which is why it has been preserved in this particular way.’ He untied his apron and hung it up. ‘And that is all I can tell you for now. He was a full-term infant. The X-rays will prove that. He was born relatively healthy and without any obvious defects. DNA will isolate his race but he appears Caucasian. I can’t tell you why he was not born in a hospital, as I can’t tell you why his corpse was concealed. His DNA should give us his mother and father, if we ever find them.’
Martha looked at Alex. ‘You’ve enough to go on?’
He nodded, apparently recovering from his initial state. ‘Plenty.’ He smiled at her. ‘We’ve got a few leads and, of course, the fact that it was found in The Mount. We should get to the bottom of this.’
‘Good. Then to work.’
FIVE
Alex Randall returned to the station and met up with Paul Talith. They spent a while together and were ready by five o’clock to face the press and make a statement for the six o’clock news. It was always better to give the press a considered statement. Otherwise they tended to write their own story.
Randall spoke in a slow, clear voice, sticking to the bald fact that the body of a newborn infant had been brought into the hospital on Saturday evening.
It wasn’t going to wash.
The inevitable questions followed. Firstly from a ginger-haired reporter sitting right at the back, speaking loudly, so everyone heard his question.
‘I understand that a woman brought the child in to the hospital. Is there anything to connect her with the dead child?’
Alex Randall kept his voice steady and calm. ‘We are keeping an open mind but it seems unlikely.’
The next question, from a tenacious blonde-haired woman from the
‘Did the baby die from natural causes, inspector?’
‘I’d rather not say at this stage in the investigation. There has been a post-mortem but the results so far were inconclusive. We are awaiting the results of further tests.’ This would buy them some time.
The ginger-haired reporter at the back again: ‘I understand the baby had been dead for quite some time?’
‘That is correct.’
The reporter looked up. ‘How long, exactly?’
‘It’s hard to be exact but a number of years.’
All eyes were on DI Randall. The reporter seemed to be staring straight at him, frowning. The next question was the one he had hoped would not be asked.
‘Why did she take the body of a child who had been dead for a “long time” to a
Alex said again that he was not prepared to comment specifically but they could surely understand that the woman had been understandably distressed by the discovery.
The press then tried to badger him for the exact location. They could find it out fairly easily, but Alex trotted out the usual statement about respecting people’s privacy. He finished with a pledge that he would keep them informed of developments.
There was a lot of muttering and the press finally dispersed.
The last thing Alex did before going home that evening was to set up a meeting with Mrs Sedgewick and her solicitor on the following morning.
Then he went home, feeling his spirits sink as he turned into the drive of his house.
Martha cooked shepherd’s pie for tea. It was one of Sam’s favourites and he would be leaving in the morning. She hoped he would pass his medical examination and be pronounced fit to play again but she was also holding in her heart that throwaway comment about possibly playing for Stoke and living at home. She was trying not to get too excited about it, but oh, how she wanted him back here. She missed having a male around the place. She loved this cooking for a hungry lad, the washing of muddy clothes and dirty boots. She loved the noise of the place when he was around because, unlike his sister, who seemed to move around silently and whose only noise was her beloved pop music, Sam could do nothing quietly. He always made a noise, stumping around in his boots, clomping up and down the stairs. And his voice, again, unlike his sister’s silky tones, was gruffly masculine. While the pie was browning under the grill she rang the number Jericho had given her and arranged for the painter and decorator to come round on Thursday evening to give her a quote for the study. She felt content.
Only one thing happened that evening to disturb the domestic heaven. At around nine o’clock the telephone rang. Martha picked it up and heard the song playing. It was one which was becoming uncomfortably familiar to her. The slow beat of Adam Faith’s 1964 hit ‘Message to Martha’. Martha listened for a minute then spoke. ‘Hello, hello.’ As she had expected there was no response except that the phone was put down softly and she was left with that creepy feeling that someone was out there, watching her, with some intent.
She dialled 1471 and again, as she had anticipated, the caller had withheld their number.
She sat still for a minute. She had been bothered by these vague messages for a couple of years now. Flowers had been left at her door. There had been an occasion when a mouse had been dumped on her doorstep. She had, at first, thought it must be Bobby until Alex Randall had drawn attention to a ligature tied around its neck. The record itself, ‘Message to Martha’, cracked and dirty, had also been left on her doorstep. This was an isolated house. Three women lived here. At times she had felt threatened by these approaches but they had never become more threatening. It was less a physical assault than someone whispering in her ear, insinuating that she should understand. Understand what? She was less frightened now than frustrated. If someone had a message for her why didn’t they just come out and say it instead of this subversive, cloak-and-dagger approach which was so obviously meant to disturb her?
Sukey came in and found her sitting in the dark. She put her arms around her. ‘Mum,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’
Martha didn’t want to tell her. Sukey wasn’t quite fifteen years old. Mature for her years but still a child. She might not be frightened for herself but she was worried about Sukey. When Agnetha left Sukey would be alone in the house from when she arrived back from school to when Martha came back from work, and that could be late. Frequently after seven. There was the half-a-mile walk up a rough tree-lined track to the house. There was no other house within calling distance of The White House. Then there were the school holidays. Long days when her daughter would be here, alone.
She chose her words carefully.
‘Suks,’ she said, ‘this is a very lonely house. Would you prefer to live in the town?’
She didn’t mention that she, personally, would hate it.
It was unnecessary. So, it seemed, would her daughter. ‘Absolutely not,’ she said with vigour. ‘We’ve got the woods here to walk Bobby and lots to see around. Oh no, Mum. I’d hate it. Why do you ask?’
Martha hid behind a half-truth. ‘It’s just that next month when Agnetha leaves you’ll be here quite a bit on your own.’
‘I won’t be on my own,’ Sukey said stoutly. ‘I’ll have Bobby. And maybe even Sam if this Stoke thing comes off.’
‘That would be nice.’
Sukey slid into the chair next to Martha. ‘Mum,’ she said in the wheedling tone that daughters use when they want to get something out of a parent. Usually a father.
‘Yes?’
‘Would you hate it very much if I became an actress?’
‘What?’
Martha was astonished. She had never really thought about what career Sukey would pursue. But the stage…?
