Frozen Charlotte

FIVE

Alex 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.

Alex prompted her delicately. ‘You wrapped it up in…?’

‘I had a blanket,’ Alice said. ‘A little baby’s blanket.’

‘Where did it come from?’

Alice’s face changed again to become secretive. ‘I just had it,’ she said baldly.

Oh, yes? Alex thought.

The change of tone affected Acantha too. She gave her client a long, questioning stare but said nothing.

Alex thought. Already he was tossing a few points around in his mind. He had seen the blanket. It was no more than a few years old. Alice’s children must be well into their twenties.

‘Have you grandchildren?’ he asked.

Alice shook her head.

So this blanket had not been bought new for them. So for whom? A friend’s child? Then why hadn’t she given it? He squirreled the questions away. Now was not the time to interrupt. He needed to let Alice Sedgewick roll on without working out too much detail. So he left the question of the blanket, knowing he would return to it later on in the investigation. In such a puzzle he needed an explanation for every single anomaly.

‘Do you know anything about the child, Mrs Sedgewick?’

Acantha opened her mouth as though to speak, but said nothing, only giving her friend an encouraging look.

‘No,’ Alice Sedgewick said.

‘You know nothing about a baby being born in your house?’

She shook her head.

‘Or anyone who has been to your house who was pregnant?’

‘Not that I can think of.’

Acantha Palk spoke. ‘Do you know when the child died, inspector?’

‘Not exactly. We have a rough time scale.’

He returned to Alice Sedgewick. ‘How long have you lived at The Mount?’

‘A little over five years.’ Which was well within the time line.

‘Where did you live before you moved to The Mount?’

‘In Shawbury. Aaron was employed by the RAF so we lived there, in the village.’

Alex frowned. ‘This was before he went into business?’

Alice looked uneasy. ‘I’m not really sure about my husband’s business dealings,’ she said. ‘I only know he does a lot of travelling.’ Alice Sedgewick looked positively guilty now.

Unexpectedly this was another fact to be tucked away. Something about her husband’s business dealings made Alice very uncomfortable indeed.

Alex consulted his notes again. ‘When you were in the hospital and the sergeant took the baby from you, you said the baby’s name was Poppy. Why did you assume the child was a girl and where did you get the name, Poppy, from?’

Quite unexpectedly Alice’s eyes pooled with tears. She was almost too upset to cry properly. This was sheer, terrible, sniffing misery. Alex looked helplessly at Acantha who was looking equally confused.

‘I think we’ll have a bit of a break now,’ he said, keeping back the ace card that the baby had actually been a little boy. There was no need to tell her – yet.

While they were having a break he thought he’d give Martha a ring. He’d always known that she was more than superficially interested in some of the cases which came before her, particularly puzzling ones like this. If she had had her way, he knew that the coroner’s role would have included wearing a deerstalker, carrying a magnifying glass and doing part of the investigation herself. In fact he couldn’t absolutely swear that on occasions she hadn’t done a little sleuthing herself. He’d always had his suspicions that she had met some of the schoolchildren in the Callum Hughes case before they stood in front of her in the court. But he had said nothing.

Martha was sifting through an even bigger pile of paper than usual. A cold January, swine flu and Norovirus had resulted in a doubling of her usual workload. She listened, intrigued, as Alex spoke. ‘So you’re saying that the name, Poppy, meant something to her?’

‘It would seem so.’

‘The child she brought into the hospital was a boy,’ Martha observed. ‘Kind of lets her off the hook rather, doesn’t it?’

‘I thought that.’

‘But you say the name upset her?’

‘Without a doubt.’

As she spoke Martha was scribbling herself a list of things to do.

‘One,’ she wrote, ‘find out who Poppy was.’

Underneath she wrote, ‘Pink blanket?’

‘You think there is a connection between this Poppy and the pink blanket?’

‘You’re rushing me, Martha,’ Alex said and she could tell that he was smiling.

She asked her next question very softly. ‘Do you think Poppy is a real child?’

Randall was reluctant to answer but he knew he must. ‘Yes.’

‘Alive or dead?’

‘Dead,’ he said.

‘Has the husband shown up yet?’

‘Not a sign – nor of either of her children. Mrs Sedgewick is having her wish granted that the family be kept out of this.’

‘So far,’ Martha said. ‘Does she have grandchildren?’

