March, London, 1938

It was one of those cold, drizzly nights in March, a cloudy night where even people who weren't in London wouldn't be able to see the stars. PC Sullivan, yawning widely, was walking home after a long shift, dreaming of dreams and a warm bed.

It hadn't been a very exciting day, and as he rounded the railings outside the dingey squat police station he couldn't think of anything remarkable that had happened that day.

He normally left through the front doors, and walked around the side through the avenues to the main road. It wasn't a great route to take - his station was in a rough patch of town, and a young copper wouldn't be the most appeasing sight to some of the residents-but he took it out of habit. It was usually quiet, and gave him time to think.

He was thinking about something when he heard the strange noise. Strange because he knew what it was, but it was out of place.

The thin, mewing cry could have been kittens, but he was sure it was a baby.

What would a baby be doing out here?

He scanned around, trying to locate the noise, when his eye fell on the tin dustbins lined in a row outside the station. He opened the lid on the first one and gasped.

There was indeed a baby, dirty, red, face contorted with tears and wrapped half heartedly in an old cardigan, lying on top of the old newspapers, beer bottles and fish and chips remains.

"Oh no-oh no, oh come here, its alright." He scooped the child out, marvelling at how tiny it was - probably a new born, and clasped it to his chest, hoping it come somehow feel some of the warmth of his body through his tunic. He bounced on his heel, trying to sooth the screaming infant, before running into the station as fast as his legs could carry him.

The desk sergeant, a burly man with a huge head of hair and enormous moustache, looked up in surprise.

"Thought you were away."

Sullivan turned to side to show him the bundle, and the man's face fell open. "Jesus, where was that?"

"In the bins. Can you get me some towels, it's freezing and it's not got any clothes on."

The sergeant took off quicker than Sullivan had ever seen him move. He took the vacated chair, and gently manoeuvred the child so that it was lying looking up at him. A girl, he realised. Her sobs started to subside, staring at him with dewey eyes. She wriggled feebly, but she was too young to move properly. Sullivan tucked the cardigan around her a little tighter, gently rubbing her tiny chest to try and keep her warm. She sneezed twice, in quick succession.

"Here, blankets."

The sergeant was back, and Sullivan quickly bundled the child up, swaddling her and pulling her into his arms again, head supported in the crook of his elbow.

"The bins, y'say?"

"Yes. I'd say she's only just born, there's still a bit of her umbilical cord on her chest."

The sergeant clicked his teeth. The child was quiet now, staring up at Sullivan and opening and closing her mouth.

"Must have been a teenage mother or something. These things happen, but they usually leave 'em in a carrycot in reception, or on the door to the hospital. Not in the bins like that."

Sullivan gently brushed the infants cheek with the pad of his thumb. Her skin was incredibly soft, if red and wrinkled.

"Do you think she's hungry?" He asked, as the child started trying to suck on his finger.

"Probably. Might have a bit of milk in the kitchen I could heat up. You stay here with her - phone the services, she'll need looking after."

He set off to the kitchen. Sullivan sat, reaching carefully for the phone, not wanting to disturb the child. He thought she might sleep, but she stayed in that same transfixed state, reaching for him with tiny hands.

He balanced the phone on his shoulder and dialled the social services number.

He got a very nice woman who seemed horrified at the ordeal, and reassured him that someone would be there to collect the child in an hour. She praised him again and again for his intervention, which made Sullivan blush. It seemed a bit uncalled for - he doubted that any person could walk past a screaming baby in a dustbin and ignore them.

When she hung up, the baby was still staring at him.

"Hello." He said, in a soft voice.

She reached for his face again with her tiny fist, moving her arms free from the towel constraints.

"My name's Edgar. What's your name?"

No response. Unsurprising. Probably didn't have a name. It would be a strange situation if a baby chucked like rubbish into a bin had a name other than unwanted.

She screwed up her face again, and emitted a little cry, as if she could read his thoughts. He quickly started clicking his tongue soothingly, rocking her too and fro, before moving his hand to rub her chest again in case she might have a pain. She caught hold of his finger with surprising strength, and quietened immediately.

They stayed in that quiet, companiable state for the hour. He managed to find a treasury of fairy stories in the waiting room, and quietly told her about Peter Pan and Queen Mab and lots of other magical things that she probably couldn't understand, but seemed to be listening to anyway.

She held his hand the whole time, tight little fidt clinging to his pointer finger with shocking strength, once or twice pulling his hand to her mouth to suck on it. He laughed at that.

She was very awake, very alert, and she was still gazing at him with her wide brown eyes when the people from the social arrived with a carrycot and bag of clothes.

He handed her over, and the lady took her in into the office to change her into an outfit. She squealed rather loudly at this, and the other woman chuckled.

"She doesn't want to leave you." She said. "You must have been very kind to her."

He told her about how he found her and filled out forms, and they were just chatting about the adoption process when the woman returned carrying the baby, now dressed in a white babygrow with a pink hat and blanket around her.

She placed her in the carrycot and Sullivan peered in again. Now she seemed like any baby you'd meet on the street, not one with such a shocking start to life. He reached his hand in and she clenched onto him again. He shook it gently, a formal goodbye.

"Bye bye," He said, voice now thick with emotion, "Wait till you see how pretty you look now."

"Would you like to name her?" The woman asked, "It's usually up to the nursery staff, but since you found her."

Sullivan blushed at this sudden honour. This was not at all an honour he'd expected. This name (provided her new parents didn't change it) could stay with her forever. A personality defining statement. He'd better get it right.

He knew most abandoned babies got religious names, like Noah, Matthew, Mary. He'd heard of stupid names for kids like Faith and Hope, as if a pompous name would save them from misfortune. And then there was boring Ellen or Susan. No, she deserved a pretty, intriguing, distinguished name. A name that could carry her to great things, regardless of her surname. One that stood out in the school register.

"Isabella." He said, "That's a nice name."

"Very grand."

"Yes, exactly. She can do things with a posh name like that. She'll go far." He said. The child stared at him again. He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead.

"Bye bye, Isabella."