by ML Rose
Then the beat dropped, the tune broke, Rhys snapped his eyes open, and he did a 360-degree turn. The beat started again, faster in tempo now and Rhys jerked his hips, swivelled his shoulders, and moved his hands and wrists in repeated jerky, birdlike, frantic movements. He sang about the woman he had lost, who had left him with a child he did not want. There was a gasp of surprise from the audience, then they were silent, spellbound by his performance.
Rhys sang and danced in a daze, cocooned in a zone of his own. The stage had become his living room, his audience the TV screen. In his mind, he was performing for the millions of people watching at home, but most of all, Rhys was doing this for himself. The stage was his home, a reason for living.
He did his last pirouette, jumped up. then stood with his legs splayed apart, one finger raised in the air, bending forwards as the song came to an end. He switched the microphone off so the audience couldn’t hear his gasps. A wall of sound met his ears, growing louder by the second. It was like a gigantic wave rolling towards him and he stared at the black mass of the theatre in confusion. Were they all clapping for him? He could hear screams and shouts, and the clapping just would not stop.
Then the MC was by his side, gripping his shoulder, anchoring him. He looked to the right partition, and could just make out his mother’s shape. Both her hands were raised to her face, and she was shaking. He knew he shouldn’t be looking away from the audience and quickly faced them again.
Blimey, they were still clapping and cheering. The MC said something, his words almost lost in the relentless applause.
Then Rhys ran off the stage and into his mother’s outstretched arms. She hugged him fiercely and when he put his cheek to hers, it was wet.
“Mom, are you okay?” he asked.
Cheryl, his mother, tried to say something but it was a mumble. She hugged him again and nine-year-old Rhys whispered in his mother’s ear, asking her to calm down.
There was a commotion behind them as the next act went out onto the stage. Then the MC came around and touched Rhys on the shoulder. Rhys was still holding his mother’s hand.
The MC smiled, his broad, handsome face shining. “There’s a special guest who wants to meet you, Rhys.”
Cheryl asked, “Who?”
A man stepped out from the shadows, clad in a black leather jacket and matching black jeans. He wore a white T-shirt underneath and his black hair was gelled back. Both Rhys and Cheryl gasped. So did the Daisy Girls, and the stagehands.
Rhys blinked, unable to believe his eyes. Was that Grant Stone? The global superstar, a man whose dance moves Rhys copied every weekend . . . and he was here?
Rhys rubbed his eyes, then pinched himself. This could not be happening. It was impossible.
Grant Stone came forward and bent on one knee, then extended a hand towards Rhys. “That was an amazing performance, Rhys. I can’t believe how good you were.”
Rhys was aware that even his mother was so shocked, her grip on his hand had become loose. Rhys stretched his fingers out and shook the famous pop star’s warm hand. “Umm. . . . Ah. . . . Thank you,” he stammered.
Grant Stone smiled. He looked at Rhys’s mother and stood. He leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks. Cheryl looked like she was going to faint. Her eyes were wide and her nostrils flared. Grant Stone said, “Why don’t you come backstage with me?” He put a hand on Rhys’s shoulder and gave Cheryl a dazzling smile with his perfectly white teeth. “This young man has a great future.”
CHAPTER 25
Twenty-one years ago
Godalming, Surrey
Grant Stone’s mansion was built on twelve acres of land. The Surrey Downs Hills rose from the rear end of his massive estate, gently sloping, densely wooded green-and-blue hills that looked like crayon-coloured clouds that had descended to the earth.
Rhys loved to sit on the top floor of Grant’s penthouse suite and stare out to the hills, where the line between land and horizon became blurred till it merged into one. He came here often, sometimes with his mother, sometimes in the chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce Phantom that Grant sent to their grimy counsel flat in southwest London.
Rhys had been on tours with Grant, had photo shoots with him, attended press conferences and glittering music talent competitions. He was only ten years old, but Grant trusted him enough to make him the judge of one competition. That fact alone never ceased to amaze Rhys. He was only ten years old and he was already a judge? Unbelievable.
