TWENTY-SEVEN

Kate

MONDAY, APRIL 2, 2012

When they left, Angela kissed both of them good-bye. The intimacy had taken Joe by surprise but Kate had expected it. They’d been privy to Angela’s deepest feelings and thoughts and the mother felt that, in that moment, they were close friends. Pink faced, Joe had pulled back awkwardly from the embrace but Kate had hugged Angela back.

“Thank you so much, Angela. I know how hard this must have been, but you’ve been brilliant,” she’d said at the door. “I’ll call you later to sort out when the photographer can come. Take care of yourself.

“And, remember, if any other reporter calls, ‘No comment.’”

Angela had smiled, the catharsis of confession still washing over her. “You were the first to call me, Kate, so I’m happy to only speak to you.”

Kate had considered offering money, to ensure exclusivity, on the drive down. If the Building Site Baby did turn out to be Alice Irving, it would be a big story and others would go after it. She’d brought a blank contract with her, just in case, but, within minutes of sitting down opposite Angela, she could see that even mentioning payment would kill the relationship. This woman wasn’t interested in making a buck. She wanted to know what had happened to her baby. End of.

She’d have to trust her.

In the car, Joe didn’t say a word. The chirping silenced by the proximity to personal tragedy.

“You all right?” Kate asked. “That was a great talk, wasn’t it? But there is nothing screaming that it is the right baby yet. God, I hope it is Alice.”

“Yes,” Joe agreed. “How will she cope if it isn’t? Poor woman . . . ”

Kate reached over and squeezed his hand. First-time blues, she thought.

“It might be Alice, Joe, but it’s still a very long shot. We shouldn’t get too excited until the police have done DNA tests on Angela and the baby’s remains. If there is a match, we’ll know they are related.”

Joe nodded. It’s really shaken him, Kate thought.

“Come on, let’s go and have a cup of tea and call Bob Sparkes. Get this story moving.”

•   •   •

He sounded distracted when he answered the phone. “Sparkes,” he announced.

Kate grinned. This man-of-few-words thing was becoming almost a parody.

“Bob, it’s Kate. I’m in Winchester. Been to see Angela Irving,” she said.

The detective’s tone changed immediately.

“Hi, Kate, good to hear from you. How was she? What did she say?”

“She’s convinced the body is Alice. But it’s a gut feeling. Nothing concrete, she can’t think of any links to the area where the body was found.”

“Poor woman,” Sparkes said. “You can’t blame her for wanting it to be her baby after all these years of not knowing. Any news on forensics?”

“Nothing yet. But what we need is to get the Met to look at Angela’s DNA. I was going to call the detective in the Building Site Baby case to suggest it, but I was wondering . . .”

“What were you wondering, Kate? I can hear a favor about to be asked,” he said and laughed.

“It would have so much more weight if you called. They’ll hate a reporter suggesting it. And it was you who put me onto Angela in the first place. And Alice was taken from your patch . . .”

There was a Bob Sparkes silence—the sort that went on so long she thought the line had been cut.

“I could only do that if Mrs. Irving contacted me to ask about the discovery,” he said carefully. “Don’t want to tread on any toes.”

“I’ll call her now and give her your number,” Kate said quickly before he could change his mind.

“Not my mobile,” he said. “Tell her to come through the switchboard. Don’t want any calls at two in the morning.”

“No. How is Eileen?” Kate asked, trying to sound genuine. Bob Sparkes’s wife didn’t really hold with twenty-four-hour police work, according to the crime correspondents’ gossip.

“Eileen? Oh fine, you know. Fed up with my working hours. But then, so am I,” he said.

“And Bob,” she added quickly, “anything on DI Rigby?”

“Oh yes, sorry, meant to say that he’s alive and kicking and running a classic car club near Esher.”

“Brilliant. Don’t suppose you’ve got an address?”

“You know I can’t give out that sort of info, but I’m sure a reporter with your resources can find him.” She could hear the smile in his voice.

“Will do,” she said. “Thanks so much for looking it up for me.”

“Right, I’ll be in touch after I’ve heard from Angela Irving.”

The line went dead.

“Bye, then,” Kate said.

She dialed Angela’s number immediately to tell her the news and urged her to ring DI Sparkes as soon as possible. The older woman sounded excited and grateful, and Kate tried to keep her adrenaline from rising.

Her next call was to Terry. She knew if she didn’t check in, he’d call her when she least expected it. She wanted to be prepared, on the front foot.

“Kate, where are you?” It was always his first question, even when he knew perfectly well where his reporters were. The tone was always accusatory, as if they had disappeared without warning.

“Winchester, Terry. I’ve been following some leads—I told you.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” he said. Her news editor was unhappy—he’d clearly just had a tense conversation with the Editor about the state of the news list, and she cursed her timing.

“Where’s the evidence this is the Irving baby?” he said. “It’s pure speculation, isn’t it? Look, Kate, I need a splash, not a punt. This isn’t going to get the readers clicking on the website. Forget it. It’s not our kind of thing anymore. Royals or celebrities are all that matter now. It’s what the readers want.”

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.”