Frozen Charlotte

FOUR

Sunday afternoon

Martha had solved the problem of what to do. The day was bitingly cold but bright and the weather quite beautiful. She was fond of photography and Bobby needed a good long walk. She chose her favourite route, knowing that plenty of people would be sledging on Lyth Hill this afternoon. Mary Webb had had a house there and she was one of Martha’s favourite authors. She had studied Precious Bane and had loved the book ever since.

They set out, well wrapped up in gloves, scarves and anoraks, laughing in the sparkling air and the challenging cold and Bobby straining on his lead, barking and panting. Martha had thought they might take their sledge but Sam was worried about making his injury worse and Agnetha and Sukey said they preferred to walk and chat in their easy, friendly way. Martha decided she would cut a lone figure. One needed a child present to justify this juvenile sport. And there was always the chance that she would bump, either literally or metaphorically, into someone she knew professionally. The thought of the coroner whooping with joy and exhilaration as she sledged down Lyth Hill was perhaps not quite ‘the thing’, so reluctantly she’d slammed the garage door on the red plastic sledge.

Talith also had worked out what to do with his afternoon. He decided to visit the staff nurse who had been on duty the previous evening and take a proper statement from her. It would be less traumatic, he had decided, if he went to her house rather than summoning her to the station and he wanted to minimize the impact of the events of last night. She’d had a late night as well as a shock.

Lucy Ramshaw lived with her boyfriend on the Gains Park Estate. It was an area popular with the nurses because it was so close to the hospital – within walking distance. That meant they didn’t even have to battle over the scarce parking spaces and run the gauntlet of the vigilant and quite merciless parking attendants who slapped their fines and warnings on anyone, whether staff or patient. Lucy answered the door herself, looking very different to the harassed and upset nurse he had encountered the night before. She was wearing tight jeans and a low-cut blue sweater, which showed a neat, strong, slim figure, Paul Talith noted approvingly.

She recognized him at once and showed him into a small dining room, passing the sitting from where he could hear football on the television. He wished he could have been watching the Premier League game instead of working.

Lucy made them both a coffee and they sat around the small dining table.

‘I don’t think I’ve anything to add really,’ she said. ‘I mean I saw the woman but she didn’t seem to want anything. We were really busy what with the snow and everything. She just sat there. I mean she could have been waiting for a relative or someone,’ she finished lamely. ‘I didn’t realize she was holding a baby. It just looked like a blanket. If I’d known it was a baby obviously we would have dealt with her much quicker. But she just sat there,’ she repeated.

Talith knew she felt guilty. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference, really.’

The nurse nodded. ‘I know that but I still feel bad that I didn’t at least go over to her and speak. To tell you the truth I was relieved she wasn’t one of the more demanding patients. Some of them can be quite difficult.’

Talith looked at the nurse. She had one of those open faces, honest and true. ‘It really wouldn’t have made any difference, I promise.’

She looked mollified at that.

‘Now then. At what time did you first notice her?’

‘Eight, I think.’ She looked uncertain. ‘I can’t be sure.’

‘And she was simply sitting quietly in the corner?’

‘Sort of crooning. She was looking down at her lap, tucking the blanket round her. She looked sort of…’ Lucy fumbled for the word and found it: ‘Serene. Contented.’

‘And when you spoke to her, later?’

‘She seemed startled, a bit shy.’ Lucy Ramshaw thought for a moment. ‘As though she didn’t want anyone to bother with her.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Nearer ten thirty. Things were beginning to quieten down and I wondered about her.’

‘OK,’ Talith said. ‘Did you notice anything else?’

‘Well – she was dressed fairly shabbily.’ Lucy frowned. ‘There was paint on her jeans.’

‘She said she’d been doing some decorating – well – more investigating a proposed loft conversion.’

Lucy nodded. ‘Right – well – she was one of those people who faded into the background. I think she would have sat there all night if I hadn’t gone over to her.’

‘And when you did?’

‘She was in a sort of trance. She appeared vague. When I spoke to her she seemed startled almost as though she didn’t quite know where she was.’

‘And she let you take the baby from her?’

Lucy looked distressed. ‘Not at first. I didn’t realize what it was.’ She closed her eyes against the creeping horror she had felt when she had realized that in the blanket was an infant who had not moved or cried in the entire time it had been in the department. ‘When I realized it was a baby I asked her to hand it to me and she did. Then I looked…’ She was stricken at the memory. ‘It was horrible. Those eye sockets. That blackened, papery skin. Awful. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. It felt so light in my arms. Then I saw what it was and – I almost dropped it.’ She went pale.

‘Then what?’

