Bitter Blue

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘Intense.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She didn’t like the woman but did she dislike her enough to start a hate campaign against her?

  She took a swallow from her cup. ‘And she’d get all neurotic, running off to Mr Hoyle every chance she got about stuff that didn’t matter, like someone being five minutes late ...’

  Guess who, I thought.

  ‘... or the front desk being left in a mess.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Not bad. Didn’t have much to do with him, really. I reckon Lucy Barker fancied him.’

  I raised my eyebrows and she nodded at me. ‘She thought no one knew but I could tell. He’d not been married long, baby on the way,’ she pulled a face. ‘I think he told her where to get off ...’

  Or the other way around?

  ‘... suddenly it’s all long silences and they’re never in the same room together.’

  Carly had assumed Lucy was making the running. Why? One glaring contradiction struck me and I voiced it. ‘I thought she was still in a state about her late fiancé?’

  ‘I know. State about everything.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Her whole life, it was one tragedy after another, like living in a soap-opera. Acts as if no one else has ever had any bad luck.’

  Carly sounded harsh. Perhaps she too had seen hard times but didn’t confide in people so readily and was scathing of those who did.

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘She had meningitis when she was little, nearly died and her grandfather was killed in one of them IRA bombings, then her mother had a stroke and she had to do all the housework, and her brother was a junkie, sold the telly and all their things, and the car crash of course. She’d slip them in when she were talking to us. Like, I didn’t want to know.’

  ‘Why do you think she did that?’

  She gave another shrug. ‘Maybe she thought I’d feel sorry for her.’

  I wondered if Lucy had told Carly about the rape?

  ‘I’ve heard there were some falling’s out at the hotel, between staff? Anything like that when you were there?’

  ‘No, apart from what I said about Mr Hoyle.’

  ‘Anyone making trouble?’

  ‘No. She played people off a bit.’

  ‘Miss Barker?’

  ‘Yeah. Say one thing to one person and something different to another. Stirring it. Little things, though. Sort of unsettled everybody. Sly, she is.’

  ‘Can you give me an example?’

  She thought. Grimaced. ‘It’s hard to remember.’

  It wasn’t anything other colleagues had mentioned.

  ‘I didn’t trust her,’ she blew out another stream of smoke.

  Which was rich coming from Carly given her predilection for nicking stuff.

  ‘What about Pam Hertz, what was she like?’

  I couldn’t imagine Carly taking to the slightly bossy style of the housekeeping manager.

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Strict. But she wasn’t that bad when you got used to her. The housemaids liked her.’

  ‘And Malcolm Whitlow?’

  Who had given her the sack.

  She flushed, took a final drag of her fag and tossed the butt into a pool of spilt milk where it sizzled and died. ‘Dunno,’ she hunched her shoulders, more uncomfortable now.

  ‘You like it better here?’ I changed the subject.

  She smiled, the first time in our conversation and her eyes sparkled with glee as she did. ‘You joking? I’m setting up on my own soon. Nails.’ She wriggled the seascape fingers at me. ‘I’m going for a business grant, for small businesses in the community, they help you out in your first year. Be my own boss. Here I do ten till eight and it’s a miracle if I get any lunch. Depends who turns in.’

  ‘Do you work every day?’

  Her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head in enquiry.

  ‘Were you here yesterday?’ I said bluntly.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ Suspicion flashed in her eyes and her lips tightened.

  ‘It’s something else I’m looking into. There’s been a bit of trouble.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘Nothing. If you were here.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ She said sharply. She turned to go. Wheeled back. ‘Course I was fuckin’ here. I don’t know what your game is but I haven’t got anything to hide. Come on. I’ll fuckin’ prove it.’ She marched off and I followed my cheeks glowing.

  In the store she strode up to the till where another cashier was working and three customers queued.

  Hands on hip she called to the woman.

  ‘Yesterday, Gemma, what hours did I do?’

  ‘Ten till eight, didn’t yer?’ The girl paused in swiping the goods.

  ‘And when did I have my lunch?’

  Gemma’s face went slack as she groped for the memory. The queue waited all ears.

  ‘Ah,’ her face brightened. ‘Yer didn’t have any. Just a fag break, Nicky weren’t in. You clocked it up as overtime.’ Gemma nodded and reached for the next item.

  Carly glared at me. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘And don’t fuckin’ come back,’ she said.

  A gasp from the queue.

  I fled.

  Okay it had been embarrassing but I’d got the information I needed. Carly hadn’t been behind the poison pen letters. Next on the check-alibis list was Ian Hoyle, never mind what Lucy kept telling me. I don’t often have to be duplicitous with my clients, and I recognised it was a bad sign that I didn’t trust her judgement. But all I needed to do was to establish his movements for the previous day, surreptitiously so she didn’t hear about it. I thought through my approach while I drove back to my office. The weather was warmer than it had been. The previous day’s wind had dropped and spring sunshine made the cherry blossom dazzle on the trees that lined the roads.

  Ian Hoyle hadn’t been pleased to talk to me the first time around; he had no reason for even agreeing to see me now. I’d have to convince him it would be to his advantage to see me. Or give him no choice in the matter.

