by Inga Vesper
Oh, hell, no.
Ruby hurls herself against Mr Haney and tears at his clothes. She scratches and claws and kicks, until the cops come and pull him off Mrs Ingram. The detective grabs Ruby’s arm. She smells his aftershave and sees the stubble on his chin with perfect clarity before he lets her go.
‘That’s enough. Nancy Ingram, I am placing you under arrest for—’
Mrs Ingram sputters and gets on her unsteady feet. She looks up at Frank Haney, her eyes speckled with red, and clasps her hands against her chest.
‘She’s here, Frank. Right here. She asked me to give her a ride. She thought we would go to LA to see the exhibition, but I decided she had reached the . . . the end of the road.’
‘The bridge,’ Ruby says.
Mrs Ingram laughs her shrill laughter. ‘I shot her with your own gun, Frank. I stole it from your room. It was easy as pie. She fell into the pit. I didn’t even have to cover her up much. The sand trucks were already on their way.’
‘What about Deena?’ the detective asks.
‘That pissed-up little whore. After Jimmy left, Deena called and Joyce told her I was coming over. Well, Deena put two and two together. She wanted money. Stupid cow. I put it in her head that we’d do something better. We’d be best friends. We’d work together on getting a suspect apprehended, and we’d share the reward. She did a good job leaving that bottle.’ She grins, but the smile has a crack in it. ‘She also stole the rest of the paintings. But I already had what I needed. She was stupid. And a hussy. Just like Joyce.’
A shudder runs through Frank Haney’s body. The cops try to keep him upright but he is too heavy. He sinks down onto his knees, heaving. Mourning. Ruby’s heart clamps up. Despite what he did to her, what he is, he is mourning his wife. And, perhaps, the baby too.
‘Frank?’ Mrs Ingram leans forward. ‘Frank, darling. What’s wrong?’
‘Get away from me,’ says Mr Haney.
‘But, honey. This is all just a misunderstanding. We will tell them that Joyce was a mental case. We’ll tell them about her addiction. The judge will understand. It will only be a few years. Lily will wait for me. You will tell her to think of her mommy, won’t you? I’ll be with you soon. The children—’
‘I wish the children never laid eyes on you.’
‘Frank, what are you saying?’ Mrs Ingram’s chin trembles. ‘I love them. I love you.’ She stretches a hand toward him, red fingernails flashing.
‘Get away from me!’ Mr Haney scrambles in the dust, backwards, as if she is a demon come to eat his soul. ‘Go away. I never want to see you again.’
‘You can’t mean it.’ Under her makeup, Mrs Ingram goes whiter than she already is. ‘Frank?’
He shakes his head.
‘Frank. Frank, please. Darling?’
‘Never. Go away.’
‘Show’s over,’ says the detective. ‘Ma’am, I am placing you under arrest for—’
Inside Mrs Ingram’s eyes, something collapses. Her cheeks twitch. A little tremor shakes the corners of her mouth.
‘No . . .’ is all she says before she starts running. She is halfway up the bridge before the cops even break into a jog. A huge expanse of blue frames her slender body as she races toward the abyss, her hair trailing in a halo of gold.
Chapter Forty-Two
Ruby
M
rs Crane screams and the detective shouts something that is lost in the wind. His voice shakes something loose and Ruby starts to run.
So does Joseph. He is fast, faster than the detective and the cops. And Mrs Ingram is slow in her heels. Joseph overtakes Ruby, swoops onto the bridge and reaches out for Mrs Ingram just as she tenses for the final leap. They tumble down onto the concrete in a pile of limbs and golden hair.
Ruby darts up the bridge and stops, hands on her thighs, laboring for precious, wonderful breath. Joseph has his arms around Mrs Ingram, who screams and wrangles, but cannot get out of his grip.
The detective arrives next, and then Mrs Crane, who has lost a shoe. The chief is the slowest, but he’s the first to find his words.
‘You idiots,’ he shouts at no one and everyone. ‘She almost got away. Almost.’