‘I must have shouted out. People came running.’ She fixed a pair of large blue-grey eyes on him. ‘I’m a bit hazy. It all happened so quickly. Someone must have taken the baby from me because I wasn’t holding it. That’s about all I remember.’

‘Thanks,’ Talith said. ‘I’m sorry to have to question you like this but I thought better here than in the station or at work.’

Lucy Ramshaw gave a deep sigh. ‘Thanks. I suppose there’ll be an enquiry at the hospital,’ she said gloomily. ‘Just what I need with my wedding coming up.’

‘That’s up to the hospital,’ Talith said. ‘Not us. I would imagine they’ll want to play it down rather than make a big issue of it.’

‘I hope so,’ Lucy said, with feeling. Then: ‘Do you know anything about the circumstances? Was the baby hers? She looked a bit old for that. A grandparent?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘Or did she just find it?’

‘I can’t really discuss the case with you,’ Talith said kindly, ‘but don’t worry about it. No one blames you for anything. Anything at all. You acted just fine.’

Lucy smiled then, a broad, wonderful smile which made Talith warm to her even more. ‘Would you like another coffee,’ she offered.

‘Thanks.’

The walk was brisk which kept them warm. They parked at the bottom and threaded up the hill, passing Spring Cottage, which had been Mary Webb’s home, Bobby, their Welsh Border Collie, giving little yaps of delight and straining on his lead. They climbed until they could see the Stretton Hills, Stiperstones and the distinctive, conical shape of the Wrekin. As she had anticipated Lyth Hill was full of sledgers and she watched them whoop and scream with a tinge of envy. Oh, for just one trip down the hill. They walked for a couple of hours, Sam striding ahead, Agnetha and Sukey arm in arm, chatting so vivaciously they hardly noticed where they were going, even taking a wrong turn a couple of times until Martha and Sam shouted them back. Martha took a few photographs, both of the snow scenes and her family and then they all trooped home to a Sunday roast, Sam sitting at the table, extolling the virtues of football and bemoaning all the games cancelled because of the freezing weather, Sukey and Agnetha being more useful, helping to peel the potatoes, lay the table and open a bottle of wine. It was a warm family day, always with that one person missing, but Martha was finishing with regrets now. It had taken her a long time but she was very much back to her old self.

Talith detoured on the way back to the station to inspect the hospital car park. Alice was the owner of a Vauxhall Zafira. He’d checked the number plate on the PNC and drove towards the back of the hospital to the A &E entrance, easy to spot because of its red signs. Alice’s car was also easy to spot. Slewed across two parking spaces and with a ticket already on the screen, warning that the car must be removed – or else. Talith added one of his own: ‘Police Aware’. He’d get it taken in to forensics although he doubted they’d find much there. He tried the door. The car was unlocked, the keys still in the ignition. Lucky it was the Shrewsbury Hospital. Had it been Telford it would have been gone by now. He pocketed the keys and peered in. As he’d thought it was neat and tidy and there was nothing on the floor except…

He slipped a glove on and picked up a child’s plastic rattle. The colours were pale and slightly faded. It didn’t look new. He shook it and heard little bells jingle.

Jingle all the way, he thought, before replacing the rattle on the floor and locking the door. He had the feeling that no child had played with this for a while. It would have to be officially found – again – by the SOCOs but it posed another question. Had the rattle been found with the child? Or was it a contribution from Alice? Talith realized that in his mind he had all but solved the case. However long the child had been dead for, the estate agents could let them know who had lived there then and, ‘Bob’s your uncle, Talith,’ he muttered to himself.

He made a quick call to the station to organize removal of the car and climbed back into his own. Talith was not normally a reflective man but this case was a learning curve for him. As he leaned forward and started the engine he mused that most cases were reduced to a random collection of odd, unconnected objects.

Like the rattle.

He returned to the station in time to see the recovery lorry setting out and gave them the keys.

Wheels in motion, he thought with satisfaction.

Two hours later he had finished his reports and was ready to go home to his own Sunday meal and put his feet up in front of the television.

In the Palk household Justin and Acantha were finding it hard not to talk to their house guest about the subject which was occupying their minds.

The trouble was that Acantha couldn’t seem to find a neutral subject. All topics led straight back to the one the three of them were struggling to avoid. Even if she asked a polite, innocuous question, like what exactly her daughter was doing these days, it always seemed to lead back to ‘Don’t tell her, Acantha. Don’t tell her.’

In the end Acantha gave in. ‘Then tell me what happened.’

‘You already know what happened,’ Alice insisted plaintively. ‘I went up into the loft to see about the conversion that Aaron wants to do.’

