Frozen Charlotte (8 page)

But now they had important work to do. It was not the time to tackle him.

They moved into the post-mortem room.

Even Martha could see that the child was a newborn, a neonate. Stripped naked this was easy to see. There was a stump of an umbilical cord. Blackened and shrivelled but quite unmistakable. Its head was still elongated from its birth. Its skin was dark and papery; the bones looked soft. They stood around and looked at it, the remains of a pathetic infant who had never had the chance to live either at all or for more than a few hours. And Sullivan was right. It was a little boy.

‘Well,’ Alex said. ‘Talith’s statement clearly says that Mrs Sedgewick called the child Poppy, and referred to her as a girl. Wrapped her in a pink blanket.’

The blanket was neatly folded to the side. In a forensic bag was another blanket, tattered and partly eaten by moths or rodents. They all glanced over at it.

‘Was it wearing any other clothes,’ Alex asked.

Sullivan answered. ‘No. Just that.’

‘No nappy, no Babygro?’

‘Nothing,’ Sullivan said again. ‘Which supports the theory that this is a neonate and died round about the time of birth. I’ve had a quick look at the blanket the baby was wrapped in. There’s some staining which I think is meconium.’

Alex looked puzzled. ‘Sorry? I wish you wouldn’t use these medical terms.’

‘When a baby is born the first motion it passes is meconium, the liquor or water it’s swallowed whilst still in the womb.’

‘Thanks,’ the detective said.

Mark Randall held his finger up. ‘And there’s something else,’ he said.

‘Our little boy wasn’t exactly perfect. He has a harelip.’

‘Really?’ Martha was again reminded of
Precious Bane
.

‘Yes. Look.’ He inserted a finger behind the shrunken lip of the infant so they could see a distinct gap.

‘Good gracious,’ Martha said then narrowed her eyes. ‘But you don’t die of a harelip, Alex.’

‘No. Nor of a cleft palate which he also had.’

‘So who is the mother?’ Alex asked.

Sullivan met his eyes. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is the million dollar question.’

The mortician measured the crown to heel length.

‘Obviously,’ Alex said a little stiffly, ‘the big question is whether the child was born dead or alive.’

‘Yes,’ the pathologist agreed.

Sullivan worked without speaking, examining the lungs in great detail, taking tiny pieces for analysis under the microscope and scraping samples.

Then he spoke. ‘The whole thing hinges,’ he said, ‘on whether the lungs ever inflated. It looks to me as though there has been some partial aeration. It’s very difficult as the body is in this state of decay. Suffice it to say that I can’t see any wadding down the larynx or any sign of suffocation. I can’t see any obvious trauma.’ He looked up, at Martha this time. ‘To be honest, Martha,’ he said, ‘because of the advanced decay of the child I couldn’t say with any certainty whether it was born alive or dead. I couldn’t swear what exactly happened in a court of law. All I can say for certain is that I see no evidence of infanticide.’

She glanced at the row of pots. ‘Would your tissue samples show whether the lungs had ever expanded?’

‘Possibly. I think the child probably lived for a few minutes. Its lungs are partially expanded. It looks as though the cord was cut but not properly ligatured and the baby could have bled and died, even from shock. The mother – or we assume the mother – tried to wrap it up in that shawl.’ He indicated the scrap of material. ‘Then she concealed it.’

‘Time scale?’ Alex asked delicately.

Mark Sullivan again looked dubious. ‘Again I can’t be absolutely certain – somewhere between five and ten years or thereabouts.’ He started peeling off his gloves. ‘And even then if someone said categorically that it was eleven years or even four years I couldn’t argue. Not with certainty. Was there any collaborative evidence,’ he asked hopefully, ‘newspaper wrapping or something?’

‘Not that’s been unearthed so far.’

‘And the lady herself, can she throw any light on this?’

‘I haven’t spoken to her yet but from what Sergeant Talith tells me she’s calling the child “Poppy” and seems to thinks it is her responsibility. I’m not even sure she’s quite sane.’ He hesitated. ‘Was the child moved at any point?’

‘No, I don’t think so. There’s no evidence of that.’ He glanced again at the pathetic remains of the child. ‘It probably stayed where it had initially been put, in the space behind the airing cupboard, somewhere warm and dry, 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

A
lex 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
Shropshire Star
he had also anticipated.

‘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
hospital
? Why not just ring the police?’

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 . . . ?

Keep calm, she lectured herself. Keep calm.

It helped that she knew exactly what Martin would have done in this situation. He had been tolerant, happy to allow life – his own and that of his wife and children – to work itself out. Whenever he had been faced with a conflict he had invariably chosen the easiest way out. So she followed this maxim.

‘You must do as you wish,’ she said. ‘It’s your life – not mine – but find out a little about the real acting world before you embark on that as a career. Don’t believe all you hear in the tabloids and glossy magazines. As I understand it most actresses spend a lot of time waitressing or scrubbing floors because—’

‘I know,’ Sukey interrupted impatiently, ‘but I was good in the school play last year, wasn’t I?’

