She needed a moment. She needed an adult voice to tell her everything was going to be okay. I need my dad, she thought and almost laughed. Pull yourself together, for God’s sake.
She phoned her husband’s mobile and crossed her fingers he would still be up. Steve answered immediately.
“Hello, Katie,” he said. “Is everything all right??”
She burst into tears. She hadn’t known she was going to but the sound of his voice triggered a release of the emotions she had been keeping in check all day.
“What’s happened? Are you okay?” Steve said, anxiety rising in his voice. She never cried.
“Everything’s fine. Sorry, love, it’s just been an incredibly stressful day and it was so brilliant to hear you.”
“So brilliant that it made you cry?” Steve laughed. “I have that effect on far too many people.”
She calmed down and told him what had happened, listening carefully for his reaction, alert for censure. She needed his reassurance that she hadn’t gone too far.
“You must talk to the police, Katie,” he said. “This is getting way beyond an investigation by a reporter.”
He was right. Of course he was right.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it now.”
She looked at the display on the dashboard. It was just before midnight. Just after. Could she ring Bob Sparkes? Eileen would kill him. She dialed the number and held her breath.
He picked up on the second ring. Police training. His voice was blurry with sleep as he said “DI Sparkes,” but he clicked into gear as soon as she spoke.
She heard him put his hand over the phone and say, “It’s work, love. I’ll go downstairs.” Eileen neutralized.
“Kate, it’s the middle of the night,” he said as he walked downstairs. “This had better be important.”
“It is, Bob. I’m sorry it’s late, but I had to talk to you.”
“Go on then,” he said.
“I’ve just spoken to a woman who says she had a baby when she was just fifteen. In 1985. No one else knew. She hid the pregnancy. She was living at 63 Howard Street and she buried it in the garden.”
“The same garden that Alice was buried in?”
“Yes.”
“Christ. Do you believe her?”
“It sounded very real, Bob,” Kate said. “But we only have her word.”
“So was it Alice she buried? Did she take her?”
“She can’t have done, Bob. She wasn’t born when Alice was taken.”
“No, of course not. Sorry, it’s the middle of the night—brain not working. But she could have buried her in 1985. She could have found her body and buried it.”
“A fifteen-year-old? Really? I don’t know what to think, Bob,” Kate said.
“Well, how likely is it there were two babies buried in that garden? For goodness’ sake, ring Andy Sinclair now, Kate. Don’t try to work it out yourself. This is too complex. Ring him now, or I will.”
Kate clutched the phone tighter. “I will, Bob. Thanks for listening to me.”
“Text me after you’ve spoken to Andy.”
He doesn’t trust me to call it in, Kate thought as he hung up.
? ? ?
DI Sinclair wasn’t asleep. Kate wondered if he was still at work when he picked up his phone with a crisp “Sinclair.”
“Andy, its Kate Waters,” she said. “Sorry to bother you at this hour.”
“That’s okay, Kate. You’re working late. But so am I. Catching up on paperwork. You didn’t wake me.”
She told him exactly what she’d told Sparkes and he let her come to the end before he spoke.
“Who is she, the woman who says she buried the baby?” he said.
“Emma Massingham—well, that’s her maiden name. She’s Emma Simmonds now.”
He scribbled down Emma’s name and address, checking the house number twice.
“Did you tape the conversation?”
“My tape was running—I switched it on while she was talking—but I haven’t listened yet.”
“Please do that now,” he said. Kate pulled the recorder out of her bag and rewound. The sound wasn’t great but Emma’s voice was audible. She put the recorder to her phone so DI Sinclair could hear.
“It’s my baby in the garden. My baby,” the voice shrieked.
“She sounds distraught. What state was she in when you left her, Kate?” he asked.
“Calmer but fragile,” Kate said.
“And do you think she’s telling the truth about her pregnancy?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Andy. I mean, how can she be? There can’t be two babies, can there?”
“Extremely unlikely. She may be an attention-seeker, Kate. It happens. Look, leave this with me, but you need to come in and make a statement tomorrow—God, today—and keep that recording safe.”
“What are you going to do, Andy?” she asked.
“I’m going to talk to my boss. What about you?”
“I’m not writing anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I am,” he said. “This is clearly a vulnerable woman. We mustn’t push her over the edge.”
Kate swallowed hard. She’d pushed her, hadn’t she? Was this “dabbling her fingers in the stuff of other people’s souls”—the Press Complaints Commission’s verdict on the media’s treatment of Princess Diana?
“Will you let me know what you decide to do, Andy? Please,” she said.
“We’ll speak tomorrow. I’ll ring you. Good night.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
Jude
SUNDAY, APRIL 29, 2012
Emma didn’t ring before she appeared. She just turned up at the door at the crack of dawn. Said she knew Jude would be up.
“Lucky I’m a creature of habit, then,” Jude said, her voice prickly. She’d wanted to sound pleased, but her nerves got the better of her. Why has she come? was rattling round her brain. She had to practically beg her daughter to visit usually.
She ushered Emma in and hurried into the kitchen to make her a cup of coffee. She hadn’t even waited for the kettle to boil, slopping warm water onto the instant coffee in her haste to hear what was coming.
She plonked the cup of grayish liquid down beside her daughter and stood over her, unable to settle anywhere.
“Sit down, Jude, for goodness’ sake,” Emma said. She looked different today. No soft edges. No blurred eyes. Jude perched on the arm of a chair.
“Look, I can see you are working yourself up to say something, Emma. Just say whatever it is,” she snapped.
Emma looked up from the table but did not speak.
“Is there a problem with Paul?” Jude asked, trying to keep the anticipation out of her voice. “You know he rang me, in a state about the things you were saying. About the baby in Howard Street. I told him it was nonsense. Is he leaving you? Is that what this is about?”
“No, Jude. Of course not. He loves me,” Emma said quietly.
And Emma had looked at her. Fixing her with her eyes as if she was seeing her for the first time.
“I want to talk about what happened when I was fourteen, Jude.”
Jude’s stomach turned. “For goodness’ sake, Emma. Do we have to revisit that? Again?” she said. “I’d have thought you would want to put it behind you, not pick over it obsessively. It was a nightmare. Let’s not go there.”
Emma’s gaze didn’t falter.
“It was,” she said. “But did you never ask yourself why my behavior was impossible? Why I changed from being the good daughter?”
“Hormones and adolescence. You were a difficult teenager. You just had it worse than others,” Jude said, her pat response, and started knitting her fingers together.
“No,” Emma said firmly. “Something happened to change me.”
“What? What happened?” Jude said.
“I was raped.”
There was a beat before Jude spoke. “Oh God, why are you saying this? Is this another one of your stories?” She closed her eyes against the answer.
“Will did it,” Emma said, as Jude knew she would.
She tried to keep control of the outrage screaming in her head and stay calm.
“Of course he didn’t. Don’t be ridiculous, Emma,” she said. “Will was very fond of you. He couldn’t do enough for you and he put up with all your nonsense. You are obsessed with him. You are not well. Have you taken your pills today?”
Emma didn’t react; she simply carried on, her eyes burning into her mother’s.