He hopped off the windowsill, which was like a seat with cushions. He stepped out into the wide hallway and went down the stairs. On the first floor, he came up to the oak door of Grant’s study. It was ajar and he could hear voices coming from inside. He had come with his mother today, and he stopped short when he heard her voice.
“You don’t have to do this, Grant, you really don’t.”
Grant had a thin, unusually high-pitched voice. He used it to great effect in his music and it carried clearly through the walls. “It’s my pleasure, Cheryl. You have suffered with this debt for long enough. You’ve raised Rhys into such a lovely boy. You deserve a break.”
There was silence for a while, then Rhys heard a sniffing sound. He had heard it before, and he knew his mother was crying.
Rhys knew his mother was fond of wine, and he often found her in the mornings, curled up on the sofa in front of the TV, with two or three empty wine bottles on the floor. On those mornings, he took himself to school. But he didn’t know about the debt. He didn’t know what the word really meant, but he knew it was something bad. When Cheryl spoke to her friend Janet on the phone, she cursed about it, thinking Rhys was too busy doing his dance moves in front of the TV. She said words like ‘loan shark’, ‘money’, and ‘debt’, then swore.
His mother was speaking again. “But forty thousand pounds is a lot of money, Grant. I will never be able to pay you back.”
Grant said, “You don’t have to.” His voice dropped and Rhys could barely hear him. He pressed his ear closer to the door. Grant whispered, “This is my gift to you, Cheryl. Well, to both you and Rhys. Please accept it.”
There was a creaking sound and a shuffling noise. Cheryl was sniffing louder now, then he heard her sob. Rhys pushed the door very gently and it open a fraction wider. Cheryl and Grant were sitting at a sideways angle to him, and neither of them were looking towards the door. Apart from the two housekeepers on the ground floor, busy preparing lunch, the house was empty.
Grant said, “Why don’t you leave Rhys here with me for the weekend? I need to write some music and he’s full of ideas. I could really use his help.”
Cheryl dabbed her eyes and looked up. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly do that. He’s going to miss me.”
Grant smiled and cocked his head to one side. “Are you sure? He has stayed with me for the whole day before. Staying the night won’t make a difference, will it?”
Then Grant put up a hand. “He can do as he wants, of course. The thing about creating music is, I don’t know when the creative juices will be flowing and we’re on a roll. It’s a shame to cut things short, just to send him home. He can stay here and I can send him back tomorrow morning.”
Cheryl stared at Grant for a while. Grant said, “Yvonne and Julia, the two housekeepers, will be here. They will look after him as well. Both of them really like Rhys, you know that.”
Rhys watched as his mother looked down at her lap. He could see that she was having trouble making her mind up. Rhys knocked loudly on the door and pushed it open further. They turned towards him and Grant rose from his red leather armchair, a big smile on his face. “Hey, look who it is,” he said in his thin, singsong voice. “Come inside.”
Grant put his hands on Rhys’s shoulders and stood behind him.
“He is my protégé, Cheryl. This boy will one day be more successful than I am. Please give me a chance to make his talent shine.”
Cheryl’s mouth fell open as the skin around her eyes cleared. Her eyebrows rose and she struggled to sa
y something. Then she coughed and Rhys watched her Adam’s apple bob up and down.
“But I know it’s a big step. You don’t have to leave him here with me. Feel free to do as you wish.”
Grant walked over to the massive desk in one corner of the room. He opened the drawer and pulled out a chequebook. He wrote the cheque, then walked back and handed it to Cheryl. She stared at it, frozen, unable to move.
“Please take it, Cheryl. Like I said, it’s a gift.” He gave her the thousand-watt smile he reserved for special occasions. “It’s rude not to accept a gift, right?” Cheryl looked at her son, and Rhys saw a glazed, shiny look in her eyes, like she was suspended in a dream. His mother’s gaze seemed to look right through him and into the distance. Then she blinked and turned to Grant. “Thank you.” She took the cheque and put it into her purse. Grant smiled, looked at Rhys, and winked.
