Her Sister's Child Read online

  Her heart pounding, Charlie hurries into the bedroom. Drawers have been pulled out, wardrobe doors left open. She reaches for her phone to ring the police and tell them they have been burgled. But then she stops. This is not a burglary.

  Even so, something bad has happened, she can feel it in her bones. Something very bad.

  The empty drawers are the ones that Jake used for his clothes. Hers have all been left undisturbed. The only things missing from the wardrobe are Jake’s jeans and trainers. The small second bedroom, which now houses a cot and a changing table, is also untouched. She tries phoning Jake’s mobile.

  ‘The number you have dialled is no longer in service,’ the robotic voice tells her.

  What does that mean? She tries Mikey’s number, but it rings out. And then, with a horrible, chill sense of foreboding, she opens her banking app. After paying for the flat rental and the car deposit, Charlie had transferred most of what remained of the £29,000 to a joint account that Jake could also access, as she had agreed to. The money was supposed to be for household expenses, but he only ever withdrew cash to spend on gambling and going out.

  She checks the balance. £0.37. There should have been the best part of £10,000 in the account. Frantic, her heart racing and the baby twisting inside her, she tries Jake’s phone again.

  ‘The number you have dialled is no longer in service.’

  She sinks to the floor as the truth hits home. He’s taken all her money, and he’s left her.

  14

  Paula

  ‘GPR.’

  Paula looks at Johnny and blinks. ‘I’m sorry – what?’

  The two of them are on a trip to Westfield, Stratford, eating coffee and cake before they wander the shops together. In her case, trying to find a winter party dress for Jessica; in his, seeking trainers that don’t make him either look old or as though he’s trying too hard to seem young.

  ‘Stands for ground penetrating radar.’

  Paula scoops whipped cream from her coffee and licks the spoon. ‘And we need this thing because…’

  ‘Okay, here’s my thinking. From the baby blanket Marian Glynn left behind in Muswell Hill, we have reason to believe that she might have had Lizzie’s baby there at some point. We also have reason to believe she misled the police about contact with Lizzie around the time of the birth.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We also know that she arrived at her next home in Brighton with no sign of a child in tow. So, it’s fair to assume that something happened to that baby while it was in her care.’

  ‘Yes, but I still don’t see why ground thingy radar… oh.’ Paula feels her stomach lurch. ‘Oh, God. You mean…?’

  ‘That…’ He hesitates. ‘I know it’s awful, but that a baby might be buried somewhere at the property. Or, put it this way, it’s something that definitely needs to be ruled out. That’s the first thing the police would do in the circumstances.’

  ‘So why don’t we just tell the police about it? Get them to check.’

  ‘Time, really. We don’t want to wait months and months for answers, do we? It could take the plod ages to get to the point of actually doing it. Anyway, I’m not sure they’d see the existence of a baby’s blanket as strong enough evidence on its own. The blanket could be anyone’s at the end of the day.’

  Paula hugs her arms around her chest, suddenly chilly. She pictures Lizzie’s baby dead, and it makes her shudder. ‘I don’t know, Johnny…’

  He reaches out and squeezes her hand. ‘Look, it’s actually quite quick to do and relatively easy to organise. Only needs one bit of equipment. This guy I know, Roddy Davidson, works for a specialist geophysical surveyor. Sometimes festival sites have to be surveyed before they can be set up, if they think there could be something of archaeological significance there. The GPR scanners work a bit like metal detectors, except they scan for all sorts. Including human remains. Anyway, Roddy says he can get a guy over to the Evershotts’ house with the equipment, no problem. With a garden that size it wouldn’t take them long.’

  ‘But even if we did set it up, it’s not our house. It would be up to the Evershotts. They’d have to give permission.’

  ‘You could talk to them. To her. Or we both could, but I think it would be better coming from you.’

  Paula stares down at her fingernails for some time. ‘Okay, I’ll try,’ she agrees. ‘I guess it would be a good idea to check. On one condition.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘If they do find… something, we involve the police right away.’

