Her Sister's Child

by Alison James

‘Mrs Glynn? Tamara Granger from Hendricks.’

  ‘Oh. Hi.’

  ‘Is this a good moment?’

  ‘Yes.’ For once, thinks Marian. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve got some great news. One of the couples who came on Thursday, the Evershotts, have offered full asking. And they’ve already sold, so they’ll be able to complete quickly.’

  ‘Goodness,’ says Marian, sitting down on the edge of the bath. ‘That is great news. Thank you.’

  After she’s finished cleaning, she goes and sits at the desk in the spare room. The silence in the house is unnerving her, as is her relative leisure. No bottles to make up, or nappies to change. She opens her laptop to draft her letter of resignation to Haringey Social Services, then gets distracted looking at property in Brighton. She’s calculated exactly what she will be able to afford with half of the huge sum they have just been offered but nothing much appeals, until she scrolls down to a pretty early Victorian villa, rendered in palest blue with a bright red front door. It’s near the seafront, and has a small, enclosed garden.

  Marian clicks through the photos. There, in the garden, is the most adorable little purpose-built Wendy house. And sure enough, one of the bedrooms has been decorated for a girl, with walls painted sugar pink. There’s a rocking horse in the window and a doll’s house next to the canopied bed. It’s the perfect room for a little girl to grow up in. A little girl like Saffron.

  She slumps back in her chair, the ache in her chest so overwhelming, it’s as though she has been violently struck. What has she just done? She acted when she was out of her mind with tiredness, not thinking straight: only thinking of the now, not the future. Yes, babies cry; they’re hard work. Everyone says so. But the point is that they don’t stay babies forever. They grow into little girls; little girls who play with dolls’ houses and rocking horses. And yes, Kate Fletcher’s curiosity was a problem, but she could surely have come up with a solution. She and Saffron could have gone to stay somewhere else while the house was sold. A hotel perhaps, or a holiday let. They still can.

  Hurrying out to the car, she drives straight to the Whittington and dumps the car haphazardly in the car park. Marian has avoided reading or listening to the local news, in case there’s an appeal for an abandoned baby girl’s mother to come forward. Too painful, too shaming. But if Saffron’s still here – and where else would she be? – she’ll be in a nursery on the postnatal ward, being cared for by midwives. The possibility that she has already been fostered looms in her mind, but no, it’s too soon for the local social services to have organised that. She should know.

  The maternity unit has a security lock, but Marian tags along behind a group of visiting relatives with armfuls of flowers and helium balloons, and follows them in to the ward. She knows from having visited her clients in hospital in the past that the nursery is somewhere near the central nursing station. She marches down a corridor as though she knows where she’s going, but only finds four-bedded bays full of new mothers lying on their beds like beached seals, their babies beside them in their clear plastic cribs. It must be in the other direction.

  As she turns back, she hears it. A strident cry, different from the muffled mewing of the newly born. Marian has enough first-hand experience to recognise the cry of a nine-week old. It’s her. It’s Saffron, it has to be. She heads in the direction of the cry, reaches the door marked ‘Nursery’ and grabs the door handle.

  Saffron. I’m here. Mummy’s here.

  Suddenly, a midwife is at her elbow, her face stony.

  ‘Excuse me? Can I ask where you’re going? Are you visiting someone?’

  ‘Yes. A friend.’

  ‘And her name?’

  ‘Um, she’s…’ Marian’s mind goes completely blank. ‘Farzeen. Farzeen Coker.’

  Farzeen’s baby isn’t due for another few weeks, but she’s the only pregnant woman Marian can think of. She tries to scuttle back down the corridor, but the midwife blocks her path. ‘Just a moment, please.’

  Eye contact is made between her and the midwife at the nursing station, and she mouths ‘Code Blue’ to her colleague. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a security guard appears.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises, madam.’ He grabs her elbow and steers her in the direction of the lifts, ushering her into one and riding with her down to the ground floor.

