She let him blow himself out. Interrupting meant the rant would go on longer. When he finally stopped, she said: “Come on, Terry, this could be a fantastic story—the Post solving the forty-year mystery of a missing baby. And we’ve got exclusive access if Angela turns out to be the mum. The readers would love it. Let me write it and then see what you think. Is that okay?”
Playing the submissive card at the end so the news editor thinks he’s still in charge was an old trick. But it always worked.
“Okay, okay. Are you on your way back?”
“Just setting off, but it’ll take a couple of hours and I’ve got a door to knock on the way—a copper from the original inquiry. So no point coming back to the office—I’ll write it at home and send it overnight.
“Good luck with the list,” she added. “Put Madonna’s veiny hands on it. That’s always a winner.”
Terry half-laughed. “Yes, yes. But do me a favor; ring your woman at Kensington Palace. See if there’s anything going on that might make my news list look better.”
“On it. Call you in a bit,” she said.
“That sounded a bit hairy,” Joe said. “Are we in trouble?”
“Don’t be daft,” Kate said. “We’ve got what could be a great story. We just need to let Terry get used to the idea. Right, I need to make a call to a contact.”
She dialed Flora’s mobile. “Hi, Flora. It’s Kate. How are you? Just thought I’d give you a bell to see how things are. Seems a while since we spoke.” Blah blah was playing in her head.
Her royal contact sounded pleased to hear from her. Flora loved a chat and the chance to catch up on media gossip. Kate imagined her dropping in tidbits on the state of an editor’s marriage during office time with Prince William.
She listened attentively as Flora complained about a headline in the Sun, told about one of the minor royals becoming more regal than the Queen, and, with a little prompting, tipped her off about the sacking of a royal servant.
“Selling stuff on eBay. You wouldn’t credit it, would you?” Flora said, her indignation making the line squeak in sympathy.
“No, absolutely. What did she steal? Any Vermeers? No, well, difficult to smuggle out in your handbag,” Kate said, keeping her tone light. Didn’t want to scare her off. “What a shock for everyone. Who is investigating? When is she likely to be charged?”
When Flora’s story had been completely combed through, Kate thanked her and promised her a lovely lunch before hanging up.
“You little beauty,” she crowed, forgetting Joe was sitting next to her. He looked alarmed.
“Sorry, not you. I’ve got a present for Uncle Terry.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Angela
MONDAY, APRIL 2, 2012
It was funny but it was the young lad, not the reporter, who’d asked the question she’d been dreading. Why she thought Alice was the baby on the building site. She couldn’t explain it rationally—there was nothing to link her or her baby to Woolwich—and she thought they’d dismiss her out of hand. But they hadn’t.
“Joe, my work experience boy,” Kate Waters had said dismissively when they’d arrived. But he’d been the one to really test her. Angela had answered all the other questions before.
She’d faltered when Kate had said she wanted to know “everything,” suddenly back in the room with the detectives, but pulled herself together quickly enough. That was the problem with inviting reporters in, wasn’t it? You never knew what they’d burrow into. She’d decided to mention the police decision to investigate her before anyone else did. It was in the coverage from the time so she was sure the reporter would have read about it.
Anyway, she had nothing to hide.
The police had been frustrated about the lack of leads, that was all. They turned to her when they couldn’t find anything else. That’s what Nick had said before they came. But neither of them were ready for what happened.
They’d rung before calling round to the house and Nick had come through from the hall after he’d put the phone down on the nice inspector.
“They want to come and talk to us, Angie. Something and nothing, I expect,” he’d said, but she knew he was worried.
“What do you mean ‘something and nothing’?” she’d asked. “Is there some new information? Have they found something?”
“No, love,” Nick had said, taking her hand. “Inspector Rigby said he wanted a quiet word with us.”
When the officer came, he’d brought two of his men with him, and while Angela and Nick sat with him in the sitting room, the others searched the house. Angela had sat in stunned silence while Inspector Rigby put his questions, unable to respond.
“Mrs. Irving, when did you last see Alice?” he’d asked. It was the first time for ages that he hadn’t called her Angela, and Nick had reacted immediately. On the defensive. The wrong move.
“What sort of question is that?” he’d asked, too loudly. “You know exactly when Angela last saw the baby.”
“Calm down, now, Mr. Irving,” Rigby had said. “We just want to be absolutely sure we have all the details right. You see we only have one witness and we need to check everything.”
“One witness? There were eight or nine people who came running when Angela called.”
“But that was after you said the baby had been taken, wasn’t it?” the detective said to Angela, but she didn’t look up.
“Said the baby had been taken? What the hell does that mean?” Nick shouted. “The baby disappeared. Someone must have taken her. What are you suggesting, for Christ’s sake?”
Angela had reached out to take her husband’s hand, willing him to stop asking questions she didn’t want to hear answers to.
Nick looked at her for the first time. She wondered what he saw, what he was looking for.
She knew she was weeping, but it was as if she was watching herself react. It was like the moments in her hospital room after Alice went. She’d felt completely detached after the nurses had come running. Shock, it had been diagnosed, but it had not played well with the police.
“Why isn’t she crying?” she’d heard a female officer whisper to a colleague at the door of her hospital room. “I’d be doing my nut if it was my baby that’d gone.”
But Angela couldn’t play the part. All her energy was diverted to continuing to breathe, to just staying alive. But no one seemed to understand that. And now here were the police, suggesting she might have actually got rid of her baby herself.
“Inspector,” she managed to say, and he leaned forwards in his chair.
“Yes, Mrs. Irving.”
“Inspector, I last saw Alice in her cot when I went for a shower. I told you that when you first came to the hospital.”
He nodded. “And why did you leave your baby on her own, Mrs. Irving?”
He’d never asked her that before. What kind of mother are you? was the unspoken subtext.
“A shower. I went for a shower. She was asleep,” Angela had stuttered.
The detective looked across at Nick. “What time did you and your son leave the hospital?” he said.
“Why do you keep asking the same questions?” Nick said. His voice was quieter now, his anger burning out. “Why?”
Inspector Rigby rubbed his hands on his knees. “We need to be sure we’re not missing anything here. You wouldn’t forgive us if we did.”
Angela had nodded. She wouldn’t have been able to forgive that.
“Mrs. Irving,” the inspector said, calling her back to the questions. “What would you say were your feelings for Alice?”
There was silence in the room apart from Angela’s ragged breathing.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said finally. “How did I feel about my baby? I loved her.”
“Loved?” the policeman said.
“Love her. Why are you trying to confuse me?” Angela said.
“And you, Mr. Irving? How did you feel about Alice?” Rigby said. Tone even. No drama.
Nick slumped into his chair. “The same. I’m sorry, Inspector. I am so tired; I can’t think straight.” His voice was flat and exhausted and Angela reached out to touch his hand.
The inspector cleared his throat, nervously. There’s more, she thought, gripping the sofa edge as though she was about to fall.
“I understand there have been problems in your marriage,” he ventured.
Angela looked up. “All marriages have problems,” she said and dropped Nick’s hand.
“What sort of problems have you been having?” DI Rigby asked gently.