Page 68 of The Stolen Child

Nicola held her hand up. ‘You don’t need to do anything, love, but get through this heartbreak the best you can.’ She turned to Baldwin. ‘I’ll go with Sally too. She’ll not face this on her own.’

Holding Nicola’s hand, Sally found herself in the back of a white Ford Cortina. The traffic was in their favour, and within ten minutes they were at the city morgue being led into a room by a sombre-faced pathologist.

Her legs felt as if they were filled with cement as she looked around the cold, sterile morgue. She moved slowly to the gurney where her mother’s body lay underneath a crisp white sheet. Sally held her breath as the pathologist lifted the covering, revealing her mother’s face.

It looked as if she were sleeping.

Her face was unmarked, and she looked younger somehow, with her red hair fanned around her – the mother of Sally’s childhood, before she sent her away to Sunshine House.

‘Is this your mother, Lizzie Fox?’ Detective Sergeant Baldwin asked gently.

Sally didn’t look up, keeping her eyes locked on her mother’s face instead. ‘Yes.’ She was surprised at her voice’s strength because her insides felt as if they were on fire, melting every part of her. ‘Can I touch her?’ she whispered.

‘I’m afraid not,’ the pathologist replied. ‘It’s not permitted before we do the post mortem.’

Sally leaned down close to her mother’s face and breathed in deeply. She couldn’t smell her musky scent, only the sterile aroma of bleach, and that was all wrong. She reached into her handbag and fumbled until she found her tiny bottle of Charlie perfume.

‘Could you spray this on her when you have finished the postmortem? My mother would hate the smell of bleach. She wears perfume every day.’

The pathologist took the bottle solemnly and promised he would do as Sally asked.

Sally kissed her own fingertips, then held them an inch above her mother’s mouth.

‘I’m sorry this happened to you, Mum. I’m sorry that your life was cut short. I’m sorry that we weren’t closer. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry . . .’ Sally finished on a sob.

BEFORE

May 1979

Sally

Doddington Estate, Battersea Park Road, London

As Detective Sergeant Baldwin drove them home, Sally lay her head on Nicola’s shoulder, closing her eyes. She wasn’t asleep, but couldn’t muster any energy for small talk. When they arrived outside the Doddington flats, Baldwin opened the car door for them.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked, his brown eyes warm, with concern etched on his face.

‘Not really,’ Sally answered truthfully. ‘But I will be.’

‘I need to ask you some further questions, but if you are not up to it now, we can wait until tomorrow.’

‘I think Sally has been through enough,’ Nicola said, her voice firm.

While Sally appreciated her friend’s intervention, she could think of nothing worse than continuing this conversation again the following day.

‘It’s okay. I’d prefer to get this over and done with. My flat is this way.’

Detective Sergeant Baldwin followed Sally and Nicola up the cement walkway towards the stairwell.

‘The lifts are broken. Sorry,’ Sally said as she began to climb upwards.

‘They’re always bloody broken,’ Nicola grumbled. ‘You go on ahead. I’m going to get Elsie.’

When they entered Sally’s flat, Detective Sergeant Baldwin’s eyes ran over the sitting-room area. Sally supposed it must look small and tatty to him, but she had made the best of the space. She’d replaced the net curtains with vibrant red-and-cream geometric-patterned curtains two years ago, and placed a large shag-pile rug on top of the carpet. Framed posters filled the walls. Two wicker chairs bought in the Camden market, with bright red cushions, sat opposite the sofa. It wasn’t much, but it was home.

Sally sat in one of the wicker chairs and motioned for the detective sergeant to sit down too.

‘Ask me whatever you need to.’