  ‘This way.’ He shepherds her towards the exit door, adding in a slightly kinder tone, ‘I wouldn’t go up to the maternity floor without authorisation if I were you. They’ve got cameras everywhere.’

  Afraid to walk straight back to her car in case the guard takes a note of her registration, Marian loiters at the side of the building until he’s moved on. The last thing she can afford is for the hospital authorities to identify her, for someone to pay her a visit. They’ll be waiting for the abandoned child’s birth mother to come back for her, as they so often do.

  Only when she’s sure he must have gone does she cross the car park and slide into the driver’s seat. She hangs her head, beating the steering wheel with frustration, and weeping.

  When Marian gets home, the browser on her laptop is still opened on the online details of the lovely Victorian villa in Brighton.

  Marian shuts it down hastily, before the picture of the little girl’s bedroom can torment her further. There’s no point requesting a viewing now. She could never be happy in a place like that: not on her own. No, a property suitable for a middle-aged single woman awaits her. A nice, low-maintenance flat.

  The doorbell rings. She splashes cold water on her face and goes down to open it. Probably Kate from next door, checking that she’s not harbouring illicit children.

  It’s Tom.

  ‘Hi!’ He’s looking conspicuously tanned and healthy, and wearing a shirt Marian has never seen before. Her husband hates shopping for clothes, so she probably bought it. ‘Can I come in for a minute?’

  She steps back and lets him in without speaking.

  ‘The agent said we’ve had an asking price offer… so we need to go ahead and formally accept, sign the memorandum of sale or whatever. I take it that’s okay.’

  ‘Yes. Fine.’

  ‘And we need to have a discussion about the house contents. Apart from my desk there isn’t really any furniture I want. So take what you want with you and get rid of the rest… maybe to charity? Apparently the buyers want us to include the kitchen dresser in the sale.’

  Marian shrugs. ‘Okay. I don’t particularly want to keep it. It’s too bulky to take to a smaller place.’

  ‘Great. We can get it added to the list of fixtures and fittings.’ Tom forces a smile, but there is anxiety below the surface. She senses it. ‘The other reason I’ve called round is… look, this is awkward, but I had a phone call.’

  She raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, folding her arms across her chest.

  ‘Your colleague, Angela, called me. She said she’d been round here to see you, and the visit had left her very concerned. You’ve not been to work in over two months, apparently? She was… well, quite frankly, she was worried about your mental state.’

  ‘My mental state is fine,’ Marian says tightly. ‘I’ve just had my marriage fall apart on me, that’s all. Not like that’s a big deal or anything. I mean, why on earth would I be upset?’ She marches to the front door and yanks it open, stands there waiting for him to leave.

  ‘Marrie, if you need professional help or anything—’

  ‘I don’t. I’m fine.’

  Tom gives a helpless shrug and heads towards the door. ‘All right, I just wanted to check. I do still care about you, you know.’

  He heads down the path towards the car. Marian squints after him, trying to work out why what she’s seeing is disturbing her. And then she realises. There’s now a child seat in the back. A chill runs up her spine.

  ‘Hold on a minute!’ She follows him outside. ‘Why the hell have you got that in the back seat?’

&nbs
p; ‘It’s for Lucy.’

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘Vanessa’s daughter from her first marriage. She’s just turned four.’ He has the grace to look sheepish.

  Marian stumbles backwards, as though someone has punched her in the solar plexus. The glamorous Vanessa, in her mind, had always been the single-minded career woman; the girl about town that Tom will eventually tire of. But no. Vanessa is a mother. He now has his family. Just as she’s lost the chance to have hers.

  He unlocks the car. ‘I’ll give you a call about the paperwork, and collecting the desk.’

  ‘No!’ Marian spits. ‘From now on, anything to do with the house sale needs to come from the solicitor. I don’t want to hear from you directly again. Not ever.’

  And she picks up a plant pot from the front step and hurls it in her husband’s direction with as much force as she can muster.

  PART THREE

  2019

  38

  Paula

  Paula opens the door to leave for work, and finds DI Stratton on her doorstep.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Donnelly,’ he says cheerfully. He looks dapper in a dark grey overcoat. ‘Thought I’d come and update you in person.’

