hand with reporters. There had been a number of interviews in the years after the disappearance—and that could play two ways. It could move things along if the interviewee knew what was expected and they could come quickly to the point.
But Kate preferred virgin territory to sloppy seconds. New subjects didn’t speak in clichés or repeat well-worn quotes. And with a newbie, Kate could control the interview. She liked to listen and coax, leaning forwards and maintaining eye contact when things threatened to get difficult. But Angela Irving sounded as though she had already prepared what she wanted to say.
Kate pretended to read the cutting while she watched the woman bustling around behind the breakfast bar. It all looked very businesslike, but she noted the tremble in her hand that betrayed the nervous energy crackling just below the surface. She’d manage.
“Mrs. Irving . . .” she started.
“Please call me Angela. ‘Mrs. Irving’ sounds like you are talking to my mother-in-law,” Angela said with a ghost of a smile.
“Now,” she added as she poured the coffee, “what do you want to know?”
Kate smiled at her apologetically and tried to match her matter-of-fact tone.
“Everything, Angela. If that’s all right.”
“Of course,” the older woman said quietly and sat down. When she didn’t speak, Kate leaned forwards and asked: “Are you okay, Angela?”
She shook her head.
“Sorry, I thought you would ask me a question and I’d answer it, like the other reporters did,” she said. “I thought I’d be fine. But, it’s just that ‘everything’ sounds so overwhelming. I’m not sure where to begin now.”
Her eyes filled with tears and Kate reached out to touch her arm in sympathy and relief.
“I’m sorry, Angela. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. Let’s just take it a bit at a time. Why don’t you tell me about your nursing? My mum was a nurse. Where did you train? In Hampshire?”
It was not information that Kate really needed, but she wanted to get Angela talking and relaxed before they broached the minefield of the abduction. The early stages of an interview were crucial. Get it wrong and you risked being shown the door with a notebook full of nothing.
Angela smiled properly for the first time, perhaps thinking she was being let off the hook.