by Linda Coles
Forever.
The young woman barely felt the wetness falling on her shoulders as she disappeared back into the street and the darkness, the hot tears streaming down her face cooling quickly as they fell away. She rubbed her arms, more out of needy emotion and comfort than anything else. The sleet melted on contact with her thin sweatshirt, soaking the fabric. Even though she was shivering, she didn’t notice the vibrations shaking her body. Her only focus was the sheer desperation of the situation, the intense hopelessness that was her short life so far. At least her baby wouldn’t have to be part of it now, would have a fighting chance with someone else, someone more able, someone less useless, someone less scarred.
Someone a million times better than she was.
Inside the church, an older woman sat praying quietly, grieving for how her life had turned out so far but without tears. It was a comfort to her to simply sit here in the dim light, praying in silence, though she’d never bothered with the church before she’d gone away. No time for it, she’d always said. Not relevant to her. No interest in hocus-pocus. How the tables had turned and times had changed since she’d returned to Croydon only four weeks ago.
Prison changed you, for one thing, and it did so particularly if you were the victim of continual abuse as she had been. Day after day, night after night they’d come for her both mentally and physically. The prison guards had turned blind eyes to her suffering, monitoring her from a distance until things went as far as the guards dared them to and then stepping in at the last minute. Even the infirmary hadn’t been a safe haven.
But then, paedophiles deserved what they got, apparently. More so the female ones. The other prisoners couldn’t comprehend what went on in her head to have committed such an abhorrent crime. It was far worse than murder, in their opinions, and her punishment should be that much harsher. She’d cried like her victims had, willing her death to come.
Oh, how she’d prayed, but those prayers had gone unanswered. But she was free again now.
Gathering her few belongings and wrapping her flimsy scarf around her head, ready for the icy wind outside, she made her way to the front door and steeled herself for the walk back to the halfway house she’d been placed in. It wasn’t far, but in mid-winter, and in this weather, it would be far enough on foot. The valuable little money in her pocket was better spent on food than bus fare. Opening the heavy wooden door, she shuffled out into the porch and pulled her scarf a little tighter before descending the few steps, holding tightly to the handrail as she went. But halfway down, the woman stopped. Had she heard something over the howl of the wind? She stood still, straining to listen in the quiet street. On a night like this and so close to Christmas, sensible people were huddled away in their houses, more likely their beds at this late hour; there was not a soul outside but her.
Yes, there it was again – a sort of gurgle. The longer she stood listening, the more it gained strength. Was it coming from above her, where she’d come from? As she made her way carefully back up the steps, the sound became louder, more insistent, then developed into something she recognized, something acutely familiar. There was no doubt what it was.
The cry of a baby.
Chapter 2
The Jolly Carter, shortened to The Jolly by the locals, was much the same as any backstreet public house around Croydon, or in fact in any other part of the country. A foggy haze of cigarette smoke hovered overhead with nowhere to go, as more and more rose from the mouths and noses of drinking customers. Whether you smoked or not, you ended up smoking by default. There was no choice, unless you wore an oxygen mask – although that would have given you added protection from the smell of urine as you passed the gents toilets. The gaudy décor of the establishment had, over the years, been covered with a thick veil of caramel nicotine that ran in streaks down the walls.
Workingmen – and they were mainly men – propped the bar up, some with a newspaper, others holding court and regaling the others with tales, each one better than the last. Some stood alone, searching for answers at the bottom of their pint pots. Tom Jones was “Burnin’ Down the House” on a jukebox. It was Sunday lunchtime.
“Another when you’re ready, please, Jim,” Jack ordered, waving his empty glass in the barman’s direction and catching his eye. The red-faced landlord nodded and made his way over to grab the glass.
“You’re not going to be late for your lunch, are you, Jack? Your missus will be mad as hell…” He let the words dangle knowingly but Jack shook his head.
“I’ve time for one more, then I’ll be off. A nice bit of roast beef, all the trimmings, a glass of wine maybe, and my old chair to sleep it off. What more could a man ever want for?” Jack grinned his contentment at his day ahead, but Jim was already retreating to the bitter pump to refill his glass. Jack watched the creamy head of ale come back his way a moment later and handed over a fistful of change.
