there’s a ten-minute wait before she replies to say she’ll see what she can do. I finally put down the phone and lay back into the scratchy cotton pillows, still damp with sweat, staring at the ceiling of this anonymous hotel room.
There’s something else nagging at me, scratching at the edges of my consciousness. Kathryn’s sister is the missing piece of the story, silent, anonymous, unrepresented. An absence, never named, never pictured, a victim who has maintained her silence. I started off with the assumption that Kathryn was trying to protect her own child. But there’s been something sitting quietly at the centre of the story in front of me, something so obvious I can’t believe it’s only now that I’ve finally seen it.
I grab my phone again and scroll to the top of the story, below Simms’s by-line, where the date is listed. Time slows as another piece slides into place, and I have the feeling I knew this already, had known it as soon as I read the first lines of the article.
The date on the first news story is September 14th just over a year ago.
And Mia is three months old.
50
The inside of Langtry’s, a basement bar away from the bustle of Kensington High Street, is cool and dark. It’s not busy, just a few office workers enjoying a lunch-time drink, and a handful of tourists taking a break from the shops. I find who I’m looking for sitting alone in a booth against the back wall, two high-backed wooden benches facing each other across a ring-stained wooden table. He’s in his late thirties, a couple of days’ stubble on his cheeks and dark bristly hair cut the same short length all over. ‘You’ll recognise him from his by-line picture online,’ Tara had told me earlier. ‘Just add ten years and twenty pounds to bring him up to date.’ He’s scrolling on his phone as I walk up, a half-drunk pint of bitter on the table in front of him.
‘Hi,’ I say, and slide into the booth opposite him.
He looks up in surprise, already shaking his head in apology. ‘Sorry, love, that seat’s taken.’ He glances around the bar. ‘I’m waiting for a friend, she’s due any minute.’
‘You’re Matt, right?’ I stay where I am. ‘Matt Simms, Daily Mail?’
He sits up a little straighter in his seat, eyes narrowing. ‘Sorry,’ he says again. ‘Who’d you say you were looking for?’
‘My name’s Ellen Devlin. I’m a friend of Tara Richardson.’
‘I’m supposed to be meeting Tara for a drink.’ He checks his watch. ‘Like, now.’
‘I know,’ I say, holding my hands up in apology. ‘Sorry about that, I asked her to ask you. I wanted to meet you face-to-face but I didn’t think you’d do that for a total stranger.’
‘Tara’s . . . not coming?’
‘Afraid not, but she said to say hi from her, and thanks for the chat yesterday.’ I flash him a smile. ‘Can I buy you a drink instead? Then I’ll explain.’
Simms shrugs as if he’s still trying to decide whether he’s annoyed about being played. ‘Err . . .’
‘Pint of London Pride, is it?’
The reporter looks down at his pint glass, still half-full. ‘Why not?’ he says.
I get up to fetch the drinks, watching his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He straightens his tie, tucks his shirt in and runs a hand through his hair, patting down the unruly strands before taking a generous gulp of his bitter. When I return to the booth, with another pint for him and a large tonic water for myself, he seems to have gathered his wits and greets me with a grin.
‘Cheers Matt,’ I say, clinking my glass against his.
‘So, Ellen,’ he says, leaning back and spreading both arms along the back of the booth. ‘It was you who wanted to know about the Ghost, was it? Not Tara?’
‘You wrote a couple of pieces about the victims and their families.’
‘If you want to complain about a story in the paper you need to use the proper channels, go through the managing editor, he deals with all that—’
I take a sip of my drink. ‘I don’t want to complain,’ I say.
He looks at me dead-on, straight in the eyes, looking for any flickers of deceit. ‘Are you recording this, Ellen?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘So you’re a journalist? With the Express, are you?’
‘No, I’m a friend of Tara’s from way back. We were in the navy together.’
He takes another pull on his first pint, still studying me over the top