  Chapter Nine

  I rang Lucy at the hotel to see how she was.

  ‘Okay, but I’m owed some leave, I’m going to take tomorrow off and make a long weekend of it. Get away for a bit.’

  ‘Sounds good. Better a B&B somewhere a bit more scenic. Let me know where you are. I can ring you if anything comes up.’

  Then I called an old friend of mine, a journalist and something of a techno-geek called Harry. Did he know anyone who could help me identify the fonts and eventually the publications that had been used to construct the poison pen letters?

  ‘But not the police?’

  ‘Not an option at this stage.’

  ‘Hmmm. Are they common fonts?’

  ‘I don’t know Harry, I haven’t tried comparing them to anything myself. I’d rather get an expert to do it – they could probably look at it and reel off a list of papers without blinking. Are there people who do that?’

  ‘Will be, case of finding them. Leave it with me, I can think of one bloke might know where to try.’

  After the call I transferred the letters to my file.

  I was still no nearer deciding on my opening lines for Ian Hoyle so I went swimming. I go a couple of times a week. It’s the only exercise I get apart from riding my bike and the work-out we do at self-defence on Friday nights. On a regular basis I promise myself that I’ll do more, try running or the gym as well, but it never comes to pass.

  Withington Baths are housed in a classic Victorian building. The pools are small, a bit shabby but the staff are friendly and the place is convenient. I’d never swim at all if it meant traipsing to the flash new Aquatics Centre; it would take too big a chunk out of my day to travel into town.

  I said my hellos to the lifeguards and got changed, exchanged greetings with the regulars in the water and began my half-hour. Counting lengths had got pret
ty boring so I just went by the clock instead. I swam as hard as I could and after the first few lengths I was in my stride. On autopilot, my thoughts returned to Lucy.

  She’d certainly had a rough life. Added to the rape and her fiancé’s death in her arms, there was also her grandfather’s violent death, her brother’s drug addiction and her mother’s stroke. How old had Lucy been then? And why hadn’t Lucy gone when they had all emigrated? Had she met Benjamin by then? And planned her future with him? Now she’d lost that too. Carly Jowett had resented Lucy talking about these events but with all Lucy had gone through there must have been times when other people’s trivial concerns grated on her. Perhaps times when Lucy had wanted to put things in perspective. But confiding in her colleagues had not always been welcome. Some found her too intense – like the assistant who had asked for a transfer. Others probably felt uncomfortable; work wasn’t necessarily the right place to air private tragedies.

  At the end of my stint I floated on my back. I savoured the way the sounds of the pool were muffled by the water and let my limbs, aching and warm from the effort, relax. When I breathed I could feel how the swim had stretched my lungs.

  The pool was emptying of swimmers in time for the schools who use it either side of lunch. I did a lazy backstroke down to the deep end and climbed up the concrete steps. I stood at the edge, in the centre and stuck my toes just over the rim. I bent my knees, focused, took a deep breath and dived. Down, down, bubbles streaming about me, a moment of disorientation before I rose breaking the surface. Exhilarating. A rush of physical satisfaction. The happy hormones rewarding me for exercising.

  As I changed, I thought about Maddie who didn’t seem happy and the woman who had been beaten up the other night. I imagined her trying to cope; not just with what had happened to her but what might. That dread anticipation. My sense of well-being shrank a bit. Come on, I told myself, just do what you can. And whatever lay ahead it would be easier to tackle it now I was feeling that little bit fitter.

  After lunch I tried Ian Hoyle hoping that Lucy Barker wouldn’t take the call and recognise my voice. The woman I spoke to told me Mr Hoyle was in a meeting all afternoon. Erring on the side of caution I chose not to leave a message.

  The next call I got was from school. The secretary was ringing on behalf of Maddie’s teacher who wanted to see me; could I get to school quarter of an hour earlier than usual?

  ‘Yes,’ I said, feeling a rush of anxiety swill through my stomach. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  I knew it couldn’t be an accident or anything because they’d have said straight away.

  ‘I don’t know, I was just asked to make the appointment with you.’

  Forty-five minutes and I couldn’t bear to sit and stew. I’d be better off working than brooding. There was time to pay another random call on Severn Road for the Ecclestones.

  The weather was fine but getting colder. The forecast was for a cold snap over the weekend, with temperatures dipping below freezing and snow on the hills. This had sparked more debate on the increasingly mercurial nature of the weather and the impact of global warming.

  I drove the length of the street. It was pretty deserted. Some workmen were clearing rubbish into one of the skips at the big detached place and a postal worker slowly steered her bike with its front tray of letters from one house to another.

  I parked outside Chestnuts and checked the time. I was startled by rapping on my car window. It was Mrs Mistry from Oakview. I wound it down.

  ‘I thought it was you, I was wondering whether to ring. There’ve been a whole lot of break-ins.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last night. They tried here, the window round the back, but the alarm went off. We had the police round and they said there’d been three other attempts, all along here. They think it was kids because they weren’t very professional. Maybe vandals. They let tyres down on some of the cars. And the house further down, the one near the corner, being renovated ...’

  I nodded. The one with the skips.