Mrs Ingram writhes on the floor still, wedged tight in Joseph’s arms. ‘Let me go,’ she screams.
‘You’re a crazy bitch,’ Joseph pants. ‘But you ain’t gonna die today.’
‘Nancy.’ Mrs Crane’s voice is cut up with gasps. ‘Nancy, how . . . how could you? After everything we talked about?’
‘Shut up,’ Mrs Ingram snarls. ‘You think it’s so easy. You think all a woman ought to want is freedom. But freedom is damned hard, Genevieve. It’s . . . it’s so damned hard.’
‘Well, you’re lucky there,’ says the detective. ‘You won’t have to bother with it now for a long, long time.’
The chief clasps Mrs Ingram’s wrist with handcuffs. Two cops arrive and one of them grabs her collar like she is a cartoon criminal. They walk her back to the car.
The detective helps Joseph to his feet. ‘You should have let her jump,’ he says. ‘Would have saved me a trial.’
‘Yeah, but she’s gotta face the music.’ Joseph smiles. ‘Enough now with all the dying.’
Ruby takes his arm. He is so warm and steady. She leans into him and, slowly, reality adjusts. ‘Too right,’ she says. ‘I kinda fancy just living for a bit.’
And then she thinks of Joyce, dead down there, under the sand and rubble. It chokes off her voice. Joseph notices it and hugs her tight.
The detective looks away, almost as if he is embarrassed. ‘They’ll come and get her today,’ he says quietly. ‘She won’t have to . . . Perhaps you could come to the funeral.’
Ruby considers it, then shakes her head. Maybe it’s wrong, but she’d rather remember her alive. Joyful Joyce, whose smile was real, the most real thing in Sunnylakes, even if everything else about her was a lie. She will preserve her that way. Happy, underneath it all.
‘I still don’t understand,’ says the detective. ‘Why didn’t Nancy simply tell Frank what his wife got up to and wait till he divorced Joyce?’
‘Because he wouldn’t have.’ Genevieve Crane sighs. ‘I don’t think he ever loved Nancy as much as she believed he did. I just . . .’ Her eyes grow teary. ‘She is wrong. It’s not that hard. Maybe she could have understood that there is more to life than men. I failed her. I couldn’t show her what’s possible.’
The detective puts a hand on her shoulder, briefly, then pulls away. ‘Stop that. Who knows, she might have killed you, too.’
Mrs Crane smirks. It is clear she’s not entirely convinced. ‘Anyway . . .’ She turns to Ruby and Joseph. ‘Do you kids need a ride?’
Joseph sends Ruby a glance. ‘It’s South Central, ma’am,’ Ruby replies. ‘Trebeck Row. Not your kind of place, I think.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind at all.’ Mrs Crane smiles. ‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as they always make it out to be.’
‘And me?’ says Mick. ‘My car packed in this morning.’
‘We can sort that out,’ says Joseph. ‘Look us up – Geddit Fixed. You give us a call and let us know the address. We’ll be there tomorrow, with the tow truck.’
In the distance, Hodge and Cooper jostle Frank Haney into a police car. The two other cops lock Mrs Ingram in their car. Her eyes seek Frank Haney’s, but he keeps his head down as he is driven away, hunkered in his own private hell.
The chief shrugs. ‘That’s that then,’ he grunts. ‘Anything else, Blanke?’
‘Yes,’ says the detective cheerfully. ‘Chief Murphy, may I introduce you to Ruby Wright, a witness on this case. She figured all of this out. She alone uncovered Mrs Ingram’s deception. I think she deserves the full reward.’
She does? A finger pokes into Ruby’s heart. Because, the thing is, she didn’t figure it out at all. Not until she found the painting and the dress. She—
‘Miss Wright provided vital clues,’ the detective continues with a smile. ‘She told me
about the affair between Mr Haney and Mrs Ingram. She also found the stolen painting. And she assisted me with information that will fully exonerate Jimmy McCarthy in the death of Deena Klintz.’