‘No.’

‘Have you asked her why she took a dead child to the hospital?’

‘Not yet. That’s on my list.’

‘How long have they lived there?’

‘Five years.’

‘Ah.’ He could hear the excitement in her voice. ‘And do you know who the estate agent was who sold them the property?’

‘Martha.’ Again she could tell that Alex Randall was smiling. ‘Stop telling me my job.’

‘Sorry, Alex.’ She waited a moment. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I was going to ring you today.’

‘Yes?’

‘I had another of those odd phone calls last night. You know, the “Message to Martha” one?’

‘I thought they’d died down.’

‘So did I. I hoped they had but it seems someone is still trying to make me uneasy.’

‘And does it?’

‘Not so much for me, Alex,’ she confided. ‘I’m made of tough stuff. It’s Sukey I worry about. It wouldn’t be so bad if Sam lived at home though…’

She didn’t want to say it yet. Saying it would turn it from a hope to a certainty. And it wasn’t.

Alex must have picked up on her reluctance to finish the sentence. He cleared his throat.

‘I’ll come round later,’ he said, ‘and talk to you. Is this evening any good?’

‘At home?’

‘Yes. Is that a problem?’

‘No. No. Look – why don’t you come to supper? Sam’s gone back to Liverpool so I don’t have a male to cook for.’

‘No,’ he said abruptly, almost rudely. ‘No. I’ll come round after supper if that’s all right.’

‘Fine,’ she said, a little hurt. ‘I’ll see you later then.’

She wanted to ask him how he was but the opportunity hadn’t seemed to have arisen so she said nothing but hung up telling herself he had sounded perfectly well in control.

Her eyes lighted on the framed photograph of Sam that stood on her desk and she smiled. He was so very like Martin. He had the lot, hair that always stuck out, irregular teeth, an absolutely wonderful smile which seemed to encompass all the good things in life. Sam’s smile was exactly like his father’s, slightly hesitant, tentative, completely open, very, very happy, 100% genuine and complex. Six months ago she had guiltily removed Martin’s photograph from her desk and placed it in the drawer. After all these years, she’d had to say goodbye to him as she had to his son only that very morning, and she was still feeling a bit shaken, a bit bereft.

Alex returned to the interview room, thoughtful after the telephone call. He could tell the two women had had a chat, exchanged confidences and he could also sense that Acantha didn’t know all yet. Her face still held questions and a certain amount of frustration.

Alex sat down. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You know, Mrs Sedgewick, that at the moment we’re not charging you with anything. We simply want to find out where the baby came from.’

Acantha spoke. ‘Was the baby killed or did it die of natural causes?’

Alex responded quickly. ‘I can’t give you any details yet. All will be made public eventually. Now then. Shall we crack on with just a few more questions?’

‘Why were you so upset at the name, Poppy, Mrs Sedgewick?’

She gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, fully in control of herself now. ‘It sort of brought it all back to me.’

‘Brought what exactly?’

Acantha answered for her. ‘I would have thought that was obvious. The discovery of the body – the entire incident.’ She gave a self-confident smile which probably stood her in good stead in her work as a solicitor but rather irritated the detective.

He continued smoothly. ‘I need to know which estate agent you bought the house through.’

‘Huntley and Palmers.’

‘The name of the people you bought the house from?’

‘Mr and Mrs Godfrey. They were moving to Spain, Aaron said. I think they’d made quite a lot of money.’

‘Did they have any children?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t remember.’

‘Were there children’s things around the place when you viewed?’

‘I didn’t view.’ She spoke baldly and with a hint of challenge in her tone.

‘You didn’t see the house before you bought it?’ Alex struggled to keep surprise out of his voice.

‘I didn’t see the house before my husband bought it.’

Practically feudal, Alex thought.

‘Did you ever meet Mr and Mrs Godfrey?’

‘No.’ Said almost sullenly.

‘So you’ve no idea how old they were?’

‘Sorry. Obviously no.’

‘OK.’

Alex came to a decision. ‘One last question and then you can go.’

The look of relief on Alice’s face was tangible.

‘Why did you take the baby to the hospital rather than simply ringing the police?’

‘I don’t know.’ It was at least an honest answer. ‘Instinct, I suppose.’

‘Instinct?’ It seemed an odd explanation.