  ‘No problem,’ Johnny agrees. He reaches over and ruffles her hair. ‘Come on, I need you to help me find age-appropriate footwear.’

  ‘That sounds like girlfriend territory.’

  He gives her a searching look, then breaks into a grin, before grabbing her hand. ‘You can call it whatever you like.’

  Three days later, Paula is back in Ranmoor Road, alone this time.

  She calls at number twenty-one, but there’s no one in. For a second or two she wonders whether she should wait outside or come back later in the evening, but then she remembers something Alice Evershott told them when she and Johnny met her. She mentioned someone at number twenty-five, who had been living in the street a long time. Paula doesn’t remember the name, just that the lady in question was elderly. She’ll probably be in then, Paula decides. Old people are always at home around tea time.

  Sure enough, she catches a glimpse of a flickering TV screen through the living room window. A late afternoon quiz show. It takes a few attempts for the doorbell to penetrate the noise of the TV. Eventually the front door is pulled open by a tiny, stooped woman with white hair and a hearing aid.

  ‘You been standing here long, love?’ she asks. ‘Only I don’t hear so well these days.’

  ‘My name’s Paula Donnelly.’ Paula extends a hand. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name?..

  ‘Pinker. Maud Pinker. Are you from the broadband people?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘Pity,’ Maud huffs. ‘I can’t figure out what’s wrong with my what-d’you-call-it. Wretched thing.’

  ‘Your router?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one.’

  ‘I could take a look for you if you like,’ Paula offers. She set up the broadband in her house on her own, so she can’t be that useless, she decides.

  Maud Pinker is delighted by this suggestion. ‘Ooh, if you wouldn’t mind, dear.’

  ‘I was calling in to see Alice Evershott.’ Paula kneels down on the sitting room carpet and tries to untangle a nest of USB cables. ‘But she’s not at home.’

  ‘Oh, yes? You a friend of hers?’

  ‘Actually, I’m more a friend of the lady who lived there before Alice did. Marian Glynn.’

  Maud’s mouth twists into a grimace of disapproval.

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘Strange fish she was.’

  ‘In what way?’ Paula switches off the router at the wall, then on again, before scrambling to her feet. ‘There you are, it should be working now.’

  ‘Always seemed an unhappy soul. She and her husband were a real mismatch. You’d never in a million years put them together. And then there was all that business with the baby.’

  Paula freezes. ‘They had a baby?’

  ‘Well, whether it was his or not was anyone’s guess. I never saw her in the family way, but after he left her… people said he’d got a bit on the side, you know… she – Mrs Glynn – shows up one day with a baby. I suppose she could have been minding it for someone else, but I tell you, it was pretty odd.’

  ‘Really?’ Paula manages to keep her tone mildly interested.

  ‘Of course, there’s no one round here that would remember it now, but I recall Mrs Fletcher – she used to live between me and the Glynns – saying how she kept hearing a baby crying. And then one night I saw her.’

  ‘Saw…?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep so I got out of bed to make a cocoa, and I heard a car door slam. I looked out
of the window and I saw Marian Glynn lifting a baby out of the back of her car and carrying it into her house. A tiny baby.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question.’

  Adrian Evershott is a tall, portly man with thinning hair and a patrician manner. He’s wearing corduroys and a pair of leather slippers. Paula can picture him smoking a pipe.

  ‘The GPR scanner is relatively small, and doesn’t do any damage,’ she says, sounding more confident than she feels. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with both Evershotts, drinking a glass of home-made lemonade. ‘They’re a reputable firm, professionals, and they wouldn’t take very long. We’d be prepared to pay some compensation, you know, for your inconvenience.’

  ‘It’s really not a question of money,’ Adrian says, stiffly, ‘but the whole idea of having someone turn up and start searching for a body in one’s garden on the strength of some amateur sleuthing nonsense that amounts to nothing more than a theory… Frankly, it’s beyond the pale.’

