The Alibi Girl

by C. J. Skuse

  I haven’t brought Emily today. I wanted to go alone. I’m all in black as I walk funereally through the fog towards the big cemetery gates. I see the coffin in the hearse. Dark brown. Brass handles. Small floral arrangement on the top with a card. A large black car follows closely behind. They both stop at the doors.

  The family members get out of the car. A man with a ginger beard and blond hair. Black suit. People gravitate towards him, shaking his hand, a manly embrace. A We’ll get through this shoulder clasp. I’m handed an A5 white booklet.

  Celebrating the life of June Miranda Busby.

  The entrance music is listed as The Carpenters’ ‘Yesterday Once More’. I flick to the back page. The exit music is ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’. Leonard Finch’s exit music was ‘Oklahoma!’ which everyone seemed to find amusing for some reason.

  There’s a Welcome and Introduction by the Celebrant – Miss Gloria Andrews, whoever she is and whatever a celebrant is. Posh word for a priest, I suppose.

  Then a hymn – ‘Make Me a Channel of Your Peace’. Loads of verses.

  Then a Eulogy and a family tribute, read by June’s son Philip. Then another hymn. Then the Committal. Which is the bit when the coffin goes behind the curtains and, presumably, gets burned.

  ‘You will come to the pub for a cuppa, won’t you?’ says the son, Philip, to the man standing next to me looking over the floral tributes.

  ‘Yes of course,’ says the man.

  ‘Yes of course,’ says I. And the son Philip looks at me and smiles graciously. He doesn’t need to know who I am – being there is enough for him to know his mother was cherished.

  I only started going to people’s funerals after my dad died. I couldn’t go to his – I was still in hospital and they said I wasn’t well enough. I’ve only ever visited his grave in Scarborough once, and Scants told me not to go back again. Never go back, it’s too dangerous. Keep going forwards. To where though? Where am I going?

  I’ve tried to get out and about and meet people like Scants keeps telling me to, but it’s not like it used to be as a kid. Back then you’d just say Hey, do you want to play Tig or Pokémon? and they would. Adults are full of suspicion and fear. Children themselves I find very easy to talk to. When I’m down at the pier or the beach or the arcades on my mornings or afternoons off, I can strike up conversations very quickly with kids. We have similar interests. Similar goals in life. Mainly, short term happiness. They don’t think about tomorrow. I daren’t.

  Scants finds this too weird. No more playing with other people’s kids, he says. It’s not friendship, it’s grooming. Join a club instead, do a course, get some hobbies. Meet people your own age.

  But adults are untrustworthy and devious. Adults do bad things.

  The only things I like doing besides eating and watching DVDs is going down the arcades and playing ‘Guitar Hero’ or bowling with Matthew or dressing up the cats. I don’t go scuba diving at weekends or play lacrosse on a Wednesday night or anything like that. I’m not sociable or vivacious enough to ‘join a club of likeminded people’. Who does that? What kind of Louisa May Alcott world does Scants live in where people just go out and, god forbid, introduce themselves to new people?

  I’m not one of life’s joiner-inners, I am one of life’s stay-at-homers.

  Except when I have to work. Or I need a doughnut.

  ‘Hey, Charlotte!’ comes the cheery greeting from inside the doughnut van as I’m walking along the front to work.

  ‘Hi Johnny,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I saw you the other day. Had some doughnut holes for you. I called out.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. I can’t have heard you.’

  ‘You seemed in a rush. Where’s your baby today?’

  ‘At the childminder’s. I had to go to a funeral this morning.’

  ‘Ah no. Anyone close?’

  ‘No, not close. Got a nice few hours to myself now to finish my novel. Thought I’d treat myself first.’

  ‘Ahhh good idea,’ he says, lowering the frying basket into the bubbling oil. ‘Give me three minutes, I’ll put a fresh batch on for you.’ He moves his batter mixing bowl to the back bench and I slip into Charlotte Mode – my spine instantly lengthening as I flick my scarf over my shoulder.

  ‘Thank you. I need all the sugar I can get today. Got a big rewrite underway.’

  ‘That’s not good,’ he says. ‘Your editor didn’t like what you’d done?’