‘It’s where you go when you’re in trouble, isn’t it?’

It was an explanation – of sorts.

‘OK. We’ll leave it there. Do you mind if we contact your husband?’

For the first time he saw Alice Sedgewick’s smile, the light of humour touching her rather sad eyes. ‘That’s two questions, inspector,’ she said archly. ‘But I’ll answer. As I’ve already said I don’t want you dragging him back from his business trip. There’s no point. There’s nothing he can do. However it so happens that he’s left a message on the answer phone to say he’ll be back tomorrow. You can speak to him then.’

Alex wasn’t even tempted to quip that he would look forward to it.

Martha found it hard to concentrate that afternoon. Her mind kept flitting back to the subject of the dead baby. Boy, girl, pink, blue. It had lain there, slowly desiccating over the years. Whose baby was it? Who was its mother? Where was its mother? How had it died? Why had it died? Had it been wanted or unwanted? A teenager’s embarrassment? A married woman’s shame? How could a baby disappear if the mother had attended antenatal classes? What was the story behind it? Who was Poppy? Another baby? Another dead baby? What was Poppy to Mrs Sedgewick? Why had the name upset her so very much? Why had she driven to the hospital with a dead child? What had really triggered this bizarre action?

Martha felt her face twitch with curiosity.

Somehow she managed to sift through a reasonable amount of paperwork and take a few calls from doctors which would save post-mortems and an overworked team of pathologists including the newly reformed Mark Sullivan. She spoke to some relatives who had concerns about the residential home their mother had died in and promised to look into it. By six she was ready to go home. Her desk was cleared except for one envelope and her stomach was rumbling. Agnetha had promised to cook supper, salmon, new potatoes and a fresh green salad. Martha couldn’t wait.

The supper lived up to expectations and a little over an hour later she was sitting across the room speaking to Alex Randall.

As she had surmised from the phone call he appeared a little better than yesterday. Still tense around the mouth but his dark eyes sparkled as he shook hands with her.

She poured them both a drink and he got straight into it.

‘This is the first contact your mysterious person has made since…?’ He looked up questioningly.

‘It’s been months, Alex,’ she said. ‘I haven’t heard anything for ages.’ She smiled. ‘All quiet on the Western Front. But then there was the phone call and today this arrived in my post.’

He studied the typed address on the envelope: Martha Gunn, Coroner, Coroner’s Office, Bayston Hill, Shrewsbury, Shropshire . No postcode. Then he slipped on a pair of latex gloves and slid the card out. ‘It’ll have my prints on it,’ she said, apologetically. ‘I didn’t know what it was.’

Alex Randall studied the card. It was the sort of note one might leave on a colleague’s desk. ‘Martha,’ it read, ‘please pick up your messages.’

He frowned. ‘It has to be someone who has had dealings with you professionally.’

‘I thought that. But where would I start? I meet upset relatives, angry relatives, grieving relatives every day of my life. Plenty of them. By the very nature of my job I deal with unexpected tragedy.’

Alex gave one of his oddly attractive, twisted smiles. Even in that there was still some residual sadness. ‘I suppose you do, Martha,’ he said gently. ‘I never really thought about your work like that but it is all about death. And I suppose in the wake of that does come anger and sadness. Have you had anyone blame you for something?’

‘I suppose so but I can’t think of anyone or anything specific.’

Alex leaned back in his seat. ‘Well I can’t really justify having you watched, Martha, but we can put a check on your phone calls if you like.’

‘That might be an idea but… I worry. I’d prefer a phone call to him coming out here. Maybe it’s better to…’

‘I’ll ask the patrol cars to drive up here when they go round,’ he said eventually. ‘No harm in that. We’ll keep an eye out for you. I think for now that’s the best course of action.’ He stood up. ‘Keep me informed and if you feel more vulnerable I’ll have to reconsider.’ He gave a boyish, attractive smile. ‘We can’t have our coroner under threat.’

She saw him to the door. ‘I suppose,’ she said as they parted, ‘I’m worried this will escalate.’

His eyes were on her and she felt a sudden shock. He had a job to do. She knew that. But the concern in his eyes had been more than that. It had been quite personal.

‘Thank you,’ she said and held out her hand. He took it but it was less of a formal shaking of hands than a touching. She stood in the doorway and watched until his car tail lights disappeared down the track.