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
‘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
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