‘Yes?’

‘I wondered about moving the hot water tank. Then I noticed…’

‘What?’

‘I saw what I thought was a bit of old blanket stuffing up a hole. I thought there might be mice – rats even – so I pulled it out and it came out as well.’

‘That isn’t quite the story you gave the police,’ Acantha said.

Justin, very wisely, was saying nothing.

‘I’ve had time to think about it.’ Alice was more rational, defiant even. ‘Remember it properly.’ Acantha couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that her friend was defending something.

‘You must have realized there was no point in taking it to a hospital.’

‘I didn’t know where else to take her.’

‘How did you know she was called Poppy? Was her name stitched on the blanket?’

‘I don’t remember. There’s no point you pushing me. I don’t remember everything.’

‘OK,’ Acantha said resignedly. ‘But when you got to the hospital you simply sat there?’

‘I didn’t know the system.’ Alice was sounding aggressive now.

Her friend could have pointed out that she had had a broken night’s sleep as well as acting as both her lawyer and her guarantor so the least she owed her was a truthful explanation, but she had the feeling that if pressed Alice would hide behind the ‘I don’t remember’ explanation. It could be a very convenient way of avoiding the truth.

Acantha watched her drink her coffee, butter her toast, spread the marmalade. On the one hand she realized her friend was stressed and she must allow her some leeway. On the other hand she had been a solicitor long enough to know that when criminals couldn’t conjure up an explanation they frequently hid behind the excuse of a poor memory or amnesia.

Alice burst out suddenly, ‘Why do you keep asking? Why do you keep pressing me for answers, answers I don’t have. I don’t have the answers,’ she repeated. ‘You know that I was trying to work out the loft conversion and I came across…’

‘Yes, yes,’ Acantha prompted impatiently. ‘I know that but I don’t understand when you found the body why didn’t you just ring the police? And you -’ she looked directly at her friend – ‘haven’t even come near giving me a good reason.’

Alice looked confused and a little vulnerable. ‘There’s a lot I don’t remember and a lot I don’t know. I…’ It was as though the spark of an idea came to her. ‘I suppose,’ she said brightly, ‘I was temporarily insane.’

It all seemed a little too convenient. Acantha bit her lip, gave her husband a swift look across the table and knew his thoughts were very close to hers.

So she decided to press Alice. ‘Look, Alice,’ she said, ‘you may as well try and think up some answers other than that you don’t know, because at some point you’re going to have to answer all these questions to the police satisfactorily and if you can’t do that it may well be that they charge you.’

Alice looked alarmed. ‘What with? What on earth could they possibly charge me with? I haven’t done anything.’

‘I don’t know but I do know what the police are like. I’ve worked with them for enough years,’ Acantha said dryly. ‘They like answers, Alice, to their questions. Answers that make sense. And if they don’t get the right answers they get suspicious. It’ll be the worse for you, I can promise you, so you’d better start thinking and remembering.’

Her friend looked at her with dismay. ‘But I can’t remember.’

‘Can’t you?’

‘No.’ The two friends looked at each other and Acantha suddenly thought that though she would have called Alice Sedgewick one of her best friends she was realizing now that she didn’t really know her at all. She looked at her friend through new eyes. Her lawyer’s instinct was whispering to her that there was much more to this episode than met the eye. To her the entire story was unconvincing. Alice Sedgewick was holding something back. She could read it in her eyes.

Monday morning, 7 a.m .

Martha was woken by the alarm radio. She stretched out her hand to still it. She couldn’t cope with the news at this hour. She ought to retune it really so she was wakened by Classic FM or Radio Two but somehow she never quite got around to it. She had enough to think about. Work. Sukey to school. Another couple of days and Sam would be returning to Liverpool for a medical examination by the team’s doctor. Agnetha had offered to drive him back which suited Martha. She anticipated a busy week ahead with the poor weather. She expected plenty of slips and spills which in the elderly or vulnerable could so easily prove fatal. As a coroner she could never forecast what the week would hold and sometimes, on a Monday morning, she lay in bed for ten minutes and wondered, even sometimes tried to see into the near future. Hers was an interesting role, her job to tidy up after death. It wasn’t always possible and that was where her work could become difficult. But when she did ease suffering for the bereaved she could honestly say it fulfilled her.

Detective Inspector Alex Randall was at his desk by eight thirty a.m. A tall, spare man with a craggy face and deeply penetrating hazel eyes which normally were grave and serious, sometimes even a little sad. But occasionally they could light up with amusement and transform him into an attractive man in his early forties. He spent half an hour reading through Talith’s preliminary reports then put in a call to the coroner’s office.