  ‘... they got in there and made a real mess. It makes you wonder what the parents are thinking of when the children are out all hours running riot.’

  ‘You’ve not had this sort of trouble before? The vandalism?’

  ‘No. The police say there’s been a lot of it up Burton Road, could be the same lot.’

  ‘Was anything taken?’

  ‘A video and a laptop at one house.’

  Vandals or burglars. The two were quite different. Vandals were out for kicks and easily drew attention to themselves. Burglars wanted to come away with goods they could sell on, they weren’t in the business of doing anything to delay their chance of getting away. One laptop wasn’t much of a haul in a street like Severn Road.

  ‘Would you like to come in for a drink?’ she offered.

  ‘No thanks, I’m not going to be here very long, just a quick visit.’

  A couple of minutes later and I saw an old woman bundled up in layers of tatty clothes shuffle very slowly out of the driveway opposite and onto the pavement. The reclusive Mrs Smith. She had long grey hair which stuck out beneath an ugly, brown knitted hat. I got out of the car and approached her.

  ‘Mrs Smith, hello.’

  She glared at me. Up close I could see that a cataract had turned one of her pupils into a milky disc, her skin was crêpey and the colour of whey except for her nose which was a mass of purple veins. She stank; the rank smell of desperate poverty. I tried not to breathe it in. Now I was facing her I didn’t know what to say. I heard myself babbling: ‘Is everything okay with the house? Only some of the neighbours think the landlord should be made to sort it out, repair it properly. Have you seen the landlord recently?’

  She shook her head but it was a dismissal not an answer. She had no socks on and the stitching had rotted in the men’s shoes she wore exposing the side and heel of her foot which was rimmed with dirt.

  ‘Is there anything you need?’ I carried on.

  ‘No,’ she said hoarsely. She waved me aside, her hands red and blotchy, and resumed her shuffle.

  Pointless to persist. I crossed back to the car and got in. I watched her make her way to the corner in my rear-view mirror. What could I do? I wasn’t a social worker and the woman hadn’t wanted my interference. Had she got a social worker? She looked sick, she wasn’t dressed for the cold weather. Surely the authorities should give her some support. Maybe they could put pressure on the landlord to sort the house out.

  I rang Rachel, my social worker friend and asked for her opinion.

  ‘People get referred by their GPs, or family, sometimes neighbours. They may already be in the system.’

  ‘Could you check?’

  I gave her the name and address.

  ‘First names?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘You do pick them don’t you, Sal … Smith, could take forever.’

  ‘What if they’re not getting help? Can you get someone to come and see them?’

  ‘We can try but if they won’t open the door, if they don’t want to see anyone, we can’t force them. Not unless they’re creating a nuisance or breaking the law. Sometimes the GP’s a better bet. When people hear we’re from Social Services they think we’re going to cart them off soon as look at them.’

  ‘Will you check then?’

  ‘Yep. Can’t do anything against people’s wishes you know. I remember one case—’

  ‘Rachel, sorry, I have to go.’ Rachel was gabby. The only way to deal with her was to stop her before she got started.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘See you at Chris’s party on Saturday.’

  ‘Great, see you there.’

  On my way to school I drove past Mrs Smith. She was on her way back clutching a small, thin blue carrier bag in one hand. She’d been for provisions. Bread or milk maybe. Whatever it was it wouldn’t last two of them all that long. I wondered how they managed for food, generally. According to the neighbours they were rarely seen, so how d
id they do the shopping?

  Both the head teacher, Mrs Tewkes, and Maddie’s class teacher, Miss Dent, were waiting to see me. Once I’d sat down Mrs Tewkes began to speak. ‘Thank you for coming in. I’m afraid we’ve had a number of incidents involving Maddie and we felt we needed to discuss them with you, and see what sort of support she might need.’

  My face burned. ‘What sort of incidents?’

  ‘Aggressive behaviour in the playground and other problems in class.’ She gestured for Miss Dent to continue.

  ‘Maddie has not been behaving well, I’m afraid. She’s falling behind with her work and she’s disrupting other pupils.’

  This was so unlike Maddie I could barely believe what I was hearing.

  ‘I’m afraid Maddie has spoilt some of the other children’s work and this morning she reduced another child to tears with name-calling.’

  I was appalled. ‘It’s not like Maddie at all ...’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mrs Tewkes. ‘We were wondering if there has been anything happening outside school that might explain the change in her behaviour?’

  At home, she meant.

  ‘No, nothing.’ I sounded defensive. ‘She’s been moody at home ...’ My mind raced about as I spoke trying to think of any major crisis I’d managed to overlook,

  ‘… she’s been a bit flat and she wasn’t keen on coming back to school after the holidays but she often says that at the start of term and then once she’s back it’s all okay again.’

  ‘She’s not said anything at home about these problems?’

  ‘No.’ I’m a bad mother, my child can’t talk to me. ‘Obviously, I’ve asked her whether there’s been anything wrong – with her being a bit sulky – but she’s not said anything.’

  ‘I don’t want to dwell too much on what’s happened,’ said Mrs Tewkes, ‘I think we should put our energies into helping Maddie improve her behaviour.’