  ‘Come in.’ She beckons him through to the hall. ‘But please, call me Paula.’

  He follows her into the kitchen and she puts the kettle on. He notices the tangle of school bags and sports kit in the corner, the artwork pinned to the fridge door with a random assortment of magnets. ‘You’ve got kids of your own?’

  ‘Two,’ Paula tells him. ‘Fourteen and twelve. And if they don’t get going, they’re going to be late for school.’

  ‘And your husband… what does he do?’

  ‘I’m divorced.’ She holds up a packet of teabags, and he nods.

  ‘So the man who came to the station with you… Mr Shepherd… he’s your partner?’

  Paula turns away to fill the teapot, feeling her cheeks go pink. This is ridiculous, she thinks, they’re both consenting adults. They’re not kids. ‘Um. Sort of. Well, not really.’ They haven’t slept together, after all. ‘More of an old family friend.’

  He raises his eyebrows fractionally as she hands him the tea, but does not pursue it, instead waiting for her to sit down opposite him at the kitchen table.

  ‘Okay… the first thing. The forensic lab has done testing on the infant’s remains. Comparison with your DNA confirms twenty-five per cent of it is shared with you, which is consistent with a match to the child of your sibling. In other words, we are confident this was your nephew.’

  Paula hangs her head, feeling tears closing off her throat. So it was true. Johnny’s hunch had been right.

  ‘The size and level of decomposition of the bones are consistent with a child no more than a few weeks old being buried somewhere between ten and twenty years ago. Obviously, with decomposition over a long period, it’s difficult to be more accurate about how long they… he… had been there.’

  Stratton pauses like the experienced professional that he is, to give her time to absorb this news.

  Paula sniffs and drags a tissue over her eyes, before lifting her head to face him again. ‘So, what about her? The social worker, Marian Glynn. He was buried while she lived at that house and she was Lizzie’s caseworker when he was born; that can’t be a coincidence. It has to be her doing, surely?’

  ‘Ah, well, that was the next thing I was coming to. Officers from Sussex Police went round to Mrs Glynn’s flat in Hove, but she wasn’t at the property. Eventually they forced entry, but the place was empty. Her car isn’t there, and items like phone and laptop were missing, implying she had left the place voluntarily. We spoke to her neighbours, and no one recalled having seen her lately. That said, she seems to have kept herself to herself anyway. She had no visitors apparently, and was described by the people my officer spoke to as a “loner” and an “oddball”.’

  ‘So she’s just vanished? What happens now?’

  ‘I’ve managed to get a detective based at the cop shop down there, one DC Jasmine Khatri, interviewing her colleagues and examining as much local CCTV as she can get her hands on. She’s checking for the car, and also any footage from local railway stations. We’ll obviously stay in close contact with them in the meantime. But with just one officer allocated to the case… nothing’s going to happen very quickly, unless we get a lucky break. Or…’

  Paula was one step ahead of him. ‘Crimewatch, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Exactly. We break the story in the news, name her as a person of interest and ask people to come forward. It usually brings results. But…’ He turns down the corners of his mouth in an expression of regret. ‘It will mean mentioning the baby being found. And any story like that, as I’m sure you’re aware, generates a huge amount of press interest.’

  Paula pictures her children being pursued as they leave school, seedy reporters hammering at her mother’s door. Her mother will be furious, with her and with Lizzie. ‘Do you have to involve us? My mum’s health isn’t the greatest. She’s suffered badly with depression. Since my sister died.’

  ‘For the time being, I think we can avoid naming your sister as the birth mother. But probably not forever. Let’s see where we get with finding Mrs Glynn first, and what an appeal for her whereabouts throws up. An investigation like this involves pulling on more than one loose thread.’

  ‘Speaking of which…’ Paula stands up. ‘D’you mind just waiting here a minute.’ She runs upstairs to the airing cupboard and comes downstairs again with the pink baby blanket. ‘Look,’ she says, pointing to the embroidered letter. ‘It’s exactly like the one the baby boy was wrapped in, except it’s an “S” rather than an “N”.’