Martha arrived at her office at a little after nine. And the first thing she noticed was that Jericho Palfreyman, her assistant, was waiting to ambush her, wearing what she called ‘that look’ on his face. A sort of suppressed excitement which told her some drama was afoot. He was a grizzle-haired man, Dickensian both in his looks and demeanour, even down to the habit he had of rubbing his dry palms together when intrigued. Jericho was one of those souls who had probably looked old from the age of thirty and hadn’t aged for the last twenty-five years. Martha simply couldn’t imagine him as anything but grey-haired, with slightly bowed shoulders which meant he usually looked up into people’s faces, giving him a slightly creepy look. He took a ghoulish delight in his job and squeezed out every last detail of sensational cases. His pleasure was exponentially increased if he learned of them before Martha so he was the one to inform her .

And this was just such a case.

‘Good morning, Jericho,’ she said and waited, deliberately not prompting him.

Jericho rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ve just had a call from Detective Inspector Randall, ma’am,’ he began then paused, wanting her to ask him what the inspector had wanted. It was a sort of cat and mouse game, a procedure he wanted to follow.

Martha sighed. ‘Yes, Jericho?’

‘He’s investigating a most strange and mysterious case,’ he said, pausing for a fraction of a second to extract the maximum satisfaction before he spilled the beans. As usual he spared Martha no detail, adding a few extra twirls of his own. ‘She’d wrapped the little girl in a pretty little pink blanket and then drove all the way to the hospital with it on her lap.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘On her lap, mind.’

She couldn’t resist a little leg-pull. ‘Really, Jericho, and how did they know all that?’

Jericho was unperturbed. ‘She must have done, mustn’t she, ma’am. I bet she didn’t have a car seat.’

‘Well, we’ll soon find out,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much for all that, Jericho,’ she said. ‘So the body is now at the hospital mortuary?’

‘That’s right, ma’am,’ he said. ‘They’re waiting to do the post-mortem. Detective Inspector Randall wants you to ring him the very minute you arrive.’

‘Then I must do so, mustn’t I? I’ll have coffee in my office,’ she said, then remembered something. ‘Oh, by the way, Jericho, do you know the number of a painter and decorator? I want to revamp my study and I’m terrible at decorating. It’ll take me from now right up to next Christmas.’

‘As it happens, ma’am,’ he said, ‘I do. I can give you the number of a very reliable person who can be trusted to do a neat job honestly.’

‘Thank you.’

Of course Jericho would know someone, she reflected. He knew everything. She copied the number down, resisting her assistant’s offer to set the whole thing up for her and went into her office to ring Alex Randall.

She knew the number off by heart. She and Detective Inspector Randall had worked together on a number of cases. She liked him very much. He was professional, polite, private. An enigma.

She dialled his office number. ‘Morning, Martha,’ he said.

‘From what Jericho has already told me this sounds a very odd case, Alex.’

‘I agree,’ he said. ‘Odd and puzzling. Not least what this woman’s part was in the drama.’

‘Alice,’ she said slowly. ‘Alice Sedgewick. Have you met her yet?’

‘No. Sergeant Talith has and thinks she’s very strange. A bit weird and disturbed.’

‘But presumably not a child killer? Does he think she’s responsible for the child’s death?’

‘Well, apart from a few points which have puzzled him I can’t see how she could have been. It really depends on how long the baby has been dead for and I have the feeling we won’t be able to pin the pathologist, Mark Sullivan, down to a precise number of years. Alice has lived at The Mount for five years. Delyth Fontaine’s opinion is that the baby has been dead for longer than that. So, if Mrs Sedgewick was responsible for the child’s death, she would have to have brought the body with her when they moved into The Mount. I suppose the body would have to have been kept in the same environment or its condition would have deteriorated.’

‘Delicately put, Alex.’ She wanted to ask what points exactly had puzzled Paul Talith but knew she would have to wait. ‘If she had done that why suddenly would she lose her rag and come up to the hospital with it?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe something she had hidden from her husband? Something to with the proposed loft conversion?’ He gave a dry chuckle. ‘There are plenty of questions to be answered.’

Martha agreed. ‘Well whatever we’ll have to have a post-mortem if only to find out whether the infant was born dead or alive. Can we see if Mark Sullivan is available to do a post-mortem? Today if possible.’

‘Do you want to attend, Martha?’