‘But I didn’t,’ Ruby says. ‘I mean, not straight away. I—’
One look from the detective shuts her up. And then Momma whispers in her ear: You got a winning streak, girl, and you gonna pull the handbrake? Hell, no. You take what you earned. You done good.
‘All right,’ says the chief. ‘Miss Wright, please come to our station on Monday. We’ll write you a check for a thousand dollars.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The wind picks up again. The breeze tastes salty, and in the distance, the coast gives way to shimmering water. For a moment, nobody speaks. Ruby holds on to Joseph’s arm for dear life. If she lets go for one moment, the sheer amount of happiness in the air will wash her away.
A thousand dollars. I will go to college. It is really, truly happening.
She can’t wait to tell Pa. And Mrs Cannon. There’ll even be money to spare. They’ll take a family trip to the beach, all three of them. No, four, Joseph included.
‘Good work, everyone.’ The detective turns to Ruby. ‘Especially you. You’ve got the stuff to be a proper . . .’
He halts. The truth dawns in his eyes and the barriers rise up. There is an awkward silence, filled with so many things that are not yet ripe to be said out loud.
But she says it anyway. ‘A cop, you mean? Thanks, mister. Maybe someday.’
‘A lady cop,’ the detective says. ‘If anything.’
The chief scoffs. ‘A lady cop? Blanke, you’ve blown your—’
But Ruby cuts him off. ‘Some day,’ she says, and her voice does not wobble one bit. ‘Someday soon.’
‘Your word in God’s ear,’ says Mrs Crane.
They look out over the construction site and the hills beyond. Soon, there will be a road here, a road that connects up to other roads, leading to other cities and other states, and who knows where else?
Ruby wipes her eyes. Everything inside her is aglow. And maybe it’s that glow or the sunshine prickling on her skin, or even the possibility that the future may contain lady cops. But as the detective turns to go, she extends a hand toward him.
He looks at her, perplexed, then shakes it. His grasp is warm and self-assured. A busy man’s hand, just like Pa’s.
‘Well done, Detective Blanke,’ she says. ‘Nice working with you.’
Acknowledgements
Now that it’s time to say thank you to all those who helped bring The Long, Long Afternoon to life, I find myself facing the same problem as Mick Blanke. There are so many people with a stake in this story. Who carries the blame?
I’ll start in the here and now. There’s you, the reader. Thank you for choosing this book and making it to the end. I do so hope you’ve had as much fun reading as I had writing it.
Let’s look at our line-up. Humongous thanks go to my wonderful agent Giles Milburn and the staff at the Madeleine Milburn Agency. If Giles hadn’t pulled me out of the slush pile and put his endless faith and professional diligence into me and my book . . . well, you would not be reading this today.
Oodles of thanks and appreciation go to the team at Manilla Press, especially my editor Sophie Orme and her assistant Katie Lumsden, who took one look at this rough gem and handed me a polishing cloth and a bucketload of advice. Their vision and amazing insight have made The Long, Long Afternoon what it is today.
Sophie McDonnell, Felice McKeown and Matthew Laznicka poured their hearts into this book’s design, look and feel. Francesca Russell and Karen Stretch made it their dedicated task to tell the world about The Long, Long Afternoon . They all deserve my most heartfelt thanks.
Extra special thank-yous go to Janina Lawrence, my sensitivity reader, Laura Lavington, my copyeditor, and Natalie Braine, my proofreader. Their wisdom and eagle eyes are much appreciated.
While these are the prime suspects, let’s move on to other persons of interest. First of all, thanks to my partners in crime, the West London Writers, especially Caroline, Catherine, Pav, Steph and Zoltan. Their companionship was the fuel that powered this book to the end.
Thank you, Helma, for being my first fan and sharpest critic. Without your encouragement and diligent betareading, I would never have been brave enough to query this book.
Mum and Dad, thank you so much for reading to me and letting me read, and showering me with books all through my life. You’ve opened a world of wonders and imagination for me, and I still draw from its lessons. Thank you Anni, Mathies and Julian for the hikes and high jinks. A large part of this book was edited at 7 a.m. at your dining table.