  ‘No, I completely messed it up actually. Had to cut around 40,000 words. It’s fine though, I’ve had worse. Every book seems to get harder to write.’

  ‘Wow, 40,000 words? You must write pretty fast.’

  ‘Yeah I do. I can dash that off again in a week, it’s no biggy. Ooh, I’ll have a Lilt as well thanks, Johnny.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ he says, grabbing a can from the fridge. ‘Not seen you about much lately, Charlotte. Thought you might have found another doughnut man.’ He winks but it doesn’t feel MeToo-ey, just friendly. It’s pretty comforting in a town where nobody knows my name and offers me nothing in the form of family.

  ‘No, never,’ I smile. ‘I have a lot on at the moment, that’s all. I’ve just come back from a book tour and a couple of my author friends had their launches this week as well so it’s been a bit hectic.’ I sigh like it’s all been one big drama.

  ‘I see,’ he says, flicking the doughnuts over in the basket where they bob and glisten in the golden oil. A white flickering catches my eye – a Missing Cat poster on the nearest lamppost flaps in the wind. Suki Shortcake. Missing since July. It’s actually my Prince Roland. No wonder he ran off with a name like Suki Shortcake. The doughnuts finish frying and Johnny tips them out of the basket onto a tray covered with flattened kitchen roll, scattering their brown tops with sugar.

  ‘Five for a pound or, to you, four plus one free for one hundred pence.’

  ‘Five is good, thank you.’

  He shovels my doughnuts into a paper bag and winds it up in two knots. I hand him £2 and he places the warm bag on my palm, retrieving my change from his belt.

  ‘They smell magnificent, as always, thank you Johnny.’ I venture a hand into the bag but they’re too scalding hot and my fingers burn on impact.

  ‘How are book sales for the last one?’ He leans on the counter top.

  ‘Good thanks. Sold it to Greece and… Belgium this morning, in fact.’

  Two young lads scuff towards the van, reading their options from the board.

  ‘Ah, that’s wonderful! And have you met David Schwimmer yet?’

  I told him a few weeks ago that David Schwimmer had signed up to be in the movie they’re making out of my book Lovers in War.

  ‘Not yet. I think he’s coming over in the near future so maybe I’ll meet him then.’

  ‘That’s fantastic. I love Ross. Could I be more of a Ross fan?’

  ‘That’s Chandler,’ I laugh.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he laughs, louder. ‘Which one’s Ross again?’

  ‘The dinosaur guy. Three divorces. Someone ate his sandwich.’

  We both laugh when we realise neither of us can do a Ross impression.

  ‘Thanks for the doughnuts, Johnny,’ I say, picking up the cold can of Lilt which soothes my overeager fingertips.

  He turns to the two lads who both want doughnuts too. ‘Okay, don’t be a stranger now, Charlotte. Yes, lads, what can I get you?’

  I use the doughnut man, I admit that. I use him to make myself feel better. And some days it works. But today, it doesn’t. The doughnuts are too hot to eat and he is too busy to flirt to the required level that makes me feel good about myself. I want to go back to the flat, cave up in my duvet on the bed and hide.

  But I have to work. Afternoon shift.

  There’s only one more byte of information I can learn about Tessa Sharpe’s death – her hands were bound with ‘reusable cable ties’. I overhear General Manager Kimberley talking to the detective sergeant with the lazy eye. She says Trevor only has
single-use cable ties for the TVs in the bedrooms so whoever killed Tessa Sharpe must have brought their own.

  Room 29 is still out of action and the police are at the hotel all day, questioning the rest of the staff. For some reason they don’t question me though and I wonder why until Trevor informs me they want to talk to staff members who were on shift between 7 p.m. and midnight on the night she died. This discounts me from suspicion, at least.

  ‘Have you finished?’ says Vanda as I’m craning my neck around the staff office to hear what she’s saying to the investigating officer.

  ‘No, I wondered if there were any more J-cloths? There’s none on the shelves.’

  ‘No. You have to open new box. And shut the door.’

  So I do. Nobody tells me what is happening – not Sabrina, not Claire the temp, not Madge, and all Trevor says when I catch him lumbering through with boxes is, ‘It’s a police matter now, let them do their job.’