“I wish I had someone upstairs to make my dinner and let me have a nice sleep after it.”
“Then you need to get yourself a good woman, like my Janine,” Jack said, taking a long mouthful and wiping the froth from his upper lip. “She’s a good woman, that’s for sure, though she’d give me hell if she could hear me telling you to find yourself a good woman. She’d tell you to get organized and do it yourself, stop being a lazy arse. And she’d be right.”
“I ain’t got time to peel spuds and shop for beef. I’m here all the time. Another reason I haven’t got a woman – not many come in here, and those that do only come in to drag their husbands back home.”
There wasn’t much more Jack could add to that. He nodded his understanding and resignation to the landlord’s retreating back as he made his way further down the bar to serve someone else. Jack studied his own pint for a moment, then was interrupted by the ringing of his mobile in his jacket pocket.
“That’ll be Janine now, I’ll bet. Right on time,” he mumbled affectionately to himself. He flipped the top of the phone and answered it. It wasn’t Janine. She wasn’t calling him home for his Sunday lunch and an afternoon nap.
“DC Jack Rutherford. Hello.”
“Jack, I need you to get yourself over to the hospital.” It was the desk sergeant back at the station.
“What’s up, Doug?”
“A newborn baby was handed in at the hospital not long ago. Seems the little one had been found abandoned in a church doorway. Someone dropped it off and must have left almost immediately after. As did the woman who handed the baby in. We need to track her down and find out who the baby belongs to. It’s lucky to be alive if it spent the night out in the cold. Last night could have been the coldest one this winter. Could have frozen the balls off a brass monkey.”
Jack looked at the remaining half of his glass of bitter as the sergeant went on, all visions of his Sunday roast fading away, not to mention his nap. And Janine wouldn’t be too pleased, either.
“Any idea who the woman was and why she left so soon?”
“Nope and nope.” Useful.
“Right. Best I get on my way, then.”
The sergeant gave him the details of who to contact at the hospital and hung up. Jack took a last gulp of the remaining half and left the rest on the side, signalling to the barman he was off with a quick wave of his hand.
“Save me some, eh?” Jim called across in hope.
“I’ll be lucky if I get any now. Been called into work.”
Jim gave him a look that said “tough luck,” and carried on wiping the bar with a damp cloth the colour of slate rooftop tiles. Jack hoped he didn’t wash glasses with the same dirty cloth.
Heading towards the door and the cold midday air outside, he paused for a moment. He’d better give Janine a call and tell her he wouldn’t make lunch. He pulled out his phone and pressed dial.
“Sorry, love. I’ve been called in. A baby has been found so I’ve got to go. Will you keep mine warm?”
“Oh, Jack! I was looking forward to a movie with you after lunch, too.” She sounded disap
pointed. He hated doing that to her, but it couldn’t be helped. As a detective’s wife, she was used to it.
“I know, love. I’ll be as quick as I can. You go ahead and eat. I’ll have mine later. Then we’ll watch the movie.”
They said their goodbyes, Jack knowing full well that whatever happened between now and bedtime, he’d never see the movie past the opening credits.
Still, he’d be back home on the sofa with his Janine, and that was enough for him.
Chapter 3
It was a good job he’d only had a pint and three quarters. A DUI for a detective never sat well with the public – or his boss, for that matter. Still, it wasn’t a problem now, though Jack could have done with a sandwich to soak up the beer that was sloshing around his empty stomach. Janine had got him watching his weight, and so the Sunday breakfast routine they’d shared for as many years as he could remember had gone south. With her hands on her hips like an old ward matron she’d told him if Sunday lunch was to stay in place, he couldn’t have both that and his afternoon pint. The thought amused him as he locked his car door and headed to the hospital’s main entrance in search of Monica Johnson, the matron who had called the police.