The school had put on
Abigail’s Party
the previous year. Sukey had played the part of Abigail and yes, even allowing for maternal pride, Martha had thought she had been good. Very good. Her daughter was very determined. There was no point in opposing her but Martha had a feeling of dread. It wasn’t what she wanted. She gave the softest of sighs. Neither had she wanted Sam to become a footballer. She had hoped they would go into a profession. Medicine, the law, teaching . . .

Dream
on, she said to herself.

She looked at her daughter’s anxious face. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘as long as you know what you’re letting yourself in for.’

Sukey gave her a cheeky grin, bounced out of her seat and was gone, leaving Martha alone again, unable to resist humming Noel Coward’s, ‘Don’t put your daughter on the stage’, substituting Mrs Gunn for Mrs Worthington.

She drew in a deep breath and felt powerless to influence her children’s lives any further. But now her daughter had skipped out of the room Martha’s mind returned to the anonymous phone call.

Alex Randall had told her if she received any more obscure contacts from the ‘Message to Martha’ person to inform him and he would investigate. She decided then that she would – if only for Sukey’s safety and her own peace of mind.

She would speak to him tomorrow.

Tuesday morning

And now it was time for Alex Randall to speak to Alice Sedgewick himself – with her solicitor present. After Talith’s descriptions he was curious to meet both of them and determine in his own mind what part Mrs Sedgewick had played in the fate of the infant. He spent the first hour of the day reading through Gethin Roberts’s initial statement and the notes made by his sergeant. He read through Talith’s comments with approval. He’d wondered about him when he had first joined the force. He had seemed abrasive, not good with the general public. He’d ruffled a few feathers with his lack of subtlety. But every now and again an officer learned his job, acquired unexpectedly good skills and changed to become something of real value to the force. This new sergeant would go far. He had become intelligent and perceptive, had matured as a police officer. Randall noticed as he read through Talith’s report that he had a great eye for detail, mentioning the fact that even in her confusion Mrs Sedgewick had remembered to turn the attic light switch off even though she must have left the loft in something of a panic. He smiled as he read through PC Roberts’s report. The poor lad had had a shock – not the first – and with a long career ahead of him in the police force it wouldn’t be the last either.

The two women arrived promptly at ten. Quite a contrast was DI Randall’s first impression. The large, overpowering Mrs Palk and the mouse-like Alice Sedgewick, who looked frankly terrified.

He led them into an interview room and sent for coffee.

‘You do understand,’ he said, addressing them both, ‘that I shall be recording this interview?’

‘Yes.’ As he had expected Acantha Palk answered for both of them, tossing her thick hair around as she spoke.

The detective studied Alice Sedgewick very carefully while handing them both their coffee, switching the tape on and introducing the ‘persons present’. Alice, he decided, was rather a colourless woman. With mouse-brown hair streaked with grey she was neatly and soberly dressed in a dark suit which looked suspiciously like it came from M&S. Her face lacked expression except a certain apprehension in the grey eyes. Her mouth, carelessly outlined in a nasty pink lipstick, which didn’t suit her otherwise pale visage, stayed firmly pressed shut whenever she was not speaking as though she was worried what words would escape through them. Her eyes seemed drawn to him but whenever he looked straight at her they quickly flickered away as though she was frightened if they connected for too long he would read something deep within them that she was anxious to keep secret. He found her a disturbing woman.

He glanced at Acantha and again reflected on the sheer contrast between the friends. She was magnetic, her face full of colour, her hair dyed very dark for a woman of her age but it did not make her look haggard or a witch, but merely emphasized her latent power. Had Alice opened up to her or not? How much did she really know about her friend’s current predicament?

He glanced again at Alice and fishlike she opened her mouth, as though she wanted to say something but before even a sound was uttered she snapped it closed again. Clamped it shut. He watched her curiously and worked out his line of questioning.

‘Right,’ he said now the introductions were over. ‘Why don’t you start by telling me exactly what happened on Saturday evening – before you arrived at the hospital?’

Alice gave a swift, almost panicked, look at her friend but Acantha was not looking at her. She was watching him coolly. Alex Randall met her eyes without flinching and knew she would prove a worthy adversary as, he suspected, she could probably also be a staunch friend in a time of trouble. Staunch enough to lie and deceive for her client?

Possibly.

‘I was on my own,’ Alice said timidly. ‘My husband was away.’ She paused. ‘On business.’

Now would have been an ideal time to pursue the subject of the missing Mr Sedgewick but Alex let it roll, for now.

‘Aaron has been talking about doing a loft conversion so I thought I’d climb up, have a poke around and see what I thought.’ She was starting to relax. The muscles around her mouth were loosening and her voice was gaining confidence. ‘There are good lights up there but I thought the hot water tank was in the way. It would spoil things. I noticed it was sort of packed around so I started to pull the plaster board and the slats away. Then I saw a tiny bundle.’ Her voice was just starting to falter. ‘I thought it was some old cloth – wool, wadding or something. But something was
in
it. I shone the torch down and picked it up.’ She gave a convulsive shudder. Even her hands shook. Her friend noticed and covered them immediately with her own. ‘I knew it was a baby. I could tell that from the feel of it but it reminded me more of the mummies I’d seen in the museum in Cairo, all dried up, bones sticking out. I nearly dropped it. I didn’t know what to do with it. I decided I must bring it out of the loft.’ Her voice was quickening, the tone rising, threatening hysteria.