  ‘There is some compelling evidence that Marian Glynn had a baby here, in this house, though.’ Paula has just told them Mrs Pinker’s account of what she saw. ‘A baby that subsequently completely vanished.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, but if that genuinely is the case and not just neighbourhood gossip, then it’s a matter for the authorities. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an appointment with a stiff Scotch and the six o’clock news.’ Adrian picks up his paper and heads out of the kitchen.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ his wife says, frowning at his retreating back.

  Her only chance now is to appeal to Alice’s maternal instincts, Paula realises. She reaches across the table for her hand. ‘This could be my sister’s child,’ she explains, and she doesn’t need to force the tears that well up in her eyes. ‘I’ve spent the last sixteen years wondering what happened to her. If we don’t find anything then fair enough, we’ve reached a dead end. But if there is a baby buried in your back garden, wouldn’t you want to know? I know I would.’

  Alice squeezes Paula’s hand back, but shakes her head sadly. ‘I do understand how you feel, honestly I do. And I dare say I’d feel the same. But you heard what Adrian said. He’s not going to change his mind, and I don’t entirely blame him. The idea of searching the garden for a dead body, it’s just…’ She shudders. ‘I’m really sorry, but it’s out of the question.’

  15

  Charlie

  ‘We really ought to report this to the police.’

  Her parents stand in the living room of the flat in Tufnell Park, taking in the place where their daughter has been living for the past six months. They’ve never been able to visit before, because she stubbornly refused to divulge the address. But now that Jake has gone and taken her money, she has been forced to capitulate and call them. She didn’t know what else to do.

  Her father points at the spot on the wall where the TV used to be. ‘I’m not so much concerned about the vicious little sod nicking the TV, but taking the money. Ten grand – that’s a lot of cash.’

  ‘But the account was in our joint names,’ Charlie points out. Her face is puffy and the baggy T-shirt she’s wearing to cover her bump is stained and crumpled. ‘It’s not a crime to take money from your own account.’

  ‘He still had no right to it, if you ask me.’

  ‘Especially since it was supposed to be your university funding. What possessed you to let him near it, I’ll never know.’ Her mother’s tone is devoid of sympathy, and Charlie bursts into tears.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, I know this probably isn’t the right time to be having a go.’ Her mother draws her into a hug. ‘But you can see why we’re angry about the situation. Even with a joint account, half of that money was technically yours, and all of it was yours, morally. We ought to at least try and find out where Jake’s got to.’

  ‘His phone’s switched off.’ Charlie drags her sleeve across her eyes. ‘And before you say it, he’s not at his mum’s place. I’ve checked. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.’

  ‘Okay, well, let’s forget about Jake, for now at least.’ Her father sighs. ‘At least until after the baby’s here.’

  ‘Exactly,’ her mother agrees. ‘That needs to be your priority. So why don’t you go and pack your things, and we’ll get going.’

  Charlie shakes her head. ‘I’m staying here. This is where we live, and it’s where the baby’s going to live.’

  She doesn’t say it out loud, but if Jake comes back and she’s moved out, that will mark the end for them. She won’t see him again, baby or no baby. Their relationship may have been hanging by the thinnest of threads, but she still doesn’t want it to end. Part of her hates him, but she still wants him. Or the idea of him, at least.

  ‘But, sweetheart, don’t be silly, you’re going to need help. You can’t manage a new baby all on your own, with no support. Come on, let’s get your stuff. Is your case in the bedroom?’

  ‘No,’ says Charlie, firmly. ‘I’ve left home, remember? It doesn’t actually make any difference that Jake’s not here; he wouldn’t have helped anyway.’

  ‘Come on, be sensible!’ Her father goes into the hall and starts rummaging through the cupboard looking for a suitcase. ‘You’re a seventeen year old about to give birth for the first time,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘What if the baby arrives in a hurry? You should have someone with you.’

  ‘I’ll text Hannah and get her to come over,’ Charlie says quickly.