Thank you also to that special person who said he believed in me and meant it when no one else even knew.
And the most generous and heartfelt thanks to Birgit, and the Arkaden Bookshop in Bargteheide. You provided all the books, all the confidence, all the love. ‘School of life’ does not even begin to capture it, hence the dedication.
Author’s Note
When I was a teen in ’90s Germany, our English teacher put a picture on the overhead projector that, he said, represented the American Dream. It was a family in a suburban home at Thanksgiving. Dad and two apple-cheeked children (the first-born a son, of course) smiled ecstatically as Mom served the steaming turkey. This, our teacher said, was perfection. The life we should all strive towards.
I raised my hand and said I found it creepy.
My teacher told me off for making an unsubstantiated argument. Years later, I wonder what it was that unsettled me so, and that fifteen-year-old me could not quite put into words. I think it was the way the woman’s face was almost invisible, because she was looking down. She was not smiling. She alone was unable to share the moment. While her family was having a ‘swell time’, her own opinions, her identity and her personality were entirely obscured.
Diving into the prim and proper world of the 1950s turned out to be an unsettling experience. While some things have changed – women can now work, enter politics and report abuse, all without needing the approval of man – other things have not. Women remain underpaid and under-represented, and their bodies are still subjected to violent assaults that all too often go unpunished.
When I started writing The Long, Long Afternoon , the #metoo movement was blooming around the world. Undertones of the rage I felt when reading the stories of countless women and their courageous battles have seeped into the book. So has my admiration for them, and my sense of indebtedness.
A word about Ruby. I am painfully aware that I, a white German-born Londoner, took a debatable step in writing her. But not writing her also seemed wrong. The Black Lives Matter movement and the daily stories of the abysmal, horrific violence faced by the Black community in the UK and US opened my eyes to Ruby’s life. I am immensely grateful to have been given the chance to listen to her voice.
The Long, Long Afternoon is a book about feminism. Writing it, I was struck by the many battles faced by Joyce and Ruby that are still being fought today. It continues to unsettle me. But it also fills me with hope to see that we have made progress. And we have found allies, not least in the many, many men like Mick Blanke, who refuse to stand idly by.
The stories told in this book are deeply personal to the characters, but they are happening against a backdrop of looming political and social change. I have often wondered when more change will come, so that I can play a role in it. Joyce, Ruby and Mick have taught me that there is no point in waiting. We can all start today. That, I hope, is the message of my book.
Hello!
Thank you for picking up The Long, Long Afternoon . I really hope you enjoyed the read.
This book is my debut novel, and therefore it holds a special place in my heart. It draws inspiration from so many different sources, but perhaps most importantly from my own nosiness. I love to hear stories about people’s lives, struggles and triumphs – and I cannot resist a good secret.
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br /> Of all the characters, Ruby came to me first. I carried her in my brain and heart for months, ever aware that she had a story and it wanted out. But it wasn’t until I came across a vintage Wards catalogue online, which praised the main benefit of mail-order shopping – not having to leave your house – that Joyce was born. The catalogue was illustrated with a woman peering through a curtain at the outside world. You could only see her nice housedress and slumped shoulders, but I immediately thought: there’s Joyce!
Mick started out as a pastiche of pulp detective novels but became an homage. I’ll let you in on a secret: trashy as these novels are, they contain some amazing pacing and writing and are a great training tool for budding crime writers.
And here’s another secret, sometimes characters come out of nothing. Joseph holds a very special place in my heart because he was entirely unplanned – all I had on him when I started to write were four words at the bottom of Ruby’s character sheet: she has a boyfriend. But when his turn came, he just jumped off the page and demanded to exist. So I let him be and the book is all the richer for it.
I could not have done this without the amazing support I’ve had from writers and readers like you, and would love to continue to share inspiration, excerpts and perhaps even a sneak preview of my next book. If you’d like to continue this journey with me or hear more about my books, you can visit www.bit.ly/IngaVesper where you can become part of the Inga Vesper Readers’ Club. It only takes a few moments to sign up; there are no catches or costs.
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