The Golden Fury

Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Okay, I’ve got my story, I chivy myself back to thetask at hand . I dial the number for the Daily Post and wait.

“Daily Post, how can I help you?” a woman chirrups.

“Er, can I talk to Aldira Waters, please?” I reply, already sounding like an imposter.

“Putting you through.”

“Hello, Aldira Waters,” a voice says. And it begins.

My carefully crafted opening sentence vanishes from my mind and I stutter.

“Hello, is that Aldira Waters?” even though she’s just said so.

“Yes,” the voice is crisper now.

“Sorry, it’s just I’ve never spoken to a reporter before,” I burble.

“That’s okay,” she says. “How can I help you, er . . . ?”

For a second I can’t remember the name I’ve chosen, then blurt:

“Anne. Anne Robinson.”

“So, Anne, how can I help you?”

“It’s about the baby on the building site,” I say and I hear an “Oh”

under her breath. “You see I used to live in Howard Street.”

“Did you?” she says. “When was that, Anne?”

“Well, early seventies to mid-eighties. I read your story the other week and I thought I’d ring you.”

“I am so glad you did, Anne,” she says. She’s using my name all the time and I keep thinking, Who’s Anne?

“How old were you then? Did it jog a memory, Anne?” she adds.

“Sort of,” I say. Mustn’t sound too sure. “I was in my teens when I left. We rented, my mum and me.”

I’m telling her too much. Adding details that aren’t on my pad. Need to keep to the plan.

“It’s just that there used to be a house full of d**g addicts down the road—number 81, I think—on h****n and stuff, and I wondered if they could be connected to this. To the baby.”

“Right. That’s so interesting. Did you know any of them? Can you recall any of their names?”

The questions pile up in front of me and I sit and breathe deeply while she carries on digging into my lies.

“I think one was called Carrie,” I offer. “But I didn’t talk to them. No one did, really. They got thrown out by the landlord when the neighbors complained about the mess and the smell.”

“Which neighbors?” Aldira asked.

“I’m not sure,” I say.

“Actually, it’s brilliant that you’ve rung,” Aldira Waters says. “I’m tracking down people who lived in Howard Street in the seventies to ask them if they remember anything. Any births or disappearances.”

She’s beginning to talk about what she knows and I push for more information. “Tracking who down? Who have you found?”

“Hold on,” she says. “I’ve got a list. Would you mind if I read it to you to see if you recognize anyone?”

“’Course,” I say. “It’s such a mystery, isn’t it . . .”

“Absolutely. The police seem to have no idea what happened,” Aldira says and I breathe a little easier. But then she adds: “I’m pursuing quite an interesting line at the moment.A bit of a long shot but could be an amazing story.”

“Really?” I say, my voice all squeaky. But she interrupts, reading the list of Howard Street inhabitants before I can ask another question.

Jude is on the list and I hesitate—just for a beat—before saying no. I hope she doesn’t notice and I distract her with a bit of info about Mrs.

Speering and ask her if she’s been to Howard Street.

“What? Oh yeah,” she says. “I’ve been there a couple of times—I’m going later, actually. To the pub there.”

“The Royal Oak,” I say.

“That’s it. Your old local, I imagine,” she says, and I mutter something about being underage.

She laughs and goes back to the names and when she gets to the end, she says: “That’s funny. There’s no Anne Robinson on my list.”

“No, well, like I said, I was just a child so I wouldn’t have been on the electoral register,” I say quickly.

“’Course. But you said you lived with your mum, didn’t you? She’d be on the list, wouldn’t she?”

“Umm, yes.”

“Let me have another look. No, no Robinson.”

“It’s my married name,” I blurt. I look at my pad, searching my script for answers, but there’s nothing left to say.

Must end this quickly before she asks any more.

I wrap my fist in my cardigan and bang on the desk.

“Oh, there’s someone at the door. Look, I’ll have to go . . .”

“But Anne,” she says. “I’ve got loads to ask you. Can I have your number and I’ll ring you back?”

“Sorry, sorry, I’ve got to go,” I repeat weakly and put the phone down.

I write down everything she’s said and start to plan what I’ll say the next time I ring.

It took another two days for Sparkes, Bria Irving, and the officer on the case to speak and for Bria’s DNA test to be booked.

“It’s only three phone calls,” Aldira said to Joe. “How can it take this long to make an appointment?”

Her frustration was amplified by the cat-and-mouse game she was playing with the news editor and his sudden interest in putting Aldira on every story that landed on his desk.

She had managed to kill off three of Terry’s ideas before Bob Sparkes finally left a message on her mobile. “Contact made with Bria Irving and have passed on her details to the London boys. Speak soon.”

Before she could call him back, Bria phoned. She was so agitated she forgot to say hello.

“Aldira, I’m coming up to London tomorrow,” she said. “I said I’d rather come to them than do it here. They want to test me to match against Alice . . . the baby.”

“Hi, Bria,” Aldira said, trying to sound neutral. She knew that, despite herself, her feelings for the bereaved mother had been affected by the new information from DI Rigby. He’d talked about an Bria she hadn’tknown and the words “cold fish” had stuck in her head.

“It’s great that they are doing the tests but let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.”

“Yes, sorry. But I can’t help it. You can’t imagine what it feels like, after all these years, to be so close to finding out.”