  ‘All right then.’ Her mother is still guarded. ‘But I still want you to think about coming home, all right?’

  Her father sighs, pulling his daughter into his arms. ‘Oh, Lott-pott.’ He uses the diminutive he gave her when she was tiny. ‘Stubborn as ever. Okay, well, we’ll get going. But you know we’re just at the end of the phone if you need us. Promise me you’ll call us at least, any time, day or night.’

  Charlie feels a contraction surge through her lower abdomen. She clutches the edge of the worktop, blinks hard until it’s gone. Probably only another practice one, she tells herself, and the last thing she wants is her mother getting hysterical and boiling kettles.

  ‘Okay, okay, I promise.’

  Six hours later, just as she has climbed into bed with a bowl of ice cream and Netflix on her iPad, it happens.

  There’s a strange pinging sensation between her legs, then a gush of liquid soaks her pyjama trousers. Her waters have broken.

  Immediately a strong contraction surges over her body, making her back hurt and her thighs tremble. She feels it in her brain too, as though she can no longer think with any clarity. Panic engulfs her just as viciously as the pain does.

  After what feels like forever, the pain recedes, leaving Charlie on her knees on the damp mattress. A temporary stillness follows. She edges cautiously off the bed. Grabbing her phone, she tries dialling Hannah, who hasn’t yet replied to her earlier texts. There’s no reply. The panic builds again as she tries her mother’s phone. No reply from her either. It’s 11.30 p.m., and her parents will be in bed and probably asleep, or at least with their mobiles on silent. She texts her sister, Lucy.

  You awake Lu?

  The phone buzzes just as another contraction starts to build.

  Yep why?

  I’m in labour

  Her sister phones her immediately, but already Charlie is unable to speak as the wave of pain crashes over her. ‘Get Mum,’ she manages to gasp. ‘I need Mum.’

  Charlie’s daughter is born seven hours later, just as a pale November dawn is breaking. Her mother is in the delivery room, and the rest of her family are waiting outside.

  At lunchtime her father goes out and buys them all a picnic and they sit around Charlie’s bed on the ward, eating Scotch eggs and KitKats. Her mother is cradling her newborn granddaughter, her expression beatific, if a little stunned.

  ‘She’s got a real look of you about her,’ she says to Charlie, pulling back the corner of the white blanket. ‘Of course, we didn’t have you whe
n you were this small, but your foster mother gave us some pictures from when you were tiny.’ She sighs with unadulterated pleasure. ‘She’s really bonny.’

  ‘That’s what I’m going to call her,’ says Charlie, reaching out for the white bundle and cradling her with surprising confidence. ‘Bonnie.’

  ‘Aw, that’s so pretty, Char.’ Her sister snaps away with her phone. ‘Bonnie Lucy.’

  Charlie shakes her head. ‘Bonnie Lucy doesn’t work. Sounds dead wrong.’

  ‘No worse than Bonnie Charlotte,’ her sister retorts waspishly.

  Charlie strokes the downy head. ‘Her middle name’s Isadora,’ she tells her family. ‘I’ve always loved that name, but it’s a bit grand for every day. So she’s Bonnie Isadora.’

  16

  Paula

  Paula climbs into her car, but before she switches on the ignition she makes a phone call.

  ‘Mum, it’s me. What are you up to?’

  It’s been a few days since Johnny’s plan came to nothing, and the search for Lizzie’s baby has once again lost momentum. But now that she knows about the police investigation in the wake of the inquest, there is still one person who might have relevant information, however sketchy. Her mother.

  ‘Just been out to the shops,’ Wendy tells her. ‘About to put a wash on.’ Her tone sharpens. ‘Why, is there something wrong?’

  ‘I’m going to the cemetery to visit Lizzie. I thought you might want to come with me.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ her mother says, stiffly. ‘It’s not really convenient just now. I need some notice.’

  Paula sighs, and slides the key into the ignition. ‘Mum, I know this is hard for you, but can I at least just ask you something? I know the police spoke to you after the inquest.’