the girl went on hurriedly. “I’m at my grandma’s—my other grand-
ma’s. I’m in the loo, ringing from my mobile. Have you seen my mum? ”
“Here?” Gemma asked, surprised. “No. Why?” Rosemary had turned to listen, her face frozen in instant alarm, her hands still sub-merged in the soapy water.
“She left here ages ago, before dinner,” said Lally, choking back a little hiccup of distress. “She said she’d forgotten something and she’d only be a few minutes, but she never came back.”
On a blustery day in early spring, he was idling through the covered market in the town center after school, bored with lessons that were too easy, bored with teachers taken in by his excuses, bored with stupid classmates too easily influenced.
He moved from stall to stall, examining the merchandise under the watchful eye of the stallholders, enjoying the knowledge that he could easily lift something if he chose. It was all worthless tat, though, not worth the bother.
Then a basket beside the fruit-and-veg stall caught his eye. Had it moved? Leaning closer, he heard a high-pitched mewling, and what he’d initially thought was a bundle of yarn resolved itself into a mass of tiny, squirming kittens.
“Like a kitten, love?” asked the stallholder, in the too-jolly tone people used with children, as if anyone under the age of reproductive ability was an imbecile. “They’re five pounds, mind,” she added, with a smile that revealed bottom teeth like leaning gravestones.
“Just to ensure they go to a good home.”
“How old are they?” he asked, touching one of the bundles with a fingertip. A tongue emerged, rasping his bare skin. The kitten’s eyes, he saw, were blue, and still slightly clouded, as if it hadn’t quite learned to focus.
“Six weeks today. They can eat kibble, mushed up with a bit of milk. Would your parents let you have a cat, love?”
He smiled, imagining his mother’s response if he brought home a kitten. Neither of his parents cared for animals at all, and his mother had a phobia about cats.
“Oh, yes,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of coins. “I think I’ve got fi ve pounds. I could surprise my mum.” He counted out three of the heavy coins, made a face, then began sorting through the small change.
The woman stopped him with a touch on his hand. “No, no, love.
That’s all right. For you, I’ll make it three. No need to spend all your pocket money. Is it the gray one you like?” She plunged her hand into the basket and extricated the bit of gray fluff he’d prodded. “He’s a grand one. Can you get him home, or will you have your mum bring you back?”
Giving the woman his best smile, he took the kitten, tucking it into the anorak he wore over his school blazer and pulling up the zip. “I’m sure I can manage. I’ve got my bike, and I don’t live far.”
He supported the little body with one hand as he slipped away through the crowd. The kitten wriggled, then quieted, as if comforted by the warmth of his body. “Good luck, sonny,” the woman called after him, but he pretended he hadn’t heard.
Riding his bike one-handed was easy enough, but instead of turning towards home he rode towards the western edge of town and onto the canal towpath. The days were lengthening, so he still had time before dark, and the ground was dry enough that he needn’t worry about splashing mud on his school clothes. He rode north, and when the town had dropped away behind him, he stopped the bike and leaned it against the budding branches of a hawthorn hedge. Just ahead, the canal curved, and the edging had crumbled, providing a fertile hold for reeds at the water’s edge.
He came here sometimes when he wanted to think. Hunkering down on a dry hummock among the reeds, he was invisible, but he could hear a boat or pedestrian coming from a good distance away.
A faint hum of traffic reached him from the Chester Road and the
wind stirred the reed tops, but he found a sheltered spot and folded his legs beneath him. Alerted by the movement, three swans came gliding over, pecking at the tufts of grass lining the canal’s edge.
The kitten had been lulled by the movement of the bike, but now it stirred and squirmed, digging tiny needles of claws into his skin through blazer and shirt. Annoyed, he pulled it out and lifted it by the scruff of its neck, examining it. It hung paralyzed in his grip, its wide blue eyes unblinking.
What was he going to do with the thing? The anticipation of his mother’s horror had lost some of its appeal. His pleasure would be short-lived. She might screech, but then she would retreat to her room, and he would be left finding a home for the cat, a tedious task.
The water rippled as the swans moved away. When the surface stilled, he held the kitten over the canal and studied its wavery reflection. It seemed unreal, a figment of his imagination.
Without conscious thought, he lowered his hand. The kitten struggled as it met the water, twisting and raking his wrist with its claws, then the cold closed over the small gray body, and his grip held fast.
Chapter Nine
The temporary incident room at divisional headquarters had been filled with a jumble of scarred and dented furniture not needed else-where, and computers had been set up haphazardly on desks and tabletops. Wiring trailed across the scuffed flooring like an infestation of snakes, and Babcock, technophobe that he was, suspected it was almost as dangerous.
It was cold, as it was summer or winter in the nether regions of the old building, and to add an even more festive touch to the atmosphere, the room smelled strongly of potatoes, onions, and dough. Someone had obviously indulged in a morning snack of Cornish pasty. The idea made Babcock’s stomach churn.
Ignoring the discomfort, he turned back to the whiteboard set up against one wall and wrote “Baby Jane Doe.”
“Unless we hear otherwise,” he said, “we are going to assume the child is female.”
His team had made themselves as comfortable as possible, and he glanced at them to make sure he had their attention before he continued. He listed the pathologist’s conclusions on the board with a dried-out red marker that had an annoying tendency to squeak: “Six
to eighteen months old. Interred at least one year, probably during winter. Cause of death not obvious.”
One of the detective constables groaned. “You’re joking, boss.
That’s all we have to go on?”
“What? You expect miracles?” asked Babcock in a fair imitation of Dr. Elsworthy, and got a laugh from the group. They’d been grousing among themselves, resenting working on their holiday, and he needed their wholehearted cooperation.
“That rules out the newest owners, the ones doing the construction,” said Rasansky. He’d slouched in the chair nearest the board, his long legs stretched out almost in Babcock’s path.
“Possibly. Probably. But not the Fosters.” Babcock tapped the end of the marker against the side of his nose while he thought. “Although if they’d disposed of an infant in the barn, it seems unlikely they’d have been eager to sell to someone who was going to take the place apart. I’d put them on the back burner for the moment, although we’ll need to talk to them again. That leaves—”
“Excuse me, boss.” It was Sheila Larkin, the detective constable who had groaned over the postmortem results. She was a sharp young woman and Babcock was always glad to have her on his team, except for the fact that her very short skirts distracted his male offi -
cers, not to mention himself. This morning she sat on the edge of a table with her feet propped on a chair, and he had to drag his gaze away from her bare thighs. He wondered how she managed to avoid freezing.
“Isn’t it possible,” she continued, “that if the Fosters didn’t use the barn, the job could have been done without their knowledge?”
