SIXTY-SIX

Kate

SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 2012

Kate got lost as she drove home. She missed her turn but didn’t realize until twenty minutes later when the landscape became leafier instead of neon-lit.

“Shit,” she yelled at the road ahead. She pulled over but couldn’t let go of the steering wheel. She looked at her whitening knuckles as if they belonged to someone else.

Kate could still see Emma’s face, bright with shock in the darkness of her car, her lips trembling, making her trip over her words when she told her story.

When she shouted that it was her baby . . . Kate thought.

It had really frightened her. The noise and the pain in her voice. That was real. But was her story?

Reporters were often the first call for the delusional or attention-seekers. The sad people who want to be part of the news at any cost.

Kate shivered. Her head was all over the place, scrambling over the questions and answers, looking for what she must have missed.

“Two babies? Two bloody babies? It can’t be,” she said out loud. “What the hell do I do now?”

It was all happening so fast. She felt she was losing control of the situation. Of the story.

When Kate had first read the tiny cutting about the baby’s body, she’d hoped she’d be able to write a moving piece about a forgotten child and the personal tragedy behind its death. A Saturday read, she’d thought. A chance to get away from the treadmill of online news. But disturbing the surface had triggered an eruption of unexpected secrets.

She ought to be thrilled to have landed such a huge story, but Kate felt caught up in the torrent of information.

She knew she was the keeper of secrets: the drugging and possible sexual assault on Barbara Walker, the teenage pregnancy of Emma Massingham, the adultery of Nick Irving. She was entrusted with their hidden stories because she had asked the right questions. But what could she tell? Could she tell anything?

What she ought to do, she knew, was ring Terry to bring him up to speed, but that would mean letting go of the minute amount of control she still had. It would be snatched from her, dissected, discussed, pawed over by people who had never met Barbara, Emma, or Angela.

That’s journalism, Kate, she could hear a former boss saying. You’re there to tell their story, not to be their mother. You get too close.

But you had to get close to get the full story. The college lecturers who taught Media Studies to kids like Joe Jackson banged on about objectivity and balance, but she’d like them to sit down with a rape victim or the mother of an abused child and remain unaffected. Without empathy, without feeling someone’s pain, how could you tell a story like that and capture the truth of the situation?

The problem came when you couldn’t tear yourself away from the feelings and start writing.

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.”