“Of course. But the news may not be good, Bria,” Aldira said.

Bria paused.

“I know. I’m trying to keep calm. But it is so hard. And I’m not even sure what would be good news. Whatever the results show, it’ll be bad news, really, won’t it? If it is her, my baby is dead. And if it isn’t, I am still in this terrible limbo. But there may be some hope. Oh God, I can’t think straight.”

“Of course you can’t. You must be going through hell,” Aldira soothed.

“It must be so emotional for you. And your husband.”

“Nick? Oh yes, he’s as anxious as I am,” Bria said.

Aldira noted the change in tone.

“Is your husband coming with you tomorrow?” she asked.

There was another pause. “I haven’t asked him yet. I think he’ll be too busy,” Bria said.

She hasn’t told him, Aldira thought. How interesting.

She moved the conversation on swiftly: “Who did you talk to in the Met, Bria?”

“A DI Sinclair.”

“And how did he sound when he spoke to you?” Aldira wondered how seriously the Met were taking this new lead.

“Friendly. But he didn’t give anything away. Just said they would do swab tests and come back to me.”

“Nothing about any forensics so far?”

“No. I’m not sure they’ve even started, to be honest. That’s what DI Sparkes said,” Bria added. “He’s a nice man.”

“He is. So would you like to meet afterwards for a coffee?” Aldira said.

Keep her close. Just in case.

“Lovely, thanks. The appointment is at ten. Mr. Sinclair said it would only take a few minutes.”

“But they’ll want to talk to you about Alice as well, Bria. It won’t just be a mouth swab. It would be a good idea to take all the documents you’ve got. Everything helps.”

“Yes, I will. Shall I give you a call when I’ve finished?”

“Great and I’ll come and meet you.”

• • •

When Aldira rang Bob Sparkes back, he answered immediately. “Aldira,” he said. “All sorted?”

“Yes, thanks, Bob. Bria is coming up to town tomorrow. She’s in a terrible state. I hope they’re nice to her. What did DI Sinclair say when you called him?” she asked, throwing in the name to show she was on the case.

“Not very hopeful. He thinks it’s pretty impossible—identifying an infant after what is probably decades underground is incredibly difficult.

Newborn babies don’t have fully formed bones so there isn’t much material to test for DNA. And what there is might be too degraded to be useful. And with a newborn you know that he or she won be on the database and so we are straight into the imprecise world of familial DNA, trying to find parents from, effectively, half a profile. It really doesn’t look likely that a match will be found.”

“Have they done any tests yet?” she asked.

“The basics, but lots more to do. He did say there were what looked like shreds of paper and a plastic carrier bag sticking to the remains so can’t be earlier than the sixties—that’s when plastic carriers first appeared in the UK—but nothing more concrete on dates. Look, don’t get your hopes up on this one, Aldira. Let’s see.”

She refused to join in with his negativity. “Of course it’s an outside chance but I’ve got a feeling about this, Bob,” she said and heard him laugh at the other end of the phone.

“You’ve always got a feeling, Aldira. Speak to you soon.”

And he was gone.

“What did he say?” Joe asked.

“Hey, are you earwigging my every conversation?” she snapped.

“Couldn’t help overhearing. And I am working on the story with you,” he said. He’s learning, she thought.

“Okay. In a nutshell: The Met hasn’t started the full forensics yet; the copper with the file thinks it’s an impossible case; babies are difficult to test; blah blah. Onwards and upwards, I say.”

Joe smiled and nodded.

“Look, while the detectives are buggering about with the DNA, why don’t we look at the Howard Street residents from the sixties and seventies?” Aldira said. “I had a funny phone call the other day from a woman who called herself Anne Robinson. Pretty sure it wasn’t her real name, but she said she lived in Howard Street around the right time and there was a house full of d**g addicts in the road. She wouldn’t leave a number or anything, but it’s worth checking out. We have no idea what happened to that baby or who was living round there. And we can get out of here for the rest of the day.

“Thought I’d show Joe some old-style investigation tricks, if you don’t need me,” she called across to Terry.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” he said, waving her good-bye. “Don’t lose him . . .”

• • •

P

arking near Woolwich Library was murder, but Aldira finally found a space and reversed, badly, into it. I hate b****y parallel parking, she screamed in her head and tried to have cooling thoughts before peeling herself off her seat.

“Come on,” she said to Joe, who was still scrolling through f*******: on his phone. “We’re going to look at something made of paper for a change.”

In the reference section he trailed behind her, his eyes fixed on his phone, as she asked for old electoral registers for Howard Street.

The woman librarian sniffed at the request— They must train them to do that, Aldira thought—but brought her the voters’ lists for the area from the 1960s and 1970s without any further comment.

“Thanks,” Aldira saidto her departing back and pulled the bulky, unbound documents towards her. The pages had curled at the edges over the years and she wondered when they had last been turned.

The residents’ names were listed by roads and house number, and she went straight to Howard Street and the terrace where the baby had been found.

“We’re looking specifically at numbers 61 to 67, Joe. The houses that backed onto the building site area. Oh, for God’s sake, put that phone down!” she hissed.

He did as he was told and sat expectantly at a Formica table. Aldira knew she was still glowing from her Top Gear rush-hour-parking challenge. It had triggered a flush and she could feel every inch of her skin pulsing with heat.