“It’s a big story, DI Sinclair. Anyway,” she said, moving things out of the danger zone. “What is next? Are you setting up a murder inquiry?”
“Not necessarily. We don’t know how the baby died yet. We may never know. We haven’t got much to work with and the forensic team is only just starting on the other material from the scene. We’ll know more in the next few days.”
“So you don’t know when it was buried?”
“Not yet. Investigation ongoing.”
“Okay, and when are you talking to Mrs. Irving?”
Kate knew he’d already been to the house but wanted the officer to feel he was in control of some information.
“Saw Mr. and Mrs. Irving this morning. They’re helping us with our inquiry.”
“Any links with southeast London?”
“None we can see at the moment. But we’re looking. It was a long time ago and people’s memories are not what they were.”
“Tell me about it,” Kate joked. “I can barely remember what I did yesterday, let alone in the 1970s.”
“I can’t believe that, Kate,” he said, and she ticked the fact that they were now on first-name terms.
“I’ll let you get on—I know you must be busy—but thanks so much for talking to me. And let me know if I can help in any way. When you want to put out a public appeal for information.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m planning a press conference, but I’ll let you know when.”
“Great,” she said. “Is there a direct line I can contact you on if we hear anything at the paper? People might contact us direct.”
He gave her his mobile number and told her to call him Andy.
“Speak soon, Andy. Thanks a million,” she said. As soon as the line went dead, she turned to Joe.
“He’s onside. Let’s get on with it. Where’s that list of names from Howard Street? The police must be all over it by now.
“And let’s not forget Marian Laidlaw. Where is she now?”
FORTY-ONE
Kate
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 11, 2012
It was groundhog day at the Royal Oak. Dolly was still singing, pleading with Jolene over the speakers, and the same backs were facing out from the bar. Kate found herself being treated as a regular by the workmen who nodded silently at her. She wanted to talk to the pub landlord, but she’d have to wait until things quieted down. He noticed her and called across the heads, “Your usual, Kate?” and she laughed and called back her order.
“Can we have a word in a minute?” she asked as he put the glasses down on the bar.
“Sure. But my missus still isn’t here. She’s the one you should be talking to. She hears everything.”
She and Joe sat at the same table as the last time and he scrolled on his phone while she watched the faces around her. She loved spotting the telltale details—the stained trousers that spoke of neglect, the love bites that told of teenage lust, the disguised shaking hand, the blank eyes, the back-combed hair of someone clinging to their youth.
“Kate,” Joe said suddenly.
“Yes, Joe?” she said, turning her attention back to him.
“Miss Walker. We still haven’t seen her.”
“Yes, let’s do that,” she said, putting down her half-finished drink. “I wonder if the police have talked to her yet.”
They had. Miss Walker was fizzing with excitement when she let them in.
“I had two police officers here. Telling me about them finding Alice Irving. I can’t believe it. That little girl buried in Howard Street all those years.”
“Do you remember the case, Miss Walker?”
“Oh yes. Well, they reminded me a bit, but I knew who they were talking about.”
“How do you think Alice ended up here?” Kate said.
“I have no idea,” Miss Walker said. “Complete mystery, the officers told me.”
Joe sat forwards and handed her his phone.
“These were people who lived here in the sixties and seventies, Miss Walker. One of the families is called Walker—are they relatives?” he said and showed her the list.
She put on smeared glasses and peered at the screen but then handed it back. “Sorry, I can’t read that,” she said, and Kate fished out her notebook.
“Luckily, I used paper,” she said, raising a triumphant eyebrow at her colleague.
Miss Walker pored over the names. “Oh yes,” she said. “This is my aunt and uncle. They lived at number 61 for years. My dad’s brother and his wife. We lived the other side of the South Circular—over in Charlton. But I lived at number 63 Howard Street for a few months—in the eighties.”
“Wow,” Joe said. “So you must know all of these people on the list.”
Kate sat back and watched. He was doing well.
Miss Walker read slowly, her hand straying to pat Shorty at her side.
“Well, I knew all of the families in the terrace from visiting my auntie. Used to go most Sundays for tea when I was young. And a couple of the tenants’ names ring bells, but they came and went so quickly you didn’t really get a chance to get to know them.”
“Are you still in touch with any of the people on the list, Miss Walker?” Kate asked. “We’d love to talk to them about the area as it was then. They may know something.”
“Oh, well. My aunt and uncle died a long time ago. And they didn’t have any children. The Smiths had a son who was older than me, but they all moved north as far as I know. There are Speerings and Bakers who still live round here. I see June Speering in the Co-op most weeks. And her daughter, Sarah.”
Joe was scribbling the names in his notebook.
“Who owned the houses in the seventies, Miss Walker?” Kate asked. “When they were flats and bedsits.”
“Please call me Barbara, dear,” Miss Walker said. “A horrible man bought them. He was full of himself. Boasted how he knew everyone who was anyone. Mr. Soames, he was called—like in the Forsyte Saga.”
“Not a fan then, Barbara?” Kate asked.
Miss Walker blinked. “No,” she said, her voice tight. “He was vile. Thought he was God’s gift. He came round regularly. Chatting up the girls in his bedsits. Pretending to be Mr. Charming. But he sent his blokes round to collect the rent every week. God forbid you got behind with payments. They used to break up your furniture. And worse.”
“Sounds appalling,” Kate said. Bet he’ll have lists of tenants and their details, she thought.
“Where is he now?” she asked.
“God knows. Dead, I hope,” Miss Walker said.
“Goodness. What did he do to you?” Kate said.
“Nothing, nothing,” Miss Walker said nervously. “Anyway, he sold the houses before the prices went up. I bet he’s furious he didn’t wait,” she added.
Kate looked at her watch. “We’d better get off, Barbara—got lots to do.”
“Thanks, Barbara,” Joe said. “You’ve been a great help. Must be funny living at the center of the story.”
“Yes. And we’ve had sightseers. A woman who came and stared through the fence was the first, but there’ve been others.”
“I bet,” Joe said, putting on his coat.
“Come anytime,” she said as they left. “I enjoy a bit of company.”
FORTY-TWO
Jude
THURSDAY, APRIL 12, 2012
She hadn’t gone out for a couple of days. She felt adrift from reality, as if in a dream. She needed to find an anchor. Collect her thoughts. Needed to think. To make sense of this news.
Jude put on CDs of her favorite albums—the vinyl originals long gone—and ignored the frantic thumps on the wall from the flat next door. The music helped her remember. It was the soundtrack of her youth. Of her twenties. Of her love affair with Charlie.
She’d met him when she was twenty-eight, living in London and working for a publishing house. She hadn’t kept any photographs—she’d got rid of them when Emma started asking about her father, thinking, stupidly, that removing the evidence would solve the situation—but she could still conjure up that face.