That was how it started. Rhys regularly began staying weekends at Grant’s mansion. They would go on long walks and Grant taught him how to horseback ride. Rhys, Cheryl, and Grant would go on holidays as well, to Porto Cuervo in Sardinia, where Grant had a 100-foot yacht he borrowed from an Arab oil tycoon. Rhys even spent weekday nights after school at Grant’s place, and in the mornings the chauffeur dropped him off at school in Grant’s Rolls-Royce Phantom.
Rhys had a massive en-suite bedroom all for himself in Grant’s house. It was twice the size of the three-bedroom counsel flat he shared with his mother. Grant came into his bedroom often and they would stay up too late, talking and chatting. Grant spoke to him about his own childhood, how difficult it had been as he was raised by his father. Rhys got the impression Grant didn’t like his father at all. Grant also mentioned how much money he was making, the terms of his contract with the record company, and most of it went way over Rhys’s head. He knew that Grant was speaking to him as if he were an adult and he tried very hard to understand. But often he couldn’t make sense of it.
When Grant asked Rhys to come to his own bedroom, it seemed like a natural thing to do. Grant showed him a magazine with a picture of a naked man on the cover. Rhys stared at it, not sure how to react. He had never seen a naked man before. Grant turned the pages and showed him pictures of naked men and women who were kissing. Grant asked him what he thought of the pictures. Rhys stared at them in confusion, then shrugged. Grant smiled at him and put the magazine away. They were lying in bed already and Grant hugged him. They had done this before, so it didn’t surprise Rhys much. But he was surprised when Grant’s face bent down to his own and he felt their lips touch. It was a weird, strange sensation. Rhys froze, not knowing what to do.
Grant’s voice was a low whisper. “Don’t worry. This is what people do when they love one another.” Rhys felt Grant’s lips against his again, kissing him.
“Open your mouth,” Grant said softly. “It’s me, okay? This is a special thing between us. You can never tell anyone else, because they won’t understand. Go on, open your mouth, just a little.”
Rhys obeyed.
CHAPTER 26
Harry rang the doorbell of the front door and waited. In a short while, the lock clicked and the door swung open. Miss Edna Mildred stood on the other side, her wizened face dominated by her large, dark blue eyes. There was no life in her stare, no curiosity, as if she already knew what they had come for.
Arla stepped forward. In her experience, these tragic matters had to be dealt with using extreme sensitivity, but also with swiftness and clarity. Families wanted to know. They craved closure, one way or the other. The worst part about having a missing family member was the lack of knowledge.
“I wish to see Mr and Mrs Stone, please. It is a very important matter.”
Edna’s eyes locked with Arla’s for a few seconds, searching her face. Then she stood to one side, letting them enter.
Edna directed them to the same living room and they took their seats. This time around, there was no offer of tea or biscuits. The elderly housekeeper didn’t say a word. She simply left them standing in the living room, turned, and left. It was Jeremy who came in first. His lips were parted and behind the glasses, Arla could see his anxiety-widened eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He shook slightly.
“What is it, detective? What have you found?”
Arla and Harry remained still as statues. Arla only moved her lips. “Where is your wife?”
“She wasn’t in her room, but Edna has informed her, I believe. She should be on her way down. Now, if you could please tell me what’s going on.”
It was dark outside and the curtains were drawn. The two chandeliers in the room were glowing at full intensity and there was nowhere to hide, no way to soften the impact of what Arla was about to say. “Please have a seat, Mr Stone. I would rather wait till your wife arrived, before I inform you of our findings.”
Jeremy’s chest rose and fell with deep breaths. He took his glasses off and Arla could see the stricken look in his eyes. He wouldn’t sit down. “Surely you can just tell me.”
Arla’s mouth was barely open, but she let out a soft, frustrated sigh. Why did this couple have to be so disjointed in everything they did? Thankfully, there was movement at the door and Rebecca Stone appeared.
Arla noted she was wearing the same clothes as yesterday: dark pullover sweater, jeans, and slippers. Her hair was straggly and unwashed. She glanced from her husband back to them. The corners of her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared. Her hands were fists by her side, knuckles bone white. “What is it?” She directed the question to Arla. “Edna said it was something important.”