  When was I not letting them do their job? I only asked if they knew who’d done it yet. Why won’t he tell me?

  He’s mending the coffee machine in the breakfast room when I finish my shift.

  ‘Do they have any CCTV?’ I say. ‘You know, of anyone not staying at the hotel who sort of wandered in?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. The detective lassie who came yesterday mentioned an ex-boyfriend so I think they’re looking at him for it. They won’t keep us informed cos it’s nowt to do with us.’

  ‘Of course it’s to do with us. It happened in the place we work.’

  ‘Yeah, but we’re not involved.’

  I bite down on my lip. ‘We might be.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, what if it’s a serial killer? What if Tessa Sharpe is only the first?’

  ‘She’s not. I told you, they’re investigating the boyfriend.’

  ‘Might not have been the boyfriend.’

  He stops what he’s doing and looks at me. ‘What are you saying here, Gen? You saying the murderer is still around, waiting to strike again?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Well, who is it then, Miss Marple? Who you got pegged for it? One of the chefs? The guy who comes to clean the fryers? Me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nobody knows. I don’t feel safe here, I know that. It said in the paper this morning that she was… raped.’

  He points at me with his screwdriver. ‘A young lassie died in terrible circumstances. Everyone here feels awful about it. But you going round saying things like that will only make things worse. You’ll scare people.’

  ‘I don’t mean to scare anyone, Trevor. I’m telling you how I feel.’

  ‘Leave it alone. Let the police deal with it. The family are coming up tomorrow to talk to the police. We don’t want any hysteria.’

  ‘I’m not hysterical. I’m worried.’

  ‘Yeah well, I’m worried ’n’all. I’m worried about keeping me bleeding job.’

  He had nothing else to say. I don’t know why he got so funny with me, I wasn’t accusing him. Vanda and the rest of them had obviously poisoned him against me. They all thought I was weird. I say weird things. I eat my tea break biscuits in an odd manner – Chocolate Digestives chocolate first, then halved, then quartered; Custard Creams scraped out, put back together, bitten into a circle and rolled around my tongue; Jaffa Cakes chocolate first, cake second then suck the orange disc. I’d seen how they all looked at me. It was the way a pack of lionesses look at a deformed cub before they abandon it under a tree. I don’t blame them.

  On my way out through the car park, I see Lola and Kiki standing beside an estate car loaded up with suitcases and inflatables. I wave goodbye but they don’t see me. I’m still wearing the ring they gave me, except it’s on my fourth finger now. If anyone asks, I’m going to say it’s an engagement ring. But nobody’s asked yet.

  I feel better once I’ve got Emily’s warm little body snuggled against me – and we walk the long way home past the gym on Tollgate Road, where I linger outside to see if Kaden’s around. He’s in reception with a new member by the looks, a young woman in a leotard with long blonde hair and very thin triceps. They’re sitting in the bucket seats, going through some form. He’s flirting easily with her. She’s smiling, tucking her hair behind her ear. My chest squeezes painfully as we walk on by.

  If you get scared again, call me. If I’m not home, I’ll be at the gym.

  I’m not scared right now though, am I? I’m sad. Because Trevor at work hates me now, and he was my one friend. And Scants doesn’t want me calling him unless it’s an emergency. And Kaden was flirting with that woman. I want to go home. Back to Carew St Nicholas. Back where I was known and loved.

  But that’s not an option. So I go back to the flat. In the dying light I can see post in my pigeonhole. A leaflet about the new self-storage place that’s opened on the ring road. End of Summer Sale at B&M. Autumn sale at Harvey’s, fifty per cent off blinds. A circular from Vodafone about going contract rather than Pay-As-You-Go. And a catalogue. Addressed to Miss Joanne Haynes. A catalogue I know I haven’t ordered.

  A coffin catalogue.

  6

  Tuesday, 29th October

  It’s been four days since I last went into work. Kimberley, the General Manager, took the message again this morning, only this time I heard Vanda shouting in the background:

  ‘Tell her to get fucking doctor’s note so I can get some decent staff!’

  But I don’t care about work. My roots are coming through again. Bright orange. Little fires starting all over my head. I need to get out. I need to get food. I’m three stale pieces of wholemeal bread and a tampon away from completely bare cupboards.

