Free The Boy in the River by Richard Hoskins Page A

candidates had presented themselves.
    A number of other tests were currently underway. One was on what they called ethnic inferencing; another on the mitochondrial DNA, which, unlike DNA from the nucleus of cells, is passed only through the female line, so people sharing the same mitochondrial DNA must also share a female ancestor. Ray Fysh and the FSS team also planned to test cultural mutation against known databases, and were hoping to focus on the Y-chromosome in the male line.
    Good old-fashioned police work had come up with some results on Adam’s shorts. They were labelled ‘Kids’n’Co’ and manufactured in China. Only 800 pairs had been made, exclusively for the Woolworths chain in Germany and Austria, where they were marketed as girls’ clothing rather than boys’. So it looked as if Adam might have passed through Germany before coming to Britain – but we were still a long way from pinpointing the boy’s original home.
    Why would someone have placed bright orange-red shorts on the torso after death? Did the colour have any significance? If randomly chosen, they weren’t exactly inconspicuous. And why the river? Did Adam’s killers think the body would be washed straight out to sea, not taking the tidal rip into account, or was there some other resonance behind their method of disposal?
    Commander Andy Baker rang the next morning to invite me to a conference the following month at the headquarters of Europol, the Europe-wide police agency, in The Hague. ‘We’d like to ask you to be keynote speaker,’ he said.
    He wanted me to go into some detail on the background to this killing, and outline my cultural analysis. ‘I’ll say a few words of introduction. Will’s going to give a presentation on the police perspective of the case. Then it’s over to you. After lunch we’ll ask Ray Fysh to present an overview of the forensic analysis. We’ll fly you out business class and put you up in a decent hotel. It’ll be a chance for you to meet some other members of the team – and perhaps have a bit of a break.’
    ‘There’s just one thing,’ I said. ‘I’d like to bring my partner, Faith. She’s been following the case closely.’
    There was a slight pause, and I was suddenly anxious that I had overstepped the mark.
    But then Commander Baker said easily, ‘Leave that with me, would you, Richard? I’ll see what I can do.’

 
    13
    Bolobo, 1988-1989
    Despite the odds stacked so heavily against her, Abigail grew into a delightful impish toddler, noisy, inquisitive and affectionate. In mid-1988, when she was six months old, we took her to England.
    It was our first trip out of the Congo and almost our first out of the Bandundu region, and it gave me respite from my doubts and fears, reminding me of how lucky we were to have Abigail and one another. There were new sights, the joy of homecoming, and the warmth of friends and family. If these influences did not entirely banish my uncertainties, they certainly pushed them back into the shadows.
    We showed Abigail off to her relations, and then – one of the prime reasons for the trip – had her thoroughly checked out at a London clinic. It was strange to sit in a cool surgery, surrounded by gleaming equipment and crisply uniformed medical staff, while the reassuring London rain beat against the tall windows. I couldn’t help thinking of the last time Abigail had received any serious attention from the medical community, when she’d been wrenched into the world by the light of an oil lamp, while the rainforest screeched and gibbered outside.
    ‘Well, Mr and Mrs Hoskins,’ the doctor stood back and shook her head in admiration, ‘you’ve got a remarkable child there. She’s perfectly healthy as far as I can see. Perfectly.’
    Abigail, at her most coquettish, gurgled up at the doctor as if she were as pleased with herself as we were.
    There were those among our family and friends who urged us not to go back to the Congo, but we didn’t