Arla kept her voice low. “At 1600 hours today, roughly five hundred yards inside Clapham Common, we found the body of an approximately five-week-old male baby. He had a purple baby grow on with Reggie’s name on it. I am extremely sorry to bring you this news. We need you to come and identify the body.”
Rebecca stepped forward, gasping and blinking rapidly. Her bone white face had blotches of red on it. Her lips moved but no sound emerged. Harry stepped swiftly to her side as her eyes rolled back and her hands flopped. He was just in time as Rebecca fainted, sagging against him. Jeremy helped Harry to put Rebecca on a chair. Arla opened the door and went into the hall, shouting for Edna. The housekeeper appeared from the kitchen.
“Please get a glass of water. Mrs Stone has fainted.”
Rebecca’s head was slumped on the table, cradled on her arms. Jeremy sat next to her, rubbing her back slowly. Harry took the pulse on her wrist, then made sure she was breathing. He stepped back and nodded towards Arla. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Jeremy looked at Arla and cleared his throat several times before he could speak. “How can you know for sure that it’s. . . ?”
“We don’t know for sure, but by appearances it looks feasible. That is why we need a positive identification from you. Then we do DNA samples as well.”
Arla hated this part of her job. But the death of a baby was worse than the death of a loved one; this was also the extinction of a new beginning, of hope and expectation.
Her head lowered, eyes seeking out the patterns of the deep pile carpet. She was surprised to find emotion clogging her throat. It wasn’t like her to get emotional in the middle of a case. She had delivered bad news to scores of families. She shook her head. Even her battle-scarred heart felt this was different.
A hand touched her elbow and she felt Harry’s presence. “Why don’t you sit down?” he whispered in a low voice meant only for her ears. She nodded and walked around the table to sit diagonally opposite the grieving couple.
Harry stood to one side next to her. Arla took a few moments to compose herself, then she took out her black notebook. Rebecca raised her head and gently blew her nose with tissue from a holder on the table.
Arla asked her, “When you took Reggie out for a walk this morning, he was wrapped in a blue cloth as well, right?”
Rebecca stared at Arla for a while. Her face was colourless, no trace of any hue to her skin whatsoever. If she had
looked washed-out before, now she looked deathly pale. She suddenly blurted out, “I want to see him. I want to go now.” Rebecca stood, drawing herself up to full height. Arla remained seated.
Harry said softly, “Mrs Stone, we are here to help. Please answer Inspector Baker’s question first.” Rebecca breathed, her pupils constricting, eyes roving. Then she glanced down at Arla.
“What did you say?”
Arla repeated her question. Rebecca lifted a hand to her forehead. Her eyes closed and a frown spasmed across her features. “You’re here to tell me you just found my dead son, and you’re asking me what clothes he was wearing?”
“It’s the only way that we can identify your son.”
Rebecca put her palms on the table and leaned forward. Her eyes glistened.
“Yes, he was, okay? He was wrapped in a blue quilt that had his name and date of birth sewn on it. He wore black-and-white socks and matching black shoes. I’ve told you all this before. At a time like this, why do I have to repeat myself?”
“Thank you,” Arla said. She stood and went out the door. Harry ushered the couple ahead of him. He had pulled the BMW into the remaining space on the drive already. Rebecca and Jeremy got in the back and Harry fired up the engine.
As the car backed out from the drive, Arla’s eyes were caught by movement at the bay window on the right. It was Edna Mildred. She was gripping the windowsill and leaning forward. She was staring straight at Arla. Their eyes locked, till Harry got on the road and the car drove off.
CHAPTER 27
Arla watched Rebecca’s face closely when she identified her son’s body. Her eyes bulged, then she bent over and vomited on the floor. Jeremy and Banerjee’s Chinese helper, Lorna, took Rebecca into Banerjee’s office. Shortly after, Harry drove them back. Arla sat in the passenger seat. The grim silence inside the car lay like a cloak upon them. Arla knew that, for the couple, this was the worst news imaginable. But for her, it was the beginning. Her mind was already running loops around itself and she was desperate to get back to the station, despite the late hour.