  Stratton reaches into his pocket for a pair of latex gloves before taking it from her and examining it. He goes outside to his car to fetch an evidence bag. ‘And you got this… where exactly?’ he asks, when he comes back into the house.

  ‘Twenty-one Ranmoor Road. Alice Evershott gave it to me. She found it there when she moved in.’

  ‘I’ll get forensics back to Ranmoor Road for a full search, but if we don’t turn up any evidence there, I’m not sure we’ll be able to get far tracing a second baby. At least, not without talking to Marian Glynn.’

  ‘What about her ex-husband?’

  Stratton gives a brief smile. ‘We’re already making arrangements to speak with Mr Glynn.’

  As soon as he’s left, Paula phones Johnny and repeats as much as she can remember from her conversation with DI Stratton.

  ‘That’s where the plod’s wrong,’ Johnny says, confidently.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Saying there’s no chance of finding the other baby. I reckon we can do it. We’ve done it once; why shouldn’t we do it again?’

  ‘Okay if I leave a bit early?’ Paula asks Calum.

  ‘Sure, Jody will buzz people in,’ he replies. Jody often covers reception for Paula when she’s not there.

  It’s four thirty, and Johnny has asked her to meet him at Wood Green library before it closes at six o’clock.

  ‘You look nice,’ he says with a grin, when he meets her. He looks her up and down, taking in the grey fitted dress and high heels she wore to work.

  ‘So, why are we here?’

  ‘Today, young Paula, we are taking it old school, doing proper research the way it was done before the world wide web.’ He takes her hand and almost pulls her into the area for journals and newspapers, an urgency in his step.

  He knows something, she thinks.

  Johnny sits down in front of a large computer terminal on an ancient wooden desk, polished to a sheen by the elbows of decades of users. ‘I went online at home, searching for “Lost baby girl North London July 2003”. There were loads of results, all of them unhelpful. So to try and narrow it down, I looked on the website of what would have been Lizzie’s local paper: The Tottenham and Wood Green Independent.’

  ‘And?’ Paula takes off her jacket and scarf and sits down next to him as
he switches on the terminal and starts scrolling through blurry black and white images.

  ‘As luck would have it, they only have articles going back to 2005 on their website. But I phoned the paper and they told me that older stuff, including 2003, is still available on microfiche in the library.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Paula smiles. ‘You have been a busy boy.’

  ‘One of the advantages of being your own boss. Okay, confession time.’ He turns to face her. ‘I came in here earlier today and found this. I’ve already read the relevant stuff.’ From the light in his eyes, the energy his body language is generating, she can tell he’s excited. ‘Only I wanted to show you this in person rather than just tell you about it later.’

  ‘Oh my God…’ Paula stares at him.

  He points her back to the screen and finishes scrolling, stopping the cursor on an article dated 19 September 2003.

  New appeal for abandoned Saffron’s mother

  Police have issued a new appeal for the mother of a two-month-old girl who was abandoned at a North London hospital to contact them. Saffron, who was born in July, is in the care of Haringey Social Services after she was found on Tuesday night outside the Whittington maternity unit. A spokesman for the police said, ‘The baby is being well cared for, but we want to know that her mother is also safe and well.’

  There’s a photograph of a baby lying in a wicker Moses basket.

  ‘So I’m thinking,’ Johnny says, ‘born in North London in July, abandoned several weeks later… this could be her.’

  Paula has gone pale. ‘It is her,’ she says in a voice barely above a whisper. ‘It has to be.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  She points at the picture. ‘That basket. With the white eyelet lace and the little satin ribbons round the rim. That’s the exact same one I bought for Lizzie! I got it at a Cypriot stall on Archway Market. It was quite distinctive.’

  ‘Good God, Paul.’ Johnny puts his arm around her shoulders. ‘So this is her. Lizzie’s other baby. She’s alive.’