  I think it’s a sort of emergency. And he did say to call only when it’s an emergency.

  So I call him.

  Scants arrives around 12.30 p.m., as I’m putting Emily down for her nap. He’s loaded with Bags for Life, like a pirate with a haul of treasure, only he withholds the Ahoy there’s and timber-shivering and instead greets me at the door with:

  ‘I’m not buying those chicken nuggets out of principle. I don’t mind if they’re farmed in Brazil – it’s the shipping them to China for processing I don’t endorse.’

  ‘Thanks, Scants. It’s really great to see you, thanks for coming.’ I want to hug him but I remind myself that Scants doesn’t do hugs. He used to hug me all the time when I was a kid. Not in a weird way – the way a dad should hug a child. Even though he wasn’t my dad, I sometimes wished he was. He didn’t have any kids of his own. He once said his wife ‘couldn’t have them’ and left it at that. Wouldn’t talk about it.

  ‘Next time why don’t you do an online order?’ he says, holding out his palm for the money. ‘They don’t always bring you sell-bys and brown bananas, you know.’ He had deep grooves under both his eyes and stubble all along his jaw. For once, he wasn’t wearing a suit, just a black jumper and brown cords and his work lanyard.

  I grab my bag and fish out the exact right money. ‘There you go.’

  He takes it and heaves the bags up onto the breakfast bar. ‘Oh and a message from Mr Zhang at the shop – “How’s your wife’s brain tumour?”’ He throws me a look that could melt the ice lollies he slams in the freezer.

  ‘How did—’

  He’s still eyeballing me. ‘How did I know you pretend to Mr Zhang you have a brain tumour? Because I bought these things.’ He holds up the three packets of blue liquorice bootlaces I had on the list I emailed him. ‘And Mr Zhang said he only stocks these for Betsy, the lady with the brain tumour, and then he assumed I was your husband because “she talks about you so much.”’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And she wears a beanie. And she has a baby in a papoose sometimes. Where is Emily today, by the way?’

  ‘Asleep in her cot in my room. What did you say to him?’

  ‘What do you think I said?’ he spits, all pursed lips. He always gets twenty per cent more Scottish when he’s appalled. ‘I was struck dumb. Why did you tell him you
were married to a bloke called David and you have cancer?’

  ‘I didn’t tell him you were my husband. I just said I had a husband. Called David. Who works as a roadie for Little Mix.’

  ‘And the cancer?’

  ‘The first time I went in there I was wearing my beanie with my hair all tucked inside it cos my roots were showing and Mr Zhang assumed.’

  ‘He does a lot of assuming, doesn’t he?’ Scants leans against the cupboards, arms folded. ‘Nice chap. Shame he’s being played like a bloody fiddle, eh?’

  Scants has a thing about the truth. He would always tell me the truth whenever I asked him about our situation as a child. Or as much of the truth as I could handle at ten years old. Maybe he was trying to make up for the fact that Dad would lie to me, all the time. Especially after he took me away from Foy.

  I’m going out to see if Old Mother Hubbard needs anything, Elle. Don’t open the door to strangers. Particularly if they’re wearing grandmother’s nighty.

  Bo Peep’s called. She wants me to help look for her sheep. You stay here and guard the house, Ellis. And don’t answer the phone or the door.

  We’ll see Foy again, Ellis. I’ll take you to see her as soon as the wicked emperor gives us our visitation rights.

  I was a child. I’d lost everyone apart from my dad. I needed to know why. But Dad would never tell me the whole truth, however much I begged. Not being able to see Foy again. Not being able to go to our castle again. It was unimaginable. By the time I was old enough to insist he answer me properly, it was too late.

  But Scants did tell me.

  Am I going to see Foy again?

  No, you’re not.

  What about our castle?

  I’m sorry, Ellis. You can’t go back to your castle. You have to stay here now.

  Will those three men come and get us here?

  No, I promise you, you’re safe now.

  I take over putting the shopping away. ‘Mr Zhang said his wife had been through it as well. Grade one. They blasted it with chemo and it didn’t come back. Before I knew it he was telling me which cheesecake was on special and giving me her old blonde wigs. It didn’t feel right to correct him.’