The front entrance doors slid open automatically as he neared the sensor and he stepped inside; the bland pale greenish-blue décor and the smell of cleaning fluid were the same as most hospitals he’d ever been inside. Even on a Sunday, doctors, nurses and orderlies moved briskly about, some headed home, some on their break and some headed to the next part of their working day. They all minded their own business as they went, with no conversation between them, so Jack fell in behind a man wearing surgical scrubs, joined the human train and followed the signs to the special care baby unit where the infant was being cared for.
The baby. Who would abandon their child, and on such a cold night? Who would be so desperate or stupid to hope someone came for it before it was too late? Why not take it directly to the hospital straight off, or the police? But Jack already knew the answers: because she was scared. And this case would be no different.
Of what, though?
And ditto for the woman that had found the child – why not call an ambulance and the police straight away when she’d found it?
The sign for the SCBU was up ahead and he pushed the buzzer for admittance, his warrant card ready and visible through the glass partition. He waited, then he saw her. He instinctively knew it was her: Monica, authority written across her ample chest as she walked towards him. She reminded him of Hattie Jacques from a Carry On movie.
He chanced a smile. As she opened the door, she returned a flicker of one, though it vanished in an instant. Her name badge did indeed confirm she was Monica Johnson. And in charge.
“Good afternoon,” Jack said politely, keeping his voice low. The ambience of the ward told him loud noise was not acceptable, and he was aware that his shoes sounded like the quick slaps of an elastic band on the lino as he followed her back towards her desk. He tried, and failed, to walk on the tips of his toes.
“Take a seat,” Monica instructed, waving her hand to a spare chair. Glad to stop the sound of his own shoes, he sat, fiddling to get his notebook from his inside pocket. She sat opposite him, waiting.
“Why don’t you start from the top and tell me everything you know? Then I’ll ask a few questions.” He beamed a reassuring smile and received another flicker in return.
“I’d only been on duty a few minutes, so it was not long after seven this morning. There was a phone call from the main entrance reception. The security guard called up saying a woman with a bundle needed help. She’d found a baby abandoned. Naturally, I went down to meet her and took a nurse with me, but when we’d got there, she was nowhere to be seen. The guard was holding the baby. I asked him what had happened, and he said the woman had found the baby last night about 11 pm at St George’s church. She’d kept it warm until this morning, but it was hungry. Then she left without giving any more details. Another staff member went after her, but she wouldn’t say another word apparently, so they gave up. All we can tell you is that she was about retirement age, grey-haired, and dressed a bit oddly, like from a charity shop perhaps. We’ve no idea where she comes from or her name.” She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “I wish I could tell you more.”
“Has security checked the camera footage? I assume you have footage of the main desk and the outside of the building?”
“Yes. I have a copy for you, not that it shows much. She was alone and on foot, and had a scarf around her head and neck, to keep the cold out, I expect.” She handed Jack a CD copy of the front desk and immediate outdoor camera footage.
“I may need to see more footage from further out. Who do I need to contact to get it?”
Monica wrote down the name and telephone number of the head of security and handed him the piece of paper.
“And how is the little one now? I hear it’s a little girl.”
“Doing well, considering her rough start. She was hungry, but no hyperthermia or else I don’t think she’d be still with us. Last night was a particularly cold one, so she was lucky the lady found her. I wish she’d brought her straight here, though.”
“Any sign of the mother? I’m guessing she gave birth elsewhere and you haven’t seen her?”
“Correct. Everyone is accounted for on the maternity ward and in here, so I’d guess you are right, though she may need help herself. I suspect she gave birth in secret and on her own. She must be scared, confused maybe, and in need of medical attention.”
“We’ll keep an eye out, and we’ll also check other hospitals and clinics nearby in case anyone has shown up needing help. Can you remember anything else, no matter how trivial you may think it is?” Jack was hoping for something he could use, big or small. He’d take small over nothing.
“The guard said the woman who dropped the baby off was extremely nervous herself, as though she couldn’t stand to be in the hospital – frightened, maybe, though I don’t know why she would be. Then she was gone without another word. It doesn’t make any sense. Perhaps she had a bad experience in the past.”
Jack wasn’t convinced. “Maybe it wasn’t the hospital that she was scared of. Maybe it was the camera she didn’t like.”
Click here to read the rest of the story.
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