‘I think I ought to, although I’ve a ton of work ahead of me. Winter really is the season of death, isn’t it? Luckily,’ she added hastily, ‘most of them from natural causes. But I have a nasty feeling that this will become a cause célèbre. It’s just the sort of sticky mystery that makes a good headline – better than the economy or the deaths of our troops abroad. And definitely better than the secret date of the election. If the press start sniffing around let me know, won’t you? And let me know as soon as you have a time for the PM? I’m available all afternoon.’

‘Will do.’

‘As the A &E department at the hospital is such a public place we’re not going to have a hope of keeping this quiet. It might be an idea if you made a brief statement to the press and kept them informed. It’ll at least minimize their tendency to make up an entire story. Let’s try and get them to stick to the facts.’

‘Of course.’

‘It strikes me that behind this little drama is a tragedy, some woman in desperate straits. Let’s not make it worse for her whoever she might be.’

‘Right. I agree.’ He paused. ‘Family well?’

‘Yes, thank you. Yours?’

It was something she’d never done, made any comment about his family, enquired about them. She didn’t even know whether he had any children. She knew there was a Mrs Randall but he never mentioned her name or said anything about her at all. It was almost as though when he was at work she didn’t exist. Martha had been to his office on a number of occasions and observed that there were no pictures on his desk. In fact nothing personal at all. He was an enigma who seemed to want to remain so and she hesitated to intrude but she had known him for years now and her question had been no more than a polite response that had slipped out before she could check it.

‘Aah,’ he said, which could have meant anything at all.

Alex rang back at lunchtime. ‘PM at three,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Can you still make it?’

‘I’ll be there,’ Martha said grimly. ‘Is Mark Sullivan going to perform?’

‘Yes. He’s working today and has agreed to do it.’

‘Good. There’s no one better.’ She could have added a few words more but discretion and all that.

Provided he’s.. .

I hope he’s.. .

The missing word was ‘sober’.

In the end she said nothing except: ‘See you later then, Alex.’

As she drove to the hospital mortuary she worried about Mark Sullivan. It was no secret that Sullivan, one of the cleverest pathologists she’d ever worked with, had a drink problem. A serious drink problem which affected his work at times. She had watched him perform post-mortems with shaking hands, bloodshot eyes, an uneasy gait and seeming to exhale pure, neat alcohol. At those times she was glad that his subject was not a living person. And yet, when he was good, sober and alert, as a pathologist he was very, very good, like the girl with a curl in the middle of her forehead. He seemed to be one of those pathologists who could tease out information from seemingly invisible marks, find evidence deep inside the tissues, of trauma or an assault – or even sometimes the other way round when a death appeared suspicious and a suspect held, he had the talent to find a clot or a haemorrhage or some other natural cause of death. And as every law enforcer knows it is as important to free the innocent as to convict the guilty. For the sake of what would almost certainly prove to be a very delicate case she hoped that today Sullivan would be at his sober best.

Her wish was granted. Sullivan himself opened the key-padded door with a sweeping gesture and a wide grin.

‘Martha,’ he said. ‘A challenge ahead.’

‘Yes indeed.’

He looked bright and clean and – yes as she scrutinized him she knew he was – sober. Absolutely stone cold sober. He smelt of coffee and vaguely of a spicy aftershave. His teeth looked bright and white, his skin clear. Best of all he looked confident, sure of himself. Happy. She hadn’t seen him look this good for years. It was a puzzle. What had wrought this change? He bounced her scrutiny back with a mocking defiance and she was sure he knew exactly what she was thinking.

‘Alex will be here in a minute,’ he said.

She followed him down the corridor and Sullivan continued talking. ‘I have the poor little scrap ready and waiting. A newborn male infant. Superficially I’d say the child’s cord was cut but not properly ligatured and he bled to death.’

Something struck Martha. ‘Did you say he?’

‘That’s right.’ He made a face. ‘Even I can sex a child, Martha.’

She was sure Alex had mentioned something about a little girl in a pink blanket. But when Alex Randall arrived a few minutes later the sex of the baby wasn’t foremost in her mind. If Martha thought Mark Sullivan looked well Detective Inspector Alex Randall looked simply terrible, as though he had hardly slept for weeks. His eyes were puffy and he looked strained and exhausted. Whatever was going on in his life it must be something quite dreadful to have this awful effect on him. She’d never seen him look quite so bad. He avoided Martha’s searching, enquiring glance as though he knew he looked rough and was embarrassed for her to see it too, resenting both her cognizance and her concern. He passed a hand over his face wearily, pressing his fingers into his eyelids almost with pain. Something was patently very wrong. Martha felt concerned. She was fond of Alex. They were not only colleagues but friends – even though she could not say she had got to know him well. She had always suspected there was tragedy lurking somewhere in his life but he had never confided in her and she had never asked.

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.’